by Gwen C. Katz
Stepanova stumbled to what once had been the doorway and leaned on what had once been the frame. Sweat glistened on her forehead, despite the cold. She looked around, her eyes not quite focused. “Zoya? Where are you?”
Vakhromov and I gathered around her. I tried to hide my trepidation about our rapidly unraveling mission as I said, “Ma’am, you’ve got to stay with us. We’re not looking for Zoya. We’re looking for the pictures of her.”
“She’s gone off to burn the stables. She told me to keep watch.”
“Look at me, ma’am,” said Vakhromov, grabbing Stepanova’s chin and pointing her face at his. Her eyes slid off him. He said, “Zoya is dead! She was killed a year ago. She isn’t here!”
“Great. We’re under the command of a delirious woman,” said Pashkevich.
And then my stomach dropped. I said, “Where’s Petya?”
There was an awful moment while the two of us looked frantically around and I thought of the countless things that could have happened to him, from being accosted by the fascists to stepping on a mine. How could I have let him out of my sight for even an instant?
Then I spotted him. He was standing some distance away, looking solemnly down at the torn body of a German officer. Vakhromov stood beside him and put his big hands on Petya’s thin shoulders, trying to explain that it was war and these things happened.
“I know,” said the boy. “That’s him.”
“That’s . . . ?” Vakhromov began. He yelled, “Stepanova! Pashkevich! Petya’s found him.”
What was left of our squad gathered around the partial body. Pashkevich said, “I hope the photos are on this half of him.”
Our medic crouched so that he could go through the officer’s blood-soaked bread bag, which was still on his belt. Then he recoiled as though he’d found a snake in the bag. He dropped what he was holding. Photos.
Stepanova knelt and picked them up. As her eyes flicked over them, her expression did not change. She said, “Zoya. Here you are. It’s been a long time.”
She grimaced and grabbed her wound. Vakhromov and I had to catch her to keep her from falling. He helped her sit down.
“It’s all true,” said the medic, his voice hoarse. “Everything that they said happened to her. I was telling myself that it was just propaganda. But it all really happened. What about everything else, is it true, too? About the camps? The things they’ve done?”
Pashkevich said, “Save your personal crisis. We’ve got what we came for. Danilin, you’re the only man in this squad who’s acting normal. Hold on to these.” He took the photos from Stepanova’s weak fingers and gave them to me.
The girl’s defiant gray eyes challenged me, as though looking made me party to the crime. I wanted to apologize for seeing her when she was so vulnerable, for seeing her when she couldn’t prevent me from looking because she was only a silver nitrate image, and because her hands were tied.
Pashkevich said, “Set up the radio so we can get the hell out of here.”
Stepanova, her head lolling back, told him not to bother.
Pashkevich gave her a sharp look. “What does that mean?”
Stepanova said, “This was never what you’d call an official mission.”
A barrage of gunfire interrupted us. Our medic’s neck jerked around and a spray of blood burst from the side of his head. The rest of us ducked behind the scorched remains of a horse, Vakhromov shielding Petya with his body. I fumblingly tucked the photos into my bag of spare radio parts. Dull thuds as rounds hit the dead animal’s back. The fascists were firing out of the dark doorway of a barracks. Pashkevich shot back, then swore and tossed his Mosin-Nagant aside. “I’m empty. Stepanova, give me yours.”
Stepanova, staring into the middle distance and still trying to talk to Zoya, allowed him to lift the strap of her SMG over her head. He rattled off a burst of gunfire, but the Germans kept shooting. I looked around. There wasn’t enough of the stable left to protect us. Behind us was nothing but open steppe. To get to shelter, we’d have to run toward the Germans.
“Grenade?” asked Vakhromov.
Pashkevich shook his head. “Not unless you’ve got superhuman aim. If you miss that doorway and it bounces off the wall, we’ll all end up like Fritz there.”
Stepanova finally smiled. It was an abstract, contemplative smile. She murmured, “Well, Zoya, this is where it ends,” and she pulled something tiny off her belt and tossed it and I reflexively caught it, and when I opened my glove I found a metal ring. Stepanova was across the open space and through the doorway before anyone could stop her. I barely had time to lower Petya’s head and mine before the sharp, yellow-edged white concussion hit us.
