The Witch of Stalingrad

by Justine Saracen

  Lilya pulled off her coat and hat and dropped them on the floor. She looked utterly adorable in the dress tunic and breeches of an airman. Shiny blue shoulder bars showed she held a new rank.

  “You’ve been promoted!” Alex embraced her again and kissed her, holding her face in her hands. “How long can you stay?” That was the critical question.

  “Not long.” She sighed. “My leave is for only forty-eight hours, and I went to visit my mother first. While she made me eat borscht, I told her I wanted to see you and that I’d be away for the afternoon. She didn’t seem shocked. I think she understands how much you mean to me. But I have to go back to her in a couple of hours and be on the first train at dawn tomorrow.”

  “Two hours? Then we’ll spend them in bed.” Alex unbuckled Lilya’s belt and dropped it onto her coat.

  “I like that idea, but truthfully, I need a bath first. I didn’t want to lose time before coming here, and besides, you have a private bathroom, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do, and I develop my films there. But fortunately, that’s done. She grasped the khaki-colored tunic and tugged it upward. “I wanted to do this every time I saw you walk across the field,” Alex said, pulling it over the blond curls disheveled by the fur cap.

  “Even the first time?” Lilya laughed, sliding off her boots and unbuttoning her breeches. “What a predator.”

  “Predator? That from a woman who hunts down German aviators and kills them?”

  “All right. Now stop wisecracking and come kiss me.”

  “Not till you take that nasty underwear off. Come on, I’ll run your bath. Lucky you, the hotel still has warm water. But only until five o’clock.” She stepped into the bathroom and turned on the tub water. It flowed out in a slender, warm stream.

  Lilya followed her in. “Nasty? It’s not nasty. I washed it in snow just yesterday.” She slipped off the last layers and stood naked with her arms across her chest.

  Alex stood up from the gurgling tap and smiled. “How beautiful you are. Those sweet breasts you flashed to me once, you heartless jezebel. The memory stirred my lust for days.” She drew her close.

  “Mine, too.” Lilya pressed against her, kissed her quickly on the lips, and stepped into the tub. She settled in with a sigh and closed her eyes. “Will you bathe with me?”

  “There’s not enough hot water for two. But I’ll assist you.” She crouched on the tile floor and made little waves on Lilya’s legs.

  Lilya splashed water on her face and throat with the washcloth. “Yes, I’ll need assistance. I can never remember what to wash.”

  “Well, this part is important.” Alex lathered her hand with the tiny bar of hotel soap and rubbed it along the inside of her left thigh, then her right.

  Lilya leaned back. “Oh, yes. I always forget about my thighs. Good that you remembered.”

  Alex slid her soapy hand forward, and Lilya sat up, draping a wet arm over Alex’s shoulder and brushing slippery lips over her cheek and ear. Lilya murmured, “Yes, wash that place, too. Wash it a lot. Like you did in the glider.”

  She rubbed the soap across the crisp pubic hair, making it foam, then massaged it into the soft folds of Lilya’s flesh. Gently, she slid fingers along the groove and felt the slick of Lilya’s pleasure. Still massaging with her palm, she let two fingers encroach along the curve and slip into the hot interior.

  “Yes, just like that. I love that.” Lilya moaned into her ear, then covered Alex’s mouth, slipping in her tongue so they were both inside each other. Alex thrust, gently and persistently, until Lilya’s breath became a pant, and then she withdrew.

  “I have something much better in mind, my darling. Come, dry a little and get into the bed with me.” She stood up and pulled off her shirt and slacks and stood nude before the slightly bewildered Lilya.

  “No, forget about drying,” Alex said, and seized her by the hand, drawing her from the bathroom over to the bed. They kissed again, nude wet bodies pressed together, then fell across the bed. Alex took charge, and the pilot who’d hunted down Germans and killed them surrendered in her arms.

  Alex pressed hard kisses on her mouth and neck and breasts, grasping the firm young flesh along her sides, alive with desire. Lilya was offering her innocence, a rare and precious gift. Almost roughly, she spread Lilya’s legs, thrilled and honored to be the first to give her this pleasure.

