The Witch of Stalingrad

by Justine Saracen

  In the icy winter air, it was difficult to speak through several layers of scarf, so they marched silently together along the Theatralny Street onto the expanse that was Red Square. The air raids never came in the morning, so the soldiers manning the anti-aircraft guns in the square were idle, and the atmosphere was almost serene.

  They reached the entrance to the Kremlin, and Alex explained who they were to the soldiers on guard. Stone-faced, they telephoned someone inside and obviously obtained approval.

  With Hopkins at her side, Alex followed the Soviet guard along the path, paying close attention to the slippery ice underfoot. Glancing up briefly, she caught sight of the white plaster walls of several boxy churches. The Assumption, Annunciation, and Archangels cathedrals she knew from her earliest St. Petersburg school days, but she couldn’t recall which one was which. Farther toward her right, the Ivan the Great Bell Tower rose up over the entire Kremlin, and she was certain that no camouflage could conceal it from above.

  They entered the Grand Kremlin Palace, where another set of guards again telephoned ahead to advise of their arrival, and the original guard saluted and retreated. The two new guards led them just as stiffly down a corridor to a tiny gilt and red-carpeted elevator, which barely had room for the four of them.

  It labored creaking to the second floor, where they continued along a winding hall with countless doors and corridors on each side. Twice an intermediary guard telephoned ahead and changed places with the previous one, who then departed. Clearly, Premier Stalin was well protected.

  The final set of guards admitted them to a sparsely furnished salon obviously intended as a waiting room.

  She recalled why she’d been granted the audience. “The Russians really depend on Lend-Lease, don’t they? Enough so you could leverage this meeting.”

  “Yes, they do. They’ve moved many of their armament factories east of the Urals and are still rebuilding them. That’s why they’re way behind their pre-war production. And did you know they lost almost their entire air force in the German invasion?”

  “I hadn’t heard that.”

  “Yes, they obviously had far too much trust in their non-aggression pact with Hitler and left hundreds of their planes lined up on airfields near the western frontier. The Luftwaffe just swept down and obliterated them.” He made a swooping gesture with a long, pale-white hand. “Now they’re having to rebuild almost the entire force except for their old World War 1 biplanes.”

  “And this time I hear they’re adding women.” She chuckled. “That should be—”

  An officer with a row of medals across both sides of his chest entered abruptly. He nodded in greeting and then beckoned them into an adjacent room. Though larger, it was as sparsely furnished as the previous one except for a desk, and next to it stood the most powerful man in the Soviet Union.

  Josef Stalin was a disappointment. Shorter than she was, with little musculature in his chest, the great dictator looked like a street sweeper. His eyes were slightly Asiatic, his skin terribly pockmarked. Only his thick hair and mustache bespoke a certain virility. His dull khaki tunic, devoid of any medals, impressed with its simplicity and made the over-decorated officer standing at his side look slightly foolish. Two other men stood some distance behind him, and the word “lurked” seemed appropriate. Her memory of newspaper photos told her they were Molotov and Beria.

  “Good morning, Premier Stalin. Thank you for receiving us.”

  “Ah,” he said, still unsmiling. “An American who speaks Russian. I understand you want to take my picture.” He turned to the gaudy-chested officer who had escorted them into the room. “General Osipenko, what do you think? Should I allow it?”

  The general bent slightly at the waist, an officer’s way of expressing agreement. “It might be very nice for the Americans to see what the Father of All the Soviets looks like.”

  “I think so too, but you must do it quickly. I have a meeting soon.”

  “Yes, of course.” Alex cursed inwardly for not bringing her tripod and thus guaranteeing a good formal portrait. But she could make do with the Corona. She snapped one of the peanut-sized flash bulbs into the reflector and took a quick shot, then popped in a second one and shot another one from a different angle. She was about to insert a third one when the sound of someone entering drew his attention away from her, and Alex turned to see what had distracted him.

