The Witch of Stalingrad

by Justine Saracen

  Alex recalled a brilliant, dedicated woman who, in peacetime, she might have sought as a friend. The mother superior to hundreds of women pilots, navigators, and ground teams. They must be shattered.

  She skimmed the article, hoping Parker had misunderstood, but the text confirmed the tragedy. Even Stalin had paid homage, signing his name to the list expressing condolences.

  “She’ll have a state funeral,” she said. “On Sunday.”

  Parker brightened. “You think there’s a story there?”

  Annoyed at his ignorance of Marina Raskova, she brushed him off. “Couldn’t say. Anyhow, I knew her. I’m going back to pay my respects. When can I get a ride?”

  “Talk to the division commander. He’ll know if anyone’s going to the Kremlin.”

  She was already out of the dugout.

  *

  It took two days for her to hitch a ride on a medical-evacuation flight returning to Moscow, but she need not have hurried. Marina Raskova’s remains had to be transported to Moscow on a special train. Once there, they lay in state in a covered casket at the House of the Unions for three days while thousands of mourners passed by in a somber line.

  Alex joined them on the day of the funeral. When she reached the coffin surrounded by red flags and Communist symbols, she stepped out of line and waited until the honor guard arrived. The six uniformed men lifted the coffin and carried it out to a gun carriage drawn by a jeep. Governmental figures as well as officers and soldiers carrying a wreath slow-marched into Red Square. One of them bore a small red cushion displaying her medals. Alex followed as the gun carriage moved across the square to the Kremlin Wall Necropolis and stopped for a brief funeral ritual. An old woman stood now beside the coffin holding the hand of a young girl. Marina Raskova’s bereaved mother and daughter, she supposed.

  General Osipenko, as well as a few others from the Kremlin whom she didn’t know, addressed the crowd, and at the end, the color guard fired off a gun salute. The Soviet national anthem sounded through the public speakers on the wall as the gun carriage moved on into the necropolis. It was purely ceremonial, she knew, since Marina Raskova would not be buried, but cremated, and her ashes placed within the Kremlin wall.

  Alex snapped her photos as discreetly as possible, for all around her people wept, and she shared their bereavement. She didn’t believe in an afterlife and would have scoffed at the notion that the major’s spirit knew she was present. But it seemed important to be there at the coffin to mark the passing of an extraordinary woman.

  As the other Muscovites began to wander away, she started back toward the Metropole, wondering how she would get back to the Southern Front, though she was already weary at the thought.

  Someone stepped out directly in front of her, bringing her to a halt.

  “Anna Drachenko,” Alex said softly.

  “Hello, Miss Preston. I hoped I’d find you here taking your pictures. I was afraid to ask for you at the hotel.”

  “How did you know I was in Moscow?”

  “I didn’t, of course. But Lilya sent me to look for you. She thought you might be here photographing this tragic moment.”

  “Lilya?” Alex brightened suddenly, trying to make sense of the remark. “Lilya sent you? How?”

  Anna took her by the arm and led her in the direction of the Metro. “She was shot down and wounded two weeks ago. The hospitals are so full, she requested to recover at home with me. She’s there now and wants to see you.”

  “Wounded? How seriously?” A jumble of thoughts crowded in all at the same time. “Aren’t you afraid of being spotted with me?”

  Anna replied to the last question first. “Not today. Today we’re just two people in the crowded Metro.” She pulled her along faster. “She was wounded in the leg, but she can tell you about it herself.”

  *

  Neighbors on the street and in the corridor witnessed Alex’s arrival, but if any of her neighbors were denouncers, Anna had apparently decided to take the risk. She led them into the collective apartment, where several women stared dumbfounded at her. As if in defiance of them, she pointed to Alex in her air-force uniform and said, “This American lieutenant was a friend of Marina Raskova.” That seemed sufficient to turn their expressions of suspicion to admiration.

  Then Anna opened the door to her private space and drew her in.

  Lilya Drachenko sat upright, supported by pillows on the bench that Alex had rightly guessed was her bed. Her face was radiant. “Come, sit down,” Anna said, and Alex realized she hadn’t budged.

