by JV Love
"What do we need to do to get past this checkpoint?" Misha asked.
"Get a valid pass," the man replied dryly.
"How do we go about that?"
The man shrugged his shoulders. "That's your problem," he said.
"Comrades, please! This is very important," Felix said. "I need to get to Leningrad as soon as possible. What's it to you if you let us pass?"
Misha cringed at Felix's words. He knew that wasn't going to work.
"We have strict orders from our commanding officer," the man said. "If it was up to me, I'd let you pass."
"Don't give me that!" Felix said angrily. "You are the one standing here who won't let us pass. No one else. Take some responsibility for your actions. Stop hiding behind the Red Army bureaucracy."
Felix's words had the opposite intended effect, as Misha knew they would. The men hardened their position and even threatened Misha and Felix with arrest.
For all Felix's leadership skills and bravery, he was clueless when it came to delicate situations like this. But Misha was pleased that he could help, pleased that he could do something better than Felix.
He convinced Felix to step back about fifty feet while he had a few words with the two men.
"You'll have to excuse the Lieutenant," Misha said. "His girl is in Leningrad, and we all know the situation there."
Both men nodded their heads and seemed to soften a little.
"They say 3,000 to 4,000 die every single day there," Misha continued. "So you can see why he's eager to get there."
"Without the appropriate orders, you aren't getting past this point," the short one said. "Now I suggest you turn back around and . . ."
"Whoa, let's slow down here," Misha said, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. "There's no reason why we can't discuss this a little and make sure we understand one another, right?" The two men eyed Misha's pack of cigarettes like it was a can of caviar. Misha had already made sure the pack contained five cigarettes. He took one for himself, then offered one each to the men. They looked around to make sure no one was looking, then each accepted the offer.
Misha lit his cigarette and offered the two men a light as well. They refused, choosing instead to tuck the cigarettes in their pockets.
"So what's the ration situation like around here?" Misha asked.
The tall one slowly shook his head. The short one said, "It's getting a little better."
"They give you plenty of bread?" Misha asked.
"Yes, we get enough bread," the short one replied. "Just hardly anything to go with it."
"That's not right," Misha said. "They probably save the good stuff for themselves."
The tall one nodded his head. "I saw the Major eating salted pork yesterday," he said to the short one.
"You guys have a harder job than just about anybody," Misha said. "If anyone deserves better rations, it's you guys. They should try your job for a week - standing on your feet all day long in this freezing cold day in and day out. Then they'd know how hard it is." Misha pulled out his flask and offered each of them a sip. "Go ahead," he said. "Nobody's looking."
They each took a sip and coughed afterwards. "It's strong stuff, huh?" Misha said, grinning. "That'll warm you up in no time." He took a small parcel from his pack and began to undo the paper it was wrapped in. "Perhaps the two of you might also enjoy this," he said. He finished opening it and gave them a peek at the cream-colored lump that was about the size of a tin of sardines. "It'll make that bread taste ten times better."
"Is that butter?" the short one asked.
"Not just butter," Misha said. "It's sweet cream butter. The best you've ever tasted."
The tall one reached for it. "Let me taste it," he said.
Misha pulled it away. "No, no," he said, "I don't work that way." He wrapped it back up. "You can taste the whole thing if you let me and the Lieutenant pass."
Neither man responded, instead looking to the other for the answer. Misha knew he had them. "Comrades," he said, "what's there to think about?"
Finally, the short one straightened up and tried to look resolute. "Throw in a pack of cigarettes and we'll look the other way for a minute," he said.
"Unfortunately, I'm down to my last pack," Misha said. He got it out of his pocket. "Just two measly cigarettes are all I have left."
The short one looked at him and pushed him bottom lip up. "Then give us each another cigarette," he said.
"You drive a hard bargain," Misha said.
The man smiled, revealing two missing upper teeth.
Misha actually had several more packs of cigarettes and anticipated having to give a few of them away in addition to the 'butter.'
