The Last Post + My favourite short story.

 

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.