Chapter 5 – City of Despair
From the vast sky above Sanya floats down on her stolen broomstick to land softly, silently between two large abandoned apartment buildings. With a wobble she dismounts her magical transport to fall distraught to her hands and knees which vanish into the deep snow piled below her. She has become overwhelmed with emotion, barely able to breathe through her sobs and heavy, ragged breaths. With her face mere inches from the icy ground even her tears begin to freeze, her eyelashes forming thin highlights of shimmering white crystals. At least the frigid chill of the snow is soothing her bruises sustained in her fight with Erica.
Never before in her life had Sanya felt as angry as she had upon seeing the destruction being wrought down on Saint Petersburg, on hearing Ericas reluctance to help and being forcefully restrained by her once seemingly good friend. All she wanted was answers, to stop this mindless violence, but perhaps she had been too brash herself. She remembers back to a time Eila risked her life to save her against an elusive Neuroi. Sanya had acted just as impulsive back then, so sure of her own ability and righteousness, only to find herself completely out of her depth. What would Eila say now she wonders, after seeing Sanya act so enraged? How would the others react to her abandoning Erica, surely Minna and Gertrud would hate her for that. With an intense feeling of guilty regret Sanya stumbles to her feet looking quite the mess with her muddy jacket and ripped tights.
After wiping the flakes of ice from her eyes Sanya slowly emerges into the street outside, carrying her broom in both hands nervously as if hoping it would protect her further. What she discovers is an eerie sight; the city of Petersburg feels empty and alone. She can hear the sounds of its inhabitants somewhere far off, the clangs and sirens of factories on the wind, however what catches her ear the most is a strange, rhythmic ticking. High up on a nearby lamp post a conical speaker rests, icicles hanging like fangs off the cold metal rim as it sounds out its creepy tone.
Sanya knows this sound, she’s heard it countless times before; it’s a metronome. With perfectly timed ticks the sound of this musical apparatus sounds out all across the city like a steady heartbeat. Sanya would normally find such a rhythm quite relaxing, drawing memories of her days practicing piano long ago, however she can’t help feel this mysterious broadcast has a more sinister purpose.
With a sudden strong gust of freezing wind channelled down the empty street Sanya begins to wander. If it weren’t for several buildings being severely damaged or even completely destroyed the city would look mostly familiar. She had once enjoyed roaming the streets of Saint Petersburg on her days free from the military, long before she joined the 501st. She’d only returned here once before since then when visiting the 502nd. Back then the city was also lifeless, evacuated to the last man due to the Neuroi threat. Before that however the city was a shining, beautiful place. There was a tailor on Nevsky Avenue where she once spent an evening admiring the perfectly crafted gowns and suits, a warm café along the Fontanka River which she remembers serving fantastic cakes. Once upon a time the calm canals and open squares offered a feeling of peaceful normality. There was one place however she holds memories of which she cherishes the most, a place she finds herself now slowly, unconsciously drawn to; the Conservatory.
As she roams the deserted snow filled streets sound-tracked by the constant background ticking, Sanya notices something strange, a sign above a ruined empty department store.
“Leningrad?” she says out loud, wondering just what that means. This is Saint Petersburg, there’s no doubt about that, so what on earth is Leningrad? In the dim window of the store several posters still remain plastered to the inside of the misty glass, ablaze with bold reds and yellows, a strange emblem of a hammer and sickle. Large Cyrillic lettering calls out for the Motherland, for the victory of the Red Army and the defeat of Germany. German - That’s what the soldier yesterday called himself, Sanya thought, not Karlslander. She begins to question just where exactly she and Erica had crash landed as she looks at her own reflection in the glass. This isn’t really her home she worries; maybe this isn’t even… her world.
Pulling herself away from her reflected visage to continue wading through the barely disturbed snow she sniffles and coughs; the cold is finally getting to her. She had used a lot of magic to escape the artillery camp, magic that passively boosts a witch’s resistance to such freezing hazards. She’s hungry, and her typical tiredness is catching up to her. Still, she has to be able to find someone to help in this city, whether it is Petersburg or Leningrad.
Shuffling out onto a wide avenue, Sanya finally catches sight of another person in this ghost town, a woman sitting on a roadside bench. Breathing a cloud of warm mist out in relief she trudges towards the resting stranger, dusting herself down of dirt and snow as to appear more presentable.
“Umm. Excuse me, miss, can you help me out?” she asks meekly as she draws near. Strangely she receives no response, not even an acknowledgement of her presence. “Miss? Hello?” Sanya tries again.
The woman remains motionless on the wooden seat, dressed in a thick woollen jacket with a bucket resting next to her arm, its contents frozen solid. Her face, upon closer inspection is a pale, ghostly white, her fingers and ears a sickening black and blue. With a distressed realisation Sanya notices that the only puffs of condensed breath in the air are her own, the woman isn’t breathing. With a cautious, shaking hand Sanya reaches out to touch the deceased woman to confirm her suspicions. Her body is rigid and icy against Sanyas fingers; even the cloth scarf covering her snow filled hair has frozen solid. Sanya takes a panicked stumble backwards, raising her hands to her mouth to stifle a gasp. This woman, this poor woman had sat on this bench who knows how long ago only to freeze to death, all alone in the heart of what should be a bustling city. Suddenly Sanya feels an awful lot colder.
