Guardian Soldier

By Lindsey Bramson

In the summer of 1941, German troops laid siege to the city of Leningrad (present-day St. Petersburg). The siege lasted nine hundred days and was one of the most tragic periods in the history of the city. While escaping across Lake Ladoga, Nicolae, a fifteen-year-old Russian boy, reluctantly agrees to take a Jewish orphan girl named Esther with him. The two set off together to find refuge in a city in Finland where they can only guess they will be safe. Along the way, Nicolae encounters secrets and betrayals that will ultimately change his life and discovers just how important protecting a nine-year-old girl can be.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 28, 2009
• ISBN: 9781462825981

Lindsey Bramson

Lindsey Bramson grew up in a little town in southeast Washington called Benton City; population, two thousand. She graduated from Kiona-Benton City High School in 2007 and now attends Northwest Nazarene University in Nampa, Idaho, where she’s majoring in English with a minor in Spanish.

Book preview

Part One

Chapter One

The fading sun drained the color from the sky as a grayish and bitter tone took over, much like the mood and dire situation of the inhabitants of the city. Everything you could see at a glance was still. Nothing moved. Buildings lined the road, taunting someone to walk under their leaning appearance and threatening anyone who came near with a hushed silence that filled the air. Not a sound was heard.

Night was approaching.

Out a side street, the sound of footsteps emerged. Nicolae walked, head bent and eyes downcast, as he made his way down the desolate road. He kicked a pebble out of his way. The sack of food he carried weighed down on his shoulder. He carefully switched it to the opposite one and quickened his pace. A sudden wind picked up and blew a stray leaf across the street to nowhere, dropping the already freezing temperature to almost-unbearable depths.

It had always been cold in Nicolae’s world. From the food he had eaten every night as a child, the never-relenting weather he had endured all his life, and right down to the mother he had barely ever known. Nicolae had never known a warm day or happy moment in his life except when the missionaries had come.

It certainly wasn’t a happy time now with the outbreak of war and Germans attacking Russia. Those lying idiots! Nicolae had never been much interested in the news and stories of war. He had heard a great deal about other wars such as the Winter War with the Finns and the War to End all Wars. This one had made him laugh. If it truly was the end war, then why was there another being fought right now?

But Nicolae knew a backstabber when he saw one. He had seen a great many in his life, and Hitler was no different. Hitler had promised an alliance with Russia and then turned his back as his troops obeyed his command to invade and conquer all that lay before them. Oh well, Nicolae had thought. He was safe in Leningrad, far from where anyone knew him. The Germans had entered a little over two months before, and it was said they were advancing on the capital, but Nicolae had little worries. He hardly believed the Germans could conquer the snow and ice covering their trail let alone take over once the Americans arrived. The Germans could beat every other country; but the United States was not one, Nicolae doubted, that could be brought to its knees.

He turned the corner and crossed the street to the building he was staying at. As he walked up to the door, he noticed a ragged doll lying just where the gate separating the property lines between this building and the orphanage lay. He picked it up. Some little girl must have forgotten it here. Nicolae smirked. Dumb girl. He turned and threw it over the gate into the play area. He didn’t care where it landed. The little girl would find it next time she came out to play anyway. Nicolae wasn’t very fond of children.

He turned and, opening the door, walked into the building. The heat of the fireplace filled the house with warm, inviting fragrance. Two boys ran by, asking what was for dinner. Nicolae stopped in the entryway and took off his jacket. After placing it on the coatrack next to the door, he picked up the sack of food and headed to the kitchen.

Save for the bathroom, the kitchen was probably the smallest room in the house, and it usually wasn’t big enough for more than two people at a time, especially now with the two boys crammed in it, begging to know what was for supper.

Supper, Helena, Nicolae said, indicating the raised sack of food he had.

Oh wonderful, Helena said after she had turned around and seen him. Kazimir, Dimitri, off you go to your rooms to wait until I call you.

The two boys turned and walked out, glancing quickly at Nicolae and the sack of food he carried to Helena. She opened it and took the parcels out separately, laying them down on the counter.

Two bread loaves, three potatoes, five eggs, butter. Oh, God bless you, Nicolae! You are always blessed with bountiful amounts of food when you go.

Nicolae smiled but didn’t say anything. He had asked her before, that if she must use the term with him, to say bless you and not God bless you as she always did.

Oh, Nicolae, this will be splendid. We shall have potato pancakes and plenty of them tonight.

Nicolae smiled again and nodded his head before walking out of the kitchen and heading to his room.

*     *     *

The room was dark and quiet. No sound of happiness rang out, no glimmer of hope for a boy whose future looked dry and bleak. This is where he sat most days, in the room that had been his own since he was born, since the day his mother had brought him home and tucked him so carefully under the sheets trying to keep him as warm as possible. His mother—

Boy, supper is ready to eat.

He got off his bed. This was mostly the only reason he came out of his room—to eat. Whether or not the food was stale and cold, he came to the table every night to eat. He was hungry—always hungry. He had tried to control it, tried to get used to the situation. Money was tight. But he could not hush the grumblings in his stomach every time he so much as thought about food.

He turned the corner and sat down at the table.

Here, boy, eat up.

Placed before him were a cold potato and a stale piece of rye bread. They did not even have enough to cook the potato. He had tasted a cooked potato once. Oh, how delicious it was. Some missionaries from America had come to their town and stopped by the orphanage down the street to give the children food. Some children he knew—not friends, just kids who lived near him—had told him about their visit and invited him along. So he had gone, out of sheer curiosity and hunger, to meet these people called missionaries and receive some food.

