White Death

This story was inspired by artwork titled “Not an Angel” by Liza Eshkenazi which she created for the Herscher Project #11, "Careful What You Wish For".

The frigid cold is nearly unbearable. I cannot feel my fingers or toes. I stamp my feet but it does no good. Swirling snow pelts my face and I pull my frozen collar up further against my cheek. I wish I had a full beard like the older men. My heavy great coat and fur-lined cap do not keep my teeth from chattering. I long for a cigarette. I crouch down to rejoin my comrades. A thick blanket of fog shrouds us so we cannot see beyond our own little circle. We are forbidden to light a fire lest the enemy see. He is said to be closing in and shortly we will continue the march to meet him. Sergey, a grizzled veteran at twenty-six, calls him "The White Death". He points a gloved finger at me.

“A man would be sitting there one minute, just like you Tovarishch Volkov, and the next he would fall over dead, a gaping hole where his left eye used to be, killed by a sniper nine hundred meters away or more. Other times they would come floating swiftly and silently over the snow like ghosts. You would never see them or hear them until they opened up at close range with submachine guns.”

Dmitry, a raw recruit like me, shudders; I don't know if from cold or fear or both. He is from the south. I don't think he has ever seen snow before. None of us have ever been this far north except Sergey who fought in the Winter War. Stalin has sent us to the furthest reaches of the empire to protect the precious lifeline of Allied supplies—the ice-free port of Murmansk and the only railroad line to Leningrad. Most of the Red Army is engaged to fight the invading Germans. We face Finns.

Vasily clears his throat. He has a nice bushy beard. There is ice in it, but still, I bet it keeps his face warm. He is older than me but younger than Sergey. I do not know much about him; he never talks of himself. He says he has heard that a single Finn can stop a tank.

“Yes!” Sergey nods vigorously in agreement. “It is true! I have seen it myself. He flew up on skis and jammed a tree in the tracks. Then he was gone. Vanished before we even knew what he had done.”

Dmitry groans. “How will we ever stop them?”

Sergey claps him hard on the shoulder. “Ha! We will stop them for the simple reason that we are many and they are few.” I hope he is right. His face takes on a solemn countenance. “But the Finns aren't the only killers in this vast wilderness. There are others. Unnatural beasts.” Dmitry asks what he means.

He looks at us like he has a secret and cannot decide if he should tell it. “In Murmansk they talk of the upyr, a violent vampire that sleeps through the long night then rises with the sun to hunt. They also warn of the vourdulak, who appears as a beautiful woman but carries a deadly bite. I have met Finnish prisoners who say the vourdulak is one of their own; a member of the Lotta Svärd, women who wander the battlefields looking for wounded soldiers. If they find a Finn, they give him food and nurse his wounds. If they find a Russian, they kill him—or worse.”

Vasily motions for silence. “Do you hear that?”

Barely audible over the storm, the drone of a distant airplane. I look up into a sheet of white. My only reward is a pellet of ice which stings my eye. Sergey grunts. “How can they fly in this? Surely he can't see.”

Our break is interrupted by shouts and stomping footsteps. We are moving out. Dmitry whines. “Must we march in this? Can we not at least wait for the storm to subside?”

Sergey slaps him on the back once more. I think he tires of Dmitry's complaining. “Did you not hear the plane? The pilot risks his life to support our advance. It is our duty to oblige him, comrade.”

So we march, though we can hardly see where we are going. We battle frostbite and fatigue, as deadly as Finnish guns. With every step I expect those guns to welcome us and add to our misery. I am nervous, but do not know if I am afraid. I think Dmitry is afraid but Sergey is not. I do not know about Vasily. I know only that I will not ask him.

We halt. We are not told why. Perhaps an obstacle blocks the road. A fallen tree. Or a Finnish trap. Perhaps the Finns themselves already surround us, and are preparing to open fire. The wait is agonizing. I cannot get warm. I still wish for a cigarette. Finally we move again. Plodding footsteps.

Every so often I hear the plane. He must be searching for the Finns. I hope he finds them before they find us. Maybe I am afraid. I wonder if my gun is frozen. That thought bothers me and I don't know why it popped into my head. I force myself to think of something else. I am hungry. The airplane is getting closer. Is he headed for home?

I wish I was going home. I would build a great fire and sit in front of it, warming my toes and smoking cigarettes one after another. Vodka would fill my belly and I would drift off to a comfortable sleep.

