Open Fire

by Amber Lough

  He blinked. “I had no choice, back when I was your age. It was either join the army or starve on the streets. But you had a choice.”

  He picked up his teacup and took another sip. “I know why they formed this women’s battalion, and I understand it,” he said. “I even support the idea behind it—to rally the men and get them back on the field. But you . . .” he studied my mud-encrusted boots, the skull-and-crossbones sewed onto my sleeve, and my short-cropped hair. “You don’t have to do this.”

  “I couldn’t stay behind any longer, Papa. And I would have made a terrible nurse.”

  Ten years ago, my father would’ve chuckled at that. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d made him laugh. I certainly wasn’t going to manage it today.

  “Why are you here?” he asked brusquely.

  “My rifle was stolen in the night.”

  He settled his teacup back onto its saucer. “And you believe I will help you recover it,” he said.

  His tone was a punch to the stomach. “I did. But if I was wrong, then I won’t waste any more of your time. I’ll go find it amongst your men. On my own.”

  “Amongst my men?”

  I ripped the Ninth Artillery Brigade patch from my pocket and waved it in the air. “The person who stole my rifle left this behind, wedged into our barracks door.”

  “Let me see.” The arrogance and pride had drained out of his voice.

  When I handed it over, he squinted and cursed, and I realized he hadn’t been able to see it from across the small space. My father was losing his vision.

  “Either someone planted this as a decoy, or one of my soldiers does have your rifle and left this behind as a boast.”

  The vibrant father I remembered returned. His face reddened, and he stood up, no longer looking his age. “I will see to it. You’ll need it.”

  He meant I would need it in battle. My heart beat faster at the thought of it. “Thank you.”

  The crease between his brows softened. Suddenly, part of me wanted to sit with him and hear the stories of the saints, his versions always more vivid than those in the books. But all that was as long gone as the color in his hair.

  “You should get back to your camp,” he croaked. I was halfway to the door again before he laid a hand on my shoulder. The weight of it was nothing to the years of disappointment, years of abandonment. “The uniform suits you. You look like a soldier.”

  “I am a soldier,” I said, but I was still turned away from him. “And I won’t run away.”

  “I know.” He squeezed my shoulder and spoke into my cap. “But don’t let yourself get captured, Katya. Do you understand what I’m saying?

  Here was my Papa, the one who’d told me bedtime stories of Saint Olga, the vengeful, brave queen of Old Russia. Fluidly, I reached inside my shirt and pulled out the vial of cyanide we’d been issued in case of capture. It whispered of endings as it dangled on its cord.

  “I won’t, Papa.”

  “What happened to Prince Mal?”

  “He went up in flames.”

  “For certain? What if he escaped?”

  “That, my dear, is for another night.”

  “Isn’t there a moral? You always give a moral.”

  “To Olga’s revenge? I suppose the moral is: don’t try to take the son of a Russian woman.”

  “But the Tsar does that. He takes peasant boys and makes them be soldiers.”

  “Don’t talk of the Tsar like that.”

  “I know a better one: if you don’t want to lose your family, do something about it.”

  16

  July 7, 1917

  Back at my encampment, I found Bochkareva watching Liddikova’s platoon practice field maneuvers, leaning against a wooden fence that had once been a pen for animals but was now missing three sides. She turned her head as I approached.

  “Pavlova.”

  “Sub-Lieutenant.”

  She shielded her eyes from the sun. “You returned without a rifle.”

  “Colonel Pavlov said he would have it sent here,” I said.

  “When you get it back, you can have your platoon,” she muttered. “Muravyeva is doing her best, but they don’t listen to her as quickly as they do to you. Now get inside. They’re in there, taking a break.”

  I saluted and ran inside.

  I found half my platoon lounging on their sleeping benches in various levels of disarray after their morning exercises. They looked up, and Muravyeva shouted my name. The others chorused, “Oo-rah!”

