by C. S. Taylor
A few paces into my walk, she called out to me. “I never hated her.”
“What?”
“Alexandra,” she said. “I never did, but I know you think so.”
My thoughts split into a hundred different directions. Could I talk about this? Did I want to? How could she ever say otherwise? “You never treated her well.” As much as I loved Klara, saying anything else felt like it would betray my wingman. “You two were practically at each other’s throats.”
“I might have been jealous of all the time you two spent together,” she said.
“Might?”
“I was. I was,” she said. Her voice picked up tempo and fluttered in pitch as if she barely had control. “But that was before I had you, before we-” She stopped and shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. All I want you to know is in the end, I was thankful you had her.”
I couldn’t help but snort. Some of Third Squadron’s ground crew were walking the airfield nearby, and I worried they were about to see me lose my mind. “I’m sorry. This is a little much for me at the moment.”
“You don’t have to believe me. I wouldn’t,” she said, “but it’s true. As much as I wished I had as much time with you as she did, she always looked out for you. She always brought you home safe. And that’s all I ever wished for.”
The newly formed lump in my throat made my reply near impossible. “She died for that wish, and all I could do was sing for her before she was gone.” I sucked in a breath and steeled myself. “I’m going to report in.”
Klara let me go, though I could tell by her pained expression she didn’t want me to leave. The couple of hundred meters to the command post seemed as if it stretched out to a full kilometer. The noise of Anisovka muted in my ears and the bustle was reduced to blurred movements in the corners of my vision. My mind was shutting down in anticipation of having to relive the day before in agonizing detail.
Gridnev was waiting for me outside, his leather flight jacket zipped up and goggles around his neck. “Come in, Nadya,” he said, holding the door open for me. “This will only take a moment. I’m taking some of the boys from Third Squadron up for some training.”
I nodded. My muscles relaxed as I stepped through the threshold and thanked God for the small favor. “I’ll try to write it up quickly so you can sign and be on your way, comrade major.”
I sat down at the chair by his desk and looked at the map on the wall. Battle lines around Stalingrad were scribbled all across it. The German army had a firm foothold there, that much was clear, and the Romanian armies looked to be dug in and protecting the flanks. The war looked as it always had on first glance, but as Gridnev rifled through some papers and I studied it more, I noticed a buildup of Soviet forces to the south and northwest of the city.
“Is something going on, comrade major?” I asked, eyes fixated.
“With Stalingrad? Always.” he said. He flopped a couple of pages onto the desk and pushed them my way. “I put this together based on what you told others at Rakhinka. Read, sign at the bottom. You’re on light duty for today, but you’re flying tomorrow. I know Alexandra was close to you, but I need everyone, every day, from here on out.”
I barely heard the last two sentences. I was too busy reading what he’d put in my lap. It was the after-action report I was supposed to give. Normally, I’d give an oral report, type it up after answering any questions he might have, and then we’d both sign it together. Instead, this report had already been signed—and prepared, I assumed—by him. The contents were straightforward, accurate for the most part as to what happened on the escort. It said I earned two kills, but also claimed Alexandra had shot down two 109s and an He-111 before running out of ammunition and being forced to return to Rakhinka. And she had done all of that after being wounded.
As much as I wanted her to go home a heroine, it would be another lie I’d have to live with. I slumped in the chair. “This isn’t right, comrade major. She didn’t shoot down anything.”
Gridnev arched an eyebrow. “Are you certain? I was under the impression you’d temporarily lost sight of her.”
I nodded. “That’s correct, comrade major.”
“Then unless you saw something concrete contradicting this report, I’d like you to sign at the bottom.”
I took the pen he offered and looked down at the line begging for my signature. A few simple strokes of the pen would grant Alexandra one last set of honors, I knew, and no one would be the wiser—especially with Gridnev’s approval. Morality aside, putting lies to official reports was a severe crime, and I didn’t understand why Gridnev would risk such a thing. Then again, the report would likely never be challenged. Still, my gut tightened. “Why?”
“Because she deserves the honor for all that she’s done,” Gridnev said. “And her parents could use the extra comfort knowing their girl died valiantly protecting Stalingrad and had something to show for her sacrifices.”
I pulled the report closer. I wanted to sign and give Alexandra the recognition she deserved. She may not have shot down a couple of fascists that day, but she was no less heroic in my eyes. I longed for people to talk about her fondly for generations, and this gave it to her. She’d be an ace. One of the few pilots to have five confirmed kills in aerial combat—a female one at that.
“I can’t,” I said with a heavy sigh. “It’s not the truth, and she’d have my head if she could if I did such a thing. Honesty was always the most important thing to her.”
Gridnev smiled and took the report. He crumpled it up and tossed in a nearby box. “How is this one then?” he asked, reaching in his desk and handing me a new document.
I looked it over. The report was sterile, a simple account of an uneventful escort followed by an interception of German bombers. It credited me with victories over an He-111 and a Bf-109. Alexandra’s loss was a line near the end, and like the first one, Gridnev had already signed it at the bottom. I detested how little attention she’d been given, but signed the paper without objection. “This one is accurate, comrade major.”
