A footstep caused her to turn around just as Katia Budanova emerged from the bunker freshly dressed. She nodded cordially, ran fingers through her short, still-damp hair, then sat down on one of the ammunition cases. Without speaking, she drew a small sack of machorka tobacco and a fragment of paper from the pocket of her tunic and began to roll out a cigarette.
Alex watched, intrigued. Katia was one of the few women in the regiment who smoked, and the habit seemed to fit her character. “Nice day for a scrub, isn’t it?” She looked up at the early summer sky, making conversation.
“Uh-huh,” Katia replied, striking a match on the wooden case and lighting the tightly rolled cigarette. It smelled sooty.
“Sort of too bad we have to go back to work tonight and get dirty again.” Alex persisted.
Katia took a short puff and spit some speck of something to the side. “We’re off duty tonight.”
“Really?” That was good news, but now she was going to have to pry the reason out of this taciturn woman. “Why’s that?”
“Red Army Rear’s called off tonight’s bombing. Because of the new assignments.”
“New assignments? What does that mean?”
“Katia took another puff and finally looked directly at her. “It means that some of the pilots are being moved to the 586th fighter’s regiment.”
“Some of the pilots? Who?” Alex could already guess, and her heart sank.
“Well, me. Raisa Beliaeva, Lilya Drachenko. Couple of others.” She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, twirling her cigarette.
“Oh.” Alex tried to conceal her dismay. That’s what you all wanted, right?”
“Yep. Come to the Flying Cowshed this evening and bring your mess kit. We’ll have a little food—to celebrate.”
Still reeling from Lilya’s breasts, and now from the announcement that she was leaving, Alex stammered acceptance.
*
Alex stepped into the Flying Cowshed, and her first impression was that it didn’t smell nearly as bad as the pilots had complained it did. It was less damp and better ventilated than the mechanics’ bunker and so seemed to hold less of the cumulative female body odor.
The dozen pilots and navigators were sitting on their bunks or on the wooden floor next to an ammunition crate that served as a table. At the far end, Lilya sat on her bunk with her knees drawn up, talking to one of the navigators. She glanced up as Alex came in but didn’t smile.
“Oh, looks like someone got packages from home.” Alex pointed with her chin toward a basket at the center of the table that held potatoes, onions, and small green apples.
“Yes, my mother has a garden,” a wide-faced woman said. Alex seemed to remember she was called Klavdia. “We also traded with some of the peasants for pickled beets, red sauerkraut, pickled herring, and…pickles.”
“I sense a theme here,” Alex said, and found a place on the floor. After several weeks on the sparse regimental diet, she was as hungry as all the other women. With the black bread that was also on the table, it really was a feast. “What did you trade from this side? I hope you didn’t give away any of our bombs.”
Klavdia laughed. “A pity we couldn’t get rid of a few of them that way. No, just some of those stupid men’s underpants. We all hate them, but the peasants always ask for them.”
“Don’t forget, we also have this.” Tatyana, one of the navigators, reached up to a shelf over their heads and brought down a bottle. “The vodka we’re supposed to be issued but never get. Since no one’s flying tonight, Major Bershanskaya let us have it. Everyone, hold up your cups.”
Alex unhooked hers from her mess kit and held it out, receiving a generous portion.
“To the bravest women in the Soviet Air Force.” Katia raised her cup.
“So tell us the real reason for the party, Katia,” Klavdia said. “Why am I sacrificing my mother’s vegetables?”
“Because tomorrow, Lilya, Raisa, and I are transferring to the 586th fighter regiment.”
“Oh, you lucky beasts!” Tatyana slapped Katia on the back. “We’re so jealous. There’s not a pilot here who doesn’t dream of being a fighter.”
“Guess so,” Katia said, fishing out her machorka for another cigarette roll.
“Just make us proud while you’re there.” Major Bershanskaya came through the door. “It’ll be a different game, you know, shooting down enemy planes. I know you have courage, but this will test your aviation skills. And you’ll be flying alone.” She raised her cup. “To you! And to the witches.”
