Last Citadel wwi-3

by David L. Robbins

  She cued her horse ahead of Daniel, Breit, and Ivan. She passed Nikolai. The brother’s head was down, as though riding to his gallows. She sidled up next to Filip. The starosta did not turn his head.

  ‘Are you angry with me, Filip?’

  ‘Yes. I don’t want to do this.’

  Katya leaned from her saddle to touch the old man’s forearm. ‘I know.’

  ‘He’s my brother.’

  Now Filip swiveled his face to her. His eyes glistened.

  ‘It’s easy, Witch, when he’s not right here behind me. It’s easy to talk about how I’ll do this and that. But I understand him. Better than anybody.’

  His long nose was sharper than any feature of the landscape. His eyes were fixed on nothing Katya could see with him.

  ‘I’m sorry, Filip Filipovich.’

  The starosta nodded, his big brim dipped.

  ‘We were all so hungry, Witch. I’m sure you don’t understand that kind of hunger. The Germans gave us food because Nikolai helped them. They stopped punishing our village, stopped taking our men. Nikolai saved us. I ate the food. I lived in my house. I’m as bad as him. I won’t judge him.’

  Katya looked into the sky, her former battlefield, and thought of the danger she’d met up there in the past year. She and all the warriors, on air and ground and sea, they forgot. They were young and they bled, they gathered the war to themselves like their own hell and they did not see this old man and his old twin brother, how war does not always come in a different uniform or bursts of flame but may come as your brother, your village, your own soul. What can war not break? Nothing, if it can break a family. She blinked at a sudden tear. She turned her cheek away from Filip, to let it dry in the breeze before she spoke.

  ‘Is he there, do you think? The pilot?’ She kept to herself that his name was Leonid, she hid in her breast who the pilot was to her.

  Filip sighed and considered. ‘Yes. Nikolai said he was there three days ago. With so much going on at the front, I doubt there’s been time to take him anywhere else.’

  ‘Did you ask him if he knew the pilot’s name?’

  ‘He doesn’t. Nikolai asked… other questions for the Germans.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘Average. Brown hair. Slender.’

  ‘What color eyes? Does your brother remember?’

  ‘His eyes were too swollen to see their color, Witch.’

  She envisioned this. Leonid, she thought. God, Leonid. She asked, ‘What will happen if we don’t get to him?’

  ‘He’ll be taken back to Germany as a slave. Or shot.’

  The starosta said all this without emotion. He almost relished making these dire descriptions and the prediction, dispensing for Katya some pain to counterweight his own agony. He’d guessed the rescue of the pilot meant more to the Witch than freeing a downed Soviet flyer. Katya said nothing more. Filip was entitled. She’d brought him out here, to face his twin and save Leonid, for her own purposes. She pulled in her reins and let Filip ride past, then came Nikolai, the same man made twice, their hurt borne on two horses. Daniel and Ivan with the prisoner caught up to her.

  ‘Collaborator,’ Ivan sneered loud enough for Nikolai to hear. Daniel added nothing. Ivan jerked his head at Breit. ‘At least this son of a bitch wears a uniform. He won a medal.’

  They rode for another hour, skirting Tomarovka on their right. They cloaked themselves in the safety of the open, riding as innocuous peasants. From a distance they’d look smudged and humble, posing no danger. Besides, the Germans were not on the lookout for partisans during the daylight hours. The night was when the partisans struck.

  At 0915 hours the village of Kazatskoe appeared, an oasis of farm buildings in an expanse of greens and brown. From her saddle five kilometers away, the village appeared to Katya something dreamy and liquid, standing in a pool of shimmering heat mirage against the earth. Three silos rose as centurions, the rest of the village hunkered around them, homes and outbuildings. Five days ago when the battle started, this place was only four kilometers from the front lines. Now it was a drained place, intact but emptied. The Germans had billeted here, fortified the little town, then moved north with their attack. They left silence, like a spoiled well. There should be tractors, she thought, there should be a blacksmith’s anvil clanging through this heat, laundry snapping on lines. The war was here in the ghosts of sound.

  Josef trotted forward.

  ‘You all stay here,’ he ordered with his sunken-eyed intensity. The riders stopped.

