In the second week something wonderful happened. Frau Krüger sprained her wrist and couldn’t lift a pot to cook for her husband. Lilya wasn’t a believer but uttered a few words of thanks to the sky for the miracle, since now she could prepare the meals. With a bandaged wrist, Frau Krüger led her to the kitchen and pointed to the pots and to the potatoes that needed to be cleaned and the dead chicken that needed to be cut into pieces and roasted.
At the same time, she shook her finger and scowled, and the message was clear. Lilya must not think of putting any of it into her mouth.
“Jawohl, Frau Krüger,” Lilya said, and the first day in the kitchen she was meticulous. Though enough food passed through her hands to feed all the women in her cowshed, she made sure every scrap of it was accounted for and that all the table scraps went to the commandant’s dog. But when she carried the food to the table and returned to clean the kitchen unsupervised, she ran her fingers along the insides of the cooking pots and sucked them clean before plunging the pots into water. The taste of fat was exquisite, though the tiny particles of it served only to increase her craving. If she hadn’t feared someone might see her, she would have licked the pots like a dog.
The next several days passed in much the same way. With rare exception, every morning after roll call she began by scrubbing one or another floor and tending to the linen, which seemed to constantly require washing. At noon she was allowed a slice of bread, of better quality than was distributed in the camp. In the afternoon, she peeled potatoes and cooked whatever meat and vegetables were available. Each time it was dizzying to be around so much food, and only terror kept her from shoving handfuls of it into her mouth.
Finally, in her third week, after an anxious look behind her, she slid some of the potato peels into her uniform pocket. Only a few, so they wouldn’t bulge. Plenty of peels remained to mix with the meat scraps for the dog, so no one would notice.
When she was dismissed, under guard as always, she hurried to the shed where the evening soup canister had just arrived. Olga lay on her straw and struggled to rise, but Lilya laid a hand on her shoulder.
“Stay there. I’ll bring it to you, with a little surprise.”
Lilya took Olga’s and her own tin bowl to the woman in charge of the soup. She received the two ladles of warm broth and returned to the shed. “Here’s the surprise,” she said, and dropped two long strips of potato peel into each tin.
“Oh, bless you, Comrade.” Olga took her bowl, and together they consumed the soup, slowly chewing the tough potato skin as if it were a sliver of the finest beef.
*
November arrived, and cold weather became a deadly threat. Lilya’s summer flight jacket was inadequate for winter, and unless she could find something to augment it, the coming months could be fatal. For some of the other women it was worse. On the first morning that Lilya awoke to heavy snowfall, she gathered the straw she’d slept on and woke Olga. “Here, pack some of this inside your uniform like I did. It’ll help keep you warm.”
Consenting, Olga slid handfuls of dirty hay under her tunic around her midsection and over her back. “It does help but it stinks.”
“We all stink anyhow. Stay close to the others and I’ll bring you back some potato peels,” Lila promised her and began the trek to the commandant’s house.
“How do you like your job?” someone asked behind her, and she turned around.
“Vovka. You’re looking healthy.” She kept on walking while she talked. “So you’re my guard today. Still serving your German masters.”
“Even as you are.” He fell into step beside her. “You know, as long as you’re cleaning their house, why don’t you offer to fight for them? You’d have regular German meals.”
“I’m a coward but not a traitor. There’s still a difference.” She quickened her pace.
They passed a corner of the men’s yard and she saw the other POWs, emaciated and forlorn. Some had shelters, as flimsy as her own, but the majority had none and at night slept huddled in little groups on the ground. The heavy snow was a death sentence for most of them.
“How long do you think you can hold out this way?” he asked, keeping step with her.
“I don’t know. If you care so much about me, why don’t you bring me some food next time instead of talk? Then, when our troops liberate the camp, I’ll tell them not to shoot you.” They were near the commandant’s house now, and she turned away.
He called after her. “My dear, they’re going to shoot us anyhow. All of us.”