“Witches? You’re calling us witches?” Lilya said.
Bershanskaya laughed. “I didn’t give you that name. The Germans did. Our intelligence picked it up on their radio. Apparently we’re keeping them awake all night and they’re sick of it. They’ve named us Nachthexen. Night Witches. I think we should wear the name with distinction.”
“Lilya the witch. Hmm. I like it. It has a certain menace to it.”
“It sure does. They could have called us the night milkmaids.”
Bershanskaya raised an authoritative hand. “My point is that the Germans have noticed us. We blow up their ammunition depots and vehicle pools, and we make it impossible for them to sleep. All in a night’s work. Now someone pass me the bread.”
Alex handed over the loaf and watched while the women consumed the various pickles, remembering the office parties at Century magazine. Layer cake, cheese blocks, platters of assorted cold cuts. Her stomach growled at the recollection, but only of the food. She wouldn’t have traded a single boring, champagne-soaked evening with reporters for this battlefront picnic with the Night Witches.
She stayed for an hour, until she was slightly dizzy from her second cup of vodka. Lilya had remained curled up on her bunk the entire time, and when it seemed that nothing would budge her out of it, Alex decided it was time to leave. She struggled to her feet.
“Thank you so much for inviting me,” she said, and groped along the wall to the door. It was pitch-black outside, and they weren’t allowed to use torches except in emergencies. “Oh, crap,” she muttered.
Someone touched her arm. “Come on. I’ll walk back with you to your bunker.”
“Lilya. Oh, yes, thanks.” She was suddenly more lucid, if not exactly sober. “Guess I’m not much for vodka.”
“It’s all right. I know the layout of the field. I’ve landed in the dark often enough.” Lilya took her by the arm, and the touch of her shoulder was thrilling. They took a few steps together, until Alex’s eyes adapted to the dark.
The crescent moon shed a faint light on the field, and now she could see the shapes of the planes lined up like huge insects. The field was mysterious and silent, and she could still hear the distant laughter of the other women. She leaned against Lilya, smelling the soap she’d obviously used to wash her hair that morning.
“I’m sorry you’re leaving. You have a lot of friends here.”
“I know, but Katia will be with me, and I’ve requested that Inna be transferred so she can be my mechanic. She’s awfully good, and Major Raskova knows she can learn the new engine fast.”
Alex slowed her pace, to prolong the conversation. It didn’t matter what they talked about. “Are the planes much different?”
“Oh yes. The Yak has ten times the speed and power of the U-2. And it’s for fighting. They’ve got machine guns on the wings and a cannon in the propeller shaft. The firing button is on the control stick, and when all the guns fire at the same time, the whole plane shudders.”
“You’ve flown one before?”
“Only once, on a test flight, and it was a thrill.”
“I’ll miss you. I think I’ll be leaving shortly, too. I have to develop and send my pictures. It’s what my boss is paying me for.”
Lilya halted. “You’re going back to Moscow?”
“Yes. I stay at the Hotel Metropole, where most of the correspondents live.”
“Moscow. That’s wonderful. Would you…could you take a note to my mother
? Her name is Anna Svetlanova Drachenko, and she lives on the Smolenskaya Square, Number 22. She works in the factory making machine guns, but she’s on the evening shift so you can find her at home in the middle of the day. She also works one day a week in the hotel laundry, but I don’t know which day.”
“I’ll be happy to, of course, if you think it won’t endanger her to talk to an American. But can’t you also send letters through military post?”
“I do send letters through military post. But all our field letters are censored, and if you carried my note, I could say more. Please be discreet, though. Our family is already under suspicion, and talking to a foreigner would just be another black mark.”
“I’d love to meet your mother. Give me the note at breakfast tomorrow before you leave.”
They were standing face-to-face now. Lilya laid a hand on her shoulder. “Thank you. And I’m sorry we had so little time together. It seems all I did was fly and sleep.”
Alex wished she could make out Lilya’s expression. But her face was just a vague image in the dark with a thin halo of hair that caught a bit of moonlight. “I understand. As for you, please be careful.”
