The Witch of Stalingrad

by Justine Saracen

  “Watch out. The fighting starts as soon as it’s light enough.” They scrambled toward the wall of the embankment.

  The soldier shouted over the noise of the explosions that followed. “Looks like there’s been a mix-up. General Chuikov is not even here and certainly won’t have time for journalists. We use the cave now as the medics’ bunker. I can still take you there if you like.”

  Alex frowned, then decided medics made better photos than generals anyhow. “That’s fine. Lead the way.”

  “It’s right over there.” She pointed toward the embankment just ahead of them.

  “How’s the battle going? Is it safe to cross the Volga in the day?” She stepped over rubble and shell holes and other debris.

  “No, not yet. The artillery has tapered off and we think they’re short of ammunition. They’ve got plenty of infantry, and we’re still fighting everywhere in the city but gaining ground. I think the Fritzes are finished. It’s only a matter of time.”

  She patted her well-padded chest. “We got a new issue of winter uniforms and valenki, and the Fritzes are still running around in rags. For every one of them we knock off, the cold knocks off two. So, here we are, the medics’ quarters. We’re heading out into the city soon, but we’ll get you settled.”

  She hurried up the hillside toward a cave fronted by a wall of oil drums. A single plank on one side functioned as a door. She slid the board to one side and led Alex inside.

  The cave wasn’t unlike the dugouts she’d already slept in at Akhtuba. Here, too, planking appeared to serve as a sleeping space. Some five or six women were just preparing to go on duty. The brown and red stains on their padded jackets revealed the hardship, if not the horror, of their job, and their gaunt young faces attested to overwork and hunger.

  “Please, sit down. You’re going to take our pictures?”

  “I sure am. The Kremlin thinks it’s good propaganda to show how brave their women are, but bad propaganda to show the wounded. I’m not sure how to get around that.”

  “Hmm. Difficult. That’s sort of what we do,” Zoia said. “Well, maybe you can just photograph us with our first-aid packs and our guns in hand. Brave but without the gore.”

  “What else have you photographed?” one of the other women asked, buckling a belt over a padded jacket.

  “Oh, factories, soldiers boarding trains, and a lot of pictures of the women’s regiments. The night bombers and the fighter pilots.”

  “Major Raskova’s regiments! How lucky you were to meet her. Did you get photos of the famous pilots—Budanova, Beliaeva, Drachenko?”

  “Yes, I did, in fact. I didn’t realize their fame had spread so far.”

  “Of course it has. We get Red Star every week with our mail, and we read about the heroes.”

  “Well, I think you’re heroes, too. Tell me what you do.” She asked the group in general, but again it was Zoia who replied.

  “We run over to the west bank of the Volga in the morning and look for wounded. If they have a chance, we drag them back to the Volga bank. They stay there under blankets until a sled arrives to bring them across to the ambulances.”

  Another woman spoke up. “Before, so many wounded were on the bank they couldn’t evacuate them fast enough, so they died just waiting. Now that the river’s frozen, the sleds can bring them across pretty fast. But it’s also winter, and if they lie there more than a few minutes, they die from the cold.”

  Zoia’s wince showed she agreed. “But if they make it across the Volga, the ambulances take them to the field hospitals.”

  “How do you carry them?” Alex glanced around at the women who were no larger than she was.

  “On our backs, usually. It’s slow, and we make a big target. Sometimes the snipers shoot both the wounded man and the medic. But we also shoot back.” She patted the pistol at her side. “Anyhow, we have to report now. Are you coming with us?”

  Alex considered the dangers and cringed inwardly. But to refuse would be a grave insult to the young medics. “Yes, of course I am.”

  *

  “You stay here,” Zoia ordered her, pointing to a corner protected on three sides by broken concrete. “Don’t move until I come to get you.” The constant rattle of machine-gun fire all around them and the intermittent blast of a grenade ensured that Alex would obey.

  The smell of smoke and brick powder from the blasted walls of the factory was overpowering, but Alex tried to ignore it. She drew out her camera and photographed the medic overseeing the carnage, like some Valkyrie about to descend to earth to lift up broken warriors.

