by Gwen C. Katz
“Speak not this blasphemy,” Zhigli told her, with a look of mock gravity.
“You’re always talking about being a serious airwoman,” said Iskra in a tone of supercilious wisdom. “You know what serious pilots don’t do? Constantly whine about their superior officers.”
“Because their superior officers can do their jobs!” I snapped. She was getting on my nerves.
Iskra said, “You could at least try not to assume that Tamara Kazarinova is the worst thing that’s ever happened to women’s aviation. It isn’t her fault about her leg. Do you think you get top-of-the-line medical care after an air raid? She’s lucky she can still walk, and she’s still in a great deal of pain, even though she doesn’t show it.”
“Is that why she acts like such an asshole?” I asked.
“Language, Valka,” Zhigli chided.
I thought nothing of the conversation then. Iskra and I argued all the time. It didn’t mean anything. But later that day, at drill, Iskra wasn’t at her usual place by my side. I wanted to look around and see where she was, but I had to stand at attention.
She didn’t show up for dinner, either. Then I was sure she was avoiding me. In confusion, I went over my words. I’d spent the past four years annoying my cousin and she’d still come all this way to enlist with me. What had I said this time that was over the line?
Then Vera told me that Iskra hadn’t been in class. Confusion gave way to anxiety. Iskra would have had to be literally dying to miss one of her navigation classes. At lights-out, I was forced to abandon all fanciful notions of extremely important errands that might explain Iskra’s absence and admit that she was missing. I spent a restless night biting my fingertips and telling myself that it wasn’t what I thought, that something else had happened, anything else. The next morning, I got up early, dressed, checked that my uniform was as correct as humanly possible, and went to see the chief of staff.
Swallowing hard, I rapped on the door marked “Captain Militsa Alexandrovna Kazarinovna, Chief of Staff” and received a curt “Enter!” in reply. I opened the door and discovered with a start that both of the Kazarinova sisters were in the office. The younger was reassuring the elder, “. . . general hatred of authority, but no particular agenda, certainly none that she’s clever enough to carry out. You know the type. She shouldn’t be a problem. And if she is, you won’t have to deal with her. She’s already earmarked for the night bombers.” She looked up as I saluted. “What is it, Koroleva?”
“That’s the other one?” the elder sister quietly asked the younger. The younger gave her a short nod.
Under the severity of their combined gaze, I found myself losing my nerve. I had never spoken to either of them beyond the requirements of military courtesy.
“Well?” asked the younger Kazarinova.
I finally managed to say, “Ma’am, Officer Cadet Koroleva, reporting a missing person. It’s my cousin. She hasn’t been seen in eighteen hours.”
She looked at me impassively. Smoke curled upward from her cigarette.
“Your cousin,” said the elder Kazarinova. Her voice was deep and coarse, and for no conceivable reason I found myself wondering what color Pasha would say it was. “Officer Cadet Iskra Ivanovna Koroleva.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Daughter of Ivan Grigorevich Korolev and Anna Petrovna Koroleva.”
My heart leaped into my throat. My aunt and uncle. Their names instantly brought back that old defensiveness, the armor I’d worn when I was questioned about them. We’d all worn it in those days. We had to.
The elder Kazarinova continued, her cold words stripping away my last shred of irrational hope. “While I was going over the regimental assignments, I noticed an irregularity in her autobiography. Both of her parents were convicted of wrecking, a fact which she conveniently forgets to mention. Your local Komsomol committees were supposed to screen for anomalies of this kind, but it seems that yours chose to overlook this one. The matter will be looked into.” Her keen black eyes flicked over me in quick movements, sizing me up. “Did you have any knowledge of your aunt and uncle’s actions?”
I scrambled for the right response. “Only afterward, ma’am. I lived in a different city. I was ten the last time I saw them.”
The elder Kazarinova said, “Her parents’ activities cast suspicion onto her own motives for joining Aviation Group 122 and her acceptability as a navigator. She is being investigated.”
