Well,
maybe not my last post but there will not be as many as before as I am taking a
break from the site for a while.
I
want to thank all the guests I’ve featured over the years. Thank you to all my
visitors and readers.
Here’s
my gift to you to say thank you in a special way.
This
story – The Road of Life – is based on the true happenings in Leningrad during WW2.
The ice road was the only was to bypass German soldiers and guns and get food and necessities to the people trapped there.
Is my
favourite of all my short stories.
It
was previously published in a wonderful Anthology – Winter Paths.
Enjoy!
The
Road of Life.
November 22,
1941
12:22 AM
The sound
comes first. A sharp crack, like the snapping of a whip. The ice is too thin
for the wheels of Yana’s tryohtonka,
the truck she appropriated. The icy fingers streaking across her path warn her
of the risk she’s taking. Urging the truck along, she ignores the danger. She
has gone eight kilometers and has to cover more than eighty more with fifty of
them on the ice, before daylight. A round trip from Kobona to Shlisselburg,
near Leningrad, usually takes a convoy three hours. The immediate path before
her is slick, a ribbon of unbroken ice and packed snow, a clear roadway for a
few kilometers. The worst is yet to come.
With no door
on the driver’s side, she’s glad she dressed warm, with lots of layers. Feodor
made her remove the door so she can escape quickly if the truck breaks through.
She remembers to make no sudden movements where the ice surface looks polished
like fine crystal. Afraid of German
snipers or aircraft, she doesn’t use her lights. The road is visible under a
full moon and a star-filled sky. With nippy fingers and white knuckles, she
tightens her grip on the steering wheel, as if the tension will save her. She
concentrates on the frozen bank of crusted snow which marks the edges of the
road, thinking nothing will keep her from her task. She told Tatiana she would
come back.
*
Two hours
earlier.
Yesterday
was supposed to be the last day for transport on the ice until the weather
improves. After snowstorms in the first part of the month and an unexpected
thaw, the ice road is not safe. But she has no choice but to return. Even
though she did two trips and she’s had no sleep for twenty-eight hours, she can
save more children. Old Feodor does everything he thinks of to stop her.
Watching her
add fuel to her truck, he studies the young woman, admiring her brave spirit
and soft heart. Short shaggy bangs, chapped cheeks from the cold and serious
eyes are all he can make out with a heavy parka crowning her head. With not
enough men, lots of drivers are women but he thinks her much too young to be
driving a truck, and such a small woman.
“Yana
Kovaleva, you will die on the ice, or worse, under the ice.”
With the
freezing wind picking up and a sudden drop in temperature, she responds she
will be safe enough. He’s not convinced.
“Yegor will
not let you go.”
“Listen
Feodor, regardless of all the supplies trucked to Leningrad because of the
siege, children are barely able to walk from starvation, people dying, and
bodies everywhere in frozen mounds. The dogs and cats have long been gone, even
the birds. People are boiling leather to make soup. Bakers are adding dust and
whatever they can find to flour to make bread. People are being executed for
turning to cannibalism.”
The very
idea causes her to shiver, visible in her stuffed jacket. Feodor doesn’t want
to believe it. Yana holds the image of the little girl in her head, wrapped in
a tattered blanket, smudges of dirt broken by trails of tears on her cheeks and
startling blue eyes. She was shocked at how thin the child was with her brow
and cheekbones so prominent. Yana tells herself she has to go back.
“Yegor
doesn’t have to know. You can cover for me. There are eighteen children in
Shlisselburg who couldn’t make the last transport, Feodor. All of them are
orphans. They’re stuck in a corner of an unheated warehouse with no food. They
can’t return to Leningrad and they will die if I do not go back.”
“It will be dark when you leave. The road
lights have been extinguished. No more guides. It doesn’t matter that it is
colder today. There will be thick slush and wet spots with thin ice covering.
You know how much warmer it has been for the last week. The Germans have not
stopped their bombing raids. The other drivers told me there are potholes
everywhere. Trucks stuck in the ice, bomb craters, and ruts. We lost two trucks
yesterday.”