  Within minutes, someone cried out, “Medic! Help me! Medic!” Crouching low, Zoia clambered down to where a man lay writhing. She knelt over him and unbuttoned his field coat, shoving a wad of bandage inside. She whispered something to him, then stood up and ran back to cover next to Alex.

  “Aren’t you going to carry him out?”

  “No. He has a big hole where his stomach used to be, and he won’t last. I told him I’m sending some men to bring him out, but he’ll die before he knows I was lying.”

  Alex scarcely had time to react to the remark when the call came again. “Medic! Medic here!” and Zoia scuttled away again in another direction. A moment later, she appeared again, dragging a man by his coat into some cover. He was obviously heavy, and Alex got to her feet, to run to her aid.

  At that moment, she heard a crack, and a chip of concrete flew off the wall next to her head. Another crack, then another, each time dislodging concrete but missing her head by inches. Loose powder blew into her face. Sobbing with fear, she dropped down and made herself as small a target as possible, waiting for the barrage to stop. She dared not even raise her head to see if Zoia was still alive.

  So this is what cowardice is, she thought, her heartbeat pounding in her ears. The assault continued, the cacophony of small-arms fire punctuated by grenades and the whoosh of the Soviet flame-throwers. Occasionally a portion of wall fell, adding to the dust in the air.

  She couldn’t tell how much time had passed as she crouched, trembling, in her corner, waiting for rescue. It came, finally, in the form of Zoia, breathless and sooty.

  “Are you all right?” Zoia asked.

  “Yes,” she said, her voice tight and tremulous. “What happened to the man?”

  “Another medic came and we carried him to the shore.”

  “I wanted to help you, but…I’m sorry. The gunfire was too heavy. How do you stand it, day after day?”

  Zoia shrugged. “I ask myself the same thing. But you’re still shaking. It looks like you’re ready to get out of here.”

  “Yes, I think I am.” She heard the tremor in her voice and was ashamed.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll guide you down to the riverbank and you can go back with the sleds.”

  Alex followed dutifully, like a child, as Zoia led the way through the labyrinthine ruins to the river.

  She was right. Horses were arriving, harnessed to sleds and protected by riflemen. She assuaged her guilt a little by assisting the medics to lift the wounded onto them. Hating herself for her timidity, she ran alongside the horses as they trotted across the ice. On the east bank, she helped lift the wounded onto the ambulances before returning, deeply chagrinned, to the cave shelter of the medics.

  It was late afternoon now, nearly sunset, and she stood at the entrance of the empty shelter, watching the skies over Stalingrad. Messerschmitts appeared, but two Soviet fighters quickly engaged them. The four aircraft carried out their murderous ballet for some fifteen minutes before one of the German fighters was hit and went down. The other one disappeared into the distance.

  Alex wondered who the fighter pilots were. Women from the 586th? Could one of them even have been Lilya? What would she think of her cringing journalist? Alex turned and retreated to the interior of the cave.

  *

  When the exhausted medics returned from duty, no one reproached her. They simply shared their meager fare and repacked their first-ai
d bags, talking in low voices about everything but what they’d done all day while Alex photographed them, using her last flashbulbs.

  Zoia threaded a needle and, leaning close to the lamp flame, began to mend a rip in the elbow of her jacket. “You know, just before I left, when it was dark and the shooting had stopped, I could hear the Germans singing. It was the strangest thing.”

  “Singing? Whatever for?” one of the others asked. “Are they demented?”

  A light went on in Alex’s memory. “What’s the date today?”

  “Um, let me think. The 24th, I believe,” Zoia said.

  Alex smiled, strangely touched. “It’s Christmas Eve for them. In Germany, it’s a big deal, you know.”

  “Really? How sad.” Zoia went on sewing. “They must know by now they’ve lost. What a Christmas gift.”

  “They should have stayed home and celebrated it there,” one of the others said, pitiless. “A million Russians are crying tonight for their destroyed homes and dead children, not for missing Christmas.”