He tucked the form back into a folder. There was a hint of pride in his eyes, accented by the smile on his face. “You may go, Nadya, and do as you please for the rest of the day. Thank you.”
I stood, bewildered at what had happened. I started for the door, but stopped after a couple of steps and turned back toward him. “Why the two reports?”
“I wasn’t lying about what I said of Alexandra,” he replied. “But there are some who would have liked you to sign the first document and those reasons were not good ones.”
“Petrov . . .” The Commissar’s name slipped by my lips without thought. My eyes widened at the spoken accusation, but they found nothing to be fearful of in Gridnev’s look.
“Your intuitions serve you well, Nadya,” he said. “I told him you’d never lie, even to benefit another. But I’d leave this exchange—even the false report—unspoken from here on out if I were you. I don’t want him or anyone else thinking you didn’t sign the original report because I tipped you off.”
“Of course, comrade major.”
I should have been happier to have sidestepped Petrov’s little trap. There was no telling what he wanted to do to me had he caught me making false reports. The truth of the matter was, however, there was no telling what he’d try next.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
A ZIS-5 truck idled near my dugout. White smoke from the exhaust hung in the air, making clouds that reminded me of those I’d been in the day before. A driver waited inside the cab, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as he absently stared at the entrance to my earthen home. A few moments later, a soldier came out of the dugout with a stuffed burlap sack over his shoulder and a large book in his arm. Alexandra’s book.
“What are you doing?” I yelled, running up and planting myself between the soldier and the waiting truck.
The young private jumped. He looked himself over with a perplexed expression on his face as if some grave breach in his un
iform of winter coat and pants was about to send him to the stockades. “Junior Lieutenant Makunina’s items are being sent to her parents, comrade pilot,” he said. “Major’s orders.”
I snatched the copy of War and Peace he carried like a hawk plucking a fish from water. “This isn’t going.”
“The Major was explicit,” he stammered. “Everything goes.”
“This does not go,” I said.
“The book has her-” The soldier hesitated. His face paled and his voice trailed as he finished his thought. “It has her name in it.”
At that point I realized my left hand had tightened around the handle of my revolver at my side. I let go of the firearm, but kept the intensity in my voice and stare. “This book stays.”
The poor boy shifted the sack on his shoulders, and thankfully for the both of us, he didn’t argue any further. “Yes, comrade pilot.”
I fumed as he hopped in the truck and left, all the while clutching Alexandra’s book against my chest. It was all I had left of her and I’d be damned if I was going to let anyone take it from me. I headed inside the dugout and cringed at how hollow it felt when I looked at Alexandra’s bunk. Without her personal affects around, the place seemed alien, even more so when I noticed Bri and the mutt had taken refuge under Alexandra’s bunk together. I wouldn’t have called them friends, but I assumed their mutual hatred of the cold drove them to a cease fire.
Needing a distraction, I sat on my bunk, opened her book, and thumbed to the first chapter. I had to shift in order for the light outside to reach the pages and see well enough to read:
Well, Prince, so Genoa and Lucca are now just family estates of the Buonapartes. But I warn you, if you don’t tell me that this means war, if you still try to defend the infamies and horrors perpetuated by that Antichrist-
“So, Junior Lieutenant, it seems you’ve taken to strong-arm robbery now.”
Given the line I was reading, Commissar Petrov’s arrival couldn’t have been any timelier. He stood at the entryway of the dugout, looking at me as hungry as ever. He also held an air of smugness about him, one that said he’d finally gotten what he’d been long searching for.
“I don’t have time or energy to guess what you’re talking about, Commissar,” I said, barely remembering to interject some proper formality into my reply.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” he said as he closed the distance between us. “If you’re going to lie, try not to sweat so much. We both know you stole property from the deceased, with a gun, no less.”
I stood with the strength of a saint accused of blasphemy and kept the book behind my back and out of his reach. “The book is mine.”
“No, Nadya, it’s not,” he said, drawing a thin smile. “The inscription on the inside clearly states it was Alexandra’s, and now it belongs to her family.”
My eyes narrowed, and I wanted nothing more than to pull the man apart, limb from limb. “You’ve got no authority here, and I don’t care what the hell you think you know.”
He struck me on the side of the head with his fist. “I assure you, I have plenty of authority, and this goes beyond a mere book,” he said as I reeled from the blow. As I recovered, he held out his palm. In it was the scorched and slightly melted remains of the syrette I’d tossed into the oil drum the other day. “Recognize it? I missed it yesterday, but this morning I had the inkling to look around one last time. I’m glad I did.”
“It’s not mine.”
“How predictable,” he said, chuckling.
My mechanic stepped in, stopping just inside the threshold, confusion splayed across her face. “You wanted to see me?”
The Commissar turned and held the syrette out for her to see. “What can you tell me about this?”
Klara’s eyes flickered to the needle, and her mouth hung open for a couple of heartbeats before responding. “I-I don’t know what to say.”
Petrov snickered. “I think that’s all you needed to say,” he replied. “The only thing at this point I should consider is whether or not you’re her accomplice.”
