Ah! What a sensation, when you fell into the abyss and sank over your head in the snow! It takes your breath away! Other girls tried to do it with me, but they couldn’t get it right: they’d sprain a leg, or hit their nose against the snow, or something else would happen. I was more adroit than the boys.
I mentioned childhood…Because I don’t want to begin with blood…But I understand—of course it’s important, of course. I like to read books. I understand…
We arrived in Moscow in September 1942…For a whole week they drove us around the ring rail line. We stopped at the Kuntsevo, Perovo, Ochakovo stations, and everywhere some girls were taken off the train. The “buyers,” that is, the commanders of various units and combat branches, came and persuaded us to become snipers, medical assistants, radio operators…None of it tempted me. Finally there were only thirteen girls left of the whole convoy. We were all put into one freight car. Just two cars stood on the side track: ours and the staff car. For two days no one came to us. We laughed and sang the song “Forgotten, Abandoned.” At the end of the second day, toward evening, we saw three officers coming to our car together with the chief of the convoy.
The “buyers”! They were tall, trim, tightly belted. Spanking new overcoats, gleamingly polished boots with spurs. Really something! We hadn’t seen their like yet. They went into the staff car, and we pressed up to the wall to hear what they were going to say. The chief showed them the list and gave a brief description of each of us: so-and-so, where from, education. In the end we heard: “They’ll all do.”
Then the chief came out of the car and ordered us to line up. They asked, “Do you want to study the art of war?” How could we not, of course we wanted to. Very much so! It was our dream! Not one of us even asked: study where and what? The order was: “First Lieutenant Mitropolsky, take the girls to the school.” We shouldered our kit bags, formed a column of two, and the officer led us through the streets of Moscow. My beloved Moscow…the capital…Beautiful even in this difficult time. Our own…The officer walked quickly, with big strides, we could barely keep up with him. It was only at the thirtieth anniversary of the Victory, at the reunion in Moscow, that Sergei Fyodorovich Mitropolsky confessed to us, the former students of the Moscow Military-Engineering School, how ashamed he had been to lead us through Moscow. He tried to keep as far as possible from us, so as not to attract attention. To this herd of girls…We didn’t know that and almost ran after him. We must have been quite a sight!
Well, so…In the first few days of studies I got extra duty twice: first I protested against the cold auditorium, then it was something else. Schoolgirl habits. So I got what I deserved: one extra duty, then another…More followed. Whenever I was posted in the street, the boys noticed me and began to laugh: our staff orderly. It was funny for them, of course, but I missed classes, didn’t sleep nights. I spent the whole day standing by the door at the orderly post, and at night I polished the floors in the barrack with mastic. How did we do it then? I’ll explain at once…In detail…It was not like now, when we have all sorts of brushes, floor polishers, and the like. Back then…After lights out you take your boots off, so you don’t muck them up with mastic, wrap your feet in pieces of old overcoat, making a sort of peasant shoe tied with string. You scatter mastic over the floor and spread it with a brush, not a synthetic brush, but a natural one, so the clumps of hair stick to the floor, and only after that you start working with your feet. You have to polish it so it shines like a mirror. There’s a whole night’s dancing for you! Your feet are sore and numb, you can’t straighten your back, sweat streams down your face and gets into your eyes. In the morning you’re so tired you can’t even shout “On your feet!” to your company. And during the day you can’t sit down, because the orderly has to stand by the post all the time.
Once I had a mishap…It was funny…I had just finished cleaning the barrack and was standing by the orderly post. I was so sleepy, I felt I’d fall down any minute. I leaned on the post and dozed off. Suddenly I heard someone open the door to the barrack, I roused myself—the battalion duty officer was standing before me. I raised my hand in salute and reported, “Comrade First Lieutenant, the company is resting.” He stared at me and I saw he could barely keep from laughing. Then I realized that, being left-handed and in a hurry, I had saluted him with my left hand. I quickly tried to switch to the right hand, but it was too late. Again I had made a slip…
It took me a long time to realize that this was not some sort of game and not a simple school, but a military academy. Preparation for war. A commander’s order is law for a subordinate.
I remember the last question on the last exam: “How many times in his life does a sapper make a mistake?”
“A sapper makes a mistake once in his life.”
“That’s right, girl…”
And then the familiar: “Student Bairak, you may go.”
And now—war. Real war…
I was brought to my platoon. I order, “Platoon, attention!” and the platoon doesn’t even think of standing up. One man is lying down, another sits and smokes, yet another stretches himself till his bones crack: “E-eh!” They pretended not to notice me. These men were insulted that they, seasoned male scouts, had to obey a twenty-year-old girl. I realized it very well and was forced to give the command, “As you were!”
Just then shelling began…I jumped down into a ditch, and my overcoat was new, so I lay down not in the mud, but to the side on the unmelted snow. That’s how it happens when you’re young—the overcoat is dearer than life. Foolish girl! And my soldiers laughed.
