Beautiful Assassin

by Michael C. White

  He made a perfunctory attempt at small talk before turning to the captain. The other handed a box to the general, who opened it, removed a medal.

  “Tat’yana Aleksandrovna Levchenko,” he recited formally, “for your gallantry in fighting the fascist invaders of Sevastopol, on behalf of Secretary Stalin and the entire Soviet people, it is my great honor to present you with the Gold Star medal, honoring you as a Hero of the Soviet Union. Congratulations, Lieutenant,” Petrov said.

  Then he placed the medal on the flimsy material of my hospital gown. After which, he stood at attention and saluted me. The award, I must confess, came as a surprise, as did the promotion to lieutenant. But more surprising was the fact that I really didn’t care about any of that now, the medals and honors, the number of Germans I had killed. Others in my unit had fought just as hard and as bravely as I. And so many had given their lives. In fact, it all felt hollow to me now. Just more empty propaganda from the big shots in the Kremlin. I thought of all the troops left behind in Sevastopol, abandoned by men like this Petrov, men who’d saved their own necks because they were too “important” to die for the Motherland. I told myself to let it go, that it would serve no point. Besides, I was a soldier, and it was not my place to question the decisions of my superiors. Still, I felt I couldn’t remain silent. I had to speak for the others who couldn’t speak for themselves.

  “The soldiers left behind, sir,” I said.

  “Yes, Lieutenant?”

  “What of them?”

  The general nodded gravely.

  “Yes, indeed. A terrible tragedy.”

  “They felt betrayed, General.”

  I saw my comment reflected in Petrov’s startled expression. He stared at me, his thin lips pursed, his eyes inflamed by such impudence.

  “It was a very difficult decision, Lieutenant,” he replied curtly.

  I hesitated, wondering how far I could go. How far I dare go. Yet then I thought of Captain Petrenko, Zoya, the others left behind.

  “You betrayed us, sir.”

  “That will be—” began the captain harshly, but General Petrov stayed him with a hand.

  Petrov turned toward me, his eyes softening.

  “In war,” he explained, “unpleasant decisions have to be made. Sometimes a battle must be lost in order for the war to be won.” Then he reached out and took my left hand in both of his. “I understand how you feel, Lieutenant. Believe me, they are all on my conscience. Before I go,” he said, “is there anything I can do for you, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, sir, there is. A soldier in my company, Corporal Zoya Kovshova. We were a sniper team. This medal is as much hers as it is mine. We were separated in the last days of Sevastopol. If it is possible, I would like to find out what became of her?”

  General Petrov turned to the captain, who wrote something in a little notebook. “I shall look into it,” Petrov said to me.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Anything else, Lieutenant?” said Petrov, glancing at his watch.

  “One more thing, sir. My husband, Nikolai. I have had no word from him for nearly a year. He was sent to Leningrad.”

  “I’ll have Captain Meretskov here look into it. The people of the Soviet Union are grateful to you, Lieutenant. You have been a tremendous inspiration to all of us.”

  My recovery went slowly. The ringing in my ears lessened to a low drone, and the wound in my belly had healed enough to permit me to get up and walk a little. But I was exhausted after just a few steps. When I took a bath, I was startled by both the bright pink scar that slashed over my belly and by the weight I’d lost. My ribs stuck out, and my normally well-toned arms were thin. My face too had become gaunt, my eyes dull and sunken. Still, each day I pushed myself a little harder, walking farther up and down the corridors. I forced myself to eat despite having no appetite, hoping to get back to the front sooner—that was the one thing that inspired me, kept me going. Whenever I met the doctor, I’d ask when I could return to the war. He would always say something vague like, “Soon, soon.”

