Leningrad...

Home...

Words that used to mean something, but now meant little to nothing.

Such was the life of Dmitri Shostakovich, a man who had finally begun to find peace, only to have it ruined once again by another war and invasion of his formerly beloved Leningrad.

When he was denunciation during the 30s, he did not flee. His simply slept and waited for them to take him away, to spare his family of such a terrible way of departing from each other, knowing the NKVD and their methods. When his city first came under siege, and the army had rejected him on the grounds of his eyesight, he joined a local fire brigade and did his part within the city to help alleviate the suffering. As German bombs fell all around him during the night, he did not have urgency to save himself, but to make sure his family was safe and to simply continue composing his 7th Symphony. It was only when they had evacuated him and his family, did he ever leave that city.

But those were in his younger years. Now he was essentially near his target of 100% total disfunction. His right hand long stopped working properly and both his own legs had been broken a few years ago. It was only his left hand that functioned normally, and while his legs healed, his life force had shrunk.

It was when the ponies first arrived, that he finally saw that the would could possibly become a better place, but all hopes of such a thing ever happening crashed when the first invasions occured and the barrier had formed. By the time they had reached Leningrad, he was far too tired to leave with the rest of the evacuees, and sent his wife Irina with his two children out while he met his fate.

Of course, they begged for him to come with them, but what use was a broken old man to fleeing people? It was essentially carrying dead weight, the kind that won't run away from their fate. And so, with all the strength he had left, he sent them away and awaited his fate.

All of that was months ago, the time had gone by so fast that the days didn't even matter anymore. Going outside and walking wasn't unpleasant, but the reminder that his city was occupied was ever present. All across the city, conversion bureaus had been set up to take on the task of converting what citizens were will within the city... So what good would it do to go out and walk and risk being thrown into a conversion line. It wouldn't even be worth it considering the state of his body, so most of the time he spent was at his flat, composing whatever he could while his neighbors (bless their souls) had brought him food and tried to keep him company throughout the despair.

All of that stopped a few days ago.

Now the old man was all alone, and soon enough... He would be found and converted, just like everyone else.

The doors were locked and the windows soon somewhat covered by whatever he could physically carry before all of his strength was expended. If he was going to die, he would die with his dignity and legacy intact. Nothing more... Nothing less.

*** *** ***

"Gentlecolts, today we have a new selection for the day's conversion quotas. Remember, do not be hostile to them, but say nothing. Is that understood?"

Another day... Another set of humans to be converted. Such was life, being stationed in Leningrad, a city that humans both cherished and yet somewhat hated at the same time... all because of what had happened there decades ago.

It didn't make sense really... none of it ever did anymore. The conversions, the constant statements that it was to save them from themselves, or that it was for the greater good... no. It was all worthless to Trotsenfeld.

Long ago, he was a young Captain who sought to try and find glory within the heat of battle, only to be disillusioned after multiple battles against the Changelings. During that time, he learnt how meaningless war was... and how trying to wage any sort of crusade against another culture or species would never work out in the long run. This view was certainly emphasized after the infiltration of Canterlot during the royal wedding. But like any other pony, he still loved Equestria.

He saw his nation to be a shining example of what it was to have true harmony, and yet.... that feeling has no longer been present. Ever since their removal from their previous world and now the conversion crusade, built upon by the rhetoric of the Princesses... he found himself once again drafted into a cause he saw as unjust and nearly cruel. To wipe out an entire species... it was all just wrong.

Yes, it was all wrong. But what could one do in the midst of the indoctrinated masses. He was sure that there most likely were ponies who definitely shared his views and sympathies for the human species, but one could only do so much in such a society anymore. So when he was sent to Leningrad, he made a vow to himself. He would help any human in need whenever he can within his time within this city and hopefully, he could save a few from a fate that he knew, they would not relish at all.

"Captain Trotsenfeld, are you listening or has your age finally caught up to you?" The Colonel incharge of army units within the sector asked.

"Yes, Colonel. Your orders have been received. I shall alert my men at once." Trotsenfeld replied, snapping to attention and giving a smart salute to his commanding officer.

"Good, I don't need you going senile on me." The Colonel said, a hint of sarcasm in his voice being evident.

"Of course Colonel."

The day's festivities were about to begin, and a new street was to be checked for citizens humans on the list. Of course... he did hand the orders to his men... but like him, they were all old soldiers called back from the draft, so any sort of sympathies they had for the conversion effort were never present. That didn't mean that they could simply disregard the orders though... they would just simply carry them out, but report no humans. The pencil pushers will never catch onto it anyways.

Stepping out into the cool air of the day, Trotsenfeld made his way over to his men, with him... hoping that the day would at least be quiet not be disturbed by any poor soul caught within the middle of it all.

Author's Note

Guess who is back everyone? That's right... it is I.

It has been a while, but I have finally come up with a new story to write with an idea that I had that was based around the story of Władysław Szpilman and Wilhelm Hosenfeld during the occupation of Warsaw during the Second World War. If you read the story that was written before this, The Last Performance, I do mention that Shostakovich was lost within Leningrad during the chaos of the evacuation and while I never thought of ever expanding upon it, I felt the urge to write once again and this is the end result of it all.

Bear in mind, the Shostakovich of this story is the Shostakovich of his later years where polio had afflicted his right hand and his body was becoming increasingly fragile... not the Shostakovich that was young and was possibly the world's most nervous composer.

This story is not to be taken as anything other than serious... I will leave it at that.

As with all my previous stories... do leave a comment if you wish. All criticism is warranted as long as it is kept respectful and dignified. I hope you all are doing well during this Pandemic, and I shall hopefully be writing more of this in the future.

(P.S. May actually finish Schultz Knows Nothing)