  Alex nodded softly. She was right. So many dead, so many mourning, on the night that, more than any other, was supposed to celebrate peace. A pox on their piety, Alex thought, sullen, and wrapped herself in her blanket.

  *

  The next morning, Alex and Zoia stood together in the dull predawn light, watching for the aircraft that would rescue Alex from the purgatory of Stalingrad. “There she is,” Zoia said, pointing toward the U-2 that swung down onto the frozen river and bumped toward them. The medic hugged her in farewell. “I’m sorry you can’t stay another day.”

  “Thank you for sharing your company,” Alex said, and forced a bit of cheer. “Perhaps we’ll meet one day in peacetime.”

  She scurried across the river and leapt onto the airplane wing, swung her leg over into the rear cockpit, and settled in, relieved.

  “So, how was it?” Katia asked.

  “Awful. Chuikov wasn’t there. His headquarters had been taken over by medics so I photographed them instead. They were incredibly brave, and when we went to the west bank and came under attack, they just kept working. I’m afraid I did nothing but cower in fear.”

  “Don’t worry about that. You’re a journalist, not a soldier. You can’t expect to be a hero.”

  “I know, but I didn’t expect to be a coward either. I simply fell apart.”

  “Bravery’s a funny thing. It doesn’t have much to do with character.”

  They were high over the Volga now, and in the few moments between landing and takeoff, the sky had brightened. Below, she could already hear the sound of artillery. “Uh-oh,” Katia said. “The fighting’s starting up again. I should have come sooner.”

  As if to confirm her remark, tracer bullets zipped past them suddenly, like a line of Morse code. “Messerschmitt, at two o’clock,” Katia said, and pulled up to gain altitude.

  More bullets zipped past her head. The Messerschmitt was now pursuing them and hammering them with machine-gun fire. Alex gripped the sides of the cockpit, praying Katia could somehow miraculously get them away from it.

  But no miracle occurred. Instead, Katia grunted suddenly and fell forward onto the control stick. The aircraft dove precipitously.

  White terror blanked out Alex’s mind. Then some survival instinct emerged, and she tried to pull back the navigator’s control stick.

  Nothing happened.

  Christ! Alex cursed. Katia was lying over her control column, holding it down.

  She snarled, then leaned forward in the cockpit and took hold of Katia’s collar. Yanking the limp form upright with all her strength, she pulled back on the stick. The plane leveled out and began to curve upward again.

  Something exploded in her right shoulder. She was hit. She cursed again, but while white-hot pain flashed down her arm and across her back, she managed to not pass out. Fighting to stay focused, she held the stick firmly, feeling the plane rise. She surveyed the dials. Which one displayed altitude? Oh, that one. She was at 500 meters, exposed to ground fire, but she was over the Volga now. Damn, the Messerschmitt was directly above her, and in a moment, he’d blast her out of the sky.

  Miraculously, and at that moment she would have thanked any saint for it, a Yak came into sight. By diving-bombing, he managed to draw the German plane away from her and harassed it in a series of interlocking curves and swoops before finally shooting it down.

  Okay. She exhaled through clenched teeth. They weren’t dead yet, but now she had to fly the plane nearly blind. Katia’s lolling head blocked her view of the airspace in front of them.

  Panting heavily, the icy air freezing the inside of her mouth, she unsnapped her safety belt and stood up, still holding the stick against her belly. In such an awkward position, she overdid every adjustment, causing the plane to pitch and yaw.

  She was on the opposite side of the Volga now and bent down to see her heading on the dial. South by southeast. That seemed right. They’d flown north by northwest on the way out. Would she recognize Akhtuba in the snow? And even if she did, could she land?

  A small part of her agonized at the thought that Katia might be dead in her hands, but with the rest of her consciousness she focused on the instruments. She had to master them. Fast.

  She tried to remember landing the Grumman, nearly ten years before. What was her glide speed? She checked the dial. Her speed seemed high, but she dared slow only a little, afraid to stall. She sat down to steady the plane and reduce her vertical speed, then, still gripping Katia by the collar, stood up again to look for the airfield. She saw nothing but white.

