The Witch of Stalingrad

by Justine Saracen

  Patton had his back turned and was just telling some sort of anecdote to a circle of listeners when Alex stepped in. He ended it with “Like I always say, all a girl needs is a good fuck; it shuts them right up,” to general male guffaws.

  The laughter died back quickly as she came into Patton’s sight. He scratched his jaw. “No offense, there. You know how men are.”

  After weeks of traveling with the blowhard general, she’d had enough. “Yes, I do. They like to talk about fucking, but only around other men. I’ve always wondered why that is.”

  The general squinted, as if trying to decide if he’d been insulted, and apparently concluded that he had. “If you’re one of those sensitive girls who doesn’t like rough talk, you might remember we’re on a battlefield.”

  Somewhere inside her brain, a small voice told her to shut the hell up, but she ignored it. “Oh, I’m quite used to roughness, General. But I’m not ‘one of those girls.’ I’ve spent three years on the Eastern Front, have flown a plane under enemy fire at Stalingrad, and was wounded in action. I think I’m a bit beyond the ‘sensitive girl’ stage.”

  “Well, aren’t you the ballbreaker.” He snorted. “I don’t give a fuck where you flew. You’re in my camp now, so have some respect. Just who do you think is protecting your ass from the Jerries?”

  “Thank you for your service, General, but I’ve just told you that I’ve been serving too, and with valor. If I were one of your soldiers, I’d have a Purple Heart.” The warning voice in her brain was shocked into silence.

  “If you were one of my soldiers, I’d slap you in irons for insubordination,” he said.

  She was on automatic pilot now. Not a good thing. “Slap in irons? Or just slap me?”

  Patton’s expression grew hard and he turned to a subordinate. “Sergeant, please escort Miss Preston to her tent. And tomorrow, see to it that she has a ride back to General Bradley’s headquarters. I don’t need this kind of crap.”

  He turned back to Alex. “Miss Preston, you are dismissed.”

  Her face warm with rage and humiliation, she exited the tent but hadn’t taken ten steps when she heard, “Miss Preston, wait.”

  She glanced back over her shoulder. “Do you want to insult me, too?”

  The man took a pipe out from between his teeth. “No, not at all. I like seeing people stand up to that old windbag. If he weren’t such a damned good soldier, I’d hate him, too.”

  “And you are…?”

  “Lieutenant Colonel John Lynch, Commander of the 3rd Battalion, 69th Infantry.” He held out his hand.

  She accepted it and liked his handshake. “Alex Preston. Photojournalist and, apparently, ballbreaker. Nice to meet a man who’s not afraid of us.”

  “Quite the opposite. In any case, I was here to plan strategy, and I’m rejoining my battalion in the morning. We’re headed toward Leibzig and Mockrehna and, with a little luck, the Elbe River. Care to join us?”

  She liked this tall, lanky man who smelled of sweet tobacco. “I believe I would. Can I invite another journalist to come along?”

  “Sure, the more the merrier.”

  *

  The tenacity of the 69th Infantry, together with the little luck they were hoping for, in fact brought the 3rd Battalion to the Elbe River on April 25.

  “I gotta hand it to you,” Robert Capa said as they stood together on the west bank. “Your instinct about this was good. Here we are at the Elbe for the meeting of two armies who otherwise can’t even talk to each other. A photojournalist’s dream.”

  “I can talk to them. And come to think of it, I have a few things I want to ask them, too.”

  They watched as the forward reconnaissance platoon returned in their inflatable boat. The platoon sergeant climbed up the bank and saluted the colonel. “Everything’s in order, sir. The Russian commander suggested that the chosen parties meet officially tomorrow morning on our side of the shore closer to Torgau, in the presence of the press.”

  Colonel Lynch laughed. “Whaddya know. The Russians like publicity just as much as we do. Well, go back and tell him we’ll have our journalists and our best-looking soldiers ready by ten o’clock.”

  The next day, when the national flags, various IP film cameras, and Alex and Capa were in place, several boatloads of Soviet fighters came across the river. Waving to their hosts, some hundred of them stepped onto the shore along a five-hundred-yard stretch of riverbank.