  A woman had just come in—young yet somehow matronly, with hair parted severely in the middle and drawn back into a tight bun. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Comrade Stalin, but our meeting was scheduled fifteen minutes ago, and I have an air-force regiment awaiting my command.”

  Alex stepped back, astonished that anyone would use such a tone with Josef Stalin. But he simply laughed as she strode toward him.

  “Major Raskova, you know General Osipenko, but allow me to introduce Mr. Hopkins, from the White House, and Miss…”

  “Preston.”

  “Preston,” he repeated, pronouncing the P like a B. “Miss Preston, this is Marina Raskova, organizer of our women’s aviation regiments.”

  She smiled at Alex for a tenth of a second, then returned her attention to Stalin. “Yes, and now that they are organized, they need planes. Bad enough that our night bombers have to use the old U-2s from the training schools. I’m sure we can do better with the day bombers and the fighters. I understand the Americans have sent a new shipment of aircraft, and I’d like to put a claim in for my women.”

  General Osipenko raised a hand in warning. “Major Raskova, you should not bother our leader with personal demands. You will have your aircraft in good time, after the men.”

  The general was apparently annoyed by the demand, but Stalin, in contrast, appeared amused. The smile that had been missing in her two photos now appeared.

  “Who shall get our new planes?” Stalin asked rhetorically, weighing his empty palms against each other. Why don’t we ask our American allies? What do you think, Mr. Hopkins?”

  In the absence of a formal interpreter, Alex translated and then repeated Hopkins’s answer in Russian.

  “I can’t really say, Premier Stalin. It’s a purely strategic decision, though I would assume they should be given to the best pilots.”

  Alex saw the desperation on the woman commander’s face and felt a sudden solidarity with her. “I understand that Commander Raskova has trained this regiment at your behest. Since the public will see them as more or less belonging to Premier Stalin, I should think people will expect them to have the best aircraft.”

  Osipenko’s face darkened. “Those are tactical decisions and not worthy of Comrade Stalin’s time. The Air Defense Force committee, over which I preside, will tend to such matters.”

  “Calm down, Aleksandr Andreevich.” Stalin used the affectionate patronymic. Obviously they were friends. He clapped a hand on the general’s shoulder board. “How about we give some of the new planes from our factories to the women, the American planes to your men.”

  If Osipenko was only partially appeased, Marina Raskova was obviously delighted. A smile spread over her wide maternal face, and she executed the same officer’s half-bow as Osipenko had. “Thank you for your decision, and once again, I apologize for taking up your valuable time.” With that, she saluted and let herself out of the chamber, leaving the air behind her to resonate with her absence.

  Stalin chortled. “Are the women in your country as determined as that, Mr. Hopkins?” Alex translated again.

  “Some are. I believe the wife of our president is, though she doesn’t fly airplanes. If your women do, you have reason to be proud of them.”

  Alex could see now why Harry Hopkins had been chosen as the man to go between the White House and the Kremlin. He had a soft-spoken, middle-American charm and a sharp diplomatic mind that managed to overcome language and cultural differences.

  Sensing that the audience was about to end, she seized the moment.

  “Premier Stalin. The American public will no doubt admire the
portrait of the leader of the Soviet Union, but I think they would also be greatly impressed to know about your innovation, these female combat aviators. The Soviet Union is more advanced, in this respect, than the United States. Might I be allowed to photograph them, too? It goes without saying I will submit all photos to your Press Department for censorship.”

  Stalin reflected for a moment, and to fill the silence, she added, “It would be the best sort of war propaganda, both for your people and for mine.”

  The word propaganda seemed to be the clincher. “Yes, yes. Go ahead. But you will report to General Osipenko and the Aviation Force Committee. And now I must end this meeting.” He urged them with his hands toward the door. “I have work to do before the next air raid.”

  As they stepped into the corridor and followed the guard back to the elevator, she spontaneously took Hopkins’s arm. “We are good, aren’t we?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  January 1942

  When the Soviet counter-offensive began, the bombing raids let up slightly and so did the terror. Trains were still moving machinery and workers eastward, and fighting troops westward, but the panic had abated, and with the addition of several Lend-Lease locomotives, the railroad was beginning to master the heavy traffic. Alex managed to reach the town of Engels in three days rather than nine.

