The sun set over the last snow capped pines surrounding Leningrad. The city remained black, the only evidence of its existence being the towers that contrasted with the grey sky. A soft wind whispered through each building, finding its way into every nook and cranny and bringing the biting cold along with it. The sky was punctuated by thick clouds that created an endless blanket, blocking any semblance of starlight. Once proud buildings slumped, defiled and desolate with broken bricks littered around them. Snow piled up unchecked as it grew continuously over the unused roads and collapsed roof tops. The city seemed to have resigned its will to live, as the windows only offered views of darkness into each home. Yet dim fire light rose at the heart of the city and spread, gently illuminating houses.

Ivan felt white light slowly creeping over his face and opened his crusty eyelids. He stretched his arms carefully and turned his head upwards, feeling as if weights had been tethered to each his limbs. Hoisting himself up from the grimy straw he looked upwards towards the decaying roof, the sunlight revealed a large hole with the debris below it already covered in snow. The walls of the room were no better, with crumbling wall paper revealing cracks that ran upwards to the roof.

Looking to his left Ivan saw his backpack lying on a wooden table. The cloth was black from dried mud stains and the occasional drop of blood stood out. He walked towards it across the creaking floorboards, careful to dodge any slushy snow. With a tired face Ivan opened his backpack and grabbed a dry dough, leaving on the table before him. He held his canteen and took a couple sips of water. Looking back towards the bread he could see the sawdust flaking off of it. In one quick motion Ivan shoved it into his mouth, swallowing it whole. Ivan coughed dryly but refreshed himself with his canteen and sat back down.

Hanging on the wall stood an intact portrait that displayed the face of a young woman smiling brightly. Ivan stared at it intently and could see the features of the woman changing until he could see his wife staring back at him. But she wasn’t smiling, instead watching with disapproval and tearful eyes. Ivan slowly closed his eyes but could still see his wife staring on at him. What do you want?, he whispered into the cold. But she remained silent and unchanging looking on with an expression of disgust. Ivan stared back with an angry face, but she wouldn’t move. Stop, stop, stop, stop, please, stop, Ivan said frantically. Finally Ivan yelled, You don’t matter any more! and opened his eyes to see the original portrait.

Ivan slowly raised his head and grabbed his rifle. He cringed as he wiped his dirty cloth over the Mosin-Nagant, Ivan couldn’t stand the thing, it was beautifully made with dark wood carved expertly and a strong steel barrel. What had been Ivan’s beloved hunting rifle had now turned to a weapon for the murder of others, indiscriminate and efficient. Ivan reached the scope and closed his eyes, the army had given him this for his marksmanship yet it only gave Ivan a clearer picture of those he murdered, so that their deaths would linger in his mind.

A tear rolled slowly down Ivan’s cold cheek. He thought about how he was using his father’s prized rifle kill once more. Ivan had to shoot with the rifle that had been retired by his father from service, which was never to kill men again. Ivan looked back at the gun, and stared at the wooden stock. The dark wood had been ruined by small tallies running across the stock. As he did every morning Ivan counted each tally individually, remembering the faces of each man that had fallen. Seventy six Ivan muttered in a resigned voice. It was two more than yesterday.

Ivan got up and looked at his watch, 7:30. In a sigh Ivan grabbed his backpack and slung it over his winter coat, putting on his ushanka as well. He looked back at his rifle and picked it up. With everything ready Ivan walked across the room and out of the front door leaving the house and the portrait behind.

Broken buildings towered over Ivan as he trudged through the fresh snow. The tall structures watched him with resigned faces, their windows broken and walls crumbling. In front of him Ivan could see his destination, a bell tower that poked into the skyline sharply, seemingly the only building unphased from constant bombardment. The church that housed it stood proud yet still abandoned, the intact structure almost reassuring all the other collapsing buildings that the siege would soon end.

Ivan approached the building with caution, staying close to the wall of a house next to it. A plaza surrounded the church as a place of meeting and 50 meters across it would leave anyone attempting to cross exposed. Ivan lied down over some rubble and looked across the open space. The only movement came from the harsh wind and falling snow. Ivan grabbed at his rifle and lifted it. He scanned the surrounding buildings through his scope but still saw nothing. He looked back down at his legs and grabbed his canteen. With slow gulps he finished the water, sighing as he filled the canteen with snow. Standing up Ivan took a deep breath, and even the wind seemed to wait for him.