In December, conditions worsened in the camp, but they improved in the house of the commandant. While Russian POWs died by tens and then by hundreds, Lilya found ever new ways of occupying herself in the kitchen, scrubbing the floor or stove, wiping out the cupboards, cleaning the windows. And she’d grown adept at purloining scraps of food.
The first scrap went into her mouth and down her throat in an instant. But when opportunity presented a second scrap, it went inside her tunic, where it stayed until she returned to the camp in the evening. Then she presented it to Olga along with her soup.
Then providence seemed to take mercy on them. Frau Krüger grew sick with fever and took to her bed. Lilya became responsible for the entire household and had ample opportunity to steal food, as long as the quantities were small. For four days she fed her shed-mates on the heels of loaves, sausage ends, and once, a handful of hazelnuts.
But without his watchful wife, the commandant began to hover around Lilya. He assigned her to clean and iron his uniform, but when she brought it to him in his office, he was waiting in his bathrobe. Before he could disrobe, she draped it over a chair and hurried back to the kitchen.
While she set the kettle on the stove, she glanced around for anything she could smuggle out that evening for the other women. A heel of bread, perhaps. But before she could reach for the loaf, she heard footfall in the corridor.
She turned to see Commandant Krüger, half dressed. His uniform pants were buttoned but his jacket hung open, and under his white undershirt the curvature of his chest muscles was visible, as well as the dark hairs that curled up toward his throat.
“Herr Kommandant.” That was all she could say.
He slipped closer and she knew he was going to take hold of her. Her face warmed with a mix of fear and loathing.
He was in front of her now, and she had no place to back away from him. With an expression that was both gentle and lewd, he caressed her face with the back of his fingers.
His hand wandered down her neck and over her breast. She cringed and was glad she hadn’t yet slipped any food into her pocket. He squeezed the swelling under his palm.
“Nein.” She whimpered, turning her head away from him and trying to make herself small.
He slid an arm behind her and pulled her to him, pressed his pelvis against hers. Timidly, she laid her hands on his chest to urge him away.
“Du Schwein!” The high-pitched accusation came from the doorway, and the commandant suddenly backed away from her.
Coughing and clutching her bathrobe across her, Frau Krüger stormed into the kitchen and slapped Lilya across the face. Lilya reeled, holding her cheek.
Muttering, the commandant marched from the kitchen, abandoning Lilya to his wife’s rage.
Frau Krüger seized Lilya by the arm and threw her against the wall, slapped her again, and dragged her into the corridor where he stood. Then, in front of him, she unleashed a tirade.
Cowed, or perhaps fed up with the whole scene, the commandant seized Lilya by the arm and dragged her along the corridor to the door. He put his coat on and, mercifully, allowed Lilya to put on her own jacket before pushing her in front of him out the door. Continuing to mutter, he prodded her back toward the camp until they met one of the guards, where he handed her over with an order she didn’t understand.
The guard saluted and marched her to a wooden post in front of the women’s shed, where he tied her with a cord. It was already evening and the sky was dark. The other women were ju
st coming in from their work details and stared at her, helpless. Immobile and outside the shelter of the cowshed, she began to shiver.
Half an hour passed, and she began to tremble uncontrollably. An hour after that, she could no longer feel her feet. This was the night she would die.
Two dark shapes approached her, and it was only when they were right in front of her that she could see their faces. Olga and another woman.
“We can’t untie you, but we can stand by you and keep you warm,” Olga said. With a single thin blanket pulled over both their shoulders, they embraced her on two sides. The skin on their faces was cold at first, but slowly the warmth of their bodies radiated into her. They all still shivered, but the trembling of muscles created a little heat, enough heat for them not to die. A guard pacing outside the barbed wire saw them and could have shot them, but a grain of mercy must have niggled his conscience, for he only laughed.
After an hour, two other women came and replaced the first two. Lilya wasn’t even sure of all their names, but at that moment, she loved them deeply.