  Lilya grasped her by the shoulders, trying to pull her back up into an embrace. But Alex was adamant and slid down the slippery damp body, leaving a row of little bites along the belly and pubis. She held Lilya fast around her hips and explored the recesses of her sex, learning it, teaching it, revealing the exquisite joy it could give. She made her tongue dance around the precious place for long torturous minutes until Lilya pleaded for release, and when she’d drawn out the golden thread as long as she dared, she gave the final stroke, bringing climax.

  She rested her head for a long while on Lilya’s belly, then rose again to lie in her embrace and feel the rising and falling of her chest.

  Lilya brushed her lips over Alex’s hair and exhaled. “I’m so glad we lived through Stalingrad, if only to experience this.”

  Alex rose on the elbow of her good arm. “I am too, darling. I just wish Katia could have made it out with us. She deserved to come home to someone’s love, too.”

  “Valeria and Raisa, too. And all of the others we left back there.”

  “They were cheated of more than love, but I know what you mean. I spent just a few hours on the ground there. It seemed like the end of the world.”

  “It looked like the end of the world, too, when I flew over the city after the surrender. I could make out the streets only by the jagged spikes that used to be walls. Even high in the air, it stank of ash and gunpowder.”

  Lilya stared at the ceiling, recalling. “I have to admit, I felt a certain bitter satisfaction when I looked down and saw the defeated Germans shuffling along in an endless stream, like insects creeping toward the east. I suppose just like our men did when the Germans captured them.”

  “It’s insane, isn’t it?” Alex caressed her cheek. “Captured armies driven in opposite directions, one eastward and one westward. The leaders like mad chess players with all of Europe as their chessboard.”

  They fell silent again, and Alex gathered Lilya into her arms again. “I don’t want you to leave. Do you even know where they’re sending you?”

  “They’ve assigned me to the 73rd Guards Regiment at Rostov. Couldn’t you apply to come and be our journalist?”

  “Impossible. I could follow the night bombers only because Major Bershanskaya invited me. Then Major Kazar had her own strange reasons for letting me join the fighter regiment, but obviously that privilege is withdrawn. And of course I can’t follow you personally, much as I’d like to.”

  Lilya chuckled softly. “It would be like being married, wouldn’t it?”

  Alex didn’t laugh. “I would marry you if I could.”

  Lilya laughed again. “Would you take my Russian name, or would I have to be Preston?”

  “I had a Russian name. When I was born, I was Aleksandra Vasil’evna Petrovna.”

  Lilya repeated it. “What a wonderful name. I’ll have to remember it.” But already her voice had grown melancholy. She glanced toward the window where the snow now fell against a backdrop of darkness. With an expression of anguish, she withdrew from Alex’s embrace and moved to the edge of the bed.

  “I’m sorry, my darling, but I promised to return to my mother and give her my last few hours.” She stood up and reached for her underclothes.

  Alex dressed alongside her, subdued. “I guess it would be ludicrous for me to tell you to be careful. But at least wear my scarf. Do you still have it?”

  “Of course I do.” Lilya tugged on her breeches and drew it from one of the pockets. “I wear it every time I fly.”

  “If only I had the power to make it a talisman, to protect you.” She knotted it loosely around Lilya’s neck, then helpe
d her draw on her tunic and watched gloomily as she became a soldier again. Finally she handed over the military sheepskin coat and fur cap and pulled on her own heavy parka. “I’ll walk with you to the street.”

  Lilya nodded, and they descended the stairs together without speaking until they stood outside on the Theatralny Proezd. The snow was still falling in thick, wet flakes, and several inches had accumulated on the street over the icy layer beneath. Alex was close to tears as she touched Lilya lightly on the face. “Good-bye, my witch of Stalingrad.”