And then quiet. No more shooting. No more Germans. No more Stepanova.
Pashkevich wasted no tears on her. While I was still reeling, unable to accept what had just happened, he announced, “I’m in charge now. Find cover and then get that goddamn radio set up so we can get out of here.”
We made for the woods, hoping that we could find our way through the thick-falling snow. The dark outline of a patch of trees appeared out of the white as the rumble of an engine interrupted us. We whirled around. A German truck.
Vakhromov didn’t hesitate. He yelled “Run, Petya!” and opened fire as the boy ran for the woods. He shot once, twice, three times.
Three bullets for each rifle. Vakhromov shook as the fascists returned fire. The empty gun fell from his hands.
I attempted to fix one of the swastika-clad figures in my shaking sight, trying to hit but hoping to miss. My finger curled around the trigger. The butt of my rifle recoiled into my shoulder. My ears rang a bright, piercing yellow from Pashkevich firing Stepanova’s submachine gun beside me. As I fired another ineffectual shot, a slug slammed into my chest.
“That’s it for me,” I thought, dropping to my knees because that was what you did when you were shot. Dying didn’t hurt. That surprised me. But I didn’t lose consciousness, or see a bright tunnel. It wasn’t until Pashkevich took out the last man in the truck and we found shelter under the trees that I figured out what had happened. I wasn’t wounded. My radio was. A bullet had pierced its case and shattered the vacuum tube.
“Don’t you have a spare?” asked Pashkevich.
I’d used it three months ago.
Pashkevich sighed resignedly.
I said, “We need to find Petya.”
“Kid’s got a better chance without us,” said Pashkevich. “If he can get out of that uniform, he’ll pass for a civilian. Our priority is our own survival. You stay here and guard the stuff, Choir Boy. I’ll scout for a safe route. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
Now that the tire tracks have long since disappeared into the white, I am forced to accept that Pashkevich will not return. Taking the truck was a mistake. The Soviets would have fired on it. It wouldn’t have fooled the Germans for long. I wonder how many fascists he took with him. It was a good end for Pashkevich. Heroic. What he wanted. But there will be no blaze of glory for me.
I’ve created a little nest in the depression beneath the pine trees. The branches help block the wind, but the cold of the frozen ground seeps up through the needle litter and the rain cape I’m using as a ground cloth. I pull my torn coat about my body as tightly as I can to compensate for its missing buttons. I can’t feel my feet. Occasionally I get up and stomp around until they started tingling, but they only go numb again a few minutes later.
Just now I picked up my rifle and examined it. My hands have stopped shaking. That’s good. I unchambered my single remaining round and rolled it around on my palm. It was a bottleneck cartridge about as long as my gloved hand was wide, with a rim a little wider than the rest. I said, “It’s just me and you now, buddy.”
I needed to use it wisely. But what was wisely? If I ran into Germans, there was no hope for a lone soldier with scarcely any training. One bullet wouldn’t change that. I made a mental list: “Consequences of Firing the Bullet,” by Pavel Kirillovich Danili
n.
Things It Will Do:
‒ Leave me unarmed
‒ Give away my position
‒ Make the fascists angry
‒ Kill one person (maybe)
Things It Won’t Do:
‒ Kill more than one person
‒ Prevent me from getting killed
‒ Get me home
I omitted one item from the first list. There were ideological reasons for leaving it off (I had to complete the mission) and practical ones (I had no sidearm and suicide by rifle was a tricky business), but the truth is that I was afraid to consider it.
It would have been a more sensible choice than what I actually did, which was to take the cartridge and fling it as far as I could. For an instant its brass jacket glinted in the cold winter light. Then it disappeared into the endless snow. I felt a moment of blissful relief. And then, “Shit! What am I doing?”
I ran over to the place where the cartridge had fallen and dug through the snow until I reached the dirt and dead grass underneath. Nothing. In a few minutes, I gave up the search as hopeless. Nice job, Pasha. Now you’re not only lost and alone behind enemy lines, but you’re completely unarmed.
