Night Witches

by Kathryn Lasky

  On this bright morning as we approach Stalingrad, we see signal flares shooting into the sky from the city’s center to herald the surrender of the German Sixth Army. Sailors from the Volga flotilla make their way across the frozen river with bags of bread and food for the survivors, who have been trapped for months. We dive low, flying over streams of people moving slowly through the ruined city. A few wave at us. But even from this distance I can see they are stunned. Stunned that it’s finally over. But there is no cause for jubilation. Stalingrad seems more like a living corpse than anything else.

  “Wait!” I say. “Bear two points east, then south.”

  “What is it?”

  “The statue.”

  “What statue?”

  “The children dancing around the crocodile. It still stands!”

  “All six children?”

  “Every single last one of them,” I say quietly, thinking of all the real children they outlasted. I remember climbing on that statue with Tatyana. It was a wonderful stage for our make-believe games, perfect for Peter Pan since the crocodile that ate Captain Hook’s hand was the centerpiece of the sculpture. We’d pretend to be Peter and Wendy and “fly” over the crocodile’s head by leaping about. But then one day the make-believe stopped. I remember that day so clearly. It was bitterly cold, but cold had never distracted us before.

  “I don’t want to play anymore,” Tatyana had said abruptly.

  “Why?”

  “Because.”

  “Because why?”

  “Because it’s stupid.”

  “It’s not stupid,” I had protested.

  “Make-believe is stupid. I’m too old.”

  I had stood there in disbelief, staring at my sister. She seemed rooted to the pavement, and as I looked at her, I could almost see our childhood receding in front of my very eyes, pulled out by an immense tide. And I wasn’t quite ready for whatever came next.

  Later we are told that nearly two million people died in the Battle of Stalingrad, and many of them were children. By the end of the battle there were just 997 children left in the city, and only nine of those would be reunited with their families. But these six little figures dance around the crocodile in shameless eternity. What’s wrong with God? Was this some kind of joke?

  We circle the monument once, then head back to the base.

  The night after the German retreat is Mara’s and my first night off since I began flying with her. Our airbase is nearly empty, as another base is being set up farther to the south and west. We are not sure where at this point, as the exact location is never confirmed until just before the move. Mara shakes her head wearily.

  “What is it?” I ask, but I think I know. We both feel a profound exhaustion from seeing the wreckage of what had been a beautiful city.

  “Do you think we will ever remember what it was like before the war?” she whispers into the fire, where she is toasting a piece of bread on a stick.

  “I remember, but I don’t quite believe what I remember.”

  “Tell me what you remember.” So I tell her of our family’s holidays on the Sea of Azov, of Christmas and the Christmas angel that looked just like her.

  She laughs softly. “I’m no angel.”

  “I never said you were. I said you looked like one. There’s a difference.”

  “Don’t I know it.” She says it so emphatically that my interest is piqued. I raise an eyebrow, and she quickly says, “Oh, I wasn’t exactly a devil. But let’s just say a naughty angel.”

  “What does a naughty angel do?”

  “Fool around with a lot of boys.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  “You know what’s sad?” I say.

  “What?” She looks at me with those lovely cornflower-blue eyes.

  “I haven’t had time to be a naughty angel.”

  She smiles sweetly. “You’re still so young. I’m twenty-two. There’s time.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “But there’s a war.”

  She doesn’t argue, but the wistful look in her eyes says it all.

  From the air, it looks like the teeth of a shark are ripping up from the earth and devouring the land. It’s the German fortified line, Blue Line, bordering the straits that separate the Black Sea from the Sea of Azov. It’s studded with antiaircraft batteries, machine guns, and the dreaded searchlights. But now, for the first time, some of our own U-2s have machine guns mounted behind the navigator’s cockpit, facing the rear for firing. We are no longer just dropping bombs. If a Nazi fighter plane tries to give chase, we can fight back more aggressively.