  The Engels airfield and school stood near the town of Engels and across the Volga from Saratov. It was larger than she expected, with dormitories, classroom buildings, mess hall, and hangars. With German forces close enough to threaten Saratov, an air of urgency hung over the entire complex.

  “Come in.” Marina Raskova invited Alex into her spare utilitarian office and gestured toward a chair. Raskova herself took a seat and carefully moved aside the maps and papers on her desk. She had the same schoolmarm look she’d shown in the Kremlin, though her manner revealed an openness and gentility that belied the severe hairstyle. Her mustard-colored uniform was well tailored, and though Alex couldn’t read Soviet rank from military shoulder boards, she knew she was speaking to a major.

  “I’m honored to meet the ‘mother superior’ of Russia’s women pilots.”

  “Is that what people call me? I suppose we do have a touch of the convent about us. My ‘novices’ are mostly young and innocent.” She chuckled. “If you can call girls hungry to kill Germans innocent.”

  “I passed by some of them coming in. In uniform they all look more like young boys.”

  “Yes. I made them cut their hair when they arrived, and some of them were very upset. At that age, young women are very sensitive to men’s attentions.”

  “They’re all unmarried?”

  “No. A few are married, and some are already widows. Many of them come from places already overrun by Germans, and three of them, I believe, have families trapped in Leningrad. As you can imagine, they’re all very keen to fight.”

  Alex glanced past the major’s shoulder and saw a photograph of an older woman holding a young girl in her arms. “You have children?”

  Raskova turned toward the photo. “Yes, a daughter. Eight. She lives with her grandmother.” A look of tender affection slipped quickly over her face and then disappeared. “But I think you are here to talk about military things.”

  “Yes, of course. Can you tell me more about the training? Maybe some personal details or anecdotes the reading public might enjoy.”

  “Well, they’re my charges and I value every one of them, but I’m not the person to have pretty stories about them. Why don’t I just take you around a bit and you can decide what you want to tell.” She stood up.

  “Can I take pictures?”

  “I should think so, as long as they’re not of the planes or military equipment. And you know you must submit them for review before you send them off.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Raskova led her across a freezing-cold square into an adjacent classroom building and allowed Alex to peer briefly inside at students wearing padded jackets sitting in rows. “They’re learning geography, Morse code, plane mechanics, the nature of their weapons, and so forth. Later on they’ll specialize, so that the navigators learn navigation, technicians learn airplane engines, and armorers learn about explosives.”

  “How long is the training period?” They continued along the corridor.

  “In peacetime, the school produced good pilots after two years. But now that we’re at war, the women must learn the same amount in six months.”

  Alex recalled the discussion about aircraft. “Will I be able to see the planes they’re training with?”

  “The U-2s? Yes, I’m taking you there now.”

  Outside, they bent into the blustery February air and Raskova guided her toward a row of planes. At the last plane, they halted, and Alex got her first close-up view of the U-2s. She was appalled.

  The open-cockpit biplane was nothing but wood and canvas-like fabric. Thin struts held its double wings together, and it stood on equally flimsy legs that ended in wheels.

  At the nose of the plane, a woman stood on a ladder with her head and shoulders in the open engine compartment. A canvas canopy was all that protected both woman and engine from the frigid wind.

  “Sergeant Portnikova, I hope I don’t disturb you,” Raskova called up to the mechanic, who uncurled herself out of the engine compartment.

  “Not at all, Comrade Major. I was finished anyhow.” She wiped her bare hands on a rag, saluted, and inserted them into the gloves that hung at her waist.

  “Miss Preston, this is Inna Portnikova, one of our mechanics. She can answer your questions about the planes. When you’ve learned enough, you can join me back in my office.” She gave an informal return salute to the sergeant on the ladder and then turned back in the direction they’d just come.