“She’s been arrested?” I cried. No. No. No. It couldn’t have happened. I couldn’t have let it happen.
“Yes.”
“Permission to say something on her behalf?”
“Go ahead,” said the younger Kazarinova.
I kept my voice as steady as I could. “Iskra has been an upstanding Komsomol member since she was fourteen. She’s the youngest member of our village committee. She is the most ardent supporter of the Party that I’ve ever known.”
“Her parents were also, to all appearances, upstanding Party members. Your cousin may be following in their footsteps,” said the elder Kazarinova.
“Your opinion has been noted, Koroleva,” said the younger Kazarinova briskly. “You are dismissed.”
I started to open my mouth, but the Order of Lenin on the elder Kazarinova’s uniform caught my eye and I realized in time what thin ice I was treading. I saluted and left the room.
Then I buried my face in my arms and cried.
ELEVEN
1 January 1942
Dear Pasha,
Three weeks and this is the first time I’ve pulled myself together enough to write. Iskra has been arrested. Every morning I look over at the next cot and I expect to see her doing up her portyanki and buttoning her tunic. She has to be there—she has to. And every morning she is still gone. Somewhere along the line, I ran out of energy to even feel sad. Now I’m just empty.
There are things that you know with a creeping dread will happen sooner or later but can’t do anything to prevent. It was like that with the war, wasn’t it? So many reassurances, but we heard what they said about lebensraum, about us Slavs being subhuman and fit only to be slaves, and even though no one said so, we all knew that no treaty in the world would protect us.
Iskra has been in danger ever since her parents were arrested. We managed to keep a lid on her past while she was in Stakhanovo; being Iskra, when she said, “I moved out here to help with the development of industry for the glory of my country and the Party,” it was totally convincing. She might have been safe there, where the worst she had to deal with was Iosif Grigorevich. But she had to enlist and I had to let her.
I hate myself for that. Would she have enlisted if I hadn’t? I don’t know. If I’d asked, she would have said it was her own choice: that she wanted to do her part to defend the homeland she loves so much. She knew the risks better than I did.
But I still should have protected her.
I’m useless, aren’t I? You were drafted and I couldn’t do a thing about it. Iskra was arrested and I couldn’t do a thing about that. I knew that saying good-bye to her when we got our regimental assignments would be hard, but she was ripped away from me without my ever having a chance.
After I stopped crying, the first thing I did was march off to find Zhigli. I’d been right about her from the start. I caught her crossing the empty shooting range on the way to class and shoved her against a plywood cutout. “You told on her!”
She claimed not to know what I was talking about.
I said, “Liar. You and Lilya were the only people who knew and you’re the biggest gossip in Aviation Group 122.”
“I am not. Don’t be such a—” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh no. Iskra.”
It was a perfect imitation of sincerity. A few months ago I would have believed it, but now I know better. I said, “It had to be you! You told Kazarinova and now Iskra’s gone and I’ll never—”
I choked on my words as I almost started crying for the second time that day.
She said
, “If there’s anything I can do . . .”
I pulled away and told her she’d done enough.
If I wanted to help Iskra, I had to aim higher. Captain Kazarinova hadn’t listened to me. Luckily, she’s not the biggest fish in this pond.
Then a horrible thought struck me. What if Marina Raskova had ordered Iskra’s arrest? My mind revolted against the idea. It can’t be. Not her. We call Marina Raskova the grandmother of Soviet aviation. I figure that makes all of Aviation Group 122 her family. And, as you said, you don’t turn in your own family. But I can’t deny that she had the means and the opportunity.
There was one way to find out. Iskra had been branded a traitor. Speaking out in her defense would make me a traitor. If Major Raskova was purging anyone who might compromise her aviation group, I would give her a perfect opportunity. If I ended up in the camps alongside Iskra . . . well, at least I’d be the one suffering for my mistake this time.
Raskova’s office was filled with classical music from a tinny radio on the shelf. She hummed along as she filled out forms. I marched in and began to blurt out my request, but Raskova held up a hand, her eyes on the radio. “Shh. This is Rimsky-Korsakov.”