  Her back was cramping from the awkward positions, the shoulder wound hurt like the bottom of hell, and warm blood was soaking the inside of her sleeve. How long before her arm would go numb or she’d lose consciousness? She let the plane drop another fifty meters and scanned the landscape. Now she was afraid she was lost and would run out of fuel and crash. She cursed the fact that the U-2 had no radio to ask for help.

  Something off to the side caught her attention. Dear God. Another Messerschmitt. She sobbed out loud.

  No, as it approached, she saw the red star, probably on the Yak that had shot down the German. He must have seen how badly she was handling the U-2 and come back to guide her in. Traveling at a much greater speed, he shot past her, but he raised his hand to signal that he’d seen her standing in the open cockpit. He knew now that she was flying the plane from the rear.

  He flew ahead, then circled back, guiding her again, bringing her ever closer to the airfield. The circles grew smaller until she was right over it, and then she focused completely on manipulating the plane with one hand, peering over Katia’s head to watch the ground rise toward her.

  It was a bad landing, a terrible landing, and she careened and slid sideways for long minutes before she crashed into a snowbank. Women ran out onto the field and climbed onto the broken wing.

  She was still sitting, one cramped hand clutching Katia’s collar. Prying her clenched hand open, two of them lifted Katia out of the front cockpit. They laid her on a litter, draped a blanket over her, and carried her across the rough field to the commander’s hut.

  Two others remained and Alex tried to focus on them, but a ring of darkness was closing in. Someone lifted her under her armpits, and she groaned. “Sorry about the plane,” she said and passed out.

  She lingered in semi-consciousness for a few hours and felt herself lifted into an ambulance. The only thing she understood was a voice saying “Evacuation to 833” and the name Budanova.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Alex woke up to the touch of someone taking her hand, then recognized Lilya sitting on an ammunition crate at her bedside. She managed a weak smile. “I wondered where you were.”

  “I was on duty when you arrived. After I landed, they told me you were with the medics on the west bank, and I worried about you all night long. Then today, they brought you in unconscious and I was terrified of losing you. The doctors said it was loss of blood and they gave you
a transfusion, so it looks like you’re going to be all right.” Her voice was strangely raw, her eyes swollen and red.

  Alex glanced around. “I’m in a hospital?”

  “Soviet military field hospital number 833. Do you remember what happened?”

  “I was flying back with Katia when a Me-109 got us. Katia! Is she all right?”

  Lilya pressed her lips together to stop their trembling. “She came to, in the hospital. This hospital. And we told her you’d flown the plane in. She said to thank you for bringing her home.”

  “Then she’s all right?”

  “No. She died right after that.” Alex understood the swollen eyes now. “But she knew she was home, with us,” Lilya added, and wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. “We buried her next to the airfield.”

  “Dear God,” Alex whispered, choking up. “Katia gone. And it’s my fault. She flew in to take me out of Stalingrad.”

  “Don’t say that. She flew into the cauldron every day. We all did. That was just the day they finally got her. It has nothing to do with you.”

  “Yes, but—”

  The voice of a doctor, a harried-looking gray-haired woman, interrupted her. The filthy smock she wore fit her badly, like the white camouflage the ground troops wore. Her red, half-closed eyes suggested she hadn’t slept for a long time. Alex looked up quizzically.

  “I asked how you felt,” the doctor repeated.

  “I’ll live,” Alex said.

  “Good, because you have to leave. We need your bed for worse cases. Lucky for you, a GAZ-55 bus is outside the hospital about to return to Akhtuba. And since we have men here dying of typhoid, you’ll be better off at your base.”

  “Typhoid.” Lilya echoed the terrifying word. “Thank you for telling us, Doctor. Would you call someone to help me carry the litter?” She reached for Alex’s parka at the foot of her bed.

  She turned to Alex. “Can you sit up?”

  “Umm, yes, I think so.” She lifted her head while Lilya pulled her up. “Oh, dizzy, but give me a minute.” She sat swaying for a moment, then, with difficulty and a groan of pain, she slid her injured arm into the sleeve of the parka. Her hand brushed the dried blood inside.