City of Fate (11 page)

VOLGA MATUSHKA

O
rdinarily the pale moonlight tiptoeing across the
Volga Matushka,
Mother Volga, made for a delightful picture. However, although the moon was out, this was no ordinary night. Hundreds of nervous and excited Russian soldiers lined the river’s edge. Only God knew how many of them would make it across to the other side.

On seeing the tattered city in the distance, Leyosha’s curse was instant, and he said to no one in particular, ‘This used to be one of the most beautiful sights. You could stand here on this very spot and see gleaming white office and apartment blocks reaching for the sky.’

It was hard for the others to believe this thanks to a great big, dirty fog that hung in the air, like a burial shroud over the smouldering remains of a city that had once been praised
for being as beautiful as Paris.

‘I didn’t expect this, not the whole place to be like … this.’ Leyosha wiped the tears from his eyes, telling himself it was the smoke that made his eyes water so.

There was a group of wounded soldiers nearby. Leyosha called out to them, ‘What went on over there?’

One man was cradling a limp broken arm, he alone replied, ‘Trust me, you cannot make sense of what happened. Look for yourself.’ He pointed over at Stalingrad with his good arm. ‘The whole town was on fire.’

Leyosha’s eyes politely followed the direction of the man’s hand, yet he persisted in his quest for information, ‘But why did it burn for so long? How can so much be gone?’

The wounded soldier looked Leyosha in the eye and said slowly, as if talking to a small child, ‘Everything was on fire, comrade: the houses, the factories, the trees, the metal, the wood, the bricks … things melted or were burnt to dust.’

Leo asked, ‘What about the people?’

The soldier smiled. ‘That’s the thing. The animals were seen jumping into the Volga to escape the heat of the flames, but the people stayed. They stood and fought.’

They weren’t allowed to stand there for more than a few moments before their captain was shouting at everyone to get into the nearest boat, ‘Hurry up, hurry up, you mongrels!’

The boys stumbled on top of one another trying to catch their breath, while doing their best to make sense of what
was going on and what was expected of them. Misha, who had followed his friends closely every step of the way, up to now, found himself pushed into a group that swarmed the first few boats. With neither time nor space to realise he was surrounded by strangers, he took his place in a small, creaky fishing boat. No seats available, he squashed himself up against the side of the boat before turning to find Vlad and Leo.

He fought panic as he saw only strange faces around him. Who were these men, these Russians? Peering back at the crowds of soldiers still on land, he caught sight of Vlad waving at him. Too embarrassed to wave back, he smiled through his fright, nodding his head to convince himself that everything was alright, reassuring himself he would meet up with them when they reached the other side.

His back to Stalingrad, he watched his friends being pushed forward towards the next batch of boats that arrived to ferry soldiers across the river. There was a lot of shouting, orders being roared and accepted, over the noise of engines, the trucks and boats, and something else.

‘This is exciting, isn’t it?’ Misha turned his head to face the speaker, a boy who looked the same age as himself but who was doing his utmost to appear older and braver than he actually was. Nevertheless, Misha felt immediately calmer. He hated not having someone to talk to, especially at a time like this. The two boys became firm friends on the spot,
smiling at one another in relief as the packed boat slid away from the bank, allowing their flushed faces to be cooled by the late evening air. Misha would have liked to turn around to see Stalingrad, or even inspect the water for fish, but there were too many on board to allow for much movement.

His brand new best friend introduced himself as Oleg, before asking, ‘Can you swim?’

‘No. I never learned. In fact, I don’t like water much,’ admitted Misha.

He forgot to look out for Vlad and the others until it was too late. He had just been about to ask Oleg where he was from when he was rudely interrupted by too much noise overhead. German planes swarmed in the sky above, to attack the boats, needing to kill as many fighting
Russians
as they could before they could do any damage to their colleagues in the city. Big Russian anti-aircraft guns opened up, on both sides of the Volga, sending deadly fluorescent streams of bullets, streaking through the darkness, desperate to damage those planes in order to keep their soldiers alive long enough to make a difference. That was the best one could hope for.

In between bullets it was too dark to see who was in what boat, but then, during the shooting, it was as if the gateway to Hell opened, the whole scene was garishly lit up with the most unnatural light. Misha was momentarily distracted by the rainbow of colours – the oranges, reds and yellows of
gun-fire. There was a frantic dance in the night sky as the Luftwaffe planes dodged the stream of Russian bullets.

‘It’s like a firework display!’ Misha said, aloud, though no one heard him. Then he dully repeated something he had already said, ‘No, I can’t swim,’ while wondering at Oleg’s strange question in the middle of all this:
Why ask about swimming
?

A whistle, that screamed louder and louder, caused all the occupants in Misha’s boat to look up, in wonder. Misha and Oleg imitated their companions and stared at the sky directly above their heads. Some bewildered seconds passed until it dawned on them what the whistle meant. Misha fancied he could see the German pilot, an actual Nazi. They had hardly seemed real, up to now. And there, on the side of the plane, was the terrifying Swastika, a little ancient symbol that had been hijacked by Adolf Hitler to strike fear into the heart of the whole world.

Oh
, thought Misha, as he watched the plane open its belly and release its cargo.
Now I understand about the swimming.

Oddly enough, it was Anton who screamed as Misha’s boat exploded into absolutely nothing: not a splinter or a limb was left – just a few waves bumping together, trying to decide which direction to fold in. ‘Did you see? Did you see?’ His eyes were wild, and he seemed quite mad, almost as if he was laughing, making his remaining classmates recoil from him in disgust.