Yana is
replacing the gas nozzle in the holder on the barrel. Feodor is hesitant to
tell her.
“One of the
drivers didn’t make it.”
She stops,
stares at him for a moment and her head bends, chin on her chest.
“Who?”
“I don’t
know his last name, only knew him as Gustav. Tall man, very shy, very quiet.”
“I don’t
remember him.”
“You
might’ve heard about him. He was the man who lost all his family to a German
bomb in June. Three children and his wife.”
“Oh damn,
Feodor. How awful. I wish this would end.”
“Me too,
child. But can’t you see it is too dangerous?”
Looking directly
at Yana, he sees a change in her eyes, more determined now, challenging him. He
regards the stubborn thrust of her chin.
“Oh, never
mind, I know that look.”
He relents,
digs around the shelves in the garage, gathers up three pots and ties them to
the front of the truck.
“The noise
from the pots will keep you awake, Yana. I know you haven’t slept.”
Yana can
barely contain her smile. She knows Feodor worries about her. His only daughter
was killed by the Nazis, and his two sons are fighting in the trenches. Yana
has no living relatives so she welcomes the old man’s compassion.
“Can you
help me with the blankets, Feodor?”
“Yes, and
you should take enough flour to help with traction but not too much extra
weight.”
“Yes. Let’s
get it ready. I want to leave as soon as I can.”
The two of
them heave four barrels onto the back of the truck over the rear wheels. But
first, they load ten heavy blankets, wrapped in burlap and tied with twine. It
looks like a huge potato. Closing the gate of the truck, she re-ties a piece of
loose canvas that covers the struts and secures the back flap. When she has the
truck idling, Feodor goes out of the warehouse to be sure Yegor, the
supervisor, is not around. Seeing the way clear he gestures with a signaling
hand for her to hurry. Yana puts the truck in gear and idles out of the
building, turning toward the wharf where a road has been cleared onto the ice.
She waves at a worried Feodor who watches her disappear into the night.
Feodor
worries not only about the thin ice but also the snipers. During the crossings,
Russian soldiers built ice forts, and with the wide expanse, there was nowhere
for the German infantry to hide. They were easily picked off. But at night,
it’s a different story. Random planes still cruise the skies and drop bombs.
Whether they will tonight is anyone’s guess. And Yana driving with only one
headlight not working properly. He knows he won’t be able to sleep until she
returns. If she returns.
*
Yana has
easy going for the next four kilometers but soon comes to a strip of water
covering the ice. The wind is fierce and rocks her truck with sudden gusts as
if angry at her for being out. She enters the watery slush and can’t see the
potholes and nearly gets stuck in one. Only by rocking the truck back and forth
is she able to dislodge the front wheel. The pots in front are clanging their
weird tune. Once clear of the hole, she picks up speed, careful to not go so
fast as to have water thrown up on the engine and stalling it. As warm as her
parka and wool trousers are, she dreads having to walk. She’s happy the wind is
on the passenger’s side. She eyes the blanket of her own folded on the
passenger’s seat for the return trip.
The truck
hits a patch of clear ice when it comes out of the slush and swerves to the
left. Yana struggles to correct the truck. She overcompensates. It rams into
the icy bank and stalls. She slaps the steering wheel with an open palm.
“Not now,
you stinking ublydok.”
She shakes
her head realizing calling the truck a bitch is foolish. Depressing the clutch,
she turns the starter. A clicking noise ensues, like the stuttering of a
nervous child. The battery is weak. She hangs her head on the steering wheel
and prays. Regardless of being brought up in a godless society, she follows the
diktats of a religious mother and asks for strength and pleads for the motor to
start. Trying again, it churns slowly and with a loud belch from the engine, it
roars to life. Backing the truck to straighten the wheels, she carries on.