  I spend a week learning how to fire the gun on the ground at our temporary airfield on the Taman Peninsula. In the plane, the gun is mounted on a swivel on the back of the navigator’s cockpit. My experience as a loader in Trench 301 doesn’t help me with this new gun. The vibrations from the U-2’s engine make the crosshairs dance around, and I can’t tell you how many bullets I fire drop into the Black Sea. I never make my mark. Then, on the sixth day practicing in the air, I finally make my first hit. A minute later, I see a piece shoot off from our fuselage. Little do I know it was less than a meter from the petrol tank. We could have gone up in flames and dropped right into the Black Sea. But at the time, Mara and I had no idea it came so close to the petrol. If we had, I doubt I could have had the wits to fire the machine gun so straight.

  This happens about ten days after our regiment, the 588th, is redesignated as the Guard Night Bomber Regiment. Our goal is to recapture Malaya Zemlya, or Little Land, as it is called, near Novorossiysk. This is considered a key target. If we wipe out the Germans at Little Land, a gate will swing open to the west and the Germans will scamper like rats deserting a sinking ship.

  We’re near a fishing hamlet not far from where my family took our summer holidays before the war. The airfield is on a narrow strip of beach, near a cluster of small structures that in the summer are used as bathing huts. Our naval infantry is holding strong against fierce German attacks, and our mission this night is to drop food and medical supplies for our troops near the Blue Line, or the shark’s mouth, as I think of it. I’m excited for this mission. It’s the first time we have not been charged to destroy something. But I’m still not piloting. I yearn to be the one pushing on the control stick, lowering the nose for a dive. The longing is so intense, it’s like an ache in my muscles. It seems wrong that I’m not a pilot. I overhear Bershanskaya saying how desperate the 588th is for pilots, but they demand that we accumulate those devilish one thousand hours of combat flight time as navigators before we can advance! It’s ridiculous, especially since we fly only at night. As spring approaches, the nights become shorter and the days longer, which makes it impossible to accumulate the required hours. I won’t be able to really begin stacking the hours until autumn comes, which drives me insane.

  As we approach our destination, we see the bonfires of the men in our naval infantry—the ones waiting for us to drop supplies. But before we get low enough to perform the drop, one of the dreaded Nazi searchlights floods the sky with harsh light. They’ve spotted us, and now they’re opening fire from the ground. Mara throttles back and calmly goes into a glide toward the beach. I pull on the bomb release handle, but of course there are no bombs, only crates of tinned food and medicine. I lean over and wave at the sailors, who wave back. They shout, “Thank you, dear witches! Thank you!”

  And then one calls out, “Not witches! You are our heavenly angels.” And I bless the odd little engine, which is so quiet that we can hear their shouts from the ground.

  I feel a surge of joy like I’ve never experienced throughout the war. I imagine the soldiers opening the tins of sardines, biscuits, and chocolate, licking their fingers as they enjoy this feast we have delivered.

  We make several passes. I love releasing the packages. It is delicious, as if I’m tasting the chocolate with them. It’s almost like we’ve gathered at some magical table halfway between sky and earth and are having a p
arty together. The table is beautiful, set with starlight instead of candles.

  I’m just releasing the last container when there is a terrible lurch that sends my stomach plummeting. My reveries are finished. Everything is sliding off the table. I hear the awful thud of bullets against the fuselage. Mara has lost control of the plane. We are dipping and heading straight for the ground.

  The land is askew. I am askew. My feet are in the air. And the air is thick with black smoke. I can hardly breathe. Everything begins to shudder. No one is piloting the plane.

  Chert voz’mi! I curse, and then see that Mara is slumped over the steering column. She’s been shot. My mind goes blank, and then it’s as if someone else’s brain takes over. A stranger, and yet this stranger has a familiar voice—mine. I must take control of the plane. I must reach the control stick. If I fly the plane we live.