  I read books whose titles I couldn’t remember, met people who came in to see the Hero of the Soviet Union but whose names and faces I quickly forgot. I wrote to Kolya, at first long, rambling letters talking fondly, nostalgically of our days in Kiev, a city that no longer existed, about a life that no longer existed either, letters I knew had little chance of finding their way to him. But then I began to write more truthfully, more honestly, of how I felt. Of how I’d always felt. Perhaps knowing that the letters would never reach him permitted me at last to be honest, knowing they were more for myself than for him. Perhaps too it had something to do with the fact that I could never have children, that if I returned to my marriage it would just be the two of us, forever. Without even the possibility of children to soften the loneliness that would enclose the two of us like a cell. I no longer felt as I had when I thought I was going to die. One’s feelings are exaggerated, distorted at such extreme moments. I loved Kolya, but it was the love one has for a dear friend, for a brother. Not for a husband. And while I didn’t say it in my letters—that would be too cruel—I knew now that if we were able to survive the war and meet again, that I would leave him. As much for his sake as mine. He deserved to have someone love him as much as he loved me. And I deserved to be honest with myself, to live a life I wanted and not one that others wanted for me. Writing truthfully of my feelings, I felt a heavy weight lifted from my shoulders.

  As I walked along the corridors, I saw many of the other wounded, some much worse than I—soldiers missing limbs, others badly burned or in wheelchairs, some paralyzed and confined to bed. I befriended one young soldier who had been blinded in the fighting at Odessa, a private named Polyakov. His face and hands were terribly disfigured from burns. It was hard to look at him at first. He resembled a shriveled-up old man with a mummy’s leathery face. I would sit by his bedside and read to him. When I finished reading, he would say, “Please. If you wouldn’t mind, just a little more, Comrade.” I knew it was mostly that he didn’t want to be alone. So I’d read a few more pages.

  “Does it look so bad?” he asked me once. “You can tell me the truth.”

  “No,” I lied.

  “Before the war I had a fiancée. Zhenya was a pretty girl. All the young men in my village wanted to court her.” He paused for a moment, staring off with his sightless eyes. “I wonder if she will still want me now.”

  “Of course she will,” I said to him. “You have sacrificed much for the country. What girl wouldn’t want to marry someone like that?”

  “But the war has changed me. I’m not the same person she knew.”

  “On the outside perhaps.”

  “I feel different too. Do you feel different inside, Lieutenant?”

  “I suppose, a little. But it’s the times that we live in. We’re still the same people. When it is over, everything will go back to being the way it was.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “Of course,” I replied.

  Later, as I lay in bed staring out at the sea, I thought of what I’d told the young private. How everything would go back to the way it had been. A lie, I knew. I wasn’t the same person anymore. I was as different from that woman as the burned man was from his former self. And I knew neither of us could go back to those former selves.

  One day a soldier showed up in my room, carrying a burlap sack over his shoulder.

  “You are Tat’yana Levchenko, no?” he asked.

  “I am.”

  He dropped the sack on my nightstand. “This is for you,” he said and left.

  Inside, I found a pile of mail. Hundreds of letters, all addressed to me. I took out a letter, opened it, began to read.

  Dear Lieutenant Levchenko,

  I am fifteen years old. My family was killed at Korelitsy. My parents, three brothers and sister. I managed to escape and fled into the woods, where I joined the partisans. Hearing of your daring exploits against those monsters has given me new ho
pe. Get well for all of us.

  Sincere regards,

  Lyudmila Bershankaya

  I picked out another, this one in a thick brown envelope that had some heft to it. When I opened it, something solid and heavy fell onto my lap. I picked it up. It was a 7.62 mm bullet. On the side of the shell casing was written, FOR FRITZ.

  Dear Tat’yana Levchenko,

  I want to personally thank you for every German you have sent to hell. My son was captured at Kharkov and I have not heard from him since. I have been working in a munitions factory in Voronezh. With each bullet I make I say a little prayer that it finds the heart of an invader. I send you one that I would be honored for you to use in your glorious work. May God bless you and keep you safe.