A kilometer
later she slows when she sees shadows ahead. Stopping, she concentrates on the
object. After five minutes with no movement, she disregards it as a threat and
approaches. When she nears it, she can see in the bluish pall of the moon the
rear-end of a truck stuck up in the air with the cab buried in the ice. The
canvas is torn on the back and flutters like a flag of surrender. A detour has
been hacked out around it but full of icy ruts. It takes all her strength to
keep the wheels straight. She creeps through the curve in low gear and when she
pulls clear onto the hard-packed road, her arms ache. Her grip on the wheel
relaxes and her heart starts to slow down.
The next
stretch is clear for two or three kilometers. It remains smooth but it rumbles
when she holds a steady pace. Remembering more flooded areas ahead and Feodor’s
warning to anticipate another detour where they lost the trucks yesterday,
she’ll need to avoid the thin spots. The last trucks of the convoy complained
of ice cracking in their wake. Her eyes dart from side to side; shadows
defining her path, shoulders of frozen snow and ice, and the larger potholes
distinct by their darker impression. Those she can ease through or go around
them but the smaller invisible ones which she can’t avoid are testing the
truck’s tires and springs and especially her nerves.
Easing
through a rough section, she shakes her head at the slow pace. Guessing it’s
close to two o’clock, she estimates another hour to Shlisselburg. She hopes the
children are still there and alive. Ahead, the rippling of the water on the
roadway makes it looks like it is moving. Deciding to use her lights, the
yellowish glare flickers from the wavelets, looking like candles. She stops and
stares at the water. The wind whistles as it flows around the truck, nothing
cheerful, more of a dirge. The water looks menacing, higher than on her last
trip. It was sloshing close to the
running boards then.
A gunshot
from the left startles her. A bullet pings off the front fender. Several more
follow with one taking out the passenger window, narrowly missing her head. She
douses her light and fear forces her into action. Flooring the accelerator, the
tires spin and spit white slush and icy chunks. The vehicle sways back and
forth. With a pounding heart, she leans ahead and grips the wheel tighter. The
gunshots fade behind her.
Wind and a
swirling spray through the shattered glass makes it hard to see. Water sloshes
into the cab in a couple of lower spots, making her feet wet. The weary heater
struggles to keep her warm. For a brief moment, she wishes she’d listened to
Feodor. She shakes the doubt off and visions of little Tatiana and the other
children drive her on. The only relief she’s feeling at the moment is
outrunning the bullets.
Once through the worst part and with no more delays, forty minutes later she bypasses Orekhovy Island, where she can see the silhouette of the Shlisselburg fortress, lying in ruins from German bombs.
She pulls off the ice road at the head of the
Niva River, entering the northern section of the city. Putting her headlight on
again, she maneuvers to the warehouse which has been the receiving point for
the goods brought across the ice as well as the staging point for evacuees.
There is no one in the yard. A dozen empty sleighs are piled near the large
doors, the first transports used before the ice was thick enough for heavier
vehicles. Most of the horses have been used as food, very few remain. Leaving
the truck idling, worried it might not start, she enters the side door
expecting to find the children corralled in the rear corner with two women
where they were last seen.
The door
opens to a large bay for trucks. It’s empty. Two overhead lights cast a
yellowish glow and an army of shadows. On the left, along the wall is a litter
of broken crates, overturned barrels, empty pallets, overflowing garbage bins
and a narrow empty corner - where the children should’ve been. In the back
right is an office shaped like a cube. A window in the front is smeared with
dust and a ridiculously pink door is on the side. The first time she saw the
bright door in the weathered wood it made her think of an old lady putting on
lipstick. In the center are shelving units, steel frames and wooden decks. Most
are empty. Anything left is of no value to a starving population. She searches
everywhere. The pink door is locked. No kids.
Standing in
the center of the bay, arms akimbo, she scrunches her nose at the scent of gas
fumes, rotted meat and desolation occupying the cavernous space. Rubbing her
shoulders to keep warm, she watches the tendrils of her breath float to the
ceiling in the chilly space. Uncertain of what to do, she’s interrupted by an
old man coming through the side door. He’s hunched over with a white shaggy
beard covering the bottom half of his hooded head. Yana sees the clear brow and
shining eyes when he stops to stare at her with a look of suspicion. She
doesn’t know him.