Lilya chortled. “I’m not sure what a careful aerial dogfight would look like.”
“No, I suppose there isn’t any such thing. But will you at least wear your New York scarf to keep warm?”
“I’ll wear it every day. I promise.” Then, suddenly, she bent forward and pressed a quick light kiss on Alex’s lips. “Keep me in your thoughts.”
“I will. I do. All the time.”
*
Pure inebriation enabled Alex to sleep the rest of that night, but when she awakened late in the morning to an empty bunker, it was to a sense of deep loss. She’d missed breakfast, the last opportunity to see Lilya and take possession of the precious letter. She felt an overwhelming sense of guilt and fecklessness. Some beacon of liberty she was.
She dragged herself to the mess dugout, hoping some food was left, and found Inna. They sat together over their tasteless kasha and bitter tea. But they had nothing to say, and when Inna left to join the ground crews, Alex didn’t go with her.
Instead, she returned to the bunker, where a few of the armorers had come off duty and were writing letters or embroidering. The needlework, she supposed, was a way to leave off being a soldier for a little while and do the quiet girlish things their mothers had taught them. Most, she noted, didn’t even have embroidery thread but used fibers from their blue underwear or from any fabric they could unravel without incurring penalties for damaging military property.
She watched them for a few moments until one of them glanced up and smiled. “This would make a good picture, don’t you think? To show America that we’re not all brutes.”
Alex agreed and opened her camera case for her Rolleiflex. Her finger brushed against something paperlike, and she drew it out.
Lilya’s letter with a Moscow address in rounded girlish letters. She must have slipped it in while Alex slept off her vodka. Her lethargy evaporated.
She hid it again, took a few photos, and left the bunker.
It didn’t take her long to spot the tall, broad-shouldered Major Bershanskaya out on the field. She was in the process of reprimanding one of the mechanics for taking off her boots while she worked on the plane, but it seemed less a berating than a discussion.
Alex liked that about her, that when she exerted her authority, it was always with an eye to finding a solution rather than exercising power. Even here, she finished her reprimand by saying, “There’s a shoemaker in the village. Maybe you can get those boots cut down.”
The moment she stepped away, Alex approached her. “I’m sorry to bother you, Major.”
“Yes, what is it, Miss Preston?”
“I appreciate your letting me photograph the women, but I’ve run out of film. It’s time for me to return to Moscow. And I was wondering…”
“How you’ll get there.”
“Yes, of course. Lilya Drachenko flew me here as you’ll recall, but I don’t suppose anyone is flying in the direction of Moscow in the next days.”
“Unfortunately not. But you’re in luck. The bath truck will be returning to the railroad station, and from there you can take one of the troop trains to Moscow.”
Alex cringed inwardly at the agonizing trip ahead of her, most likely under strafing fire, but the women around her were enduring worse. “Thank you. I’ll be ready to leave when the truck does.”
As she strode back to her bunker, she fingered the letter in her side pocket. A letter that tied her to Lilya Drachenko.
CHAPTER TWELVE
It was the afternoon of the Fourth of July, but Alex begged off the vodka-fueled celebration by the Americans in the hotel dining room.
Instead, she developed her film in her tiny toilet darkroom. Roll after roll of the Night Witches, doing everything but flying their U-2s. No doubt it would have been embarrassing, even dangerous, to reveal the flimsy antiquated craft the Soviet Air Force flew.
But she smiled at the half-dozen photos of Inna, dwarfed in her overalls, of Commander Bershanskaya looking stern, and of the virile Katia Budanova in flying gear studying a map.
The long-distance takeoff and landing shots by the partial light of dawn or dusk wouldn’t pass the censor, but she liked them and would keep them for herself, unpublished. The censors would certainly approve photos of the women hauling the 100-kilo bombs, chopping wood, digging trenches, and laying fence boards over the mud. And George would love the human-interest shots of the off-duty women sitting on the ground and mending or writing home.