  Lilya laid a mitten on top of the hand, holding it against her cheek. “Good night, Aleksandra Vasil’evna Petrovna,” she said, and disappeared through the curtain of snow.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  February–August 1943

  So this is what it’s like to be a war wife, Alex thought. In anguish constantly about someone and helpless to protect them. But the antidote to anguish was activity, so she applied again to the Press Department for permission to travel along the front with the other journalists. Within ten days it was granted, and she fell into a rhythm of one- and two-week postings to battle scenes, either during or just after, for the Red Army was growing in confidence and success.

  After each assignment, she returned to Moscow to develop her photos and submit them to the censors. She no longer cared if they confiscated two or three, or half her collection. As long as she had something to send George, she could justify remaining.

  Life in Moscow was somewhat improved. There were no more air raids, and though the lines were still long for the severely rationed food, the American Lend-Lease had helped, and no one appeared to be starving. Some of the factories had been shipped back from the Urals, and the streets had a bit more activity. Moscow felt like a city again.

  On a late winter day, when the snow had turned to slush, she returned from Central Telegraph. As she passed the main desk the clerk called to her. “Miss Preston. You have mail.” He held out a brown paper triangle.

  Alex’s heart quickened. Military post.

  She took a seat in the lobby and unfolded it. It was unsealed, of course, since the military censor had carefully scrutinized it, so she knew the message would hold nothing intimate.

  Hello, Miss Preston. Thank you for taking so many nice pictures when you were here. We are all proud to have served the Motherland and to present Stalin with the gift of our victories. The days are getting longer, though we still have a lot of snow and appreciate our sheepskin jackets and valenkis. Many greetings from the skies, which we are reclaiming with joy. Yours, Lilya Drachenko.

  Alex smiled at the utter blandness of the message. But it did what it was supposed to do, inform her that Lilya was alive. It was all she dared hope for and all, for that matter, that most wives and mothers got from the front.

  Emboldened by the field post, she went down the next Saturday morning to the hotel laundry and located Anna Drachenko on duty ironing the hotel’s linen. Seeing her, Lilya’s mother beamed, seeming indifferent to the stares of the other workers.

  “Hello, my dear,” she said, but kept on ironing.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt you at work, but I wanted to share this with you.” She brandished her little paper triangle and offered it.

  Anna set down her iron and opened the folded note, a soft smile warming her face. “I see she wrote much the same thing to both of us. The only difference is that she didn’t ask you to send mittens. Of course I bought the wool and knitted them in two days.”

  “That’s what mothers are for, aren’t they? Well, as long as she’s asking for things, then we know she’s well.” She thought alive, but it would have been unkind to say it.

  “Thank you for caring about her, dear.” Anna laid a callused hand on her forearm. “You’re a little like a daughter to me. She told me about your courage at Stalingrad, flying that plane while injured. Have you seen her since? Does she have a gentleman friend?”

  Alex took a breath. “No. I’ve been with the other journalists these last few weeks. As for the other, well, I don’t think she socializes with the men. They’re all too busy flying. Her best friend is her mechanic, Inna Portnikova, a good soul.”

  “That’s just as well. There’s no point in her falling for one of those swaggering heroes. You know what young men are like.” She folded the sheet in half and ironed a sharp edge on the fold.

  “Yes, I do.” Alex thought of Terry and realized she hadn’t seen him in a while. What would he think of her new “family”?

  “Well, I won’t stay longer. I just wanted to share the latest news from Lilya. I’ll be going back to the front myself in a while.”

  Anna set down her iron again. “You must be very careful then. And if you see my daughter, please tell her how much I miss her.”

  “I promise I will.” Alex embraced her quickly, surprised at how comforting it was. With a brief wave of the hand, she turned and ascended the stairs to the main floor.

  She was more annoyed than distressed when she entered the lobby and was confronted.

  “Ah, my personal NKVD man. I haven’t seen you around the hotel lately. Have you been promoted? Or demoted?”

  He didn’t smile. And she noted that he was looking haggard, no longer the sleek, self-confident government toady who’d warned her months before. She sensed a certain weakness in him and pressed her advantage.

  “You never told me your name, Mr…? I mean, you obviously know mine.”

  He blinked for a moment. “My name is of no importance. I am already taking a risk in talking directly to you.”

