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  LOST SOULS OF LENINGRAD

  A Novel

  Suzanne Parry

  Copyright © 2022, Suzanne Parry

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

  Published 2022

  Printed in the United States of America

  Print ISBN: 978-1-64742-267-7

  E-ISBN: 978-1-64742-268-4

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2022906046

  For information, address:

  She Writes Press

  1569 Solano Ave #546

  Berkeley, CA 94707

  She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.

  All company and/or product names may be trade names, logos, trademarks, and/or registered trademarks and are the property of their respective owners.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. With the exception of historical figures, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  To my parents, Loraine Lefrançois Baxter and E.R. Baxter III.

  And for Leningrad’s blokadniki.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  A LOT HAS BEEN written about World War II, but comparatively little about the Soviet Union and its wartime ordeals. When I was in high school and university, a rather narrow perspective of the Second World War was taught. In general, the Eastern Front did not get much emphasis. Decades later, my children learned a somewhat broader history. If there is any one reason why I have written this book, it is to illuminate the Soviet experience.

  My semester as a college student in Moscow during the Cold War (perhaps now considered the First Cold War), and my subsequent work for the US Department of Defense as an arms control negotiator in the 1980s, allowed me to interact with Soviet citizens, Soviet diplomats, and Soviet military personnel. This story has its foundation in those experiences.

  The protagonists of this novel are fictional characters wrapped around actual events. A few historical figures appear briefly in the story: Commissar of the Navy, Nikolai G. Kuznetsov; head of the NKVD, Lavrenti P. Beria; Leningrad Philharmonic Orchestra conductor, Yevgeny A. Mravinsky; Radio Committee Orchestra director, Karl I. Eliasberg; and journalist/poet, Olga F. Berggolts. Their words and actions sometimes adhere closely to the historical record, but I have taken plenty of liberties to further the story.

  The main events in the novel are a matter of historical fact. Nazi Germany attacked the Soviet Union in the early morning of June 22, 1941. In eleven weeks, Leningrad was surrounded and cut off from the rest of the country. There were close to three million civilians in the city when the Germans pulled the noose tight.

  The bombings of the Badayev food warehouses, Gostiny Dvor, and Finland Station are all a matter of record as is the evacuation disaster in Lychkovo.

  The naval retreat from Tallinn in late August 1941 was calamitous for the Soviet Baltic Fleet with over 13,000 casualties. By contrast, in the better-known Dunkirk evacuation of 1940, 3,500 British forces lost their lives (although much larger numbers were captured).

  During the winter of 1941–42, almost no food was available to average citizens in Leningrad. The daily bread ration fell to 125 grams for dependents, under four and a half ounces.

  The Ice Road—the Road of Life—was the Soviet Government’s attempt to save the city once all land routes were blockaded.

  In the spring of 1942, the authorities cajoled thousands of emaciated citizens, mostly women, to clean the city.

  Composer Dimitri Shostakovich’s Seventh Symphony, the Leningrad Symphony, was performed in Leningrad on August 9, 1942, by the Radio Committee Orchestra to significant acclaim.

  The Siege of Leningrad lasted from September 8, 1941 until January 27, 1944. The precise number of civilian deaths will never be known. Estimates range from the original official Soviet number (632,253) to the more accurate but still approximate figure of one million. The vast majority of deaths occurred during the first year, in what is often referred to as the starvation winter of 1941–42. After that time, resupply efforts proved sufficient for the remaining, much diminished, population.

  Leningrad was just one corner of the Soviet Union devastated by World War II, the Great Patriotic War as it is known in Russia. The statistics defy comprehension: nine million Soviet soldiers and nineteen million Soviet civilians died. This novel is my earnest and heartfelt effort to draw attention to the Soviet experience and to honor the story of Leningrad and her citizens.

  Although it is not a story of Stalin, the brutality, lack of regard for life, and absence of human rights that characterized his years in power demand our revulsion and opposition. The ongoing fight by the Russian leadership against values we hold dear—truth, freedom, justice, and human rights—should remind us all that however imperfect our pursuit of those values, it is far better than the authoritarian alternative.

  March 2022, Washington, DC

  THE KNOCK AT THE DOOR

  January 1941

  ALONG THE BROAD, late-night avenues of central Leningrad, the last of the concert-goers hurried home ahead of curfew. They hastened down side streets and darted into courtyards, while Sofya leaned against the wall of the artists’ entrance inside Philharmonia Hall. She pulled on her boots as her comrades finished sharing a cigarette and some gossip with the guard.

  By the time the three musicians made their way up Nevsky Prospekt to Sadovaya Street, the roads and sidewalks were deserted. Indistinct halos around the streetlights cast a reluctant glow. Collars up against the snow, her much younger colleagues turned off together, leaving Sofya to walk alone through the once elegant city. She touched a pocket, checking for her propusk, the pass which allowed her to be out after curfew.

