Nadya's War

by C. S. Taylor

  My dry tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth and my heart pounded against my ribcage as I started to panic over the severity of my wounds. Infection could kill as easily as any bullet, and there was no telling what I’d picked up on the way. I toyed with the idea of risking a wash back at the river, but with the Germans still in the area, I guessed I’d be shot in short order. Thus, I had to find water elsewhere. Sadly, I had difficulty remembering the maps of the area.

  It took me a good five minutes to slow my breath and calm my mind enough to think clearly. I had a feeling that there was a small village to the northeast, so I limped in that direction. With a bit of luck, I could get some alcohol to clean my wounds and then stuff my face with food. On top of everything else, my stomach was gnawing on itself. At least I was safe from German infantry. They were headed to Stalingrad and wouldn’t be on this side of the Don.

  The uneven terrain made for slow progress throughout the morning. Rocks dug into the tender soles of my feet, and I stopped often to let the pain in my ankle subside. My hands still tormented me, but I found a way to hold them at my side I could suffer through. To keep my mind off my wounds, possible infection, and a painful death, I imagined a crystal-clear pond waiting for me at the end of my journey. The thought of letting my matted hair soak and watching the dirt wash away soothed my soul like a cool summer’s breeze. I even smiled, more so when I added all the grapes I could eat to the fantasy.

  By noon, my thoughts muddled and my breath turned raspy. I needed something to drink. My burns must have caused dehydration to set in, and the sun wasn’t helping. I wanted to rest, but knew I couldn’t. So I willed myself forward, one step at a time.

  I turned to song for added relief. Song had been with me for twenty years of my life. My parents had sung to me when I needed it the most as a child, and now I would sing to myself for that same reason.

  The piece I chose was “Snow, the time has come.” Father used to say some people erroneously called it, “Snow, enough of you,” and thinking about that made me laugh. I settled on that piece because it was one every Cossack knew by heart, one sung before battle, and one that strengthened the bonds of family.

  I started the song slow, working the bottom of my register as the words stirred my soul. By the second verse, I imagined a chorus of brothers and sisters in arms traveling with me, each with their own burdens to carry, each one lending their own voice. When I reached the end of the first stanza, pride and energy coursed through my veins.

  I ignored the scratchiness in my throat and sang on. Two stanzas. Three. The words came faster, stronger, as did my steps. I sang of life as a Cossack, of carrying on without fear and worry. I sang of dark woods and foreign lands. I sang of parents, family, and wine. I sang with all of my heart, teary eyed and broken, but not defeated.

  I stepped onto a dirt road and took several steps across it before realizing its significance. This would lead to somewhere with people, with help. Maybe even to a friendly baker who had a plate full of turnovers and a pint of fresh milk in miraculous anticipation of my arrival. He’d also double as an excellent physician that could patch me up in no time.

  I dropped to my knees to give a thankful prayer and rest my weary body.

  A vehicle skidded by, clipping my left side. I spun to the ground. The back of my head struck hard, and my vision exploded in an array of colorful lights.

  Shadowy forms loomed over me against a blown-out sky. Their words were muffled in my ears. I tried to sit up, but their firm hands kept me on the ground.

  “I need to get to Anisovka,” I said, my voice weaker than a chick’s first attempt at flight. “And I need a bath.”

  The voices replied, but they were less intelligible than before. Pressure tightened under my shoulders, and my knees were lifted in the air. My surroundings became meaningless shapes of color and motion before I slipped into blissful unconsciousness.

  Chapter Three

  I drifted in and out of sleep as I was taken on a bumpy ride. I caught glimpses of the tan interior of a beat-up car, and occasionally saw the driver and the front-seat passenger. They both wore camouflage smocks and olive M40 helmets. They spoke from time to time, but I’d pass out before I could talk to either.