Through the sorrowful silence the sound of a door clasping shut breaks Sanya from her hypnotized entrapment. Someone had left from a partially ruined building a little ways down the street and now walks slowly towards Sanya. At least this man is alive, she thinks as he draws near carrying a large heavy bag, his body bulked up by multiple layers of clothing. Sanya moves to interrupt the man’s robotic march, almost tripping on something buried in the snow before he can pass her by.
“Sir! Please, this woman is… What’s going on here?” she pleads. While the man does stop, while he is alive, Sanya again receives no response other than a pained, empty turn of the head. He looks down on Sanya through dark ringed eyes, towering over the young girl with an emotionless, blank face. Despite wearing layers and layers of warm clothing, he shivers against the cold air as if they were doing nothing. The man impulsively swallows, as if he wants to say something, but can’t muster the energy to do so, like doing anything but clearing his mouth of saliva would be far too exhausting. His hands appear swollen and blue, too large now to wear gloves, the skin of his fingers lined with deep cracks in the early stages of frostbite. Sanya backs away, unnerved by the man’s corpse-like aura; only different from the dead woman on the bench by his ability to move around.
With another painful sounding involuntary gulp of spit the man turns away to continue his silent, thoughtless journey to wherever he was travelling, leaving Sanya stood alone once again in the empty road, surrounded by nothing but falling snowflakes and the ever present sound of ticking. She looks down to hide her sorrow only to be met with yet another terrifying sight. Another body laying half buried in the piled up snow, blackened and featureless from having lain out here for so long, a body which Sanya had unknowingly tripped over when trying to stop the silent man. She closes her eyes tight, fighting back the feeling of wanting to scream, to vomit at the horrific scene knowing that her legs had touched this long dead person. She has to get out of here, away from this nightmare. She clutches onto the broom still in her hands and desperately wishes this were nothing but a bad dream, as she picks up her pace to carry on down the lonely avenue.
Sanya wanders on in a solitary, speechless daze, drawn ever forward through the ruined streets. The dreadful silence is only broken by ticking and the howls of wind, as if the city is speaking to her, as if its voice wants to claim her as yet another victim. She passes a pile of bodies along the Moyka River, huddled up against the side of a bakery, motionless, frozen together into one single structure. More lay forgotten in the street, half buried in snow, another; an old woman, sits on a large wooden crate full of sand, once used to fight fires after the water had been cut off. She must have sat down to rest only to pass away, like all the others.
Sanya feels sick and dizzy, her feet stumbling as she continues like a being possessed, overcome by a sense of incredible loneliness. On one street corner she passes a long ditch dug in the snow, filled with clear, shining melt water. At its edge, next to a small pail, a man kneels down, his head bowed as if giving reverence. He had come to collect water but after lowering down to his knees he had simply expired, too exhausted to continue the struggle of being alive.
Across the river she sees a long line of people, at least two hundred or more, stretching down the embankment and around a corner. They stand silently, like shop window mannequins, sniffling, shivering and coughing, but not speaking, doing so is pointless. Slowly, one by one they hand over a sheet of paper at a desk and collect a small package which they clutch tightly against their chest. Overlooking this horrid bread line stands a man in full military uniform, a bold blue cap atop his head and carrying a rifle. As the people pass him they avert their eyes, as if they dare not look at him, even through the pain and hunger, they can find strength to be afraid of this man.
Sanya crosses the Moyka onto Ulitsa Glinki Street. It’s only a short distance further to her destination. She had travelled this road many times before but now it was unrecognisable. Several of the buildings are completely gone, reduced to a pile of snow capped rubble; others stand partially collapsed, masonry hanging precariously from gaping holes. This street was once lined with lush trees, but they have long since been cut down for valuable firewood no doubt. Eventually, Sanya comes upon the place she had been pulled towards. The Conservatory stands firm amid the destruction around it. There are signs of fire damage, of looting, but the building remains, its façade a welcoming, relieving sight to the shivering Orussian.
Standing across the plaza from the just as grand Mariinsky Theatre, the sight of the Conservatory brings waves of pleasant memories flooding back to Sanya. Of days spent practicing piano in its many classrooms and in the great hall beneath the spectacular paintings adorning its ceiling, depicting legends from Orussian folklore and myth. She can almost hear the voice of her instructors; feel the smooth keys of the expertly crafted musical instruments on her numb fingertips. It was her father who had first taught Sanya the wonders of the piano long ago in Moscow but it was here that she ignited her passion. With a calm sigh she thinks back to when she played music for the 501st several years ago and wishes she could do that again some day, Minnas voice was pretty she laments.
Suddenly, somewhere in the distance several explosions rips Sanya from her melancholy, artillery is falling again. It’s nowhere near her, possibly closer to the factory districts or the lake front but the faint sound of the shot followed by the crash of the impact shakes the ground even here. It continues for several moments and Sanya can see smoke rising over some buildings far away. As she looks around, scanning the sky to make sure no shells would fall down upon her, she notices a man standing atop the roof of the Conservatory. She could mistake him for a statue if it weren’t for the waving of his coat against the wind. As she notices him, so too does he seem to notice her and he soon vanishes from his perch silently, disappearing back inside the school of music. Sanya is awash with feelings as she begins cautiously approaching the building, slowly, unsure of her welcome. She wipes her reddened, runny nose against her sleeve, rids her eyes and hair of snowflakes as she carefully opens the large doors with a piercing creak.