Well, so…What was the engineer scouting that we conducted? During the night the soldiers dug a double hole in no-man’s-land. Before dawn one of the unit commanders and I crawled to this little trench, and the soldiers camouflaged us. And we lay like that all day, afraid to stir. In an hour or two our hands and feet began to freeze, even if we were wearing felt boots and sheepskin jackets. Four hours—and you turn into an icicle. It snows…You turn into a snowman. That’s in winter…In summer we had to lie in the heat or the rain. We’d spend the whole day watching everything attentively and drawing up a map of the observed front line and marking the places where changes in the surface of the terrain appeared. If we saw bumps on the ground or lumps of soil, dirty snow, trampled grass or dew smeared on the grass, that was what we were after…our goal…It was clear that German sappers had placed mines there. If they set up a wire fence, it was necessary to find out the length and breadth of the fence. What sort of mines they had put there: antitroop, antitank, or surprise mines. We marked the enemy’s firing points…
Before our troops advanced, we worked during the night. We felt the ground inch by inch. Made corridors in the mine fields. All the work was done crawling…On your belly…I shuttled from one unit to another. There were always more of “my” mines.
I can tell many incidents…Enough for a movie…A serial.
Some officers invited me for breakfast. I accepted. Sappers weren’t always served hot food; we mostly lived on whatever grub we could get. When everybody sat down at the kitchen table, I paid attention to the Russian stove with a closed door. I went over and began to examine the door. The officers poked fun at me: “You women imagine mines even in pots and pans.” I joked back and then noticed that at the very bottom, to the left of the door, there was a small hole. I looked closer and saw a thin wire going into the stove. I quickly turned to those around the table: “The house is mined, I ask you to quit the premises.” The officers fell silent and stared at me with mistrust; no one wanted to leave the table. It smelled of meat, fried potatoes. I repeated, “Clear the premises immediately.” I set to work with the sappers. First we removed the door. Cut the wire with scissors. And there…There…In the stove lay several liter-sized enamel mugs tied together with string. A soldier’s dream! Better than a mess tin. Then, in the depths of the stove, two big packages wrapped in black paper. About forty pounds of explosives. There’s pots and pans for you…
I gave the order: “Platoon, fall in!” Nobody paid any attention to me. Then I drew my pistol and fired into the air. Some officers ran out of the blindage. It took quite a while to quiet everybody down. A captain came up to my platoon and asked, “Who is the senior officer here?” I saluted. He rolled his eyes; even he was at a loss. Then he asked, “What happened here?” I was unable to answer, because I really did not know the reason. Then my subcommander stepped forward and explained how it had all come about. Thus I learned that the word “chassis” was very offensive for a woman. Something like “whore.” A frontline obscenity…
And you know…We’re having a candid conversation…I tried not to think about love or about my childhood during the war. Or about death…Hm-m-m…We’re having a candid conversation…Well, so…As I said: I forbade myself many things in order to survive. Especially everything gentle and tender. Even to think about it. To recall. I remember how we were given a few free evenings for the first time in liberated Lvov. For the first time during the whole war…The battalion watched a film in the city movie theater. In the beginning it felt somehow unusual to sit in soft chairs, to see a beautiful interior, to feel cozy and quiet. An orchestra played before the film, artistes performed. There were dances in the foyer. We danced the polka, the krakoviak, the pas d’Espagne, and finished with the inevitable “Russian.” I was particularly affected by the music…It seemed unbelievable that there was shooting somewhere and that we would soon be on the front line again. That death was somewhere near.
But already a day later an order came for my platoon to comb the irregular terrain between a hamlet and a railroad. Several trucks had blown up there on mines…Scouts with mine detectors started moving along the highway. Cold rain sprinkled. We were all soaked to the skin. My boots swelled up and became as heavy as if they had iron soles. I tucked the skirts of my overcoat under the belt, so that they wouldn’t hinder my walking. Ahead of me on a leash ran my dog Nelka. When she found a shell or a mine, she sat next to it and waited for it to be cleared. My faithful friend. So Nelka sat down…she waited and whined a bit…Suddenly I heard a command passed down the line: “Lieutenant, to the general.” I looked around: a jeep was standing on the country road. I jumped over a ditch, untucked the skirts of my overcoat, straightened my belt and forage cap. Despite all that I looked shabby.
I ran up to the car, opened the door, and began to report: “Comrade General, at your orders…”
Before I finished, I heard, “As you were…”
I paused and stood at attention. The general did not even turn toward me, but was looking at the road through the windshield. He was getting nervous and looked frequently at his watch. I stood there. He turned to his orderly: “Where’s that sapper commander?”
I again tried to report: “Comrade General…”
He finally turned to me and said vexedly, “What the devil do I need you for!”