Rimsky-who-cares-akov. This was important! My opinion must have shown on my face, because she told me with a mild look, “If we are to serve in the military, we must learn patience and self-control. The war won’t end before the first movement of the symphony.”
And so I stood there, my shoulders slumped, and waited. I have to admit it was nice music. When the radio went to a public service announcement, Raskova folded her hands and gave me her undivided attention. “Now, Koroleva, what is it?”
These could have been my last words as a free woman, but I don’t recall being nervous, just resigned. Either I’d help Iskra or I’d share her fate. I said, “Ma’am, it’s about my cousin. Iskra Koroleva. I need you to secure her release. Please.”
“Why do you think I can do that?”
“Because you work for the NKVD.” Even saying the name of the secret police makes me feel cold.
Marina Raskova is like any other Soviet. There are parts of her life she chooses to publicize. And there are parts she doesn’t. You don’t earn the luxury of doing whatever you set your mind on, the way she does, unless you have a way to grease the machine’s wheels. I don’t remember where I heard that fact about her, nor do I know exactly what she did for the NKVD. I’d rather not think about it. She couldn’t have hauled people out of their homes, beaten them, and threatened to shoot their families until they confessed to crimes they never committed. Inside my heart I knew she couldn’t be like the men who took my aunt and uncle. She couldn’t be.
Raskova took a silver cigarette case out of her pocket and put a cigarette in her mouth. “It’s not a becoming habit for a woman, I know,” she said as she lit it. “I never smoked before the war. I’ll quit when it’s over.”
She offered me one, but Iskra had put so much effort into preventing me from smoking that it felt like cheating to start while she was gone.
Raskova asked me what I expected her to do.
“I don’t know. Call Stalin.” It sounded pathetic even as I said it.
Raskova’s voice was kind but firm. “Koroleva, you don’t know one percent of what goes on in this aviation group. You don’t have the slightest sense of the work and sacrifice I’ve put in to get you girls here or how easily it could all be undone. And you don’t understand what your cousin is caught up in. Go focus on your work. I’ll focus on mine.”
She hadn’t exactly said no, I tried to reassure myself, but it was futile. The whole thing was futile. As if anyone would risk her own neck for a tainted girl like Iskra. A fortnight later, there’s still no sign of my cousin. Raskova’s answer seems clear.
I should be worried about what will happen to me, I know. Iskra’s arrest puts me under immediate suspicion. After spending as much time with her as I did, I’ll be an obvious accomplice to whatever crime they pin on her. Iskra will never turn me in no matter what they do to her, but that won’t make a difference. Yet I’m not afraid. Not for myself. I brought Iskra into danger. It would only be fair to share her punishment.
Today is New Year’s. You have a sister, so you know how much girls love this holiday. Everyone here had a fortune-telling tradition to share. We wrote fortunes on scraps of paper and hid them under each other’s pillows.
This morning, the girls were laughing and sharing the fortunes they had found. It was easy to guess who mine was from. It said: “I didn’t tell. I promise.” I caught Zhigli’s eye across the gymnasium and crumpled up the note. I don’t believe in all that superstitious stuff anyway.
And yet I wrote “You will come home” on a torn bit of newspaper and hid it under Iskra’s pillow. Now I’m looking over at her perfectly neat, empty bed and desperately hoping it will come true.
Yours,
Valka
On cold days in Engels, the smoke from the factory chimneys didn’t rise but hung in the air, forming a thick layer of acrid yellow that Zhenechka said reminded her of the clouds of Venus. It made open-cockpit flying a dirty business. In the white-tiled bathroom, I took off my goggles and flight helmet, ran a hand through my mussed hair, and attempted to transfer the greasy detritus from my face onto a towel. I gave up, dropped the towel, and stared at my own haggard face in the mirror.
The grief came in waves. Some days I was very nearly my old self. Then something would happen to remind me of Iskra’s absence and it would wash over me again, just as strong as the first time. This time it was the holiday. They said that how you spent New Year’s was how you would spend the rest of the year, and Iskra was spending it languishing in a cell somewhere. Or worse.