  In spite of the planning, the meetings were rather haphazard. The officers of both sides shook hands, and various soldiers embraced, while at other spots along the bank, men gathered in clusters and exchanged cigarettes and souvenirs. A second lieutenant, who looked like an all-American guy, was chosen to pose next to a sturdy young Slav in front of both national flags. Between them, Alex and Capa snapped several dozen good shots of the event.

  Alex acted intermittently as translator, though the banter between soldiers was mostly limited to remarks about each other’s boots, weapons, and cigarettes.

  It struck her like a slap to the head that the Red troops had just come from the territories she most needed to know about. She chose one of the sergeants and drew him to the side.

  “Did you fight in the Ukraine?”

  “Of course. I fought everywhere. Why?”

  “I need to know. Did you pass through any POW camps? German camps? In Vinnytsia, for example. What happened to them?”

  “We liberated a lot of them. Little ones and big ones. In Vinnytsia, too.”

  “Did you find women?”

  “Yes, some. In very poor condition. All our people were, the ones who hadn’t starved to death. The ones that were still alive, we sent back home for interrogation.”

  “Did anyone make a list of the names? I’m looking for someone.”

  “Everybody’s looking for someone. We sent back the tags of the dead ones, the ones we found. Some were buried. The survivors? I don’t know. You could contact the Ukrainian Red Cross. Or the NKVD, but I don’t think they’ll share that information.”

  “The women. Do you remember any of the women?” She was grasping at straws.

  “No. They were skeletons. Nothing you’d want to remember.” He took a step back. “Look, I’ve got to stay with my unit or I’ll get in trouble.”

  “Yes, I understand. Thanks for your time.” Beaten, she turned and climbed back up the embankment to where Capa stood.

  Colonel Lynch joined them, lighting his newly filled pipe. He sucked in air, and the plug of tobacco glowed briefly. “Interesting to finally see the Russians up close, after all we’ve heard about them. Look like ordinary soldiers, though their uniforms are pretty ragged.” He puffed again and exhaled, spreading the aroma of apple and tobacco. It was the odor of contentment.

  “By the way, I got off the field phone with headquarters a little while ago, and this might interest you. Chuikov’s army has taken Tempelhof Airport and is already in the southern suburbs of Berlin. Everyone seems convinced Hitler’s in the city, in a bunker.”

  “Really?” Capa had the tilt to his head that she knew signaled intense interest. “What do you think, Alex? Shall we do Berlin?”

  She stared across the river, weighing the pros and cons. “Let me chew on it for a while. In the meantime, I need to contact my editor. Colonel, where’s the nearest place I can send a telegraph? Have you blown up all the telegraph lines around here so I have to go all the way back to Leipzig?”

  Lynch glanced toward the outline of buildings of Torgau, half a mile away. “As you know, we haven’t blown up anything here. I’d say you had about as good a chance at Torgau as in Leipzig. If you’d like, I’ll send a man to take you both into the center of town.”

  “Thank you, Colonel. I accept your offer.” Alex and Capa packed up their cameras and followed the colonel to a jeep.

  “Private, please take our two journalists into town and try to locate the telegraph office. Then bring them back again. We’ll be bivouacked just over there near the woods.”


  Alex and Capa climbed into the jeep, and as the driver pulled away from the bank, Alex heard the crackling of guns in celebration and, faintly, a woman’s voice. She glanced back to see one of the female soldiers running after them, waving.

  Touched by the gesture, she waved back, took a quick snapshot, and called out in Russian, “Good-bye, my friends,” and the jeep drew away from the river.

  *

  The telegraph office, when they found it, was closed, but the man guarding it from inside leapt to admit them. Hand gestures and the convenient German word telegraf conveyed the idea of what they needed. Obsequious, if not terrified, the young man unlocked the cubicle containing the handset and donned the headphones.

  Alex printed out a New York telegraph address and wrote out a brief message, which she knew he could transmit in Morse without understanding.