  She’s blocking the control stick. I have to lean over and push her aside so I can hit the switch to transfer the control to the rear cockpit. Damn, she’s blocking the switch. It’s easier to grab the control stick. My hands can barely reach around her but I get a tenuous hold on the stick and pull back, taking us out of the plunge. The air is rough, and it’s hard controlling the roll of the craft. Banking is nearly impossible. The ailerons must have been damaged. But at least we’re right side up now. That’s an improvement. Still, I have no idea how to land this beast. But the airfield isn’t far. If I can just even the plane out, we might make it, but the vibrations in the control stick are crazy.

  “Never mind crazy,” I whisper. “I have to concentrate. Mara, I must concentrate, right?” I don’t look at her. But I keep talking to her. I’m not sure what I say, but I feel if I talk to her she can’t die. She must know that I am flying this craft. That I am concentrating. I can do this. But I cannot quite reach the control switch so I can fly from the rear cockpit seat. Nevertheless, in this awkward position I am managing to fly the plane. The prop is still spinning; the wings are becoming level. Yes, the plane could fall apart any second, but by God I’m going to fly it until it does. I keep talking.

  “You’ll be fine,” I tell Mara, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. “We’re almost back. Everything’s going to be okay.” But there is blood over everything, and deep inside of me, I know this cannot all be fine.

  We are just above the airfield. Our streaming black plumes of smoke have brought people rushing out onto the field with hoses from the water trucks. The plane is now jittering insanely as I throttle back and glide, trying to line up the landing flags. Now for the final stall. I pull back slightly on the stick to lift the nose. It’s unbelievable. I set this wounded bird down softly as a swaddled baby. We land. Barely a thud.

  I reach over the forward cockpit seat and press my face against Mara’s flight helmet. “We’re here, Mara. We’re here.” There are puddles of blood in the seat, in her lap, everywhere.

  “She’s not dead,” I shout as the ground crew rushes toward us. “She’s not! You have to help her!” More people swarm around the plane. They extricate Mara first, and then me. The world around me spins, and for a few moments, all I can see is blood. Blood on the hatch door of the cockpit. Blood on the wing. Everything goes dark and hazy, and when I come to again, I’m being carried from the plane on a stretcher. Tatyana is jogging alongside.

  “You’re not hurt,” she says, her face pale. “You’re going to be fine.”

  “But the blood. So much blood.”

  “It’s Mara’s.”

  “She’s hurt, but she’ll be all right. I know it.” Tatyana says nothing but keeps jogging along. The shock and numbness that had encased my body drain away, replaced by panic. I start to climb off the stretcher.

  “Stay where you are,” Tatyana orders.

  “I’m fine. I want to see Mara,” I say, staggering forward.

  “No.” Tatyana reaches for me, but I duck away.

  The girls who are carrying the stretcher glance at Tatyana. “What are you not telling me?” I grab Tatyana’s shoulders and I shake her hard.

  “Mara’s dead.”

  “Dead?” The word doesn’t register as more than a sound, as if my sister has just spoken in another language. “I … I don’t understand … No … she couldn’t have died.” My mind races. She was just a naughty angel. Not a devil. She can’t be dead.

  Tatyana gently takes my arm and guides me into the hut. The girls clear away from the fire in the oil drum. My sister fetches me a tin cup with maybe two centimeters of vodka. I take a swallow. It burns all the way down to my chest. I look at her and peer into her soft gray-green eyes. No words are spoken. But I know she senses the depth of my loss. She understands. Mara was my sky sister. My sister of the long nights. I look down. My flight vest is splattered with her blood. I wrap my arms around myself and close my eyes.

  “How? How did she die?”

  “Tracer bullets.”

  “But I wasn’t hit at all.”

  “Yes, she took it full on.” She hesitates, and I can tell she’s not telling me something. I lean toward her and bring my face close to hers. My voice is hoarse. “What are you not telling me, Tatyana?”

  Her hand settles at the base of her neck. “Her throat, like Mama.”

  And as with Mama, I picture the words of a song shattering, but this time, it is I who grabs my own throat, as if trying to catch the notes.

  Tatyana puts me to bed. She must have given me a sleeping draft, for I slide into a thick, dreamless sleep.