Hot tears stung my eyes. I’d long since realized there was no point in trying to hold them back.
The bathroom door banged as Lilya entered. “Hey, Valka—oh.” Her voice dropped. “Are you all right?”
“Go away,” I growled. “I don’t want to talk to anyone.”
“I’m getting that impression.” She glanced in the mirror over my shoulder and patted her soft blond curls.
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“You’re wrong.” Lilya took me by the shoulders and spun me around so that we were facing each other. “Valka. Do you know why I enlisted?”
I shrugged. “Same as everyone else. Defend the Motherland. Kill fascists. Fly fighters.”
“Some of that. But that wasn’t the main reason.” Her clear blue eyes flitted from mine to the floor. “I haven’t told anyone else about this. So please don’t . . .”
There were many ways to finish that sentence, but I said, “I won’t.”
Lilya wet her lips. “They took my father too.”
It couldn’t be true. Lilya was always so bright and cheerful. I’d never seen her worried or upset—except for that moment on the train to Engels, when Iskra went off about wreckers. Could it be that all the time she was laughing, doing her hair, and showing off over the aerodrome, she was as hurt and broken as the rest of us?
I tried to think of something to say and failed. Instead I threw my arms around her and pulled her small body into a tight hug.
Lilya spoke quietly into my ear. “It was 1937. He was a railway man. Not political. He hadn’t done anything; we had no idea . . . They just came for him one day. We never even found out what the charges were. I was sixteen. When I heard about Aviation Group 122, I thought, ‘I can’t bring him back, but maybe, if I fight well enough, I can at least redeem my family name.’”
“Oh, Lilya.” I slowly released her. “I didn’t realize. I’m sorry I’ve been such an ass.”
“It’s all right. I would be too. I keep wondering why it was her and not me.”
I thought it was obvious. “Because no one knew about you.”
Lilya looked at me reproachfully. “Valka, you mustn’t. You’ve lived with Zhigli and trained with her for months and she never said a word about Iskra. And she’s devastated.
How could you think such a thing?”
What else was I supposed to think? But I didn’t want to argue with Lilya. I didn’t want to argue with any of the girls ever again. So I said, “You take care, okay?”
“I will.” Lilya paused. “Valka?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you know what I’m most afraid of?” She swallowed hard. “It isn’t getting killed. I know that might happen. It probably will. It’s going missing in action. Maybe you’re over the ocean. Maybe you survive the crash and are taken prisoner, or you walk away and get killed crossing the lines. But now we have Order 270.”
“Order 270.” I echoed Stalin’s remorseless words: “There are no Soviet prisoners of war, only traitors.”
Lilya explained, “Unless they have proof that you were killed in action, they’ll treat you as a deserter. My mother and brother would be all alone and they wouldn’t get any benefits from my death. Yuri’s only thirteen. Can you imagine what life would be like for him with two traitors in his family? I need to succeed as a pilot.”
I looked at my friend, 150 centimeters tall, girlish and delicate. She as wearing a scarf she had made out of dyed parachute fabric. Lilya Litvyak was an enigma.
I knew one thing: I didn’t envy anyone who had to face her on the battlefield.
TWELVE
7 January 1942
Dearest Valyushka,
I can only imagine what you’re going through right now. I know there are no words I can put in this letter to make the pain go away. I wish I were there. Then I wouldn’t need to use words.
I’ll admit I was jealous of Iskra when she first showed up in Stakhanovo. You were so taken with her. She was so smart and sophisticated, and somehow you two seemed to have more in common from your one visit to Moscow than we did from our entire childhood. How could a kid like me compete? But Iskra was always sweet to me and she doted on my little sister, and whatever we were doing, she always made sure I was included. Pretty soon it was like having an extra sister.
Now I know that I didn’t need to worry about losing you as a friend. There are friends who come and go, but then there are friends who are your second family, and those friends you never lose, no matter what happens.