  Without taking her eyes from Lilya’s face, she drifted over and kissed her on the forehead. “I’m…so happy to see you again.”

  Lilya brushed her fingertips along Alex’s chin. “I didn’t know if you were in Moscow. I just hoped.”

  “When I heard about Major Raskova’s death, I returned as soon as I could, to say good-bye. If I’d known you were here I’d have come sooner, much sooner.” Feeling the chair Anna shoved behind her knees, she sat down.

  “I’ve been crying since I got the news. I loved her. We all loved her. Did you take pictures?”

  “Yes, a few. I’ll send them through the embassy and bypass the censor. I may get in trouble, but I don’t care. I want the Americans to see them and learn the name Marina Raskova.”

  “Yes, I like that. I want them to know her, too. Where were you when you heard?”

  “In Kamensk, with some other journalists. We go where the Kremlin lets us go.”

  Lilya offered a wan smile. “How ironic. I took off from Kamensk the day I was shot down.”

  Alex winced. “Shot down. Such terrible words.”

  “Yes, they are,” Anna said, standing behind her. “I almost fainted when the air-force people contacted me.”

  Lilya’s eyes shone at the change of subject to the air battle. “You should have seen us, Alex. We were six in our Yaks facing six Messerschmitts. An even fight, you’d think, but I got separated from my team and it seemed like all six Me-109s were after me. I couldn’t escape them, so I dove toward them and knocked out one of them. His mate circled back, though, and got my plane and my leg.”

  “I can’t bear to hear the story,” Anna said. “While you two talk, I’ll go dress for work.” Anna took a towel from the shelf and left for the communal bathroom, closing the door behind her.

  Lilya continued, still excited. “It didn’t even hurt at first, it just felt wet. I bent down for a second to look at it, and just then, another shell crashed through the canopy, right where my head had been. I suppose the wounded leg saved my life.”

  “And you were able to land?” Alex was incredulous.

  “Yes. I swung back to the airfield, which wasn’t far, got the plane onto the runway, and rolled to a stop. Then I blacked out. When I came to, my comrades were dragging me like a sack of coal out of the cockpit. They got me to a hospital, where they said the bullet actually chipped my leg bone but didn’t break it. They kept me for a few days, but when the doctors needed the bed for more serious cases, they let me come home.”

  Alex lifted the blanket to see the damaged leg, but it was splinted and bandaged to the knee. “How long have you been here?”

  “Ten days already. As soon as I can walk normally, I’m going back. A lot more German planes need to be shot down.”

  “It sounds very different from being a Night Witch. I mean, you actually engage the enemy, face-to-face, in daylight.”

  “It is. And the planes are completely different, too. I love the Yak, though it was hell to learn. They’re single-seat machines so the instructors couldn’t fly with us. The first few trips were pretty hair-raising.”

  She was looking off into space now, obviously remembering. “It’s incredible. You can do swoops and dives, all kinds of rolls and loops, zigzags and spins, with so much power! It’s intoxicating.” Alex could see the excitement in her eyes.

  “When do you think you can walk again?”

  “I can walk now, with crutches, and each day I
get a little stronger.”

  Alex stifled the urge to caress her. “You look…wonderful.”

  Lilya’s expression grew somber. “Do you have to go back? To the front, I mean? Can you stay a few days in Moscow? It’s so quiet here when Momma’s working. I go crazy.”

  Alex considered for moment. “It’s a little complicated. Stalin has given certain journalists permission to travel with the troops, and I’d have to reapply with the Press Department for another occasion. But, yes. I’ll do that.”

  Lilya stared with eyes that paralyzed her. “You’re amazing,” she whispered in admiration. “You’ve come from so far away, from the other side of the world. And when I’m around you, it’s like a door opens up and I feel a little bit of that other world trickling in.”

  “There is a whole other world outside. I hope I can show it to you some day.”

  Lilya still held her hand. “You talk like my mother. About all the possibilities. She’s a loyal Communist, of course, but doesn’t like Stalin.”