  I feel a brief moment of disorientation when I wake up. For the first few seconds, everything seems fine, and then reality crashes in. Mara is dead. The torn throat, the blood, the gelid blue eyes as they placed her on the stretcher. It all comes back. I must have slept for a long time—through the morning into the day, for it is night again already.

  I get up from my cot, pull on my pants and boots, then walk toward the washbasin we all share. The coals in the small warming stove have gone dead, and there’s a thin layer of ice on the pitcher of water. I’m the only one in the hut. Everyone is out flying, the situation more urgent than ever. Now that we’ve past the March equinox, we can feel the minutes being peeled from the long winter nights. That means there’s less time to fly, fewer bombs to drop, fewer Nazis to kill in the dwindling darkness. And fewer hours for me to collect to become a pilot.

  We are determined to obliterate the Blue Line, the shark’s mouth that devoured my dear Mara. Destroy that Blue Line and the Nazis will again be on the run, as they have been since their defeat at Stalingrad. But the shorter nights leave us more exposed. We are Night Witches. We thrive in the darkness.

  I walk over to Mara’s empty cot and pick up her scarf. It is stained with her blood. I press it to my face. If there is any scent of Mara left, I want to inhale it. But there’s nothing. Nothing except the blood. I go to the washbasin and pour cold water from the pitcher on it. Cold water is best for removing bloodstains. I remember Mama telling me this. I bend my head over the blood-swirled water in the basin and rock back and forth, murmuring her name over and over like some old Orthodox priest in combat boots. Praying? Not exactly. Prayers went away years ago, evaporated like the morning dew under the bright sunshine of communism. Who knows how to pray anymore? Within minutes the blood is gone. I’ll hang the scarf out to dry and keep it, wear it myself.

  I am glad that no one is around right now. I want to be alone, alone in the hollowness of the night. I put on my flight jacket and ushanka. Before I leave the hut I take Mara’s scarf. It is still slightly damp but I tuck it in just as she did and walk out toward the airfield. In the distance the sky is jagged with flak and tracer bullets. But here at our base there’s an eerie quiet. I see someone come out of the mechanic’s hut and scan the night for an incoming U-2. A peculiar whine rises on the edge of the wind, the hum of a still prop. There’s only one plane standing on the field, and I realize it’s ours. Mara’s and mine. The little craft is singing a dirge to its lost pilot.

  They’ve already dug her gra
ve. There were most likely some quickly muttered prayers. That’s what passes for a funeral service. I’ve attended a few in the three months since I’ve been in the regiment. They use special shovels to dig into the frozen earth. I’m glad I missed Mara’s burial. I don’t want to think of her under all that dirt. I only want to think of her in the sky.

  I look over at our plane. In that moment it seems almost animate, the hum of the propeller like the cry of an abandoned puppy. I walk over to it and touch the fabric of the upper wing lightly. How does one cuddle a small, fragile bomber?

  I feel tears freezing on my face. Someone is tapping me on the shoulder. It’s Tatyana.

  “Commander Bershanskaya just arrived. She wants to see you.” She puts her arm around my shoulders as we walk to the command hut.

  Bershanskaya is studying a map, a cigarette holder clamped in her teeth. She looks up and stubs out the cigarette, sighing deeply.

  “I just heard the news about Comrade Mara Tretorov. I am so very sorry.” She comes out from around the desk. Her hand drops on my shoulder and she squeezes it. But her eyes are hard. “They tell me that the damage to the plane was light. It’ll be repaired within a few hours. Tonight you’ll fly again.”

  “But who will be the pilot?”

  “You.”

  I’m too stunned to speak, but I see Tatyana’s face tighten. She tucks in her lips until they are a bloodless white seam. Then she finally speaks.

  “Commander Bershanskaya, my sister doesn’t have the hours yet. She needs one thousand hours to—”

  Commander Bershanskaya cuts her off. “I know what is required, Comrade Baskova. You don’t need to inform me. I made the rules. I can break them. Be ready in an hour, Valentina Baskova.”