"Here you go," Misha said, giving them each another cigarette. Then he handed them the butter. "I suggest you keep that well hidden," he added. "I'm sure you know the penalty for bribery." He imitated the sound of a gun firing.
The man stuck the butter in his pocket. "Just get going," he said gruffly, "before we change our minds."
Misha motioned with his arm to Felix and when he arrived the two soldiers pretended to be busy inspecting some spot on the ground.
"Come on," Misha said to Felix, "let's hurry."
"How did you get them to let us pass?" Felix asked.
"I bribed them with some butter," Misha said, quickening his pace.
"Butter? I didn't know you had any of that."
"I didn't," Misha said. "It's just soap. That's why we need to hurry."
Felix laughed and walked faster to keep up with Misha. They could see the ant-like lines of vehicles going in every direction across the lake in front of them.
"So tell me the truth," Felix said. "Why did you decide to join me?"
"I already told you," Misha answered. "I just thought you could use some help. You'd probably still be under arrest if it weren't for me. And you certainly never would have gotten past that checkpoint by yourself."
"There's no doubt you're a tremendous help," Felix said. "It took a little while. You were always drunk when I first met you, but I've learned I can count on you. You always come through. I've come to trust you and think of you as more than just a fellow soldier. I consider you my friend."
Misha felt a little choked up by what Felix had just said. It was a perfect example of why Misha had decided to join him. Felix was honest. He always spoke the truth, - sometimes to a fault. He wasn't afraid to express his gratitude or tell you how he truly felt about something. In short, Felix was able to do those things that Misha wished he could do.
"I'm still waiting for the real reason you came," Felix said.
"I guess I just like working with you," Misha said. "I don't have to pretend when I'm around you."
They walked on in silence for a minute, then Felix said, "I'm glad you're here."
Misha felt choked up again. Nobody had ever said that to him before. Amazing what a few kind words could do to somebody.
"We'll get to Leningrad," Misha said. "One way or another, we're gonna get there."
* * *
They were packed in tight in the cab of the truck and Felix struggled to get his arm out from behind Misha's so he could have a drink of water from his canteen. He had no idea how Misha had managed to get the truck driver to take them over Lake Ladoga, but he'd learned that Misha was quite good at that sort of thing. If a situation came up that involved bartering or bribery, Felix knew to let Misha handle it.
Their truck was only one of a twelve-truck convoy, and their convoy was only one of a never-ending stream of convoys going to Leningrad and back again. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, the trucks rolled on.
The driver was jittery, didn't say much, and kept his left hand on the door as if he might jump out at any second and let the truck go on without him. He used his teeth to pull the mitten off his right hand, then took a cigarette out from his coat pocket. Both Felix and Misha noticed that his last two fingers had been severed below the knuckle.
"What happened?" Misha asked.
; "The first truck I drove didn't have any heat," he said matter-of-factly.
Felix didn't understand at first, then it dawned on him. Frostbite. Sitting motionless in an unheated truck for hours on end with the nighttime temperature dipping to forty-five degrees below zero . . . he had to have two of his fingers amputated.
"Lucky they gave you this truck," Misha said. "It's got a good heater. What did they do with your old truck?"
The driver pointed below them.
"What do you mean?" Misha asked. "It's in the lake?"
"A few weeks after I started, there was a thaw," he said. "I jumped out just in time."
Felix understood now why the man kept his left hand on the door at all times.
"I take it you didn't fall in the water," Misha said.
The driver shook his head. "You fall in the water, you're dead in less than ten minutes."
After a short time, they came upon a small hand-painted sign that read, "Road of Life." Next to the sign was a snow-covered car sticking halfway out of a large bomb crater in the ice.