  When I woke for good, I was lying on the ground next to a green GAZ-61 automobile, surrounded by three men. The tallest of the group was both muscular and aged. He wore trousers as grey as a stormy sky and a white cotton shirt with its sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His face reminded me of the infamous Kamchatka brown bear, and I guessed he was nearly as strong.

  The other two I recognized as those who’d been in the car with me. The over-sized Soviet uniforms they wore combined with each of their young faces made it seem as if they were playing war in their older brother’s clothes more than they were true soldiers of the Motherland. To that observation, I couldn’t help but let out a stifled chuckle.

  “She wakes,” the tall man said, pointing two fingers at me. He kneeled at my side and put his hand on my shoulder when I tried to stand. “Stay on the stretcher,” he said. “I don’t want you to put weight on that ankle.”

  My face scrunched. “Who are you?”

  “Doctor Grigory Rusak. You’re at my field hospital,” he said, gesturing to his side.

  I glanced at the two-story farm house. Though it looked older than the Church, I was grateful for anything indoors at this point. “I could use some water,” I said. “My throat is parched.”

  One of the soldiers produced a canteen. “Here. Drink slowly.”

  I sat up and snatched it out of his hand. Lighting shot up my arm, causing me to whimper. Still, I tried to take hold of the canteen but ended up dropping it as the pain intensified a thousand fold.

  “Allow me,” the doctor said, picking up the canteen and holding it to my lips.

  The warm liquid coated my mouth and throat. It spilled from my lips while I chugged, dripped down my neck, and soaked my clothes. In that moment, I couldn’t have been happier.

  “Thank you,” I said, once finished. “What happened?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me,” the doctor replied. “Soldiers Pasportnikov and Orlov were running supplies when you stepped in front of their auto. I’m guessing they’re responsible for your concussion, but not your burns, nor the half set of clothes you’re wearing.”

  “What kind of person rams another with their vehicle?” I asked.

  “An accident, I’m assured. What can you remember?”

  I looked at the two boys, hoping they would jog my memory. They looked away, shame and worry on both their faces. I laughed.

  Grigory tilted his head and he looked at me like I was a curiosity in a museum. “What’s so funny?”

  “I called them boys in my head,” I explained. “I dare say they’re my age.”

  The doctor smiled. “Good. Your head isn’t as cracked as I feared. How old are you?”

  “Twenty,” I said. I was pleased the answer came to me without hesitation. “I’ll be twenty-one this October.”

  “You’re wearing the trousers and shirt of someone in the Motherland’s service,” Grigory said. “Were you in combat?”

  I looked myself over. Combat? I was in uniform, or half of one at least as I was missing a jacket and boots. Dirt encrusted my pants and tunic, but I didn’t see any bullet holes. I wrinkled my nose at the smell wafting from my lower half. I needed a bath, preferably a foam one in a tub the size of a cargo ship with champagne and strawberries. And as long as I was daydreaming, a personal stylist—the kind the stars of motion pictures had—to tend to my ratted hair would be fantastic.

  A plane flew overhead, and the previous day’s events flooded my mind. I could smell the grease from Klara and relished the memory of her embrace. But then I saw the fire inside my cockpit, felt my frantic bailout, and heard Martyona’s fighter explode when it crashed into the ground. My breath left me, promising to never return.

  “Easy,” Grigory said. “War is still fresh in your head. We’l
l talk later when you’re able.”

  Pasportnikov and Orlov carried me inside via stretcher. They transferred me to a table inside a small room that smelled of alcohol and urine. After I was situated, they retreated from the room, and once they were beyond the doorway, I heard them begin to talk about me in hushed tones. Instead of trying to eavesdrop, I stared at a mildew-covered ceiling and thought about Martyona. Those thoughts consumed me in seconds, and I relived her death again and again. Each time I saw her plane go down I was reminded how powerless I was to stop it—how useless.

