“Yes, she sent me a field post to say that.”
“Good. So you know that already. But she also gave me a letter, a much longer one. It’s sealed, and I came here discreetly, so no one knows about it but us.” She slid it from her side pocket and laid it on the table.
Anna held the envelope for a moment in her hand, her face brightening at the sudden gift, then tore it open. She read the full page of text, nodding faintly and pressing her lips together, then folded it again.
“Thank you, Aleksandra Preston, for bringing me this. My daughter tells me here that you are a trusted friend. She also writes of looking forward to flying the new planes but worries about the commander. Do you know her?”
“The commander? That’s Tamara Kazar, I believe.”
Anna skimmed the letter again. “Yes, that’s what she writes. But that woman doesn’t fly herself and has no knowledge of flying strategies. Lilya’s sure she was appointed by someone for political reasons.”
General Osipenko. Alex remembered his appearance at Engels.
“I’m sorry to hear it. Nothing damages morale more than knowing one’s leaders are corrupt. On the other hand, I did meet Major Raskova at Engels, and she seemed to have fully earned the loyalty all the women give her. Major Bershanskaya, too.”
“My daughter spoke highly of them as well. But…” She dropped her voice. “Sad to say, this government has much corruption and injustice. I know from bitter experience.”
Alex leaned forward, muting her voice as well. “Do you mean Stalin’s purges? We heard about them in the United States, though not in much detail.”
“Yes, exactly. Lilya’s own father was denounced as an enemy of the people just for complaining about Stalin’s policies. Though I’m sure she never told you.”
“No, she didn’t. But that makes her own patriotism all the more courageous.”
Anna shrugged faintly. “I suppose you could look at it that way. But it was a cruel thing to make her reject her father, who loved her. She was only seven when he was arrested, and she never knew how close she came to losing both of us. There’s a special work camp for wives of enemies of the people, and she would have been put into one of those horrible state orphanages.”
“What happened to your husband? Was he sent to the Gulag?” Alex knew little more than the word itself and that it referred to the system of forced labor camps in inhospitable terrains.
“No. He was executed in Lubyanka prison. And I couldn’t even let his daughter mourn him. She had to survive among the other children, you see, and she could only do that if she accepted the condemnation. She was terribly confused for a while, because she loved him, but she was young, and in time she came to accept the lie.”
“That must have been terrible for you.”
“Yes, but Lilya was the most important thing in my life, and I had to help her succeed. I encouraged her to enter the Komsomol as a way to remove the stain of being the daughter of a traitor. It was the only way to have a decent life.”
Anna stood up to fetch something from her shelf and returned with a framed photo. “This is from the time she was at Engels. She finally got a tunic that fit properly and had her official photo taken.” Anna held out the picture. “My angel, all in uniform.”
It was a frontal, upper-body image of Lilya, apparently sitting down. She wore her new uniform, with shoulder bars and three metal buttons on the high tunic collar. Wavy short blond hair fell back from a round face that stared, unsmiling, into the lens. Alex handed it back. “I suppose your letter doesn’t say where she’s stationed.”
“No, they’re not allowed to tell us that. I’d give a lot to know and to be sure she’s safe.”
Anna brushed dust off the frame and set the photo back on its shelf. When she returned to the table, she said softly, “I love Russia, but the great ideals of Lenin were never fulfilled. Of course we keep repeating them, in the face of the most outrageous cruelties. I lost all faith in Stalin after they killed my husband. A good, honest man.” She stared off into space for a moment, as if gathering her thoughts.
“Do you know Pushkin?”
Alex blinked at the non sequitur. “No, I’m afraid not. My brief schooling in Saint Petersburg didn’t include Romantic poetry.”
Anna nodded. “He was our greatest poet. I always thought he was too cynical, but now I understand him. He wrote once, ‘Dearer to me than a host of base truths is the illusion that exalts.’”
“Yes?” Alex didn’t see the connection.
“What I mean to say is, the ideals of Communism are the illusion, while the base truths are what our government has actually done to us.”
“I see. But I suppose now that the Soviet Union is at war, it’s more important than ever to keep the illusion.” She also thought for a moment. “I wonder if that’s true of all forms of nationalism.”