At the third shift, she heard gunfire, and the two women pulled away, exposing her to the icy air. “Someone’s attacking,” one of them said. The two women fled, and she despaired, but a moment later she saw where they ran.
Toward a cluster of men in Red Army uniforms.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
January 1944
Alex landed at Heathrow Airport and checked into the hotel George Mankowitz had booked for her. She’d hoped to enjoy some of the food she’d been craving for two years—sirloin, real coffee, ice cream—but found that Britain, too, was rationing food, and she could have them only rarely in tiny amounts, and at a high price.
George left her in peace for two days, during which she slept a lot, acclimating to the new time zone, and spent one afternoon shopping for new clothes, though the available goods were sparse.
Finally slept out, bathed, shampooed, and wearing new clothes, she met with her boss in the hotel lobby. He looked more British than American in his green tweed and greeted her warmly, shaking her hand with more vigor than she ever recalled.
“It’s so good to see you again, Alex. Though you’re looking a bit thin.” He took her arm and led her into the grand dining room.
“This is the way you look after you’ve lived in privation for two years, slogged through the mud all over the Eastern Front, been beaten up by the NKVD, and spent ten days in a Soviet prison.”
“Yes, Terry told me. What the hell happened?” He pulled out a chair for her and sat down across the table.
“Just a little misunderstanding. I asked someone to find out how I could learn to fly a Yak, and when she wrote me a note saying “I’ll get the information for you,” the Russians decided that had to be espionage. Fortunately, it all went away when Harry Hopkins intervened.”
“Yes, Harry’s a good man. Sure glad he was in Moscow at the time.”
She didn’t want to think about how close she’d come to spending weeks or months in Lubyanka and changed the subject. “Look, George, I’m keen to get started again. What have you got for me?”
“Are you sure you don’t want to rest up for a few weeks?” He signaled a waiter for two cups of coffee.
“I don’t want any more rest anywhere. I want work.”
“Well, if that’s the case, I’ve got some, and it’s right up your alley. I’m sure you’re as aware as anyone that the Allies are planning an invasion soon, and of course, it’s going to come from Britain.”
“Well, Stalin has been clamoring for a second front for a year now, but just how far along is it?”
“No one knows the exact date, of course. And if anyone does, they’re not talking. But it’s imminent, and I’ve arranged for you to meet the planners this morning. They’ll tell us what they want us to know, and then we’ll talk about what you can do as a photographer.”
“You really think they’ll want me involved? I mean, they must have their own photographers.”
“They do, but they need more. For reconnaissance, for record-keeping, for propaganda. And your credentials are superb. Besides, some big names will be in the press corps for this: Capa, Cronkite, Rooney, Sevareid. You’ll be with the best.” He looked at his watch. “Come on. I’ve got a car waiting outside. The meeting starts in twenty minutes.”
He left the appropriate change on the table and slid her chair out from behind her as she stood up. The chivalrous gesture was strange to her after life in a war zone where women pulled out their own chairs.
He opened an enormous black umbrella over them both as they hurried through the rain to the waiting car. “Norfolk House, please, driver,” he said, and they fell silent for the duration of the drive.
Stepping back out onto the sidewalk with his umbrella again over them, he explained. “The building we’re about to enter is the Supreme Headquarters of the Allied Expeditionary Force. SHAEF, for short. This is where all the big planning has been going on since 1942.”
At the door of the stately red-brick building, she handed her raincoat to an MP and stepped into the entrance hall. Amid the elegant furnishings of an eighteenth-century mansion, some half dozen military officers were gathered. One of them, a tall, pleasant-looking man with a narrow gray mustache, glanced over as they came in.
“George Mankowitz. How are you, old chap?” He approached them and held out his hand. Haven’t seen you for donkey’s years.”
“Well, you should stop over in New York more often, then, General Morgan. May I present Alex Preston, the photographer I told you about? She’s just come back after two years in Russia and is eager to work with you.” To Alex he said, “Alex, this is Frederick Morgan, one of the men in charge of Operation Overlord.”