  What did that make me? A failed pilot. A daughter from a long line of holy warriors who’d brought shame to her lineage, to her God. The Almighty, after all, protected His saints, answered their prayers, but did nothing for mine. I wondered what I’d done to warrant His scorn. For a moment, I wondered if He even existed. Immediately, I chastised myself for thinking such things. Saints had suffered more than I’d endured. Perhaps that was why they were saints and I was not.

  “Good sprain on that right ankle,” Grigory said, entering the room and holding an x-ray in my face. “Bones are fine, lucky for you. I’m still worried about your head. Any injury that affects thinking has the potential to be serious.”

  “So no head-butting my CO, and I should wait till next week for the marathon?” I said, managing a half smile.

  “Don’t take your condition lightly,” he said. “The brain can be both resilient and fragile. I’m not sure which yours is. And that leg of yours has a lot of bruising and injured ligaments. You’ll need to stay off it for at least two weeks,” he said. “Light duty after that for another three or four. By then most of your burns should’ve healed. I think I can clean them well enough to stave off any serious infection.”

  “Most?”

  “The majority are second degree, including the ones on your neck and thigh. They are painful, I’m certain, but not critical,” he said. “Small portions of your hands and arms are much worse. You can see by the charred look they have. I doubt you’re feeling much from them now, but they will likely cause you problems later down the road.”

  “My cockpit was on fire,” I whispered. “After I bailed out, I searched through a wreck on the ground.”

  “You’re a pilot then. I’d heard they’d put together a few female regiments. You’re the first girl I’ve met from them.”

  “I was a pilot,” I replied. With Martyona’s death over my head, I didn’t feel worthy of the title. She was a pilot. I was the person who got her killed.

  “Are a pilot,” he corrected. I suspected he hadn’t a clue why I had said what I said because he tried to sound hopeful as he delivered his prognosis. “Your ankle will heal. I’ll need to do some debridement on those burns once you’re cleaned. They might hurt the rest of your life, but I believe you’ll be back in the air sooner than you think.”

  “I hope so,” I said, faking a smile. I didn’t believe any of what he said, but his kindness touched me, and I thought the least I could do was make him feel as if he were making a difference. Men, boys, always tried to fix things, and what was wrong with me was nothing they could set straight. Thus I figured it was better to put on a show. I tried telling myself tomorrow would be easier. I almost believed it.

  “You don’t sound convinced,” said a new voice. “Not what I would’ve expected from a pilot for the Motherland.”

  I craned my neck to see who had spoken. Near the entrance of the room stood a man in his forties. He wore a dark tunic with blue shoulder pads and piping. A leather belt was cinched across his waist, and on it he kept a Tokarev semi-automatic pistol holstered. His dark breeches were also piped blue and stuffed into high-top leather boots. I recognized him immediately as a commissar of the NKVD—the People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs—but I didn’t need to see his uniform to know that. His devil eyes and cruel face told me enough.

  “I have fought as I should, Commissar,” I said.

  “The flutter in your voice belies your claim,” he said. “You’re likely a deserter, or a thief who stole clothes. Possibly both.”

  “I’m no thief, and I’m no deserter,” I said. I may have cost Martyona her life, but it wasn’t because I left her to die. No one could call me a coward, and I wasn’t about to let that positive bit of my character be stripped from me. And I would never, ever be a thief, so help me God. “I am Junior Lieutenant Nadezhda Buzina, assigned to the 586th Fighter Aviation Regiment at Anisovka.”

  The Commissar crossed his arms over his chest and smirked. “And pray tell, why are you so far from your airfield, Junior Lieutenant Nadezhda Buzina?”

  “I was patrolling the Don, northwest of Stalingrad, with Senior Lieutenant Martyona Gelman. We intercepted a flight of bombers yesterday, and I was shot down,” I said. My shoulders slumped. Though I wanted to stay strong in the face of this officer, the wounds to my heart were still fresh.

  “So I can radio your unit and she will corroborate your story? She will tell me of your bravery and how you stopped the bombers at all costs? Or will she curse your cowardly retreat?”