‘Just shut up, will you!’ said Leo, the only words he uttered
as their boat remained untouched while many others around them met Misha’s fate.

Vlad recited some long poem to himself. He couldn’t remember its name but managed to retrieve it from his memory, one sentence after another, mouthing the words, trying desperately not to think of anything else.

There was no sign of Leyosha or Maksim, although there were plenty of men in the water, begging to be rescued, but it was much too dangerous to stop and fish them out. The officers in charge could only shout at them to start
swimming
to Stalingrad or else hold on for another boat on its way back to the other bank. Besides, all the boats were
overcrowded
; there was no room for anyone else – no, that wasn’t exactly true now. Yes, the boats were crammed full at the beginning of the crossing, but, then, as dozens of men were shot dead by the pilots their slumped bodies were simply tossed into the river, making more room for everyone else.

It was hard to fight the enemy in the air as the planes dodged and turned like angry bees determined to sting until they were dead. Yet, it was harder still to fight hysteria.
Perhaps
the only Russians who weren’t afraid were the dead ones in the water.

Vlad didn’t know which of his travelling companions cracked, screaming over and over again, ‘What’s going on? What the hell is going on?’

Anton, the ever-dutiful soldier, answered him, at the top of
his voice, ‘We’re under attack!’

Vlad continued reciting his poem in his head, repeating each line twice, to make it last longer.

And then someone said something that made perfect sense, considering they weren’t even half way across the Volga, ‘Turn back the boat, it’s much too dangerous!’

More and more of the passengers took up the chorus, ‘Turn back!’ They had to shout over the gunfire. Heads, drenched from the splashing of fallen bodies and exploding bombs, turned towards the man who was steering the boat. He stared straight ahead, looking neither left or right,
ignoring
the pleas coming at him from either side of his vessel.

Standing beside him was an officer of the NKVD. Just before they boarded the boat, he had handed out leaflets, that nobody would have time to read, entitled,
What a Soldier Needs to Know
and
How to Act in City Fighting.
Some of the men thought they’d make a good substitute for toilet paper, and were happy to take more than a few sheets.

The Special Police officer looked younger than most of the men on board, his nose was crooked, his eyes were dark, unfriendly and far too near one another. It would have been hard to picture him laughing heartily; he had that sort of face. As the men continued to call for the boat to be turned around, he briefly silenced them by shaking his head and declaring, ‘We are going to Stalingrad, do you hear?’ His words had no effect on the soldiers, except to add to the chaos.

A tall man, who stood a few feet away from Vlad, flung his arms in the air, and cried, ‘This is crazy! We’re never going to make it!’

His companions agreed, their heads turning this way and that in search of support.

The young officer was enraged. ‘How dare you say such a thing! Remember who you are and what your duty is to your country and to Stalin.’

The tall man ignored him, and shouted at the others, ‘Let’s take the boat, or maybe we’re safer in the water?’ With that, he shoved his way to the edge of the boat, having obviously made up his mind that he was going to swim for it.

‘Stop right there, coward!’ The NKVD officer produced a small gun and pointed it at the rebel. ‘I command you to stay exactly where you are.’

The planes continued to spit out their bombs, but the men on Vlad’s boat had their own battle to contend with.

‘I warn you. I will shoot anyone who attempts to escape.’

The tall man was bewildered. ‘What is this? Are you the enemy? You would kill your fellow Russians?’

He received only a black look for a reply, which was not enough to stop him from throwing his right leg over the side of the boat and calling to his mates to follow him. He was dead before he hit the water. His fellow passengers stared as his body drifted away from them to join the hundreds of other corpses who had lost the fight before it even started.

‘Now, unless you want to end up like him, stay right where you are. Understood?’

Nobody said yes and nobody said no. However, it was enough; the officer put his gun away, much to everyone’s relief. Leo and Anton stared at one another in horror while Vlad kept his back to them, to hide a single tear that slowly trickled down his face.

The rest of the journey was made difficult by the choppy water. Waves rushed here and there as if also trying to escape the bombs. A couple of men vomited over the sides,
seasickness
on top of everything else. As they neared their
destination
, the officer of the Special Police addressed the men once more, ‘Once we reach the bank you will be targeted by the gunners who will do their utmost to keep you from reaching the city. You must keep going, no matter what.’ With these words, he patted the pocket that held his gun, making it clear that he would use it again should anyone fail to do as he said.

Vlad could already hear the shooting and the screams of fallen men whose boats had won the race to Stalingrad. He felt frozen inside and out. However, it was a warm night and he wasn’t actually cold, only terribly afraid – afraid to stay in the boat and afraid to leave it too. He found
himself
remembering a history lesson, from months ago, or, at least, remembering the part where Mr Belov talked about the word ‘pilgrimage’.

‘We make hundreds of journeys every day, most of them
are quite small but they are all important to us. Life, my boys, is one long pilgrimage, but you don’t have to be a hero to be heroic. Facing up to each day as best you can, striving to be the best you can – that can be enough of a crusade for most of us.’

Okay
, Vlad thought, desperate to make sense of the
situation
he was in,
this is a pilgrimage. I can only do my best and nothing more.

Someone asked in a timid voice, ‘When do we get our guns?’

Vlad was appalled that the matter was only being raised now. Maybe it was the sight of the officer’s gun that reminded everyone in the boat that they should have one too. The men looked at their neighbours, expecting them to have the answer to this very important question.

Once again the NKVD officer spoke up, ‘You ask about guns? Well, don’t worry, there are plenty of guns in
Stalingrad
, just help yourself.’