The Burning Melody
A man needs more than food for survival. His soul needs companionship.
Writing Battle, Winter 2023 Flash Fiction (1000 words)
“Papers, please.”
The booking clerk’s words woke Sergei from his daydream. He was disoriented by the roar of voices clamoring for train tickets along the platform in the brisk December air. Sergei handed over his documents. His cousins Pavel and Vasily stood nearby with violin cases, waiting to buy their tickets across Siberia.
A decade ago, their parents had pooled their money to shuttle the boys from Kyiv to the conservatory in Petrograd. They secured a place among the Russian musicians with the help of an industrious family friend with a knack for forgery, so the boys’ talent could blossom, hidden from the pogroms.
The Bolsheviks seized power in October and decimated the bourgeoisie homes where a year earlier, Sergei led his friends in string quintets in the garden parties for patrons who were too old or wise to follow the overconfident Tzar into the Great War.
As a student, Sergei’s commissions covered the conservatory fees and lodging. But his real wealth was from the effusive praise he received after each performance, complimenting his brilliant compositions and comparing him to Korsakov. Rich with pride, Sergei was still a cash-poor composer; bohemians never mingled within the Tsar’s circle. But he savored moments when his music would dance in the air with their pipe smoke and champagne bubbles.
“Hey!” the clerk snapped. “Third class. Move to the front of the platform.”
The young men shuffled forward and queued at the first section of third-class cars.
Vasily nodded toward the second-class passengers. “Remember her? The one with the dog?”
Sergei peered over and recognized a Baron’s mistress who mistreated the musicians at one of the parties, letting her dog chew a cellist’s bow without apology. Now, she stood alone on the platform, cloaked in fur, carrying a small basket. Sergei spotted a small nose peaking beneath a blanket. “Even the dog travels in second class,” quipped Vasily.
Bodies packed into cars, trying to find comfort among the squeeze of shoulders and elbows. The slight musicians juxtaposed against the stout laborers, who also anticipated the trouble the Revolution would bring.
“A violin? You fool, you could’ve brought more food!” the Baker bellowed, big and strong from hurling bags of flour. He grabbed Pavel’s collar, jerking him closer to sneer at him. “Can you eat your instrument, Maestro?”
Pavel adjusted his glasses. “The soul starves without music.”
The Baker shook Pavel loose and laughed. “We’ll see, COMRADE.”
“Only seven days with this bully,” Pavel mutter to Sergei as the whistles squealed and the wheels chugged forward.
A woman nearby raised her head. “Seven days? My sister sent a letter saying it took THREE WEEKS to reach Manchuria.” The men shot fearful looks; like many others, they only brought food for a few days.
The train snaked across Siberia for weeks, stopping at the border towns along the barren landscape. Local peasants posted signs at each station, claiming they had no food. Desperation took hold among the passengers.
Vasily had boiled his leather belt into a foul soup and shivered while trying to keep his pants around his waist. Sergei sat listlessly; hunger had beaten him long ago.
“We need wood!” The Baker charged forward and reached for a violin case. The passengers ignored Pavel’s cries.
The Baker smashed and threw the violin into the railcar’s stove while Pavel pulled at his arms, hoping to save some piece of his passion.
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The Baker wrestled with the metal strings and threw them at Pavel. “Idiot — you’d rather freeze?”
Sergei tried to comfort Pavel while Vasily coiled the strings neatly around his fingers and gently tucked them into Pavel’s pocket.
“It’s God’s plan. We’ll share my violin because we know your singing voice will kill us all.” It took a moment for Vasily’s joke to hit Pavel’s ears, and he laughed and wiped his tears. Sergei sat on his suitcase, protecting his treasured compositions from the woodstove.
The train crawled into another station. The passengers sadly looked at the sign: “Krasnoyarsk.”
They were only halfway, and the town was absent of people and animals, with nothing but shells of a few earthen structures peeking up from the snow drifts.
Pavel looked out to the distant thicket of trees. “We can’t go much further without food.” He took the violin strings from his pocket. “I can snare something with these.” He stepped from the train and shuffled towards the thicket.
“Pavel, no! We don’t know when the train will leave.”
“We’re at each stop for days, Vasily. Maybe there’s a hare or pheasant,” Pavel called back.
The rest of the day, Sergei and Vasily took turns watching for signs of Pavel. Then, a sharp whistle suddenly cut through the air, signaling the train was leaving the station.
“PAVEL!”
The other passengers hurried onto the railcars. From the door, Sergei saw Pavel rushing toward the train while Vasily implored the conductor to wait.
They reached out to Pavel, begging him to run faster. Weak and held down by wet snow, Pavel tripped and disappeared into a drift. Sergei and Vasily watched Pavel rise, wave his arms, and become smaller in the distance.
Despondent, Vasily sat in the corner, hugging his violin.
The train stopped near Lake Baikal. Now frozen, the passengers were too weak to break the ice for fish.
Vasily stepped between the cars, smashed his violin, and lit a small fire. Defeated, Sergei added a few sheets of his music.
The Baron’s mistress stepped alone from her car and sat next to Vasily, wrapping her arms around her knees and stared into the flames.
“Where’s your dog, Miss?”
The woman ignored the question and put her head on Vasily’s shoulder, watching Sergei’s melodies rise into the early evening air as a starfall of cinders.
The conductor found the frozen bodies with arms intertwined the following morning. He tucked the remaining sheet music in Sergei’s jacket before hastily burying the bodies together in the snow, hoping the music would live on longer than this poor soul who wrote it.
The deets:
Advanced to Round 4 (won 9 of 14 battles)
Genre: Winter Survival
Character: Composer
Word: document
Emily Brockway is a haphazard writer, amateur historian, and military nomad. You can follow her bad humor and political pot-shots on Twitter @bangs_drums