  REPORTING FR TORGAU WHERE US AND SOVIET FORCES JUST MET STOP HAVE PHOTOS STOP WORD IS HITLER IS IN BERLIN STOP WILL GO WHEN FIGHTING DIES DOWN STOP TROOPS HERE REPORT ALL UKRAINE CAMPS LIBERATED STOP CAN YOU CONTACT UKRAINE RED CROSS RE POW NAME DRACHENKO STOP END

  She handed the note back to the clerk along with a handful of Reichsmarks, but he brushed the money aside. She didn’t blame him. They were all but worthless. Capa was more resourceful and shook several cigarettes from his pack of Lucky Strikes, which he handed over with his own message to transmit. Obviously relieved to have actually gained something instead of being brutalized by either of the conquering armies, the telegrapher was all smiles when he led them to the door.

  “Thanks also for paying for my telegram,” she said once they were back in the jeep.

  Capa lit his own cigarette with a Zippo lighter and blew out a long stream of smoke. “So, what about it?” he asked. “You up for Berlin?”

  “You’re more into high-risk reporting than I am these days,” she answered. “Why don’t you go on ahead. I want to wait for an answer from my boss.”

  “Suit yourself, old girl. Me, I’m tired of photographing handshakes, so I’ll be off this afternoon. Maybe I’ll see you there.” He gave her a hug and a noisy kiss on her ear.

  But the next afternoon, when she returned with the same jeep to the same telegraph office, a message awaited her that made her wish he’d waited a day.

  George Mankowitz had replied immediately.

  GOOD YOURE ALIVE STOP LOOK FORWARD TO PICS STOP OUR MUTUAL FRIEND SENDS URGENT MESSAGE FOR YOU TO GO TO BERLIN DAHLEM FOEHRENWEG EX KEITEL HQ STOP MAJOR JOB FOR YOU STOP END

  She stood for a long moment, bewildered. Somebody was offering her a job. But who did George know who might be in Berlin? General Morgan? Eisenhower? Did the Allies still need photographers? Nothing she could think of seemed likely.

  Well, it hardly made any difference. She no longer had a war to photograph, so if someone wanted her in Berlin, she was going.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  April 1945

  Sprawled on the grassy ground near the river, Lilya chewed what was left of her breakfast. The air was unnervingly still, no sound of bombardment or cannon fire anywhere, and in about an hour, they would be ferried over the Elbe to meet the Americans. Would they be like Alex?

  Stretched out near her, Olga wiped out her mess kit “What are you going to do when it’s over? Will you go back and be rehabilitated? I’m sure we have a good service record now.”

  Lilya stared into the distance, tearing off tiny pieces of crust and chewing them almost unconsciously. “I don’t see how I can. Bad enough to be captured, but I as much as signed my execution order by working in the commandant’s house. That counts as collaboration.” She didn’t add that she also held a false identity. “What about you?”

  Olga picked her teeth with a fingernail. “I’m going back. I know the NKVD will be on my neck, but my father’s in the party, and I was in the Komsomol. I fought bravely through this entire war, and the commissar commended me. That’s got to count for something.”

  Lilya shrugged. “Anyhow, it’s too soon to worry about it, isn’t it? The Germans are still fighting in Berlin, and a bullet or grenade could arrive tomorrow and solve the problem for us.”

  “Well, it won’t happen today, at least. Not while we’re here shaking hands with the Americans in front of the press. I’m guessing a lot of liquor and cigarettes will change hands, too.”

  Someone barking orders ended their conversation, and they packed up their mess kits. Half an hour later, they were in a rowboat drawing up onto the western shore of the Elbe.

  The American GIs were interesting. A little taller than the Russians, though a bit soft, like men who ate well every day. As she stood with the other women, random GIs came and stood beside her, though she tried hard not to be photographed. Some of them planted a kiss on her cheek or slid an arm around her back. She didn’t care for the casual intimacy with strangers but tolerated it, knowing it was to show how brotherly they all were. In addition, half a dozen photographers snapped pictures of the two armies with large, professional cameras on tripods, while she tried to keep her back turned to them.

  One of the men in her unit came toward her smoking an American cigarette. “They’re nice, the Americans,” he announced between puffs. “One of their journalists even speaks Russian. Strange, though. She asked me about the camps in the Ukraine. If I saw any women there. I told her no.”

  “She asked you about the Ukraine? Which one was it? What did she look like?”

  “I don’t know. Dark hair. Nice figure. She was taking pictures.”

  Lilya rocked back. “A photographer?” She grabbed him by the sleeve. “Where is she? Point her out to me.”