I have to do something. The knowledge frightens me. I’ve spent so long repeating Morse code orders that I’m at a loss for ideas of my own. Finding Petya was my first thought, but I’m far more likely to stumble onto the Germans than to find him if I go looking. Besides, Pashkevich was right: Petya’s best chance is to get rid of his uniform and become just another peasant child. Or maybe I’m only telling myself that because I’m too scared to move.
I smoked the last of my cigarettes and strung out the radio antennae out of habit, one along the ground, the other up one of the snow-laden pine trees. That occupied me for a few minutes. Now I once again have no orders and no plan.
So here I am, Valyushka, writing to you. It’s helped. I feel a little better now, calmer. Things could be worse. At least you sent me a pencil.
A pencil.
I have an idea.
THIRTY-TWO
WAKING A SLEEPING AIRCREW IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DAY usually required a death wish, but when Masha the armorer invaded our dugout, she said the magic words: “It’s stopped snowing!”
We all awoke instantly. Zhigli threw up her hands. “There is a God!”
“If there was a God, it would have stopped snowing on the twenty-fifth of November,” I said.
Beautiful sunlight blinded us as we emerged from the dim dugout. Our eyes adjusted to meet a flat expanse of white sparkling beneath a liquid blue sky. The snow was waist deep, broken up by hummocks covering planes and vehicles and by narrow paths where people had struggled through from one dugout to the next. The ground crews, armed with shovels, were excavating the aircraft. We joined them unbidden. Iskra and I clambered on top of Number 18 and kicked away the snow until the cover was light enough to pull off. It was refreshing to be outside doing something.
The hardy little plane sat at the wrong angle, its propeller pointed at the sky, its tail balanced on its horizontal stabilizer. The tail skid, stressed by the cold, had snapped under the weight of the snow. Captain Ilyushina regarded the damage, arms akimbo. “That’s not so bad. I can replace it in a few minutes. You’ll be clear to fly tonight, no problem.”
The mail truck had finally made it through. Our new aide-de-camp, who I’ve never quite forgiven for not being Galya, doled out creased, water-stained letters. I gave her a pleading look. She held out her hands helplessly. “I’m sorry, Valka, there’s nothing from Pasha. But that doesn’t mean anything. The storm delayed the mail all over.”
I hung my head. I unfairly resented the other airwomen, greedily tearing open letters from parents and sweethearts safe at home. They got news about meaningless village gossip while I didn’t know if Pasha was alive or dead.
Major Bershanskaya, the rest of her staff in tow, threaded her way through the mechanics and click-snaps. She found Dina and Zhenechka circling their plane, looking for damage. “Lieutenant. I need an aircrew for a special assignment tonight. We just got notified about an evacuation from the salient. Apparently a radio operator got stranded there with some sensitive materials.”
An evacuation . . . Pasha! He was alive. Excitement and relief collided and caught me in the middle. I vaulted out of my plane, onto the wing, and then onto the ground, and saluted. “Ma’am, requesting permission to take this mission.”
Bershanskaya gave me a long look of dawning comprehension. “Is your Pasha one Pavel Kirillovich Danilin of the 336th Rifle Regiment?”
I nodded. I was trying to stand at attention properly, which was difficult when I wanted to grab my commanding officer and beg her for whatever she knew.
“And you know about his assignment.” Bershanskaya shook her head. “Do the censors catch anything anymore?”
“Please, ma’am.” I didn’t even try to hide my anxiety. It felt like there was a nest of ants running around inside me.
Bershanskaya looked at Dina. “What do you think, Nikulina? Are they up to it?”
“Sure. Iskra is a strong navigator.”
“Then it’s all yours, Koroleva.” Bershanskaya walked over and spread out her map on Number 18’s wing while Iskra and I looked on, leaning our arms on the canvas. I tried to focus on the lines and dots, but the knowledge that Pasha was alive pushed all other thoughts from my head. “You know by now that the salient is still holding. Our ground forces attempted to attack it at once from every side, but it was difficult for them to maintain an even line, with the confusion and the lack of visibility. Some regiments drove ahead of the others and were cut off. Unfortunately, Danilin’s squad was accompanying one of them. Apparently they laid their hands on some sensitive materials that headquarters is keen to acquire, but the rest of the squad was killed and Danilin has no return route except by aircraft.”