“Who are
you, young lady? What are you doing here at this time of night? If you’ve come
looking for food…” he waves to the empty shelves. “You can see you’ve come too
late.”
“No, no.
I’ve brought some flour and come for the children.”
His brows
shoot up; he straightens to look closer at her thinking her a child, so young,
so brave. He knows the warnings. His voice is one of reverence.
“You came
across the ice?”
She nods.
“It is said
to be too thin. Two transports were lost yesterday.”
“Yes, I had
to loop around where they went in. Someone left a flag, thank goodness. Excuse
me mister but who are you and what are you doing here at this time of the
night?”
“Ah yes, who
am I? My name is Dima. Dima Kuznetsov. I’m an old man who can’t sleep in these
terrible times. I’m an old man looking for something to do besides worrying
where my next meal is coming from. I’m an old man who volunteered to watch this
empty warehouse at night so no one would steal something when there is nothing
to steal. And you say you brought flour?”
“Da. But where are the children who were
left behind yesterday?”
“The
children? Yes, the children. It was almost midnight when I arrived and three
women were escorting them from the building. And…”
A heavy sigh
escapes the old man’s lips. He shakes his head and the look on his face tells
Yana the news is not good.
“Yes, Dima?”
“Two of the
women were carrying very small infants. They were… they were dead.”
Yana gasps
and covers her mouth with both hands. She is both angry and sorrowful. Angry at
herself for not coming sooner. Sorry for not coming sooner.
“Where are
they now?”
“With Spasitella. She came for them when she
heard the news.”
“Spasitella? The savior?”
“Da. Elizaveta Novikova. The miracle worker.
You’ve heard of her?”
“Who hasn’t?
I haven’t met her nor have I ever seen her but I
hear the rumors. Finding food for people, especially the little ones seems,
almost miraculous. Do you know where she took the children?”
Dima is
nodding vigorously, rubbing his hands together.
“Yes, I do.
Not far from here. Somewhere warmer. I can go get them if you can unload the
flour. Yes?”
“Yes, yes,
Dima. Please go now. I need to cross back as soon as possible. Please hurry.”
The old man
rushes off, his steps across the bare concrete echoing in the warehouse. Yana
goes to the large bay door and using the chain, opens it until she can back her
truck in. It is then she sees light flakes of snow beginning to fall. Even
though the flakes are tiny, like apple seeds, they swirl around her head. She
worries about too much snow and wind. No
time to worry now, she tells herself.
Backing the
truck up to the door, she offloads the flour right at the opening. Others will
have to get it to people. Stepping just inside, she wipes the snow from her
shoulders and parka and removes her mitts to warm her hands. The tips are blue,
they’re so cold. Rubbing them vigorously and breathing on them begins to bring
some warmth back and she wishes Dima would hurry.
A few
minutes later the side door opens with a lot of commotion. Dima leads a group
of children, some laughing, and Yana imagines only a child could find humor in
these dark days. Some silent with wide eyes, the tiny ones wailing, and three
women shuffle them along. Two women are middle-aged; both bundled in woolen
jackets, carrying the smallest of the cluster. An older woman herds them all
together, surrounding them, gathering strays, like a collie with her sheep.
Dima points to Yana.
“This is the
brave heart I was telling you about, Spasitella.”
The elderly
woman stops and stares at Yana. Her face is lined with wrinkles, a road map of
worry. She steps closer and Yana smells
cabbage and body odor. The children are jabbering, tiny scared voices.
“Be quiet
children!”
She speaks
directly to Yana.
“Is the ice
safe? Will you make it back?”
“I… I don’t
know. I made it here and I’ll do my best to make it back but, can I give you
any guarantees? No, I can’t. Only that I will die trying.”
She looks
the old woman in the eyes while replacing her mitts. She does her best to hide
her uneasiness. They study each other for a moment.