Every hundred feet along the road there was a small, colorful flag sticking out of the snow. The driver said they were markers to help them follow the road. If you saw a red flag, that was a warning to take a detour around a thin spot in the ice. In addition to the flags, there were traffic controllers every few hundred yards directing the convoys. The men wore white camouflage robes that stretched all the way to the snow, covering their dark boots. They had snub-nosed automatic guns slung around their necks and wore extra cartridge belts slung across their chest in a X formation.
Felix saw a board lying on the ice and a little flag fluttering in the wind above it. "What's that?" he asked the driver.
"That means there's open water there - a bomb crater. It'll be frozen over again in a day or two and they'll remove the board."
The driver had to hit the brakes suddenly to avoid hitting the truck in front of him. There wasn't much space between the trucks in the convoy and neither were the drivers to allow much.
"What are you hauling?" Misha asked.
"Food," came the response.
"Well, that's what they need, I've heard," Misha said. "How are things going in Leningrad?"
The driver turned his head to Misha and stared, expressionless. "You want to know how things are going in Leningrad?" he repeated. "Here comes your answer." He nodded his head toward a caravan of cars and trucks up ahead. They were stopped because the front truck was apparently experiencing some mechanical difficulties. One man stood leaning over the top of the engine, and another man was lying on the snow underneath the engine.
Felix and Misha leaned forward so they could get a better look. The vehicles in the caravan, like all vehicles on the lake, had been painted white for camouflage. The large army truck at the front was loaded with Leningraders fleeing the city. Felix saw them crammed into the back, peering out with ungodly big eyes and thin faces. He saw the red and white frost marks on their cheeks and knew they were already half-dead. They were little more than skeletons with skin, and Felix felt terrified. Was the entire city like this? Full of these subhuman creatures on the verge of dying at any moment? He shuddered to think that Katya might look like the people in the back of that truck.
Behind the truck was a bus that had obviously been outfitted with heat - puffs of smoke came out of a tin chimney in its roof. Behind the bus was a carload of people. The car could comfortably fit seven, maybe eight. Felix counted eleven people packed into it. Those seated in the back had a large tank of some sort on their laps. It was so crowded that Felix doubted they could move an arm or a leg more than an inch or two.
"What's that big tank on their laps?" Felix asked.
"Probably gasoline," the driver replied.
Felix imagined how miserable they must be - packed in there so tightly, gasoline fumes filling the air, stuck in an unmoving vehicle on a road of ice where the outside temperature was well below zero. And the Germans might attack with their long-range artillery or planes at any moment. He started to wonder how bad the situation in the city could be that people would submit themselves to that. Then he glanced back at the skeletons in the front truck and understood why they'd left.
In a truck behind the car, four men were dragging a body out and toward a round crater filled with blue water. The men had to stop and rest every few yards as they dragged the corpse over the ice. Felix could hardly comprehend it. He alone could pick up that thin corpse, toss it over his shoulder, and carry it to the crater in a matter of seconds. What had happened to these people? Were these just the extremely ill who were being evacuated? Felix could not - would not - believe that the whole city was filled with people like this. But certainly every person in the caravan before him was. All five trucks, two buses and three cars were packed full with half-dead men, women, and even children.
"I've heard dystrophy is rampant in the city," Felix said to the driver. "Are all these people sick with it?"
"Some, I imagine," he replied, shrugging his shoulders.
"Where are they going?" Misha asked.
"To their graves, most likely," the driver answered. "Most of them are too far gone to be saved."
"But I heard they increased the rations," Misha said.
"Too little, too late," the driver said.
Felid had to close his eyes. He couldn't take it all in. He had the thought that he was too late - that Katya was already dead. She was thin to begin with. She had no fat reserves to call upon.
When they passed the caravan, Felix looked in the mirror and watched the cars and trucks slowly disappear into the endless whiteness that surrounded them. He was impressed with how well the white camouflage worked but then looked out the window and saw the dark shadow the truck created. The sun never got very high in the sky this time of year, and there was no way German planes could miss the hundred-foot long shadow the truck made.