  Every shadow and every breath of wind reminded her that the city was a playground for the secret police. When he was alive, Andrei often met her after evening performances. Carrying her violin case in one hand and holding her arm with the other, he made her feel safe, even as the city turned on itself. When the arrests started, no one thought it would happen to them. They’d done nothing wrong. But then friends and acquaintances disappeared, people who also hadn’t done anything wrong. Stalin and his subordinates found fault with all manner of innocent citizens and benign circumstances. Soon old grudges and petty darknesses oozed out of apartments and workplaces. Neighbors spoke against neighbors. Once defined by music, literature, and majestic architecture, a vibrant city where people thought, and thought out loud, Leningrad had become a drab version of its former self—little more than a tarnished tomb holding a body without a breath. Not unlike its namesake on eternal display in Moscow’s Red Square.

  Two shadowy figures loomed ahead on the Anichkov Bridge. As she drew closer the burly policemen blocked the sidewalk, bears stalking a defenseless elk calf.

  “What are you doing out at such an hour? It’s past curfew. Where are your papers?”

  A gust of wind whistled as they snarled and snapped. Sofya’s heart raced even though her paperwork was in order and she’d done nothing wrong. Why, it wasn’t even past curfew. Still, doing everything by the book didn’t mean she couldn’t be arrested. She tried to hide the trembling in her hand as she extended the pass which allowed her to be out between midnight and five in the morning. “I’m with the Leningrad Philharmonic. We just finishe
d a performance and I’m on my way home.”

  A third officer wandered up and Sofya recognized him from the neighborhood around the concert hall. She struggled to recall his name, certain they’d spoken before.

  “What’s going on here? Why are you delaying Comrade Karavayeva? Can’t you see she’s a musician?” He pointed to her violin case. “Her papers are in order. She walks this route all the time. She lives right there.” He gestured at the street running along the Fontanka River.

  Desperate to retrieve the officer’s name, Sofya searched for the memory of their introduction. On the way to rehearsal? After a concert?

  He stepped toward her. “How was the performance tonight, Comrade Karavayeva?”

  “Thank you, Comrade, Comrade Volkov,” she replied, his name popping forth. “The audience especially enjoyed the Romeo and Juliet Overture.”

  “Konechno. Of course.” His face softened. “Everyone likes Tchaikovsky.”

  “Pravilno. That’s right. Always a favorite.” She smiled. He appreciated music. She thanked Officer Volkov as he returned her papers, wished him a good night and turned for home.

  With her first steps away from the bridge, Sofya heard the men exchange a few words followed by laughter. She hugged the violin case to her chest and walked with restraint, not wanting to draw more attention. What good were rules if there was no protection in obeying them?

  Sofya shivered, her heart still racing, as she slipped through the street entrance of Fontanka Embankment 54. They should be ashamed—badgering a woman my age. Even the secret police must have better things to do than bother a hard-working, law-abiding babushka. She shuddered again from the chill reminder that life in the Soviet Union could always get worse.

  The courtyard’s archways and angles loomed, familiar but unsettling. The Karavayevs had moved into the building decades earlier when it was new, captivated by its architecture and lured by the convenient location on the edge of central St. Petersburg. After the revolution, when the Communists were eager to equalize living standards, most city apartments were consolidated. Complete strangers soon shared single-family dwellings. Communal living meant curtained corners, sleeping mats in hallways, and a single bathroom for a dozen or more people. At first, Sofya guessed her brother’s unique history protected them from the indignities of shared housing, but after he died and her professional status grew, she wondered if their apartment was perhaps an unspoken privilege, a reward for her years with the Philharmonic. Regardless, she lived in constant fear of the municipal housing authorities.

  Creeping into the apartment so as not to disturb her son and daughter-in-law, she hung her coat and tucked her violin into a corner, then followed the hall to the bedroom she shared with her granddaughter. Just enough light filtered through the two windows to cast a faint glow on Yelena’s sleeping form, buried under blankets. Sofya tip-toed about the room, more out of habit than any real concern about waking the sound asleep teenager. She slipped on nightclothes, picked up a book, and padded into the tidy kitchen.

  The small samovar stood alone on the table. Every time she had a late performance, her son made sure it was hot before he went to bed. After drawing her tea, she settled in the living room, snuggling into the sofa’s familiar contours. Sofya savored this hour before bed, reading or reviewing the evening’s performance, surrounded by intense quiet with everyone asleep.

  She opened Pushkin’s Dubrovsky, a tale of injustice and lost love. Quickly engrossed, the unexpected sound of heavy footfalls and loud male voices startled her. Sofya knew who it was, what it was. Plenty of people had already vanished over the last several years. Intellectuals, artists, life-long Bolsheviks, even military officers by the thousands. After the incident on the way home, she guessed they were coming for her, a suspicion that knotted her insides.

  The book slipped from her lap as she stood. A desperate whispered prayer, “God protect us,” escaped her lips as she pulled the belt on her dressing gown tight. Her pulse quickened and she slid toward the entry, ears alert.

  The booming steps grew louder as the men thudded down the hall toward her. For a moment there was nothing but silence. Sofya held her breath. Heart hammering, she inched toward the door and strained to listen.

  A fist banged hard and repeatedly. Sofya jumped, even though she was expecting it. She hesitated, but when the fist roared again, she leaned forward and reached for the doorknob.