  Then Dubrovskaya tripped over someone’s boots and was caught by two others. In the fall, her unbelted trousers slipped and we all got a glimpse of her bare backside. My soldiers laughed, her most of all. There were some giggles, someone slapped her on the rump, and she pulled up her trousers a bit too fast. One of the offending boots skidded against the door.

  Masha picked it up, laughed, and lobbed it back at the cluster of women on the floor.

  We were all laughing now. These were my comrades, my sisters-in-arms, my soldiers. My brother’s desertion still beat like an extra heart in my chest, but here was a platoon full of women who would not flee. Who were ready to fight. Who would stand for Russia. With me.

  —

  That afternoon, an officer made his way down the farm road from the forest. We could see his form grow larger the closer he got, and by the time he arrived, the women were placing bets on who he’d come for. When he got close enough, I saw that he was carrying two rifles, and one was a little shorter than the other.

  “Lieutenant Sarkovsky,” I said, standing.

  He brightened when we made eye contact. “Private Pavlova. I brought something for you.” A few of the women giggled, and he cleared his throat. “From Colonel Pavlov.”

  “Thank you, sir.” I clambered over the women sitting between us and gave him a quick salute.

  He separated the two rifles’ straps and handed me the shorter one. The moment it fell into my palm, I knew it was mine, but I checked the serial number to be sure. It was right, it was back, it was home. Then the lieutenant reached into a leather pouch hanging from his belt and pulled out a newspaper-wrapped package. “And this is for you too.”

  “Thank you.” The package was light and fit snugly in one of my palms.

  “You’re welcome.” He looked around at the women, who were staring openly at our exchange. “They found the men who took it. They’re being sentenced right now.” When I winced, he added solemnly, “It’s unlawful to steal a comrade’s weapon. You shouldn’t worry about them. They were trying to sabotage your battalion, one person at a time, but their plans have been ruined. Are you making the next advance? With the others?”

  I crossed my arms, holding the packet close. “Of course.”

  “Then I wish you speed and strength. The artillery will be there clearing the way for you.”

  “Speed and strength to you too, sir.”

  With a tap at his cap, he turned and marched off before I could salute him again.

  I sat down on a nearby log, holding the package in one arm and my rifle in the other.

  “Is that from your father?” Masha asked, sitting beside me. I nodded but didn’t say anything.

  It was strange: He hadn’t sent me a package in years. It was unlike him to do anything more than was required, even for family. “You have to open it now. If you don’t . . .” Masha didn’t finish her sentence, but I knew what she meant. If I didn’t open it now, I might not get another chance.

  Quickly, I unfolded the paper and laid it flat. In the center lay a tiny painted icon framed in gold leaf and birch bark. I brushed a finger over the face on the icon. I knew what this was. It had been mine once, but it had been missing for years. I never thought I’d see it again.

  “Which saint is that?” Masha asked, leaning over my lap, not seeing my tears.

  “It’s Saint Olga.”

  She pulled back. “The one who sent all those birds with flaming sticks to burn down the enemy town? The one he menti
oned in the telegram and said you’re nothing like?”

  I wiped the tears from my face, then pressed my cold palms against my cheeks. “Yes. But it’s more than that. When I was eight, my parents were fighting a lot. After the shouting and the door-slamming died down, Papa would come to my room and tell me stories to help me sleep.” I traced the icon’s edge with a fingernail. It was not a delicate little icon. It was thick, the image painted directly on the wood. Beautiful and strong.

  “One night he told me a story about a very brave woman. Olga. He always told me battle stories. A story about avenging the death of a king, of Saint Georgi and the dragon, of using one’s wits to outsmart Baba-Yaga. But this time, it was a story about a woman. I told him I wanted to be like Olga when I grew up.” My lips were salty. “Then he said, ‘Hopefully not as bloodthirsty.’ ”

  “Let me see it. I’ve never held one so small.”

  While she admired it, I thought of what had happened a few days after Papa told me that story. Mama ran off with her lover. Babushka told Maxim and me that we must be brave, that we must support each other while she was gone. We never heard from Mama, and Papa never spoke of her again. And he never told me another bedtime story.

