Chad Thumann - The Undesirables

“The symphony.”

“I’ve heard that a lot, during your audition, during our rehearsals, the summit. That symphony’s more than just music. It tells a story.”

“About a dying city.”

“No, not about a dying city. It tells a story about a city that refuses to die.”

Karen gazed at Petr. He wasn’t particularly clever, and he’d never claimed to be. He didn’t think of the world as a chess game, didn’t think three or even two moves ahead, not like Bobby did, not like General Marshall did. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t smart. He’d surprised her before with his astute observations. And he was surprising her again.

Maybe he was the one who could finally solve the riddle that had perplexed her for so long. “There was an old woman,” she told him, “who died, frozen to death in Leningrad.”

She paused, half expecting Petr to interrupt her. That was what Bobby would have done. He would have asked for clarification or an explanation as to why she was changing the subject. But Petr just stared at her, patient and attentive.

Karen continued. “She could have died anywhere. But she chose a fountain. You know, one of those symbolic fountains with a statue of workers building the new Russia.” She painted a picture with her words, of a scene she’d seen every day walking to the State bakery. “I never understood why she did it,” she concluded. “Why she chose to die there, on public display like that.”

“Maybe she just didn’t want to be a burden. Maybe she did it so someone else could eat her bread ration,” Petr postulated.

“I thought of that,” Karen replied. She described the story she half remembered of an old Eskimo walking into the forest to die. “But if the old woman were doing the same thing,” she continued, “she would have died someplace hidden, someplace private.”

Petr nodded thoughtfully. “You’re right.”

“The only thing I can figure is that she did it on purpose. She wanted to be seen. She wanted her death to mean something. But what?”

Petr thought about it in silence for a long time. Karen waited for him. Finally, he said, “Maybe it’s not just one thing or the other.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe it’s both. Maybe she was dying like the Eskimo in that story. So that other people could live. Maybe she figured that since she was going to die anyway, better to die now so someone else could eat her bread. But she also wanted people to see the sacrifice she was making. She wanted people to witness her death.”

“Why?” Karen asked, though she feared she already knew the answer.

“To serve as an example. As an inspiration. Like that symphony.”

“Die so that other people can live,” Karen repeated. She felt ashamed. She’d worked so hard to live. It had been her entire focus. And it had been so difficult. But to what purpose? What had she achieved that Inna and Sasha hadn’t?

Petr nodded. “You know what I saw more than anything during the first months of the invasion?”

“What?”

“Russian soldiers running away, trying to save themselves. We all ran away. I ran away, my unit ran away. And those who couldn’t run, they surrendered. We didn’t know, then—we didn’t understand what the Germans were doing to the villages they occupied. We thought they were just conquering. We didn’t know they were killing and enslaving. How many people in those villages died because we ran away?”

“More would have died if you hadn’t.”

“I’m not sure that’s true,” Petr confessed. This notion had been bothering him, especially now that he’d chosen to run all the way to America. “Eventually, I don’t think there will be anywhere left to run.”

“America thinks that when that happens, you’ll surrender.”

“We would, if we could. But Germany’s not offering us that choice.” There was no bluster in Petr’s expression, no blind patriotism—just thoughtful, honest contemplation. “Everyone realizes that now. We’re not France. The Germans don’t want anything to do with us. Leningrad showed that. Your father’s symphony showed that. We fight or we die. It’s a simple choice, really. Makes things easier in a way. Either fight or die.”

“It’s not quite that simple.” Karen used the same argument Bobby had made only moments before. “You need guns to fight—planes, tanks.”

“We’ll have those,” Petr assured her. “Even if Stalin was assassinated tomorrow, the factories would keep running. Even if the workers were under attack, they’d keep building and rolling tanks off the production lines so that drivers could get inside and go straight to battle. Because that’s the way the workers can fight. And everyone realizes now that we have to fight. We fight or we die.”

Petr took the last bite and handed the plate back to Karen. “Everyone but me.”

Karen sensed what was coming next. She wanted to stop him, but she knew that she couldn’t. Because she believed that Petr was right. So she held her breath, dreading the words.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I wanted to do this for you. But I can’t.”

“I know,” Karen replied, the words almost catching in her throat.