“And what if
you don’t and the children die on the ice?” asks the old woman.
Yana looks
to the children who are all looking at her. Most are too thin with sallow
cheeks. The older ones have fear in their eyes. The smaller ones are filled
with curiosity and innocence.
“They’ll die
here if they stay. We don’t know when the ice will be thick enough again.”
She looks
for Tatiana. The child is not amongst the group.
“Where is
the little girl, Tatiana?”
Spasitella looks to one of the other women, who
hangs her head. Her voice is barely audible.
“She started
coughing. Her little head was so hot. She refused what little food we could
find, wanting the smaller ones to be fed first. We coaxed her to eat but she
had already given up. She died an hour ago.”
Yana covers
her face with both mittened hands. A yoke of guilt bears down on her slight
shoulders and she falls to her knees. She starts to weep. The sobs of her
broken heart fill the air and several of the children start crying too.
“I… I
should’ve come sooner. I… I...”
Spasitella, no more than a hundred pounds, most
of it heart, takes Yana in an embrace.
“Don’t
grieve child. Be strong. You need all your strength to save these. Do it for
Tatiana.”
“Yes… yes,
for Tatiana.”
She rises
and goes to the large door where her truck waits. As soon as it is open, she
pulls the bale of blankets from the truck. She unties it as the women hustle
the children into the back. Helping the older ones up who in turn bend to lift
the smallest. There are only fifteen now. Yana watches each one. Two boys and a
girl look the oldest, maybe ten or eleven or twelve, she can’t tell. Half a
dozen are six or seven years old and the rest are five or less and a pair of
girls can’t be more than three. Many of them are scared and need prompting and
reassurance that all will be fine.
The older
girl has a flock of followers, who goes where she goes. She helps one of the
women, the tall one with a big nose, gather them together. Yana passes out the
heavy blankets. The other woman crawls up and helps bundle the children. Small
ones are on the knees, and in the protective embrace, of the bigger
children. When the two of them have done
all they can to make the children comfortable, they turn to get out of the
truck. A chorus of “don’t go” from a few
of the smaller ones, is not as heart clutching as the little boy who breaks
free of his blanket and clings to the tall one’s leg. His short arms tremble
and he looks up at her with a tear-streaked face.
“I want to
go with you. I’m scared.”
Before the
woman can reply, one of the older boys bends to hug the child.
“Come
Sascha. Come with me. I’ll look after you. Come.”
The little
boy releases the lady and wraps his arms around the boy’s neck. They return to
their seats and the women rearrange the blankets around them and get out. Yana
is itching to get away and tries to ignore the simpering’s of tiny minds.
Spasitella looks at the bunch, reading their
eyes, feeling their uncertainty. She gathers her shawl and starts to get in the
back with the children. One of the other women holds her by the shoulder.
“What are
you doing Spasitella?”
“Someone has
to be with them. Can’t you see how terrified they are? I must go. Now help me
up. We have to hurry. Let’s get underway, Yana. Take us to safety.”
It stops
snowing when Yana enters the ice. The path before her looks darker with the
moon and stars taking refuge behind unseen clouds. The wind has swept around
what snow has fallen into small drifts crossing the ice. White fluff flies into
the air when she rams through them making a white mist covering her windshield
and drifting into her open door. The wipers beat the frost away and she shakes
the snow off. Concentrating on the frozen shoulder, she only hears the wind,
the rumble of the diesel engine while she tries to remember familiar sights. In
some spots, there is more than one trail and she needs to stay on the one she
knows.
North past
the Shlisselburg fortress, a wide sweep east and she’s faced with a decision.
She should be near the detour. Several drifts hide the cutoff to her left. In
the beam of her headlights, she sees the remains of an ice fort on her right.
She didn’t go here before. She stops and backs slowly, with her head out the
door trying to see her tracks. She hears chatter and shouts from the back.
Someone begins sobbing and then someone starts singing in an older wobbly
voice, but as pure as the snow. An old Russian lullaby. One Yana’s mother sang
to her.