  Masha handed back the icon. “You’ve got to keep it on you so Saint Olga can go with you into battle.”

  “Yes. I think that’s why he sent it.” He must have taken it with him when he left for the front. Had he taken it to think of me, or to give himself strength?

  “He sent it,” said Masha, “because you’re here to avenge Russia. You’re here to fight like Olga. And he knows it. He approves.”

  —

  While I was sewing a bag for the icon to wear around my neck, I happened to glance again at the newspaper my father had wrapped it in. I hadn’t read the news in a week and had no idea what had been going on. Life at the front felt frozen, as though we were in a snow globe, protected from and yet shaken by all that happened around us.

  The page was from the Novoe Vremia, the paper I’d grown up handing to my father in exchange for a pat on the head. Lazily, I scanned the headlines, hoping to get my mind off the war for just one moment. Then I stopped and read a headline twice.

  Bolsheviks Attempt Coup; Many Arrested; Lenin on the Run.

  The article explained that a few days earlier, the Bolsheviks had attempted to overrun the Provisional Government. Their attempts failed, partly because there was new evidence that Lenin had been receiving money from the German government in exchange for attempting to end Russia’s involvement in the war. Many Bolsheviks were arrested, including one of the leaders, Trotsky. Lenin, however, escaped.

  I read through the list of published names and found what I had been looking for: Sergei Fyodorovich Grigorev. He was in prison.

  I felt queasy. Although he and I had often disagreed, I had never wished him any harm. He was a scholar, a chemistry student, an idealist—not a common criminal. Carefully, I cut his name out of the newspaper with the tip of my knife. Then, with a dab of wax from a nearby candle, I stuck it to the back of the icon.

  Perhaps St. Olga would keep us both safe from harm. After all, we were both fighting for a Russia we believed in.

  —

  July 8, 1917

  We circled around Bochkareva after dinner, some kneeling on the dirt while others just sat, knees gathered to their chests, rifles strapped to our backs. We looked ready for battle. And we were. Gone were the factory girls, students, and political idealists.

  No one whispered, no one giggled, and above all, no one could look away from Bochkareva. She paced inside our circle like a tiger ready to pounce. She gripped the hilt of her saber, rubbing her thumb over the golden pommel. Her other hand rested on the pistol. Both were signs of her new rank and responsibilities.

  “We will get into our places at 0300,” she said. “The sun will rise at 0340. The call to attack will come shortly before that. Your platoon leaders will give you more precise orders.” I felt dozens of eyes on me like a wave of heat.

  Bochkareva led us in prayer, and while everyone bowed their heads, I peeked. Avilova met my gaze, and although the corner of her mouth threatened to turn up, her brow remained serious. Yes, she seemed to say, eyes on the enemy, not on God.

  We’d strengthened our bodies and minds, we’d learned to shoot, to crawl, to stab, and religion took no part in it other than to give us its blessing. We were fighting for Russia, not for God.

  I imagined what the other side might be doing in that same moment. A circle of soldiers receiving orders for battle from their commander, kneeling in prayer and kissing their German crosses.

  I blinked away the image.

  After the prayer, Bochkareva ordered us to split into our platoons. I rolled my shoulders and walked to the side of the barracks to meet my women. They came in twos and threes, broken off into the little groups that had formed during our training and our journey to the front. Muravyeva brought her rifle to attention before me.

  “All present, Private Pavlova,” she said. Then she added, quietly, “I’m honored to fight with you.”

  If we could win on serious faces alone, Muravyeva would save the war.

  “It’s my honor, with you.”

  I took the deepest, slowest breath I could manage, hoping it would calm my nerves. Then I lifted my chin and looked out at my soldiers. “Depending on how you look at it, we were given either the best or the worst assignment.”

  “What do you mean?” someone in the back asked. We stood in the shade, and I couldn’t make out the faces clearly that far back.