A deafening roar yanks me from my daydream. Loud cracks ripple through the air—machine gun fire! The Finns have found us! I peer into the thick white fog but can make out nothing except a few birch trees. I should throw myself to the ground. I stand like a statue. Bright flashes burn through the clouds in the sky ahead of me. I feel a searing heat in my belly. I find it strange that warmth exists in this frozen place. I look all around but cannot see anyone else. I cannot hear anything. It is eerie. How can I be alone?

My legs tremble and I crumble. I do not even try to break the fall, only land with a dull thud. I hit my head. It does not hurt. I do not know how much time passes; perhaps I had passed out. I become aware of movement around me. I am not alone. I try to call out. My mouth is dry and I only utter a croak. I want to raise my arm but it refuses to obey me. Shadows pass before my glossy eyes. Soon they are gone.

How badly am I hurt? I struggle to lean up against a nearby rock. Red ice on my uniform. The snow beneath me drinks my life. My comrades have left me. I realize now that I've been shot by my own countryman, flying blindly in a storm, shooting what he thought was the enemy. And so no Finns are even coming to take me prisoner. I am alone here. And I am going to die here.

The iron fist of fear grips my heart. I do not want to die! I appeal to the power of Perun to save me. And in desperation I beg Veles as well.

My fear fades as quickly as it had come upon me. Once again my thoughts drift toward home and the giant stove around which my family and I would keep warm. Or at least partly warm. Feet would bake while everything else froze, but still, it was better than this. I think of my village; old men play the balalaika while young women dance around in clean white scarves. I close my eyes. I can almost hear the music. And the sweet voices of the pretty girls.

“Nikolay; Nikolay, where are you?”

The sound is so real my eyes fly open. I see a figure in the fog. Could it be my comrades come looking for me at last? But no, the voice belongs to a woman, I am certain. I recall Sergey's story about Finnish women providing food and medical care to wounded soldiers. Unless, of course, the soldier is Russian. Can this be one of them? But she knows my name; how?

The figure approaches through the fog. It is indeed a woman. She wears a white dress and her slender shoulders are bare. In this cold? I must be dreaming. She cannot be real.

“Nikolay! I have found you.” She kneels in the snow beside me, scarlet hair brushing my face. She reaches for me, and her pale fingers touch my chin. Her hands are ice. She lifts my face so I can see into her eyes. They are black as coal.

“Who are you?” My voice cracks when I speak.

“I am Lyubya. I have been sent to find you.”

“But who—who sent you?”

“I have come to grant your wish. You wish not to die; is that so?”

“Yes, I did wish it.”

“Then you shall not. My name means ‘Love’ and you must know ‘love never dies’.” She leans her face toward me and her soft lips dance over mine with a delicate kiss. She bites my lip. Hard. Fresh blood trickles down my chin. I am alarmed, but she smiles and wipes the blood away with a finger she puts to her mouth. She pats my chest. “Soon you will regain your strength. And you will develop a hunger. A hunger that can never be satisfied. This hunger will drive you and keep you alive.” She rises to her feet. “Goodbye, Nikolay.” She turns and slips away. The fog envelopes her and she is gone.

I am hungry.

I wander through the arctic circle, the land of the midnight sun and northern lights where mirages fool the eye and nothing is as it seems. I think often of Lyubya, the vourdulak who made me what I am. The Red Army sent me out to kill, but she made me a killer. The Red Army left me to die, but she made me to live. She ensured I would never perish. But I cannot blame her; I wished for this. Foolish boy! Afraid to die—begging to live!

And so I live. My loved ones must think me dead by now but they are better off not knowing the truth. They would never be safe from the hunger I cannot control. The people in my village do not deserve to live in fear. So I remain far away in this vast wilderness, this frozen wasteland where no one ever comes except those who are sent, like I was, to kill. Men who deserve to die.

To satisfy my hunger I hunt. I hunt for wounded soldiers, who rejoice when they first see me, but shriek with terror when they see what I am. White Death. My comrades left me to die in the snow. I am their punishment.

And they are mine.

References

Jowett, Philip and Brent Snodgrass. Finland at War 1939-1945. Osprey Publishing, 2006.

Seaton, Col. Albert. The Battle for Moscow 1941-1942. Stein & Day, NY, 1971.

Online: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Slavic_mythology Wikipedia Slavic Mythology