  A lump formed in my throat. “She’ll do neither. She was killed.”

  “How convenient for you the brave one perished and you did not.”

  “Convenient? Convenient!” I shot up with fire in my blood. “Yesterday was the worst day of my life!”

  “It was the worst day of her life,” he said. “Stabbed in the back by a coward who should’ve been loyal to her to the end. You should’ve fought with every bullet you had and when they were gone, you should have plowed your fighter right through their cockpits.”

  “I fought until my plane exploded,” I said. “And then I fought with one of their pilots when I crossed with him on the ground.”

  “Did you kill him? Or better, bring him back for interrogation?”

  “No,” I said. “I took a shot at him as he hid, but I had to escape when the panzers came.”

  Petrov snorted. “One shot and you ran. The story of a deserter and traitor. You should have beaten him to death with your hands if you had to. You shame your regiment and aren’t even a step above those filthy Cossacks who betrayed the Motherland.”

  I tried to go after him, but Grigory locked his hand on my shoulder and kept me in place. “You have no idea who I am,” I said, balling a fist behind my back. “Do the world a favor and play in a minefield.”

  The Commissar pulled his weapon and leveled it at my head. “I should shoot you on the spot and save myself the trouble of an investigation,” he said. “You’d serve as a good example to the rest. Failing one’s duties won’t be tolerated.”

  Before I could speak, Grigory stepped forward with one hand outstretched. “If she’s telling the truth, Commissar Petrov, there will be hell to pay,” he said. “She would’ve been handpicked by Marina Raskova, and from what I hear she’ll fight for all of her girls tooth and nail. You don’t want her using her connections with Stalin against you if you act without proof.”

  Petrov lowered his pistol and stared at me the way I imagined a hungry shark would watch a wounded seal make it to shore. “Thank the good doctor,” he said. “He saved your life. But talk to me that way again, and I’ll end it without hesitation.” When I didn’t do as he told, he set his jaw and motioned toward Grigory. “I said thank him.”

  “Thanks,” I said, not daring to take my eyes off the Commissar.

  “I’ll leave you be for now,” Petrov went on. “But I will investigate your loyalty. When I find you in want, not even Major Raskova will be able to protect you. I don’t care how much of a national heroine she is.”

  “You’ll not find me in want,” I said. I prayed the lie was good enough, not only because deep down I felt I’d failed on patrol, but also because my family had ties to the White Army during the Revolution years ago. If he found out, he’d label me an enemy of the state and execute me on the spot.

  Petrov left, and for the next several minutes Grigory washed my lower right leg and wrapped my ankle in a tight
bandage. When he was finished, he broke the silence. “For your sake, I hope you fly better than you mind your manners. Picking a fight with a commissar is like picking one with a king cobra. You can only hope he doesn’t want to waste his venom when he decides to strike.”

  “He started it,” I said, despite how childish it sounded. “Why is he after me?”

  “The Germans march on Stalingrad,” Grigory said. “We’ve lost the gains we made last winter, and though no one wants to say it, that city is going to be a last stand we may lose. But don’t worry. If they shot every pilot who’d lost his aircraft, we’d have airfields of planes with only ghosts to fly them before the month was up. He’ll move on to other things.”

  “I hope you’re right. It’s not easy to relax after staring down the barrel of a gun.”

  Despite the doctor’s optimism, I couldn’t shake the feeling the commissar’s fixation on me was far from over. We didn’t discuss the matter any further, and after being given a crutch, I was escorted by a soldier into a room where yellow paint peeled from dirty wooden walls and piles of laundry were stacked everywhere.

  A nurse named Sofia entered and shooed my male escort out. She looked older than my mother by at least ten years. Countless wrinkles had set into her round and stoic face, and I found myself jealous of her shoulder-length, curly hair. She wore the hair of a girl. Mine was a boy’s cut, chopped short the day I arrived at Engels to train as a fighter pilot.