  “We’ve got the central position. And we’re going first. The First Platoon has the left flank, we’ll be in the center. The other two will be coming up on our right, but not until the first pause in the attack.” No one swayed on her feet, which I took as a good sign. Using a stick, I scratched out the plan on the ground. “I’ll take you forward, to this point.” I made an X. “The goal is to get past their defenses before their reinforcements arrive. According to the major’s intelligence, they are undermanned here. If we can get there and hold our position, Third Platoon will come in from the right with reinforcements.”

  “What about the rest of the Tenth Army?” This came from Alsu.

  “They’ll be with us. We have two male platoons going with us, so we won’t be alone.” There was an audible sigh of relief from at least half the women. “But even without them, we could do it. It’s only a hundred meters.”

  “Open field?” Muravyeva asked.

  I dug the stick deeper into the dirt. “Barbed wire, mines, and three trenches.”

  “At least she’s honest,” came a reply.

  “We’ll make it,” I said, looking up sharply at the woman who’d made the joke. “We’re the sharpest battalion around here. You’ve seen the men! That’s what the enemy will be expecting. They won’t be expecting precision. They’re expecting a band of soldiers who turn tail and run back to the woods at the first sight of a mortar. They won’t expect us.” With a kick, I cleared my scratches in the dirt.

  Masha laughed. “Well, they certainly aren’t expecting a platoon of women.”

  —

  Later, when all was dark and no one could sleep, I reached out and gently tapped Masha’s head.

  “I know I shouldn’t say it, but I’m afraid,” I whispered.

  “It’s war, Katya,” she whispered back. “We’re all going to face our demons tomorrow.”

  My particular demon was a dark, hidden thing I didn’t want brought into the light, but at this moment, it seemed the right thing to do. “I’m afraid that when we get out there tomorrow, when everything is bullets and bayonets, I’ll forget everything we’ve learned and fail our platoon. I’m not afraid of dying. I’m afraid of being a coward.”

  She laughed quietly. “You’re not a coward.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know you. And I trust you.”

  I reached for one of her hands and squeezed her fingers tight. “If anyth
ing happens to me, promise you’ll take the icon?”

  “No. Because you’ll survive, Katya. I know it.”

  I sighed. “Well, if you won’t accept Saint Olga’s protection, I suppose I’ll just have to—”

  “If you tell me you’re going to watch out for me, I’ll be the first to take a shot at you, Katya. I can take care of myself. When we make our attack, we will do what we were trained to do. Because that’s what we’re here for.”

  I slid my free hand into the little bag where I had stashed Saint Olga. “All right. Tomorrow we’re warriors.”

  “We already are. Now stop talking. We need to sleep now.”

  As I tried to fall asleep, my mind ran all over the place—my father’s cabin, Maxim joking about using the umbrella in battle, imaginary German soldiers kneeling in prayer, and Sergei in a prison in Petrograd. I thought of my mother and how she’d left without saying goodbye. I thought of Babushka, who’d believed so fervently in prayer. Above all I thought of Saint Olga. I held the icon to my chest and gently rubbed the bit of gold overlay, trying to memorize the feel of it, remembering the story of Olga’s revenge.

  Despite my earlier thoughts on religion and war, I drifted off to sleep with Olga’s prayer on my lips.

  Saint Olga, help us overcome the world.

  17

  July 9, 1917

  Smorgon, Belarus

  It was almost time.

  I slid the bolt back. Click. I stuck the cartridge in the chamber and pushed the bolt forward. Click. A shiver crept down my arms. It had nothing to do with the night chill and everything to do with the fact that I was deep in a trench, knees pressed against the wooden planks lining the earthen walls.

  It turned out that trenches weren’t straight furrows in the ground. They zigged and zagged, and doubled back. They had alcoves and piles of ammunition. This particular one housed a machine gun and crew, protected from the opposing gunfire by nothing more than spare logs and bags of sand. The longer I sat here, the more I realized the protection built into the trench was artificial, offering only the illusion of safety.