In a jolt Ivan burst into a sprint. He could feel every step he took as the snow seemingly pulled down on him as if he were in quicksand. But with iron resolve Ivan continued forward until he fell forwards into the steps of the church. Ivan scrambled up the steps and kicked open the door, slipping inside. With a racing heart Ivan finally collapsed on the church floor.

The walls were bare inside the church, with the only symbol present that of the hammer and sickle. Pulpits where Jesus or the Virgin Mary should have stood remained empty and the organ above was broken, with bent pipes and littered with dust. Only the benches and stage remained intact with a portrait of Lenin looming above them. The portrait seemed to shift until once more Ivan was looking towards his wife. She stared down at him cold and contempt as if expecting something from him. But Ivan couldn’t face her hung over from his sprint and gazed past the portrait to the stairs.

The winding stairs remained serviceable and Ivan stumbled towards them. He paused on each creaky step, dragging himself along. Reaching the top Ivan could see sunlight seeping down the stairs, and saw the bell hanging proud above him. Tired, Ivan dropped his backpack at the stairs and lied down next to one of the pillars supporting the bell.

Holding his Mosin-Nagant up he scanned the area from left to right, looking down each street and into the windows of each building. The snow and wind seemed still as he searched, almost as if waiting for him. Ivan continued, methodical as he peered into every crevice visible until he saw motion from the corner of his eye. He focused intensely on the street it had come from; Ivan could see a man leading others in a march.

The men’s helmets gleamed grey: their black uniform visible against the snow. They spoke to each other seriously as Ivan watched closely, each one with a rifle in hand. Marching down the street they were unaware of the danger they were in. Ivan looked towards their heads, he could see four grim and stern faces tired from the war. Watching in silence Ivan heard a voice whisper to him, How can you be doing this, those weren’t the people to kill me. Shaking, Ivan realized it was his wife speaking softly. She continued in disappointment, Those men did nothing, just like all the others you kill, what had they done to you? You have become your father, a murderer. Ivan looked backwards with red eyes, You are nothing, you are dead and it was all of them, they must all die, every last german will die by my own hand, he yelled to himself.

She cried. Ivan burst. His face gleamed red. He raised the rifle and lined up a german helmet. His finger pulled back.

The shot rang loud and clear, cutting through the soft snowfall to permeate every crevice around. On the ground lay a lifeless body, its black uniform perfectly still. Beneath it the white snow had been defiled, now shining a bright red. Ivan looked at the body, the german’s helmet covered his face. With terrible satisfaction he looked back at the bell. A smile came over his face, There is nothing you can do, he commanded. But he didn’t get a response.

The other germans had dispersed, attempting to take cover. They were nothing more than insects, their yells only serving to encourage Ivan. He could see a terrified expression on one of the german’s face who crouched as low as possible. The man’s eyes darted around, looking frantically for the enemy sniper. Ivan felt gratified, almost amused as he lined up his sights on the man. Again he heard the voice behind him, You can’t, not again. But Ivan didn’t flinch, he looked through his scope with hard resolution.

With a graceful pull the trigger slid back once more.

The man fell to the ground in silence. Ivan continued to stare towards him with contentment and could see a neutral, almost lifeless expression on his face. Closing his eyes Ivan felt justified, and took pride in his shot. You will be avenged, he said to himself. But nothing replied. Opening his eyes he looked back at the body, he could see the face of his wife now staring back at him, bloody and dead. He couldn’t turn away as he stared at the body, he had killed his wife.

In a swift motion Ivan could feel something graze his ushanka. The bell rang shrill and forced behind him. Ivan looked backwards as he rolled behind the post, he could see a bullet hole in the bell. With shaking hands he grabbed at his ushanka, another hole. Ivan looked down at his rifle, his eyes gleamed with murderous intent.

Ivan slowly raised his rifle and leaned past the pillar. He now scanned the street with quick efficiency, no detail missing his prying eyes. His eyes caught a glint of light from a black window. He lined up his sights and could see the scope of another sniper. Yet as he moved to pull the trigger he hesitated, thinking of his wife. A tear rolled down his cheek as he gently moved his finger. I’m sorry, he whispered. A final shot rang clear across the plaza, and again the bell rang with it.