Thoughts of
a mother she never knew float through her mind as she enters the detour. She
died when giving birth to Yana and her father never remarried. Her father is
gone now, dead three years. Even though the memory makes her sad, she’s glad he
didn’t have to go through these hard times, for which she is thankful. Her mind
turns back to the ice road. When passing the hole on the right where the trucks
went through yesterday she thinks she hears voices and they are not coming from
the back. Indiscernible but filled with anguish. They soon float off into the
atmosphere and leave her with an eerie feeling.
She motors
through the last stretch of water and realizes she is only an hour away from
safety. Her confidence is interrupted by a gunshot putting out her only good
headlight. She’s blinded for a moment and unable to see the road but she speeds
up to avoid the sniper, going by memory and the bulk of the frozen shoulder on
her left. Several more shots hit the truck. She can hear them ping off the
metal and the thwack of hitting wood. A loud cry from the back makes her shiver
realizing someone may have been hit, but she can’t stop. She hurries, even
more, speeding almost recklessly to avoid the gunshots.
She is soon
out of range of the gunfire and soothed by the grey rim on the horizon. A
moment of jubilation creeps through her even though she may have an injured
passenger, but before she can relax her grip on the wheel, it begins to snow.
She’s shivering from being so cold, even with the blanket across her lap. The
flakes are large and wet, sticking to the windshield, the wipers barely making
it clear. There are more audible cracks in the ice. She grows impatient and
wants to go to high gear and push the truck to its limits but she knows it
would be suicide. It can’t be much
farther, she thinks.
The wind
picks up making visibility worse. She has to slow down. She can hardly make out
the embankment she has been following. Moving to a lower gear, the truck creeps
along, swerving in the slippery path. As cold as it is, the continuous cracking
of the ice makes her forehead break out in a sweat. More pronounced now, more
often, the ice rebels. Without warning the nose of the truck breaks through the
ice and throws her forward where her face connects with the steering wheel. At
the same time, there are shrieks and screams from the back. All she sees are
stars and they are not the ones in the skies. She can feel the nose of the
truck sinking. Shaking her head to clear it, she needs to get the children out
of the truck in case it goes through.
She can see
only a few feet in front of her as she steps from the truck and into a puddle
of water, soaking both feet. The floorboard is almost touching the ice. Holding
the side of the truck she makes her way around the back, head down into the
wind. Noises from the back trouble her, children crying, moaning and all
talking at once. Feeling her way to the back she yells out.
“Spasitella, we have to get you all out
of the truck. It might sink. Grab all the blankets you can and help me get them
out. Hurry!”
There is no
reply, only the sound of fear and questions from the children. Throwing open
the canvas and releasing the back gate, she can make out the disorder of moving
bodies in the dim light.
“Spasitella. Are you there?”
The reply is
one of pain.
“Yes…yes, but
I’ve been hit. My leg, below the knee. I can feel the blood. You’ll have to
leave me and take the kids. Is it far?”
Before she
can answer, the ice snaps and groans. The truck sinks lower and the engine
stalls.
She remembers the older boys’ names and the
girl’s.
“Pavel,
Grischa and Olga. Get the children down to me. Olga, come first.”
The young
girl jumps down from the back and stands close to Yana.
“Olga, get
the children away from the truck. To our right, but not far enough I can’t see
where you are.”
“Will… will
we make it, Yana?”
“Yes, yes we
will, now help me.”
The children
are being passed down, some wrapped in the blankets, others clinging to each
other. A few are sobbing but most remain sober and follow instructions. Olga
gathers them all around until both Grischa and Pavel join them on the ice. Yana
takes the two boys by their forearms.
“Listen. Get
everyone in groups of five with you in the lead Pavel. Make them all hang on to
the one in front of them. Put the smallest closest to each of you and form a
line. We have a way to walk and we can’t let anyone get lost. I’m going to get
Spasitella. Now go.”
She climbs
up into the back where the cold lingers. She can only make out the outline of
the old lady's body and her soft moans.