  Yours truly,

  Nadezhda Sebrova

  I read another and then another. They praised or thanked me. They spoke of my courage. They told me how proud they were of me. They said how much my bravery had inspired them, given them hope. Many offered prayers for my speedy recovery. A few sent photos of loved ones who’d died. Others enclosed small gifts, sweets or cigarettes or tinned food. In one there was a rosary. In several I found articles cut out of newspapers, articles about me. As I read them, I found tears welling up in my eyes.

  Over the next few weeks I received piles of such letters, from all over the Soviet Union. Each day I would read some. They were mostly from women, mothers and grandmothers, daughters and sisters. But there were also a few from men. One man wrote a poem to me, expressing his undying love. A father sent a picture of his little daughter who said she wanted to grow up to be like Lieutenant Levchenko and kill Germans. I could read only so many before being overcome with emotion. Hearing of my countrymen’s losses, of the deaths of loved ones, of their pain and suffering, of the fragile hopes they’d fastened to me—I found it nearly overwhelming. But at the same time, the letters also buoyed my spirits. I felt both proud and humbled. The depression I’d felt since being wounded began to leave me. Slowly I started to feel better, to regain my strength. Now I wanted only to get well so that I could rejoin the fight. So I could fulfill everything they’d said about me.

  One day after I’d been there for almost a month, I was returning to my room after having read to the burned soldier. Standing at the window looking out was a small woman in uniform, her back to me.

  “May I help—” I began, but I froze when the woman turned toward me. “Zoya!”

  We rushed to greet each other and hugged fiercely. When I winced from my still tender wound, Zoya said, “I’m so sorry. Are you all right?”

  “Don’t worry. Come, sit.”

  We sat on the bed and held hands, and alternately cried tears of joy and hugged each other and giggled like a couple of schoolgirls.

  “I heard you received the Gold Star,” she offered.

  “Yes.”

  “Such an honor,” she said, squeezing my hand. “I am so proud of you.”

  “You deserve it as much as I.”

  “Nonsense. You did the shooting. I just served them up to you.”

  We laughed at that.

  “I still can’t believe my eyes,” I said. “I thought you were dead.”

  “The last I saw of you I thought the same thing.”

  “So it was you? Who saved me.”

  Zoya nodded, smiling modestly.

  “How? What happened?”

  “When I returned with the girl, the Germans had already overrun our position. Our troops were retreating down to the harbor under heavy fire. There was no sense trying to help, especially since the girl was with me, so we stayed in the sewer. I headed back to see if I could help you. I found you lying there. The girl and I pulled you into the sewer. We dragged you until we heard friendly voices. The last I saw of you they were bringing you to a field hospital.”

  I hugged her again. “Once more I have you to thank for my life, little mother.”

  “Look,” Zoya said, pointing to her shoulder. I hadn’t noticed the three red stripes of an NCO. “For saving your neck, they promoted me to sergeant. How about that?”

  “That’s wonderful,” I cried. “Tell me, how on earth did you find me?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “I was in Sumgait. They’d flown some of us there from Sevastopol. A blue hat came up to me and said I was to get on a plane at once and come. So here I am.”

  “What happened to our company?” I asked.

  Zoya harrumphed in her usual fashion. “Only a few of us got out. Ivanchuk. Cheburko. The medic, what’s his name? Yuri. The rest were either killed or taken prisoner.”

  “The captain?”

  Zoya shook her head. “He stayed behind, fighting to the last.”

  I was almost afraid to ask. “And the little girl?”

  “Raisa was evacuated with us.”

  “Thank God,” I said.

  “Yes, thank God,” Zoya said, crossing herself. “They put her on a ship bound for Canada.”

  “Canada?”

  “Yes. With other orphans from the Crimea.”

  I was pleased to learn not only that Raisa had survived but also that someone would take care of her, love her. She would become the woman my own Masha could not.

  Just then the aid came in with my noon meal.

  “Would you join me, Zoya?” I asked.

  “No, you go ahead and eat. You need it. My goodness, you’re skin and bones.”

  “Ach. They feed me so much I’ll be fat as a pig,” I said, puffing out my cheeks. Zoya laughed. “There’s enough for two. Come, we’ll share.”