After another twenty minutes, the traffic slowed to a crawl again. There were abandoned and wrecked cars and trucks alongside the road, victims of either the cold weather, the perilous road, or the German Luftwaffe. After a few more minutes of slow going, their convoy came to a complete stop and Felix and Misha got out to stretch their legs and smoke a cigarette. A pair of nurses with sheepskin coats skied up close to them. They had red crosses on their left arms, submachine guns around their shoulders, and pulled small sleds packed full with medical supplies.
Misha nudged Felix with his arm. "Girls," he said, pointing at them.
The nurses heard and stopped when they reached him. "That's Lieutenant," the second one said, "and you'll salute before addressing me."
Misha came to attention and promptly saluted. "My apologies, Comrade Lieutenant," he said.
"Do you know what the hold up is about, Comrade Lieutenant?" Felix asked.
"There's only one lane open ahead," she said. "There's a large bomb crater in the road that hasn't frozen over yet."
"Those certainly look warm," Misha said, referring to their sheepskin coats.
"They are," the first one responded, "but they don't smell so good."
A long caravan of peasant sledges approached and began to pass by. The sledges were filled with straw and pulled by tired horses rhythmically nodding their head with each step. The horses had hoar-frost on their fur and their ribs stuck out.
The driver suddenly grabbed his automatic submachine gun and jumped out of the truck. "Down!" he yelled and started running away from the truck.
Felix couldn't understand why. Were the sledges part of a German trap?
The nurses started to ski away, then Felix saw the peasants halt their sledges and throw dirty white sheets over the horses. Two people emerged from the straw in the back of each sledge and started running away.
Then Felix heard it. Planes.
He and Misha ran about fifteen yards, then dove to the ground just as the bombs started whistling through the air. They exploded on the ice and sent geysers of water streaming into the sky.
&nbs
p; An anti-aircraft battery that he hadn't seen before began pounding at the planes. The big guns were hidden behind walls of ice blocks and a heavy snow-laden net that sunk low over the top. Everything was camouflaged in white. Even the guns had been painted white.
The low-flying planes with the black crosses on their wings roared over Felix and Misha and then started to make a giant loop around for another pass. While they did that, a second wave of planes dropped their bombs on the column of trucks and sledges. Felix watched as one of the sledges, horse and all, suffered a direct hit and disappeared into the lake.
The deafening sounds of explosions and rushing water filled the air. When the second wave reached them, Felix rolled onto his back, aimed his rifle, and squeezed off several shots. The bullets clanged off the underbelly of the planes.
After the second wave came a third wave of planes. The bombs squealed as they dropped down to the ice. Felix could see several of the trucks burning, but so far the one he and Misha had been riding in had been spared.
The first wave of planes had circled around and was strafing the convoy with their machine guns now. The bullets hissed as they hit the ice. Felix heard one of the horses neigh wildly and watched its rear legs slump to the ice. The sledge's driver got up from the ice, shook his fist at the German planes, cursing them at the top of his voice. A second later, bullets cut him down and a pool of blood formed around his lifeless body.
It wasn't until the third wave of planes was flying over for the second time that the anti-aircraft guns finally hit one. The plane's left wing was split in two and the plane spun out of control, hitting the frozen lake with a tremendous thud that shook the ice and made long, lightening-like cracks in the ice that extended in all directions.
"Yeah!! Take that you bastards!" Felix heard someone shout.
Once the anti-aircraft guns stopped firing, Felix heard lots of shouting, but quickly realized they were not shouts of victory or vengeance, but of agony. Several people had been wounded in the attack.
Half of the dozen trucks in their convoy were on fire. The ice was dotted with craters where the dark blue water of the lake stood in stark contrast to the whiteness all around. The truck Felix and Misha had been riding in wasn't on fire, but it had been struck repeatedly by the planes' machine guns. Felix doubted it would be going anywhere for a while - if at all.