  “I don’t see her now. Go ask one of the guys with the cameras. I’m going to try to get another cigarette.” He pulled his arm away and strode back to his group.

  Lilya threw herself toward the nearest US army photographer and seized him by the arm. “Proshu vas!,” she said, breathless, having no idea how to say please in English.

  “Alex Preston? “Fotograf.” She mimicked holding a camera in front of her face. “Alex Preston?” she repeated.

  To her astonishment, he raised his eyebrows and nodded.

  “Da, da.” It seemed to be all the Russian he knew. He pointed toward the road leading into Torgau. She peered in the direction he pointed, and in the distance she could see a woman and two men climbing into a jeep. Incredulous, she hesitated for just a moment, then took off at a run toward the road.

  She lurched forward and ran full out, her boots hammering the ground, as the jeep began pulling away. No, no! “Alex, Aleeex!” she called out, waving her arms, but the firing of celebratory guns drowned out her cry.

  The two passengers in the jeep seemed to watch her with amusement. The woman—was it Alex?—raised her camera to her face and took a picture, and the jeep drew away from her down the road until it was out of sight.

  Lilya stopped, paralyzed, torn between grief and hope. It had to be Alex, and if so, she was in Germany. With the US military. Would it be possible to find her again? A more ominous question arose. After so long a time, would she want to be found? The glamorous aviation hero Alex had fallen in love with was now a grubby little infantryman with sore feet, scars, and greasy brown hair.

  She buried her face in her hands.

  *

  The distance between Torgau and Berlin cost the Red Army only a short march but a great deal of blood, for they spent the next ten days in constant battle. Though it was clear now to both sides that Nazi Germany was in collapse, the ragtag mix of fragmented regiments, Home Guard, and the wolf packs of Hitlerjugend stood their ground. As the Red Army units had done before Moscow, the Germans fought to the death in Herzber, Luckenwalde, Trebbin, Blankenfelde, and finally in the outskirts of Berlin.

  But by the first of May, Lilya was jogging amid a platoon of other infantrymen into the heart of the city. By the second of May, she stood with Olga in front of the Reichstag building gawking up at the enormous Soviet flag that fluttered from its roof.
/>   Berlin had fallen.

  Lilya surveyed the mountains of rubble, the ragged hollow husks of buildings, the shell holes on every street, and the countless decomposing bodies. “It’s over, Olga. We don’t need to fight any more. What do you suppose they’ll do with us now?”

  “For sure they’ll assign us to clear out all the mines and traps the Fritzes have left us, but after that, I don’t know. I suppose, keep some of us here for policing and send the rest back.”

  “Me, if I don’t get blown up doing mine clearance, I want to stay in Berlin as long as possible. I’m going to apply for guard duty with General Zhukov. I can stand at attention for a long time. And when I’m off duty, I’m going to look around the big archway. The Brandenburg something.”

  “What’s the point of staying? And why do you want to hang around the Brandenburg?”

  “I’ll tell you, Olga, because I trust you won’t betray me. I’m hoping to find someone, or rather be found by someone, and they’ll be more likely to see me if I’m standing near the monuments or the general.”

  Olga clasped her hands in front of her, “Oh, now I’m intrigued. Who is he? One of the officers? How did you manage to meet him without my noticing?”

  Lilya looked away. “I’d rather not say any more. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Exuberant, Olga threw an arm over her shoulder and planted a rough kiss on her cheek. “Well, if you find him, or he finds you, remember who your real friends are.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  May 1945

  Alex was intrigued by the telegram from George Mankowitz, but not enough to enter a city in which house-to-house-fighting was still going on. She’d seen too much of that at Stalingrad. Instead, she waited at the rear of Colonel Lynch’s troops while they cleaned up the terrain just north and west of Torgau.

  When the announcement came on May 7 of unconditional surrender, she celebrated with some of the troops, then cadged a ride from one of the sergeants to the Berlin suburb of Dahlem.

  It had obviously been the affluent residential quarter before the war. Even bombed and burnt in places, it still had the signs of a once-green and luxuriant part of the city. They drove along the edge of a now-desolate park and past the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute. Toward the west, the area was heavily wooded, though much had been blasted or cut down for firewood.