“No. She didn’t-I mean, it could be anyone’s. Alexandra’s even.” With every stumble Klara took, I could feel the graveness of the situation worsen. I’m sure she could too since she fidgeted with her hands and couldn’t find a place comfortable to stand.
“I’d considered that possibility, Klara, when I first found it,” he said. “But logically, it’s much more likely to be Nadya’s. Alexandra would have never stolen from us. And that’s why I wanted you here, so I could see your reaction. You’re as guilty as she is and will suffer the same.”
I leapt forward. “I stole it. Not her. She had nothing to do with it.”
Petrov smirked. “As if I’d believe you two lovers have any secrets between the two of you. I’m going to enjoy keeping you both alive as long as I can.”
I replied by driving the palm of my hand into his nose. A soft crunch filled the air. Blood splattered across my hand and sprayed on the ground. He stumbled back and fumbled for his pistol.
“Don’t you dare!” I yelled, drawing my own sidearm and pointing it at his chest.
“You filthy little coward,” he said. “Drop that weapon right this instant or so help me I’ll have you tortured for a month before your body gives up its ghost.”
“I’m the coward? I’m the coward!” I screamed, backing toward the exit. “I dance with Death every day while you sit behind the lines trying to be important!”
Petrov drew his weapon. I pulled the trigger. My ears rang from the blasts of two distinct shots. Smoke lingered in the air and filled my nose with the smell of gunpowder. The Commissar screamed in pain, clutching his bloody right hand with his left. His pistol laid on the ground, several paces away. Klara retreated with wide eyes and a slew of mutterings.
“You shot me!” Petrov started at me, but froze when I snapped out of my trance and leveled my revolver at his head. “You’ve only sealed your fate at this point.”
My body shook, and it was all I could do not to break out into a run. Dogfighting Luftwaffe seemed a thousand fold safer at this point, but like any fur ball, I knew I had to keep my wits about me and stay one step ahead if I was going to survive. “I’ll be the one deciding what my fate is.”
My hand cramped, and the all-too-familiar fire built in my palm and worked its way down my arm. I backed, knowing I had to get out of there before my burns betrayed me.
“Oh what I’m going to do to you,” he said, grinning. “If you had any sense, you’d turn that gun on yourself.”
I gritted my teeth. Sweat dripped into my eyes, and I kept the weapon trained on his chest as I continued to leave. “Don’t even think about moving,” I said. “I can still use it on you.”
“Nadya! Don’t make it worse!” Klara shrieked, grabbing my shoulder from the side.
I’m glad I had the sense not to turn, for as I shrugged her off, Petrov started for me. My eyes staying locked on him were the only things that kept him at bay. “Hold still, damn you!”
Petrov shifted his gaze to Klara. “Comrade Rudneva, stop this turncoat. She’s trying to kill me. She’s trying to kill us all.”
“Shut up!” I said. “You’re the only one trying to kill anyone around here. You’ve had it out for me from the start.”
Petrov ignored my words and stayed focused on Klara. “She hates the Motherland, hates us all. She’s the same as her father who fought with the White Army. Stop her now and I’ll see you’re never punished for her crimes.”
“No,” Klara said, her voice barely a whisper. “Tell me he’s lying.”
I hesitated, horrified that he’d learned my family’s past. As my shoulders fell and my jaw dropped, a wicked grin spread across his face. In that instant, I realized he’d bluffed, but it had worked.
“See, Klara, it’s true,” he said with a triumphant gleam in his eyes. “She’s from a family of traitors and a traitor herself. Why else did she shoot me? What more do you need? Take that gun from
her and take your place in history.”
“Klara, you know me,” I said, stepping back. My hand was cramping so badly I thought the muscles would tear themselves apart, so I shifted the pistol from my right hand to my left and hoped using it with that one wouldn’t matter at close range.
Petrov charged faster than a bull stuck with a branding iron, driving his shoulder into my chest and sending his hands after the revolver. We tumbled out of the dugout. The weapon fired once more before being knocked from my grasp.
Petrov landed on top of me. I clawed his eyes and left smears of blood on his face. He grabbed me by the hair, but his grip faltered. He opened his mouth to say something, but all that came out was a bright red bubble. Petrov fell to the side, and I scurried out from under him.
Klara was at my side before I even realized the commissar was dead. “Nadya,” she said, her eyes fixed on Petrov’s body. “What have you done?”
I caught myself on my knees and panted. “I had no choice.”
“No. No. This isn’t right,” she said. “How could you do this?”
“How could I? How could I not!” I yelled. “God, Klara! That psychotic ass was going to kill us both!”
Women and men from the entire regiment appeared, many with guns. Gridnev ran toward us as well, sidearm in hand. At that moment, I knew I’d be executed before sundown.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I sat on the straw mat in the box, rubbing my ankles. I was grateful the fetters that had been on them the first day had been removed, but my skin was still sore even though eight days had passed. Truth be told, I was surprised I was still in the box at this point and not dumped in a shallow grave, but I didn’t regret what I’d done. I was glad to have stood up to Petrov, and if I were to die, at least I’d die true to myself and not hiding. Thankfully, Klara would escape it all. I only hoped whatever was in store for me wouldn’t be visited on my parents as well.