  “All the more reason to tell me your name. Or any name you like. I can’t keep referring to you as ‘my NKVD man,’ can I?”

  His mouth twitched and he glanced around as if to see if anyone was watching them. “Call me Victor, then. That’s as good a name as any.”

  “All right, Victor. What can I do for you?”

  “You must not be so flippant, Miss Preston. You can do yourself great harm.”

  “Victor. What do you want from me?”

  “I told you before, you should not interfere with the Drachenko family. Associating with foreigners taints them. Especially now.”

  “‘Especially now?’ What does that mean?”

  “This.” He unfolded the afternoon edition of Pravda and handed it to her. The front page held a photograph of Lilya and her commander posing in front of his Yak. The article was a paean to the young aviators, first to the commander and then to Lilya, who had been a member of the Komsomol and now had shown her genius as a fighter for the Motherland. Together and separately they’d downed a significant number of planes, fighters and bombers.

  “She’ll soon be awarded Hero of the Soviet Union, the highest honor the homeland can bestow,” Victor announced. “And there’s talk she will marry this young man. But reputation is a fragile thing, and you will ruin everything if you associate with her family.”

  “I think you have a soft spot for this woman, Victor. That must not stand very well with the NKVD.”

  “If you mock this advice, you will regret it. Not because I will report you. But others are watching you as well, and they will not give you warnings.” He folded the newspaper up again and slid it into the side pocket of his coat. It hung precariously from the pocket edge and added to his overall shabbiness. Nonetheless, she took him seriously.

  “I hate the hypocrisy of this government, which calls its people heroes and at the same time treats them like prisoners. But all right, I’ll stay away from the Drachenkos.”

  “Good. Just go and take your pictures and don’t cause trouble. Nobody wants trouble.” He seemed to sink into his overcoat and strode away, bearing no resemblance whatever to an NKVD agent.

  *

  Alex was as good as her word. She stayed in Moscow another few days, and then, as soon as permission came, she returned with the other journalists to the front. The next five months were a blur. She traveled sometimes with Eddy, from the Associated Press; sometimes with Ralph from The Lo
ndon Times; and again, near Voronezh, with her favorite, the cynical Henry Shapiro.

  She photographed tanks on the attack, then on the retreat, then on the attack again. And she watched the planes overhead—the agile fighters, the bombers, the reconnaissance planes—which she could identify now by name.

  Newspapers arrived at the front, and she glossed over them unless she found a reference to air battles. In late April, Lilya’s commander crashed and was killed. Well, Alex thought bitterly, at least they’ll stop talking about her marrying him.

  And all the while, Lilya’s kill count increased. On a trip back to Moscow Alex received a second field post from her, lamenting the loss of her commander, but all Alex cared about was that Lilya lived.

  More informative were the occasional articles in Pravda and Red Star, that told of the success of the aviators, with regular counts of the highest-scoring aviators. Lilya now had two more kills to her name. Alex shivered at every mention of a kill. It seemed a hairsbreadth away from an announcement of being killed.

  May came, with its rains and “General Mud” that slowed both the aggressor and the defender, but also the mails. She was with Parker and Shapiro somewhere between Karkov and Belgorod as the war dragged on in slow motion, and the censor refused all her photos of the mud-splattered jeeps, mud-caked boots, mud-encased motorcycles, mud-covered horses, and mud-paralyzed troops.

  At the beginning of June she returned to Moscow but found no field post from Lilya. What did that mean? She forced herself to wait until Saturday, when she would defy Victor’s order and search out Anna to find out what she knew.

  Every knock at her door gave her a thrill of hope, but when the Soviet Air Force uniform finally reappeared in her doorway, it held the cherubic form of Inna Portnikova.

  “Oh, come in! I’m so glad to see you.” Alex’s enthusiasm was genuine.

  “Nice to see you again, too. You’re looking good. But I’m on the way to catch my train and only have a few minutes. Lilya wanted me to deliver this.” She drew a letter from inside her gymnasterka and held it up. “Don’t worry, it’s sealed. No one has read it, and no one has seen it but me. And I was never here.”