The most precious ones still hung on the drying line, and now she regretted taking so few. Just those two, snapped as Lilya crossed the field and the original and unpermitted photo of her and Inna in front of Lilya’s U-2, would be her personal treasures.
She’d had it all wrong about Soviet women soldiers. They were personable and warm, and she felt enormous affection for them. Inna, Katia, Raisa, and even the two commanders Raskova and Bershanskaya. She felt real pleasure talking to them, laughing with them, watching them work.
And then there was Lilya. Who’d kissed her. What was it that attracted her so?
She wasn’t ashamed of her desire for women and hadn’t actually slept with one simply because no woman she cared for had ever sought her out. But had Lilya sought her out? Or was the kiss merely a bit of reckless play, like flying somersaults in her plane?
Alex brooded. Some new emotion she hadn’t experienced before was nibbling at the back of her mind, and she finally recognized it. Longing.
She shook it off and snatched up her jacket. She had a letter to deliver.
*
The rumpled NKVD man was on duty, as always, and she didn’t want him following her. Fraternizing with Russians wasn’t illegal, but discouraged. Part of Stalin’s paranoia, she supposed, that all foreigners were suspect and might pry information out of innocent Muscovites. She suspected also that the Kremlin didn’t like their tightly controlled citizens learning too much about foreign prosperity.
She’d studied her map of Moscow in the privacy of her room and found Smolenskaya Square near a metro station. The trick was to ditch her minder.
In the end, it was ridiculously easy, since the poor fellow apparently had several charges to keep an eye on at once and was slow to react. Or perhaps he simply hadn’t seen enough espionage movies, for all she had to do was descend to the hotel kitchen and leave through one of its service doors.
Smolenskaya Square was shabby but no worse than much of the rest of residential Moscow. She walked quickly until she found a large apartment building with four entryways, and Number 22 was the third one. Lilya had been right. It was midday, and no one seemed to be home.
At the entrance she faced a staircase. She followed it up to the second floor, where it opened to a narrow corridor, and she continued down to the door marked Number 9. Now, if only Anna Svetlanova Drachenko was home.
She
tapped gently on the door.
“Who is it?” someone inside asked.
“Aleksandra Preston,” she said, hoping there were no neighbors to overhear. “A friend of Lilya. May I come in?”
The door opened a crack and a woman peered out at her.
Alex leaned in close and dropped her voice. “She asked me to deliver a letter to you.”
Wordlessly, Anna Drachenko stepped back to admit her.
Alex stopped directly inside and glanced around as Anna shut the door behind her. They stood in a sort of entranceway from which she could see a kitchen, presumably shared, and a short interior corridor with two doors on each side. The entryway smelled of boiled cabbage and unwashed laundry.
Anna led her to the second door on the left and drew her into what was obviously her allotted portion of the apartment. A narrow single room with a painted cabinet near the door and a minute table across from it. Above the table a set of shelves held dishes, folded cloths, books, and a row of small photographs.
At the far end of the room was a bed, and at its foot, the only window. It looked out onto the wall of another apartment building. Close by, against the wall, a cushioned bench held several elaborately embroidered pillows. Had this served as Lilya’s bed?
There was no bathroom in sight, and Alex assumed that this too was shared with the co-residents of the collective apartment. She cringed inwardly at the overwhelming sense of confinement.
“Please, have a seat,” Anna said, gesturing toward the covered bench, and Alex sat down.
While Anna drew up a chair from the table for herself, Alex studied her face and movements. She greatly resembled her daughter, though her hair was white rather than blond. The same bright blue eyes shone from eyelids sagging with age and fatigue, and she had the same full musculature around the mouth. But her face was gaunt, due, no doubt, to the scant rations allowed the Muscovites.
“Please, tell me about my daughter.” Anna clasped long, callused hands. “Is she all right?”
“She’s doing very well,” Alex was happy to say. How dreadful it would have been to bring bad news to this woman. “She’s been promoted to another regiment and is flying better planes.”
The Witch of Stalingrad Page 9