He took her hand and shook it with moderate vigor. “Two years. My, my. You must have stories to tell.”
“More pictures than stories, General, but yes, I do.” She searched for something to say. “Operation Overlord, that does sound menacing.”
“We’re hoping it will be.” He smiled, about to add something, but the opening door drew their attention. A portly man had just stepped inside and was handing over a black overcoat and bowler hat. His three-piece pinstriped suit looked slightly rumpled, and his vest was missing a button.
“Ah, Prime Minister. So glad you could come,” Morgan said. Winston Churchill slapped him on the shoulder as he passed. “Can I speak to you privately, General?” he asked, drawing him aside.
At the same moment, George touched her lightly on the arm. “Wait here just a moment. I need to fetch our security-clearance badges so we can get inside the conference,” he said, also stepping away.
She stood for a moment, nonplussed, studying the elaborate molding around the ceiling. She tried to remember the history of the building but recalled only that it had something to do with a duke.
“Excuse me, but are you the photographer?” a man asked behind her. She turned, about to wisecrack, “Yeah, who’s asking?” But the wide Midwestern face and sparse blond hair took her off guard, and instead she stammered. “General Eisenhower. Yes, I am. I…I’m here with George Mankowitz, but he’s just stepped away to get our badges.” She offered her hand again and received the same sort of soft but firm handshake as General Morgan had given her. Did all generals learn to shake hands that way?
“I understand you took all those wonderful pictures from Russia and the Eastern Front. Congratulations. Century magazine is lucky to have you.”
“Thank you, General. And those are only the ones that got past the censor. They confiscated the ones that might give a bad impression.”
“I’m afraid all militaries do that, for security or for propaganda. Or both. But I saw some awfully good ones of Stalingrad. Did you take those?”
“If they were in Century magazine, yes. I was their only Moscow correspondent.”
“As I recall, some were aerial photos. Did you get a reconnaissance plane to make a flyover with you?”
“It wa
s a personal favor from Soviet pilot. In an old U-2 biplane, as a matter of fact.”
“Brave man. That was taking a risk.”
“It was a woman. An ace, in fact, a hero of the Soviet Union. Unfortunately, she was killed while flying me out. Her name was Katia Budanova.” Saying the name gave her a pang of guilt.
“I’m sorry to hear it.” A bell sounded and the general looked over his shoulder. “Hmm, it looks like the meeting’s about to start.”
“Oh, dear. I don’t have my security badge yet.”
He touched her shoulder lightly. “Come on, I’ll vouch for you. I’m the supreme commander. I can do that.”
*
“So you can see,” Frederick Morgan was concluding his talk, “we need to have a much better understanding of the beaches in question, the obstacles, the gun emplacements, topography, angle of incline, even the quality of the sand to be sure it will support our tanks.”
Churchill tapped the ash off his cigar. “Can you give us an anticipated timeline, General? Stalin’s breathing down my neck about that.”
“I’m afraid I can’t, Prime Minister. So much depends on how quickly we can gather the information we need about the landing sites and weather pattern. We’ll be using frogmen, night commandos, planes flying at nearly sea level. Our naval photographers will do most of the work, but we’ll employ some qualified civilians, including a journalist or two.” He nodded toward George Mankowitz.
The discussion continued, but much of the talk was in military language and of little interest to Alex. Most of the time she tried to imagine what kind of plane they would put her in. When it was over, she collected her coat and found herself in another taxi with George.
“You see, Alex? That’s how you get the serious jobs. By being at the big meetings and talking to the big men.”
“I’ll give you that, George. I thought I was coming back to take photos of the buildup, the Yanks invading England, that sort of thing.”
“You’ll be doing both. While you’re out over the channel getting them their shore images, I’ll arrange with Morgan for you to snap the bivouacs and the supply depots in ways that will pass the censors. Plenty of GIs drinking tea, too. The readers love that.”
The Witch of Stalingrad Page 24