“Come Spasitella. You can lean on me and we
need to get out right now.”
“No, I will
only slow you down. Go. Go and leave me. My days are over. I’ve done enough.
Now go.”
They argue
for a few minutes until a man’s voice startles them, causing Yana to bolt
upright, whacking her head on a strut.
“I’ll carry
her.”
Yana sees a
hooded man standing at the edge of the truck, unable to make out his features.
“Who… who
are you? Where did you come from?”
“I wasn’t
far behind you. My truck went through the ice and I barely made it on to
safety. I’ve been following the rumble of your engines.”
“But…but…”
“Never mind.
We have to hurry. This truck will go through any time. Get her out and onto my
back. I’ll carry her the rest of the way. Hurry!”
Yana does as
she’s told. Lifting Spasitella and
holding her tight, she maneuvers her to the open gate where the man has turned
his back to them. They get Spasitella in
place, her arms wrapped around his neck and his arms gripping her thighs. The
old lady groans and holds back her cries of pain at the handling of her leg.
Yana jumps down and removes her belt to fashion a crude tourniquet above the
wound. Satisfied, she turns to the group of children. She gets close enough to
see Olga at the head of the line with two small toddlers behind gripping the
hem of her jacket.
“Is everyone
in line and accounted for? Pavel?”
“Da.”
Grischa?”
“Da.”
“Olga?”
“Da.”
The two
smallest ones are crying, the sobs whipping around them like the insane snow
coming down.
“Give one of
the little girls to me and Grischa, since you are the biggest, take the other
on your back. Can you do that?”
“Yes, I have
her.”
The other
little one is helped up on Yana’s back.
“Hang on to
my hand Olga and everyone hang on. Don’t let go. Are you okay Mister?”
“Yes, let’s
hurry. You lead with the children and I’ll bring up the rear.”
Yana leads
them away from the truck and closer to the frozen embankment so they can make
their way. The going is slow with children slipping and some falling on the
ice. They have to be helped back on their feet and into the line. The tinier
ones are complaining of the cold and how tired they are. Some are stifling
sobs, wiping their noses with a free arm, others with head down clamping onto
the ones in front. Yana’s feet feel like blocks of ice. After thirty long,
scary minutes, she thinks she can see a light blinking in the swirling flakes
but wonders if it is only her hopeful imagination. No, it is clearly a light.
It’s still far away but a light. It must be the one on the tall pole at the end
of the wharf. She picks up her pace. The horizon is turning grey, urging them
forward.
Slogging
through the snow which is now up over her ankles and mid-calf to many of the
smaller ones, they reach the end of the wharf. A shadow stands under the
lamppost. Upon spying the walking entourage, the cry of relief from the shadow
is filled with emotion. Yana recognizes Feodor’s voice as he runs toward them.
“Oh my
goodness, Yana, you are back. And with the children! I was so worried. Where…
where is the truck?”
Before Yana
can reply with her relief, Feodor spies the man carrying a woman. He can see
the man struggling, his footsteps forced.
“Who is
this?”
Yana,
thinking he’s referring to the woman, replies.
“It is Spasitella, the legend. She’s been shot.
She needs attention immediately and I need to get the children inside. Help him
Feodor.”
Feodor
rushes to the man’s aid and the two men shuffle her from one back to the other.
The stranger bends with his hands on his knees, panting. Yana gets the children
onto the wharf and takes Olga’s shoulder and points to the large building
looming before them, visible through the large flakes falling.
“Follow
Feodor, Olga. Children, stay in line. Don’t let go until you are all inside.”
The children
follow and Yana turns her attention to her helper. He’s turned back toward the
winter path and he’s only a shadow in the churning snow. She yells out as he
disappears into the frosty haze.
“Who are
you? Where are you going?”
The voice
coming back seems happy, an unexplainable lilt in the reply.
“I go to my
family. My name is Gustav.”
The End.
Farewell, my friends.
.jfif)
.webp)
.webp)