When he had arrived, he was welcomed right in and seated down at a table with some other children his own age. Even though there was no food set right before them yet, he could smell the food, and it smelled wonderful. His stomach had grumbled with delight. Some children tried to talk to him, but he had been too shy and did not talk back. They took it as rudeness and ignored him. But all was brightened when the food came out.

Served on silver trays, the missionaries brought plates of crisp baked bread, cabbage, and baked potatoes. He had never seen a potato baked with melted butter dripping down the side. The smell itself awakened all of his senses; and he, along with all the other children, grabbed his silverware and began to indulge in the warm, satisfying food he had never had before.

When he was halfway through, the missionaries brought out yet some more trays filled with meat. Meat! He had never tasted meat in his life. They tried to explain to him what it was, but at the time, he could not understand English and ignored them while he stuffed his face. All he knew was that it was meat, and it was delicious.

To finish it off, he’d had four glasses of water. He had not cared if it was clean or that he kept making them run to refill his glass. He was thirsty from all that food, and it was more water than he’d get at home.

After most of the children had finished eating, one of the missionaries had stood and started speaking of a man named Jesus. His last name was Christ. He had thought that a strange last name for he had never heard of anyone with a last name that sounded like that. He wondered if Jesus had any relatives living near.

It wasn’t until the man was halfway through his speech that the boy realized he was speaking in Russian. He couldn’t believe it! An American knowing Russian? How strange. Even stranger yet, the American man had asked any child who wanted to receive Jesus in their heart to come forward and repeat a prayer after him. Who wanted to receive a dead man come alive into their bodies? The boy had heard of the grotesque situation corpses were left in. He did not want to see one of them come walking in and suck itself into his body.

Yet he saw many children from each table get up and walk forward, some with tears in their eyes. Yes, he thought, he would be crying too if he were about to have a ghost sucked right into his heart. This also made him wonder—how could one man come into all these children’s hearts? Wasn’t that impossible? He turned around. There was one other boy still sitting at his table. He turned back. The man was saying something about forgiveness of sins. What sins? His sins? He could not think of any for himself. He could think of plenty for his father though.

When the missionaries were done praying with the children, they got up and said that if anyone wanted to stay and talk to them, they would be happy to answer any questions. The boy had had enough of these strange people’s speeches. The food has been delicious though, and for once in his life, he was full. That was what he had come for, and now that he was done, he went to the door and walked back without a coat to his cold, dark home.

Now he sat with a cold potato and stale piece of rye bread before him. His father had the same. No water for it was ’ntaminated, his father said, and unhealthy to drink. Nothing else lay before them neither to eat nor to eat with. The only other thing on the table was the bottle of vodka his father always drank. He took a drink now before eating. Then, without saying anything further, he picked up his potato and bit into it.

The boy picked up his bread and took a bite. Maybe tonight, he thought. Maybe tonight, he’ll look at me and smile. Maybe tonight he’ll look at me as a son and call me by name. Maybe, maybe tonight, he’ll tell me he loves me.

That was the only other reason he ever came out to eat. He thought maybe, if his father saw how persistent he was and that he always used his manners, he would notice him rather than always avoiding eye contact. If his father glanced at him once, maybe he could smile at him and show him what a nice boy he was.

But his father kept his head down while eating. The only time he glanced up was to take another drink of vodka. By the end of the quick meal, the bottle was empty, and not a word had passed between the two. As his father went to get another bottle, the boy got up, leaving the plates on the table, and went outside to the neighbor’s house to get a drink. When he came back, his father was sitting where he always sat—in the chair in the corner—drinking his vodka. The boy turned and went upstairs to his room, leaving his father to do what he did best—get drunk.

*     *     *

Nicolae shook his head. Memories like that always haunted him. He wished they’d go away. At least now, he was in a warm and decent house with a room that wasn’t so dark. He lay down on his bed, resting his arms behind his head.

He’d still never had another baked potato. Oh, Helena cooked them sometimes and made potato pancakes out of them like she was tonight. But there was something about those potatoes—the ones the missionaries had cooked. They were different. Not just the flavor. It was the warmth—not just of the potato but of the entire eating hall. The entire place was warm and happy. The way they’d made the food and the way they’d smiled at him.

Supper, Nicolae, Helena called.

Nicolae sighed. Supper at last. He walked out of his room almost to be knocked over by Kazimir and Dimitri running full speed downstairs to the dinner table. Nicolae smiled; something he rarely did. Kids.

Once settled at the table, with everyone in their place, Helena brought out the food. Everyone, especially the two boys, eyed the food. Helena set it down on the table. Dimitri glanced around. No borsch?

Helena shook her head. No borsch, not tonight.

Dimitri nodded in acceptance. Oh.

Nicolae brought home plenty of potatoes though.

Everyone nodded and smiled at Nicolae. He smiled back though it felt strange. It was rare anyone ever shared a smile. What made him feel even more awkward was always sitting at the end of the table straight across from Helena at the other end. It almost made him feel like he was the man of the house.

Helena sat down. She held out her hands to both her grandsons on either side of her. Grace. Everyone followed in her manner, holding hands in a circle around the table. Nicolae held Kazimir’s hand in his left hand and the hand of another boy in the house, his own age, in his right. He bowed his head with everyone else but didn’t close his eyes. As Helena began to pray, he began to think. What good did prayer do? Every night, she prayed; and every night, more and more food was gone. Every week, money was tighter. He saw this every time he went out to buy food, and she gave him less and less to pay with.

Helena continued thanking God for the food and how much He loved them. Nicolae smirked. Love. No one had ever loved Nicolae. Not his father, not the neighbors, no one Nicolae could think of had ever loved him except perhaps his mother, and she had died when he was three.

And Helena. Nicolae glanced across the table. Helena had welcomed him