I figured out what was the matter and almost burst out laughing. Then his orderly realized, “Comrade General, maybe she is the sapper commander?”
The general stared at me. “Who are you?”
“The commander of the sapper platoon, Comrade General.”
“You—the platoon commander?” he said indignantly.
“Yes, Comrade General!”
“These are your sappers at work?”
“Yes, Comrade General.”
“Quit saying ‘general, general’…”
He got out of the car, took a few steps, then came back to me. Stood there, measuring me with his eyes. Then said to his orderly, “See that?”
Then he asked me, “How old are you, Lieutenant?”
“Twenty, Comrade General.”
“Where are you from?”
“Siberia.”
He kept questioning me for a long time, offered to transfer me to their tank unit. Was indignant about me looking so shabby: he wouldn’t allow that. They needed sappers desperately. Then he took me aside and pointed to a little wood.
“My little crates are standing there. I want to send them along this railroad. The rails and the sleepers have been removed, but the road may be mined. Do my tankmen a favor, check the road. This is a closer and more convenient way to the front line. Do you know what a surprise attack is?”
“Yes, Comrade General.”
“Well, goodbye, Lieutenant. Make sure you live till the victory, it will come soon. Understand!”
The railroad indeed turned out to be mined. We checked it.
We all wanted to live till the victory…
In October 1944 our battalion, being a part of the 210th demining Detachment, together with the troops of the 4th Ukrainian Front, entered the territory of Czechoslovakia. We were met joyfully everywhere. They threw us flowers, fruit, packs of cigarettes…Spread rugs on the pavement…The fact that a girl was commander of a platoon of men, and was herself a sapper-miner, became a sensation. I had a boy’s haircut, wore trousers and an army jacket. I had adopted some male ways. In short, I looked like an adolescent boy. Sometimes I rode into a village on horseback, and then it was very hard to tell who I was, but women’s intuition told them and they observed me attentively. Women’s intuition…It was funny…Great! I’d come to the quarters where I was to be billeted, and the owners would be told that their lodger was an officer, but not a man. Many were so surprised that they just stood gaping…A silent movie! But I…Hm-m-m…I even enjoyed it. I enjoyed surprising people that way. It was the same in Poland. I remember in one little village an old woman patted me on the head. I understood: “Is the pani trying to see if I have horns?” I asked in Polish. She became embarrassed and said she simply wanted to show pity for me, “such a young panenka.”
And there were mines at every step. Many mines. Once we went into a house, and someone saw a pair of calfskin boots standing by a wardrobe. He was already reaching out to take them. “Don’t you dare touch them!” I shouted. When I came up and began to study them, they turned out to be mined. There were mined armchairs, chests of drawers, sideboards, dolls, chandeliers…Peasants asked us to de-mine the rows of tomatoes, potatoes, cabbage. Once, in order to sample some dumplings, our platoon went to a village to demine a field of wheat and even the flail for threshing the sheaves…
Well, so…I went through Czechoslovakia, Poland, Hungary, Romania, Germany…But few impressions have remained in my memory. Mostly I remember only visual images of the lay of the land. Boulders…Tall grass…Either it was really tall or it only seemed so to us because it was unbelievably difficult to go through it and work with our probes and mine detectors. Old grass…Burdock higher than bushes…I also remember many brooks and ravines. Dense forests, continuous wire fences with rotted stakes, overgrown minefields. Flowerbeds gone to seed. There were always mines hiding there; the Germans loved flowerbeds. Once there were people digging potatoes in a field, and next to them we were d
igging mines…
In Romania, in the town of Dej, I stayed in the house of a young Romanian woman who spoke good Russian. It turned out her grandmother was Russian. The woman had three children. Her husband had been killed at the front, in the Romanian volunteer division. Still, she liked to laugh and have fun. Once she invited me to go dancing with her. She offered me her outfits. The temptation was great. I put on trousers, an army shirt, calfskin boots, and on top of it all the Romanian national costume: a long embroidered linen blouse and a tight checkered skirt. Tied a black belt around my waist, threw a colorful shawl with long fringe over my head. To this should be added that, from crawling in the mountains all summer, I had a dark tan, only blond strands stuck out on my temples, and my nose was peeling—still it was hard to distinguish me from a real Romanian. A Romanian girl.
There was no club, the young people gathered in somebody’s house. When we came, music was already playing, people were dancing. I saw almost all the officers of my battalion. At first I was afraid to be recognized and exposed, and so I sat in a far corner, without attracting attention, even covering myself with the shawl a little. At least I could see everything…From a distance…But after one of our officers invited me several times to dance without recognizing me with my lips and eyebrows painted, I began laughing and having fun. I was having a very good time…I liked to hear that I was beautiful. I heard compliments…I danced and danced…
The Unwomanly Face of War Page 24