  “She has good reason. She told me about your father’s arrest. I’m sorry. It’s a brutal regime, isn’t it?”

  “Lilya grimaced as if slapped. “I don’t want to talk about my father. Besides, those of us who fight, we don’t do it for Stalin. We fight for the Motherland, for each other.”

  Bringing up Lilya’s father had obviously been a mistake, and Alex blushed at the faux pas. She touched Lilya’s cheek with her fingertips. “I wish you didn’t have to fight at all. You have a long life ahead of you, with children and grandchildren, and a dacha somewhere in the Ukraine.”

  Lilya grasped the hand and held it to her face. “I never dream about that, only about flying. Flying all over the world.” Then abruptly, she said, “Tell me about New York.”

  Alex heard the door open behind her and turned. Anna came in wearing overalls.

  “Momma, Alex was just about to tell me about New York.”

  “Oh, yes. I’d like to hear about it,” Anna said, kicking off her slippers and pulling on a pair of battered work boots.

  “Is it true that the rich capitalists live in the high buildings while the workers and the black people live in poverty?” Lilya asked.

  Alex thought for a moment. “Yes, you see a lot of difference between the rich and the poor, and yes, the very rich live in penthouses at the top of the buildings. But it’s possible to climb up from poverty, at least for some. My father arrived poor, but he knew horses and got a good job taking care of them for the police department.”

  “What about the black people?” Anna asked, though her tone revealed genuine interest, not sarcasm.

  “That’s a sore spot for Americans. Yes, most black people are poor and live in the worst parts of the cities. And many of them don’t have jobs, or have very bad ones. I…I don’t know why.”

  Anna tied up her boot. “Under Communism, at least everyone has a job.”

  “I was never much interested in politics,” Alex admitted. “But I think it’s a trade-off. In the hard capitalist world of the US, each person has a lot of freedom but no real protection. President Roosevelt brought in Social Security, but that’s based on having a job in the first place. Each one has to struggle for himself, and if things go against him, he just falls to the bottom. Here, everyone has a job and food and healthcare, but each person has to do what the government tells him to, and no one can speak out against the party.”

  “Every nation has its dogma,” Anna said. “Remember, ‘Dearer to me than a host of base truths…’”

  “‘…is the illusion that exalts.’” Lilya finished her sentence. “That’s my mother’s favorite Puskin quote. Please don’t think we’re always so cynical.”

  “Maybe some day after the war you both can come visit me and see what it’s like under our dogmas.” She had said “both” but looked directly at Lilya.

  “Oh, that would be fun. Is your Times Square anything like our Red Square?”

  “I can assure you, it’s not at all. It’s full of private businesses and shops, and it’s not even a square. More a crossing of two main streets. But if you come, I promise to take you there, and to Macy’s and buy you all the scarves you want.”

  Anna stood up and glanced over at a small clock on the shelf. “I’m sorry, my shift starts in fifteen minutes. Please stay, Miss Preston. My daughter is lonely and I can see you’re good for her.” She gave them both quick kisses and let herself out.

  The door clicked closed, and Alex realized she and Lilya were alone for the first time since the night on the airfield—when Lilya had kissed her.

  She fidgeted for a moment, trying to recall what they’d just been talking about.

  “I’ve missed you,” Lilya said suddenly.

  “Have you? I’d have thought you had your mind on other things.”

  “Did you miss me?” Blue eyes looked up at her with great earnestness.

  “Yes. I did. And I always worried you’d be shot down.”

  “And then I was, so you can stop worrying now.”

  “Well, please don’t do that anymore.”

  “I’ll try, but the Germans, you know…they’re very rude. We keep asking them to leave, but they refuse. Very annoying.”

  “I’m glad you can joke about it, but it was by the sheerest bit of luck that you survived.”

  “It was you who brought me luck. I was wearing your scarf. It still holds a bit of your smell.”

  “My smell? Oh, dear. That must not be very nice.”