  They filled the entryway, pushing past her, smelling of stale cigarette smoke and alcohol. The frightened apartment manager followed, clutching her keys in case no one opened the door. She did double-duty as the civilian witness. A despicable role in this circus. Sofya pitied her.

  “We’re here for Major Aleksandr Karavayev. Where is he?” Without waiting for her answer, two of the agents thundered toward the back of the apartment.

  At her son’s name, Sofya froze. There had to be a mistake. Unable to make sense of what she’d heard, she willed herself after the intruders.

  Squinting in the light, Aleksandr appeared in the hallway as the agents approached.

  “I’m Major Karavayev.”

  The two thickset men flanked him. A third, smallish officer, narrow-faced and sharp-nosed with eyes like dark pinholes, approached the trio.

  “Aleksandr Andreiivich Karavayev. You are under arrest. Get dressed and bring your identification papers.”

  Fear and confusion rose in Aleksandr’s countenance. He and his wife, Katya, exchanged a look and she shrank into the shadows. He disappeared down the hall, escorted by the two thugs. A moment later Yelena stumbled out of the bedroom.

  “Papa? Mama?”

  Sofya stepped forward and pulled her close, shielding her, while silent Katya clutched the neck of her nightgown and edged toward them.

  The rat-faced man walked from room to room like the master of the house. He pulled the drawers out of the mahogany secretary, dumping the contents on the floor but not examining what was there. Out of the corner of her eye Sofya watched him finger Lenin’s What Is To Be Done? then carefully return the book to its place of esteem. Next, he went into her bedroom. She heard the fearful thumps of volumes hitting the floor and steadied herself, wondering if he would find what was behind the bookcase. Instead, he came out as quickly as he went in. It was all part of the routine, frightening people, conducting arrests when families were asleep and vulnerable.

  “What’s happening, Babusya?”

  She held her granddaughter, but couldn’t form a reply. Aleksandr came out in his uniform, buttoning the jacket. Service medals and campaign ribbons flashed across the left chest. He handed his papers to the rat-faced man. Yelena latched onto her father. He kissed the top of her head whispering “I love you” as he pried her arms away. Sofya pulled Yelena close as she cried out, “No! Not Papa.” Aleksandr grabbed his heavy military greatcoat off the hook as they propelled him out the door. There were no explanations, no last words, only a stunned and desperate look on her dear Sasha’s face. One moment Sofya had a son; the next, he was gone. It was over in the space of a few hundred heartbeats.

  BETRAYAL

  February 1941

  THE BOLSHOI DOM, the Big House, as the headquarters of the secret police was known to locals, could have been any other government building except for the line of women winding down the street and around the block. That symbol of suffering lengthened as the arrests grew, stretching like a gigantic, slow-moving centipede.

  Sofya now joined the queue. As much as her schedule allowed, she waited in the cold, hoping for news of Aleksandr. Sweet Yelena wanted to help, arguing she could hold a place in line, but Sofya wouldn’t allow her granddaughter anywhere near the prison. Meanwhile, Katya was her typical enigmatic self.

  “You know I can’t do that,” Katya said. “My position is precarious now.”

  “But what about Sasha?” Sofya tried to avoid the issue of loyalty to the State.

  “Aleksandr is important, of course,” Katya said. “But nothing will come of waiting at the Big House.
We won’t see him unless he’s released. So why risk aggravating the authorities? Why risk ourselves and Yelena?”

  It was true that supporting Aleksandr could make things worse, but Katya’s fatalism frustrated Sofya. There were more important things than always protecting oneself. Like standing up for family. Standing up for what was right. Besides, no matter what Katya might think, no matter how special she might believe she was, no one was beyond Stalin’s reach. Plenty of Party faithful had disappeared.

  On a day that began like any other in the late winter of Sasha’s arrest, Sofya reached the front of the line at the Bolshoi Dom. After so many days of waiting she’d almost given up hope. Her heart pounded as she climbed the steps and approached reception.

  “Karavayeva, Sofya Nikolayevna. I’m here to inquire about my son, Major Aleksandr Andreiivich Karavayev.” She forced her voice to remain neutral, almost pleasant, like she was asking for two hundred grams of cheese at the store.

  The officer seated behind the desk looked right through her. “No one here by that name.”

  “I was told he’s been here since his arrest in January.” She’d done her homework, already taken risks by petitioning certain authorities. Careful to stay respectful, she reached inside her bag and pulled out a small bundle wrapped in newspaper. As she set it on the desk, the paper fell open to reveal a pair of socks and a small, homemade loaf of dark bread. A piece of string held the socks on top like a sad, floppy bow.

  “May I leave this for him?”

  The officer shrugged, his lack of emotion adding to the bleakness of the place.

  She started to ask if she could see Aleksandr, but lost her nerve when another officer picked up the package and put his nose to the bread, sniffing appreciatively. She stiffened, but before she said something she’d regret, a third agent approached with a handful of papers. The senior officer scanned the documents, pulled one out and slid it across the desk to Sofya.