  As we ate, we talked about what had happened to each other over the past several weeks. We spoke of Zoya’s family, and she asked if I’d heard anything from my husband. I told her I hadn’t. I didn’t tell her the extent of my wounds, the fact that I would never have children. I guess I didn’t want to blunt our joy. Zoya looked different to me. In the short time we’d been apart she no longer had the features of a girl. Perhaps it had been happening all along and I had just now noticed it. But the soft fullness of her face had become angular. Her cheeks were more prominent, and her mouth had the cynical edge to it of one hardened by experience. The change saddened me a little. When Zoya had first come to the unit she was hardly more than a fresh-faced girl.

  She told me that her new unit was going to be shipped out soon.

  “Do you know where?” I asked.

  “Word has it we’re headed for Stalingrad. Let’s hope it doesn’t end like Odessa or Sevastopol.”

  “I wish I were coming with you.”

  “You’re crazy, you know that,” Zoya said, glancing around the room. “They should make sure your head wasn’t injured.”

  We both laughed again. A sausage remained on the plate, and Zoya looked down at it, then at me.

  “Go ahead,” I said. “I’m full.”

  She picked it up and began eating it.

  “Besides,” said Zoya, “you’re famous now. They can’t risk losing you.”

  “How long can you stay?”

  “Not long, I’m afraid. I have to be back on the plane tonight.”

  “Remember your promise?” I told her.

  “What promise?”

  “You said you would come and visit me when this is over.”

  “Of course,” she said, glancing away.

  We both suspected, I think, that it would never happen. The war had brought us as close as sisters, had us sharing a foxhole and food and danger, had us killing men we didn’t know, and when it was over we would go back to our separate lives. It saddened me to think that I would never see Zoya again. We sat there, looking out the window toward the sea.

  “Oh,” she said, fumbling in her pocket. “I have something that is yours.”

  She took out a small leather case that I recognized immediately.

  “Dear God!” I cried. It was the case that held my personal effects, my wedding band, the only picture I had of Kolya and Masha, the lock of her hair.

  “I wanted to hold on to it
for you,” she said. “I didn’t want it getting lost. And then we were separated.”

  “Thank you, Zoya.”

  I opened it, looked at the picture of my daughter and Kolya, and began to cry.

  Zoya put her arm around me. “It’s all right, Tat’yana.”

  We talked for a long while. When it was time for her to leave, we hugged once again, and she headed for the door. But she stopped and turned toward me.

  “You take care of yourself, Tat’yana,” she said. “Allow yourself to be happy.”

  “Yes, little mother. I will.”

  “Good-bye.”

  6

  One morning several weeks later, while I was lying in bed reading some of the get-well letters I received, two men showed up at my room. The first was an older man, tall and gaunt and pale as curdled milk, with bushy eyebrows and thick glasses that made the whites of his eyes appear exaggeratedly large and soggy-looking. He looked like death warmed over. The other was much younger, a red-haired man with dark eyes and pimples still on his chin. It was sweltering, and both were sweating profusely. NKVD, I thought as soon as I’d laid eyes on them. Chekisty. You could always tell their sort. They were dressed in those dark, standard-issue, badly tailored suits and wore the unmistakable air of self-importance of the secret police. They strode in and stared around my room, without even bothering to identify themselves.

  “May I help you?” I asked.

  “Are you Lieutenant Tat’yana Levchenko?” replied the older of the two. He seemed to be the one in charge. He had a brusque demeanor, someone used to giving orders.

  “Yes,” I replied.

  “You are to come with us.”

  “What is this about?” I demanded.

  “I am not at liberty to say. You are to get your things together.”

  They stood in the room while I packed my soldier’s bag.

  “Do you need help?” offered the younger one. He was nicer than the other one, trying to be pleasant.

  Though the doctors had taken the cast off my arm, it was still in a sling and I wasn’t much good for anything. Still, I didn’t want these two touching my things.