They stared at each other for a long time. Karen’s eyes were welling with tears, but she didn’t dare blink. She felt that as long as she could hold that stare, as long as they looked at each other, the spell that united them would force Petr to stay.

“Bobby’s a lucky man,” Petr said with regret. “Don’t ever let him forget that.”

Then he stood up and walked toward the hangar door.

“Wait!” Karen grabbed Petr and spun him around. If she couldn’t stop him with words, if she couldn’t stop him with a look, maybe she could stop him with a kiss.

Maybe it would have worked, too, if Bobby hadn’t interrupted them. He came in through the hangar’s side door, the sound of it clicking open prompting Petr to pull away.

Bobby eyed how close Petr and Karen stood together, and how both seemed out of breath. “What’s going on?”

Then Bobby saw the tears on Karen’s cheeks, and he softened. He went to her, putting his hands on her shoulders, looking at her downturned face with concern. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

Karen couldn’t answer; she didn’t want to say the words.

“Tell him I’m leaving,” Petr urged her in Russian.

“Petr’s leaving,” Karen echoed in English. She didn’t know why, but it made it easier that Petr was telling her what to say.

“Leaving? Leaving where?”

Petr said, “You can tell him I’m going back to the Red Army.”

“He’s going back to fight,” Karen translated.

Bobby stepped back. For a moment he didn’t believe what he was hearing. He looked at Petr and then back at Karen. Their expressions confirmed that it was the truth. “Do you need anything?” he asked Petr, knowing he couldn’t understand English but trusting that Karen would translate. “Food? Money?”

Hearing Karen’s translation, Petr shook his head. “The Red Army will provide.”

Bobby approached Petr and took his hand firmly in both of his own. “Good luck,” he said, and he meant it.

Petr nodded. He knew the English expression even if he didn’t know the rest of the language. “Thank you,” he replied in heavily accented English. And then he added something in Russian before turning and exiting the door through which Bobby had come in.

Bobby turned back to Karen. “What did he say?”

“He said, do not die. For my sake, do not die.” And then she couldn’t say anything more because she was crying again.

Bobby wrapped her in his arms and held her tight. “I won’t,” he assured her. “I won’t.”

Karen didn’t stop crying, and for as long as she sobbed, Bobby held her. “It’s OK,” he assured her. “You did what you could.” But still she cried. “It’s better this way,” he continued. “He’s Russian. He belongs here.”

Finally, Karen stopped crying. She unwrapped herself from Bobby’s embrace, wiped her eyes with the palms of her hands, and nodded. “You’re right,” she conceded. “It’s better this way. But I need to talk to him. I never even said good-bye.”

“All right,” Bobby said, stepping back.

Karen left then, out the hangar and through the fence, running into the streets of Krasnoyarsk.

Bobby watched Karen go. She looked like a ghost for a moment, her coat flapping behind her, gray in northern Siberia’s late twilight.

And when, at last, she disappeared completely, Bobby examined his heart. He didn’t resent Petr, not anymore. The boy was doing the right thing, the courageous thing—the right thing for his country and, more important, for Karen.

Bobby wondered whether he would have had the courage to do the same, to go back into a fight he knew he would probably lose. Bobby knew he would have to fight again; he had no choice. He’d given up that choice when he joined the Army Air Forces. But Petr did have a choice. He could have flown to America. He could have emigrated. He could have sat out the rest of the war.

What would Bobby have done if he’d been in Petr’s place?

He went back to the barracks to find them empty. He knew where everyone was, and he knew he could use their company, and he could use a drink. So he headed to the mess hall.

Sure enough, Bobby found Jack, Max, Wally, Bel, Lenka, and Katia there. Even Captain Hart was with them. As usual, they were passing the time drinking and playing cards. They hadn’t noticed Bobby yet. They were too busy drinking and laughing. Bobby paused just inside the doorway and watched them. As he did, he knew the answer to his question.

Yes, he’d have the courage to get back into the fight, he realized, even a fight he knew he’d probably lose. He’d do it for Jack, he’d do it for Max and Wally. Hell, he’d even do it for Bel, Lenka, and Katia. They were his friends. More than that, they’d become his brothers and sisters. So long as they fought, Bobby knew, he’d fight beside them.