The Fire
The man had lived a long and varied life, and by age 79 he had learned that time moved in different speeds at different times. There was a changing tempo to the world, time was not a constant. Despite what the scientists would say.
The man was not a scientist. He was a composer.
For many years, time had stood still for him, in terms of what was to be his last major work. And now, as of some months ago, time was just flying by. The man felt many years younger. There was a new kind of fire in him, a benevolent fire animating the stern features of the bald man. In some ways, it was the same fire of inspiration that he had felt when he was a young man, writing his first pieces of music and slowly gaining international recognition. In some ways it was something entirely different.
The man sat in the large, airy hall of his wooden house. His writing desk had been brought next to the windows where he had the most natural light. It was spring, and so the light was increasing again after the long winter. Maybe the growing amount of light was something that gave more energy to the old man as well.
He worked furiously, and time flew by. Little by little, his last major piece was finally coming together.
There was not a lot of work left now.
The man's daughter and son in law had been there in the morning. Both concerned, flustered and slighty dishevelled, they had refused to even take off their overcoats.
”Father, you must come with us”, Heidi had told him. ”You and mother both, right now!”
Heidi's husband the architect had also tried to convince him to go, and his words had been underlined by another damn flight of aircraft roaring over the house, much too low.
The old man had refused to leave his home, now that his work was almost finished.
”If Janne is not going, neither am I”, Aino had said, steadfastly, reaching out and then holding his husband's hand in hers. Even Heidi's tears had not helped.
That was four hours ago. After that, the composer and his wife had eaten a light meal – the pantry was low on supplies now, but for some reason that did not really make the old man concerned – and enjoyed some of their last coffee. The rationing was draconian, but happily they had received some coffee as a gift from von Karajan when he had visited Finland in December.
In wartime, you make good things last for a long time.
After the meal, the old man had returned to his papers. Humming to himself and at times waving his cigar in the air, he continued to remake the last part of the symphony. His eight.
Now, even the sound of artillery to the east didn't seem to bother him.
As the evening started to fall, there was suddenly some noise in the yard. The old man seemed not to notice it at all, but his wife was roused from her thoughts. She stood up, and walked to the foyer to investigate.
…
Gleb chased the Finnish officer across the yard, with Boris following a few steps behind him. He had shot at the man some hundred meters back, and he was sure he had hit him.
The man had just kept going, though.
It was a fancy-looking wooden house by the lakeside, and the man had gone in the door. The idea that this was some sort of a local White Guard headquarters flashed through Gleb's head as his heavy boots carried him towards the house at speed. He nodded to Boris, pointing to the house, indicating that the younger man should follow him in support. Gleb raised his PPS-43 and now his boot connected with the wooden veranda floor.
As Gleb kicked open the door, he immediately saw a figure in the gloom of the foyer. His finger squeezed the trigger, and the figure fell. Gleb did not even stop to look at the body, but in a second he could hear Boris grunt behind him.
Entering the hall, Gleb saw the Finnish officer, crouching on the floor, raising his pistol awkwardly. The Red Army soldier shot another short burst causing the man to fall down.
Next to the window, an older, bald man had stood up. He had something in his hand.
”Aino?”, he asked, stunned.
Gleb looked at the man, and before thinking anything, pulled the trigger again. The man fell heavily to the floor, sending papers flying around.
”Gleb”, Boris shouted, ”this one is a woman”.
Gleb looked around and saw nobody else in the room. The house was entirely quiet.
”You shot an old woman”, Boris said.
Gleb turned to look at him. The young man's eyes were wide.
”It is a battle. She should not have gotten into my way”, the soldier said to his comrade.
”But Gleb Bogdanovich, it was someone's grandmother!”
”You can't know that!”
While the two men argued, the cigar the old man had dropped had ignited the papers all around the body. As Gleb finally turned around, the corner of the room was all aflame.
”Shit. We need to go.”
Once outside, the two men agreed that nobody would need to know about their little adventure. They would just return to the unit and that was that.
Inside the house, the fire spread. Soon, it had engulfed the entire hall, and from there it spread to the other rooms.
Before long, the whole wooden building had transformed into a funeral pyre for Jean and Aino Sibelius.
Up in the air the pilot of a Soviet IL-2 ground-attack aircraft, on a mission to attack the Finnish units fleeing towards the west through Järvenpää, noted the fire and would later mention it in his after-action report.
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