  The young mechanic climbed down and gave Alex her full attention. Her soft round face was cheerful, almost cherubic, and it was hard to imagine a single violent thought passing through it.

  “Cold work.” Alex said the obvious. “Why don’t they let you work in the hangar?”

  Inna pulled down the side flaps of her wool cap to cover her ears. “Because when we’re deployed, there won’t be any hangars. We fly from auxiliary fields in the open and always at night. For oiling and between flight maintenance like this, we have to do it on the field.”

  Alex nodded, trying to imagine how maintenance was possible in the prickling snow. “The planes look so…” She tried to find a less insulting word than flimsy. “So lightweight. It’s hard to see how you can use them as bombers.”

  “Yeah, these U-2 trainers are light. We can even push them by hand across the runway. But they’re easy to fly and they’re tough. These have been refitted to carry bombs up to 100 kilos under the wings.”

  Alex squinted upward at the cockpit. “There’s no cover. And how does the pilot hear her radio?”

  “Yes, it’s deadly cold. That’s for sure. And they don’t have radios. The pilots have to plot their way by compass and by visuals. If they have a problem, they have to solve it themselves. It’s hard, but the pilots get used to it.” She patted the fuselage, as if to forgive the aircraft its deficiencies. “Oh, there’s my pilot.”

  Alex pivoted a quarter of the way around to see her first female Soviet pilot.

  She was of average height, and her gait was neither that of a male nor a female but merely purposeful. The blond curls that poked out from under her leather pilot’s cap at the forehead and temples were the first suggestion of femininity.

  As she neared, Alex could make out pale-blue eyes. The slender nose started high and dropped in a soft curve over full lips and a well-defined mouth.

  Her finely cut features suggested a slender, even delicate woman inside her bulky flight outfit, and the effect was strangely alluring. Alex couldn’t have said what attracted her, only that the still-nameless woman had a strange combination of feminine beauty and masculine authority.

  As she approached, she glanced up quizzically at Alex.


  “Lilya,” Inna said. “We have a visitor. An American journalist. She wants to write about us.”

  “Alex Preston.” She offered her hand.

  “Lilya Drachenko.” The pilot returned the handshake, though with both their hands gloved, it felt superficial. Lilya’s inquisitive look remained. “An American? To write about us. What an honor.”

  Alex suddenly could think of nothing to say that didn’t sound stupid. “May I take a photo?” she blurted out.

  “Of Inna and me? Of course.” Lilya went to stand next to her mechanic.

  Alex fumbled with her camera case, then took off her gloves. The metal of the camera was painfully cold, but she felt foolish now and had to get the shot. She stepped back, focused the little Rolleiflex, and snapped two frames before her subjects moved apart.

  “Nice to meet you, but I’m sorry, I have to test-fly this plane.” Lilya edged toward the wing.

  No, don’t leave. Not yet. Alex searched for a way to hold her. “Uh…do you have any idea when you will be deployed?”

  “Well, that’s up to Major Raskova and the Air Defense Force. But we’ll train at least until May.”

  Alex tried to think of other questions, but Lilya had already climbed up the wing into the cockpit. Inna gave a forceful yank to the propeller blade and stepped away as it began to spin and the low-power motor began a sewing-machine-like clatter.

  The flimsy craft bumped along the runway for a few meters, then lifted off into the air. When it was about 100 meters overhead, the plane circled back and the wings wobbled back and forth in a sort of salutation. Inna laughed and waved back, but Alex felt a curious titillation imagining the wing-wave was for her as well.

  They walked together off the airfield, Inna carrying her short wooden ladder on her shoulder. “We’re very lucky to have Major Raskova. The male instructors don’t think we’re up to the job, but she doesn’t let them belittle us. I was in her office the other day when one of the generals was complaining to her that the women were wasting everyone’s time and that men should fill their places at the school. Just then the secretary came in and announced she had a telephone call from Stalin. Can you imagine the general’s face? Stalin himself calling her. That shut him up pretty fast.”