  Nikolai did not turn his horse, he fixed his eyes on Kazatskoe and his back on Filip.

  ‘Hiwi.’ Josef snarled the curse name for collaborators at the rear of Nikolai’s head. ‘Turn around, hiwi.’’

  Nikolai made no move to comply. Big Ivan grunted. He wheeled his mount beside the twin and snatched the reins to bring Nikolai around to face Josef. The prisoner Breit gritted his teeth, he knew already that Josef was no one to ignore. Filip could not watch. He hung his head and the brim of his hat again covered his eyes.

  ‘The hiwi will take me into the town,’ Josef said. ‘We’ll find the house where the pilot is. Then we’ll come back and decide what to do. Hiwi.’

  ‘Yes.’ Nikolai answered with a quaver in his chin, like a man answering a judge, or the Reaper.

  ‘Know now I will kill you the instant you do anything other than what I tell you.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘If you take me to any house but the one the pilot is in, you won’t come back from that village.’

  Nikolai rested his eyes on black Josef. Seconds passed in the crackling quiet field. The twin seemed to soothe, a man finally at his destined place, at his gallows.

  ‘Yes,’ answered Nikolai.

  Josef swung in his saddle to face Breit.

  ‘Nazi. If you twitch the wrong way, Daniel will shoot you out of the saddle. Tell him, Filip Filipovich.’

  Josef swung his horse now to Katya.

  ‘Witch,’ he said, ‘I’ll find your pilot for you.’

  Katya was stunned. Josef tipped his hat brim to her and turned. Nikolai fell in and the two rode toward Kazatskoe.

  She watched them go, amazed at the turn in Josef. She trusted what he’d said.

  Ivan nestled his horse beside Katya, gazing off at Kazatskoe with her. Daniel was restive. He dropped from his saddle to grab a stem of grass, then climbed back up to chew on the blade. He settled behind the German, as though measuring Breit for a bullet. Filip sat his horse alone, head slumped away from the hot world. The four of them waited like this under the sun, sweating and without shade.

  ‘I hope we find him,’ Ivan said. ‘Is this pilot your lover?’

  Katya was uneasy with the question. ‘Lover.’ It was a term from peacetime, when girls and boys paired off like that, not when they were forced to spend years away from home – changing and hardening years – not when they died by the hundreds and thousands every day. And there was Filip, lonely and hating being here, a man who’d claimed he would murder his brother. Could Katya have a boyfriend in front of poor Filip?

  ‘Yes,’ she said without intending. ‘Yes,’ she said, needing it to be so.

  ‘Good for you,’ said Daniel from behind the German. He spit out the weed and climbed down to pluck a new one. He looked up at Katya. He seemed wounded somehow by her smile.

  Josef and Nikolai were gone no more than thirty minutes. They returned across the long field; at a distance they rode on shimmers from the heat. Katya wanted to ride to them but Ivan stopped her. ‘We wait,’ he said, ‘like we were told.’

  The two came slowly, no need for haste and attention. Josef rode behind Nikolai, who kept his head down, the match to his brother Filip. When they were close, the twins did not look at each other.

  ‘There’s a house on the western edge of the village,’ Josef said. ‘I couldn’t get a look inside the windows. But there are two guards. The hiwi says the guards were there a couple of days ago when he was taken to that h
ouse.’

  ‘He’s in there,’ Nikolai said.

  Katya’s heart gripped. There was a pilot in that house. Was it Leonid?

  ‘What are we going to do?’ Daniel asked, standing beside his saddle. ‘Wait until dark?’

  ‘No,’ Josef decided, scratching deep into his beard. ‘The village is mostly deserted. There’s maybe two dozen Germans spread out, staying out of the sun. If we go in after curfew and we’re spotted, we’re definitely partisans. I say now, while there’s only the two guards.’

  ‘How do we get inside?’ Ivan asked.

  Josef shook his head. ‘I don’t know yet.’

  The sun beat on them pondering this question. Katya waited for Josef to concoct a plan. The horses shifted hoof to hoof. Filip never raised his gaze from beneath his brim.

  Katya spoke.

  ‘Nikolai?’

  ‘What?’ the twin answered. He’d become more lively than his brother. Perhaps he hoped to wipe away his stain by helping free the downed pilot.