  “But it is. It smells of, I don’t know. Of warm potatoes, something welcoming like that. The same smell that night we said good-bye on the airfield. Do you remember? I kissed you.”

  Alex blushed. “Of course I remember. I just wasn’t sure what it meant. I still don’t know.”

  “Perhaps I should show you again, and then you’ll know.”

  Alex’s heart pounded. Lilya was playing with her, and she was at her mercy. She gazed for long moments into eyes as blue as the Russian sky.

  “Perhaps.”

  “I can’t get up. You’ll have to come to me.”

  “Come to you,” Alex repeated inanely. “Yes.” She moved from her chair to perch at the edge of Lilya’s slender bed. A smile opened slowly across Lilya’s full lips as Alex bent over her.

  Loud thudding came from the door, and Alex jumped away.

  “Lilya Grigorevna.” A voice came through the closed door. “Someone is here to see you. An official.”

  Lilya looked anxiously at Alex.

  Official. That was never something good, Alex thought, cracking the door. To her shock, she recognized him. A short, plump man with a bald spot in a rumpled suit. The NKVD man.

  “You will come with me, please,” he said.

  *

  Fear, guilt, regret. As he led her down the grimy staircase, Alex could hardly focus her thoughts. Had she mortally endangered the Drachenko family? Was she in danger herself? God, what had she done?

  He led her to a car parked around the corner. “Get in,” he said, opening the door on the passenger side, which diminished her anxiety somewhat. In all the abduction movies she’d seen, the victim was always pressed into the backseat. Or the trunk. His hard expression fixed, he came around to the other side and started the car. Another kind of fear struck her.

  “Who are you and where are you taking me?”

  He spoke without looking at her, staring straight ahead. “Never mind who I am. More important is where I am not taking you. To NKVD headquarters.”

  The words NKVD headquarters nonetheless struck fear in her heart. “I’m with the US Air Force and they’ll be looking for me.” She was bluffing.

  He ignored the threat. “You’re causing trouble,” he announced abruptly. “The Drachenko family is already suspect because of the father. Your presence does nothing but rekindle suspicion.”

  Alex was momentarily speechless. He wasn’t arresting her. It was almost as if he was trying to reason with her. That simply did not compute.

>   Emboldened, she replied in a tone that bordered on truculent. “She’s a Soviet hero, the pride of her regiment. Why isn’t a journalist allowed to talk to her?”

  “Don’t be stupid,” he snapped. “Your meeting was not journalism. It was a private visit to a politically suspect family by an American.”

  “So what are you saying? That I can’t visit the Drachenkos?”

  “Not if you want to protect them.”

  Alex stared through the sooty windscreen, noting that they had turned the same corner twice. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because NKVD does not want to arrest a hero.”

  “The NKVD, or you? I’ve never heard about NKVD mercy before.”

  “You ask too many questions. Just believe me that you cannot go back. I am not the only one watching you.” He pulled up to the sidewalk in front of the Hotel Metropole.

  Leaning past her he lifted the handle and pushed open the car door. “Now you can get out.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Alex felt like a whipped dog as she dragged herself back into the hotel. The Metropole, for all its cavernous dimensions, was increasingly like a prison.

  She stood for a moment in the hotel entranceway, then forced a smile and marched to the main desk. “Is there any mail for me?”

  “Yes, Miss Preston. There is.” The clerk drew a yellow envelope from some place under the counter and slid it toward her. “A cable from the United States.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and opened it as she walked toward the stairs. No surprise and always a comfort, it was the weekly cable from George Mankowitz.

  PHOTOS GREAT STOP DONT NEED ANY MORE BATTLE STOP CAN YOU GET MORE OF STALIN OR SOVIET WAR PRODUCTION STOP PUBLIC EATS THAT UP STOP END

  It lifted her spirits to be reminded of her success at home. At least she was getting something right. Perhaps this was a wake-up call to get her back to work and away from her personal fixation on Lilya, which was dangerous to them both.

  She phoned the Press Department. Could she get permission to return to the Southern Front? If not, could she photograph war production anywhere?