The major traced her finger across the map. “Danilin knows his approximate position, but it’ll be up to you, Iskra, to locate him precisely. Take care: The battle is still in progress and troops may move unpredictably. He has no way to signal you or to provide light to land by, but you may drop an illumination flare. Watch out for the depth of the snow. Naturally there won’t be any defenses at Danilin’s location, so as long as you can slip past the front lines safely, you can dart in, pick him up, and return in time to rejoin the squadron later tonight. And, Junior Lieutenant”—Bershanskaya gave me a serious look—“I understand that this mission is personal to you, but you must promise me that you will approach it like a soldier. People die when feelings get in the way.”
“I promise,” I lied, unable to keep a massive grin from creeping onto my face. I felt lighter, as if my fear for Pasha was a literal weight that had been taken from me.
“Belay that order.” Once again I hadn’t seen where Kazarinova had come from, but there she was, leaning on the opposite side of the wing, her stern dark eyes pinned on me and Iskra. Helpless outrage flooded me. She couldn’t do this. She could ground us and court-martial us and systematically dismantle our regiments to keep us from succeeding where she had failed, but I wouldn’t let her sign Pasha’s death warrant.
Bershanskaya squinted up at her. “Do you need something, Major?”
“This mission is canceled.” Kazarinova stated it as an incontrovertible fact.
“What? Why?” I demanded.
She raised her chin so she could look down her nose at me. “Order 270. That soldier is a traitor.”
“He’s not a—” I broke in, my face hot. Bershanskaya quieted me with a motion of her hand and said, “He was on assignment.”
“Check again. No superior officer ordered that mission. Officially, his squad disobeyed orders and fled in the middle of an offensive. You’ve defended your regiment’s past irregularities by claiming that they are benign or beneficial. Sending a suspected wrecker to aid a traitor to the Motherland: That’s anything but benign, wouldn’t you say?”
Sharp black eyes met soft green ones
. I held my breath. The green ones fell.
“I’m glad we are in agreement, Major,” said Kazarinova. She told our head of communications, “Inform the boy that his ride has been canceled.”
Kazarinova stalked away. The image of Pasha flashed in my mind, his gentle face falling when he learned that I was abandoning him and that he was alone in the salient, it so vast and he so very small. I begged my commander, “You can’t cancel the mission! I need this.”
Bershanskaya said with carefully controlled calm, “You’ll be flying with the rest of the first squadron. Report for your briefing at seventeen hundred hours.”
My legs had gone wobbly and I thought I was going to throw up. I protested, “You can’t let her push you around. She doesn’t outrank you. She has no authority to—”
“Junior Lieutenant, just because I don’t discipline you doesn’t mean I can’t,” said Bershanskaya, folding her map.
I threw her one last look of despair and stumbled into the empty dugout. Lacking the energy to walk over to my own bed, I threw myself on Iskra’s. My throat knotted into a lump that made my breath come in shuddering gasps. I jammed the middle two fingers of my left hand into my mouth and gnawed them.
The unattended stove had burned down to a few sullen red embers. Iskra tossed in a new log. She sat silently on a crate and took off her gloves so that she could warm her fingers as the fire crackled and flared up.
I said, “Did you ever notice his hands?”
“No, baby cousin, this may surprise you, but I never paid any particular attention to Pasha’s hands.”
“He has beautiful hands. I can’t bear the thought of anything happening to them. How can I leave him there, Iskra, how can I let them hurt Pasha’s hands?”
Iskra stroked my face with a fire-warm hand. “He made it through the offensive and got what he went for. He’s a survivor, Valyushka. A hero.”
I tried unsuccessfully to swallow the lump and choked out, “If they hurt him, he’ll talk. He’s not Zoya Kosmodemyanskaya. He’s not independent and stubborn and driven, he’s honest and open and kind. And I want him to be that way. Why should someone have to act like a soldier to be a good Soviet, Iskra? Don’t we need people like Pasha, people who can be vulnerable?”