  ‘The two guards. Were they the same ones who were there three days ago?’

  ‘I don’t… let me see. Yes, I think yes. I’m sure at least one of them was.’

  ‘Alright. Ivan, how much food do we have with us?’

  Ivan swung his backpack around and dug into it. He pulled from it a canteen and a broad, hard loaf.

  ‘Bread and water,’ Katya said. ‘Perfect.’

  Josef asked, ‘You have an idea, Witch?’ The dark man looked at her with new eyes today. Katya worried all the time who in the partisan cell might be the spy, who had betrayed the Night Witches and the partisans beside the railroad. She’d been troubled that it might have been Josef, he seemed so distant and embittered. She began to believe it would not prove to be him.

  She pointed at the twin. ‘At least one of the guards has seen Nikolai before, right? He knows Nikolai is an interpreter.’

  She swung the finger to the starosta, stricken in his saddle. Filip seemed to have swapped roles with his traitor twin, he bore the millstone of guilt now.

  ‘Filip will go instead. The guard won’t know the difference. I’ll pose as a nurse and go with him carrying the food. We’ll tell the guards we’re waiting for the Gestapo, they’re going to interrogate the prisoner again. We’re there to feed the pilot and get him ready. We’ll get one of the guards to come inside. Then Josef, you take care of the one outside.’

  ‘And the guard inside, Witch?’

  She thought of Leonid’s face, too bashed to tell the color of his eyes. His eyes were blue. Sky blue. She fingered the knife at her hip, the pistol in her belt.

  ‘I’ll do what I have to.’ She looked over to the starosta. The old man still eyed the warm ground.

  Josef turned in his saddle to the soldiers Daniel and Ivan, book-ends around the German prisoner. Breit did not understand anything being said, his eyes darted to every speaker.

  ‘Alright,’ Josef said. ‘When both guards are down, you two come with the Nazi and the extra horse for the pilot. Witch, you and Filip…’

  ‘I’ll go.’

  Nikolai sat straight in his saddle. The twin spoke with his chin high; his brother peered out from under his brim to listen.

  ‘Filip can stay here where it’s safe. I’ll go. They know me.’

  Katya cut her eyes to Josef. Even under such a sun, his gaze was hooded.

  ‘I’ll go,’ Nikolai said again. ‘I’ve done enough to my brother.’

  Josef growled, ‘Shut up, kiwi.’ He faced Filip. ‘Old man? Go or stay?’

  Filip raised his head to his twin. Katya watched them stare at each other, the two faces so identical, and so different.

  ‘No,’ the starosta said. ‘Nikolai will tell the guards. He’ll get the Witch killed and he’ll make a run for it. You can’t trust him. I’ll go.”

  Filip pivoted to Katya. The elder nodded at her. The resolve she’d seen earlier on Nikolai’s face was now on Filip’s, the gallows. ‘I’ll do what I have to.’

  Josef wasted no time for the tempest on Nikolai’s face; the twin wanted to object but everyone had turned their backs to him. Daniel swung up in his stirrups, a fresh weed clamped in his teeth. Ivan handed the bread and canteen to Katya.

  ‘I’ll be one minute behind you, Witch,’ Josef said. ‘Count to sixty before you make a move. Start counting when you get inside. I’ll be watching. If you hear gunshots, you’ve got to act quick. The rest of the garrison will come running, we’ll only have a few seconds. Daniel, you and Ivan stay a hundred meters back. When you see us come out with the pilot, bring the horses fast. Bring the German, and the hiwi, too. If either one of them flinches the wrong way, kill him. Filip, give me your rifle. Witch, the pistol.’

  The starosta unstrapped his carbine from his back and handed it over. The German guards would not let any Russian come near them with guns, not even a turncoat interpreter and a peasant woman in men’s clothing. Josef reached for the loaf of bread in Katya’s hands. He ripped it open at one end, the stiff crust snapped and flaked. He scooped out a plug of soft bread.

  ‘Give me your knife.’

  Katya pulled the blade from her belt. Josef unsheathed it and slid the knife inside the crust, then packed the white pulp on top of the grip to hide it. He handed the loaf back to Katya. The bread had an odd and deadly weight.

  Josef nodded to Katya.

  ‘The blue house on the far western street. There’s a broken shutter on the front. Look for the guards. You’ll see them.’

  ‘Blue house. Shutter,’ she repeated.

  ‘One minute.’

  ‘Once we’re inside. I understand.’

  ‘Good. Go get your pilot, Witch.’

  Katya moved out, Filip at her side. She remembered the last words of Vera. Go get him.

  July 10

  1030 hours

  one kilometer west of Kazatskoe

  Without hurry, Filip and Katya rode toward the western rim of the village. The sun seemed not to have moved from its noon-high perch. It glowered on the two riders, hot and intent, in audience to the rescue they would attempt. Katya sweated in her loose wool coat. She wanted shade and rest. She wanted not to be afraid. A few times during the ride to the village, she glanced behind her to spot Josef. The man rode far to their left, then was nowhere to be seen.

  Filip dug out a kerchief and handed it to Katya.

  ‘Put this around your hair, Witch. You need to look more like a peasant.’

  She mopped her brow with the red rag, then quickly tied back her hair with it.

  Filip asked, ‘Have you ever killed a man?’

  Katya thought of her missions, hundreds of raids. ‘I’ve dropped bombs.’

  ‘I mean ever killed a man looking into his face.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I haven’t, either,’ the starosta said.

  The elder raised his eyes and looked around him, at the nearing village, dark soil hot as tar under the horses’ hooves. He gazed into a blazing sky. He grimaced under his hat.

  Katya cradled the loaf in her arm, sensing the knife stashed inside it. It was strange to be in this world, to have a reason to kill. A need to kill. She thought of the weight of a life, how heavy would it be in your hand if the years could be stacked? Would it weigh less than the knife? Yes. A knife, a bullet, a shard of shrapnel, they all outweigh any life. She was sure men had died under her Night Witch wings, and she never once felt the weight of their deaths. It was insanity for it to be so. She rode toward this madness with a life tucked inside the bread, held easily in one hand. It was strange because this was not the real world, girls and old men going off to kill; this was a war world, temporary, a nightmare where the only way to wake up was to stay asleep and kill enough. And it was strange, too, because now she was not afraid, the twisting in her stomach was gone. She said Leonid’s name out loud, to announce the release of her fear.

  ‘Is that your pilot?’ Filip asked.

  ‘Leonid Lumanov. Yes. My pilot.’

  Less than f
ifty dwellings made up the hamlet, with a half dozen large barns clustered near the silos. Nothing moved in the streets or alleys, the barns were empty and cool, a handful of scattered military vehicles baked in the open. A wind vane creaked somewhere. Their horses made the only living sounds.

  The blue house with a busted shutter stood near the end of its dirt street. She cued her horse toward it.

  She opened the canteen, her mouth was parched. She swallowed and offered the water to the elder. He declined. The look on Filip’s face was kindly, his many wrinkles arranged themselves into a melancholy welcome of what awaited them. It was a brave face. Impulsively, Katya reached to touch the old man’s arm.

  ‘You’re the interpreter. You were here three days ago. I’m a nurse. We’ll get inside and I’ll start counting. Even if it’s not Leonid in there, we’re going to get the pilot out. Just move when I move.’

  ‘Yes, Witch. I hope it’s your pilot.’

  Katya felt the twinge of both sides of this coin, that it would not be Leonid lying beaten in that blue house, scared that it would be.

  ‘We can do this,’ Filip said, squeezing her hand before letting go.

  They rode up the last of the street. A curl of smoke issued from the porch of the house, a guard sat there on the steps smoking, his machine pistol lay across his lap. He peered at them across the sunny day. They did not dismount, staying in their saddles until the guard rose and donned his helmet. He took a few steps into the lane. He did not toss away the cigarette but kept it between the fingers he slipped around his weapon.

  ‘Ja? Was ist lost’

  Filip answered in German. He indicated himself, then Katya. She held up the loaf of bread, feeling the heft of this guard’s life inside it. Another guard appeared around the corner of the house. He called to the one in the street. They waved to each other with lackluster motions, dulled by the heat and boring duty. The second guard eyed the two riders and went back to his station at the rear of the little house. The soldier in the street barked at them to come down and tie up their horses. He returned the cigarette to his lips and waited.