Anna shrugged. “Now there you have surpassed my powers of analysis. And I’m weary of analysis, anyhow. All I care about now is my child. Do you understand? Even if she were to flee Russia, as long as I knew she was safe, I’d be content.”
“Yes, I do understand. If I had a loved one, she would be more important to me than any doctrine.” Alex stood up. “I should probably leave before your neighbors come home, don’t you think?”
“You’re right.” Anna got up as well and led her through the apartment to the front door. “Thank you for bringing me this lovely gift. If you see my daughter, please tell her I think of her every hour.” Anna embraced her lightly and planted a quick kiss on her cheek.
“Of course I will,” Alex responded mechanically, though she had no idea how she could manage to see Lilya again. But suddenly she wanted to, urgently.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
July, August 1942
Alex strode into the Hotel Metropole just as dinner was being served. Without bothering to return to her room, she swept her gaze around the dining room, hoping to see a table where she could sit by herself. But Henry Shapiro happened to catch sight of her, and he waved her over.
Of all the foreign correspondents living or working at the hotel, Henry was one she got along with best. He could be abrasive, but he was one of the very few who also spoke Russian, and he was knowledgeable about Russian history and politics. He was sitting with Eddy Gilmore, whom she liked less, but he was a decent fellow. They both seemed unusually cheerful as she pulled up a chair.
“What are you two smirking about? It can’t be the vodka. They haven’t served it yet.”
“Nope. It’s the good news we just got,” Henry explained. “You know, up until now it was hard as hell to get near the battlefield. Most of the time they just took us on little tours with military guides who explained what the troops had done or were going to do.”
The waiter interrupted their conversation with the evening meal, boiled potatoes and something brown that had probably once been beef. She thought of Anna Drachenko and what she was probably eating that evening and refrained from comment.
“So, what’s changed?” she asked, then began chewing a chunk of meat.
Henry surveyed his plate and added quantities of salt. “The war’s changed. For the first time since Moscow, the Germans have been held up, this time around Voronezh, and the Russians are mounting a counteroffensive. For some reason, the Press Department has decided they want us to see for ourselves how great they are. Approval came through today.” He took the first bite.
“Voronezh.” She stared into the air recalling the geography of southern Russia. “That’s almost directly south of Moscow, near the Don, right? When are you leaving?”
“They didn’t say, exactly. In three or four days, probably,” Eddy said.
“That’s great. You guys need a photographer?”
Eddy speared a piece of potato. “Not up to us. If you want to come along, contact the Press Department. Voronezh is the front line, though. You may have to sleep rough.”
She thought for a moment. She could hang around a Moscow hotel snapping more and
more photos of air raids and refugees, or get a little dirty again and see the actual war. “I’ll apply tomorrow.”
*
Alex tossed her rucksack up first, and then one of the men helped her climb onto the back of the truck. Wooden crates of ammunition, fuel, and food took up most of the space, and five of them crouched in what was left.
As the truck took off, she glanced around at the men she’d be spending the next months with. Besides Henry and Eddy, she recognized Ralph Parker of The London Times and Larry LeSueur of CBS.
She shook hands with the four of them. “So, do we have any idea what we’re getting into?”
“More of the Russians getting their asses kicked,” Gilmore said. “They’ve attempted a counteroffensive against the German 4th Panzer Army, but it goes back and forth. So far, it’s a stalemate.”
He flicked a cigarette butt out of the truck onto the road. “I don’t expect much. The Reds only keep fighting because we keep feeding them, but they stink at it.”
“Don’t mind Eddy,” Henry said. “He hates everything Communist. Me, I have a bit more hope. It does look grim, though. The Germans have taken the west side of the Voronezh River, and it looks like their opening move to get to Baku and then Stalingrad.”
Parker spoke up. “They want Baku for the oilfields, but why Stalingrad? It has no strategic value.”
“Prestige,” Alex said. “A morale booster. They couldn’t take Moscow, so the next best thing is to take down the city with Stalin’s name.”
“Pretty interesting theory from someone who hasn’t seen battle,” Eddy remarked.
“Oh, but I have. I spent a few weeks with the women’s regiment.”
“Women’s regiment? Never heard of that.” She heard derision in Parker’s voice. “What do they do? Try to seduce the enemy?”
She bristled. “It’s always sex with you guys, isn’t it? In fact, they’re night bombers. And they fly without radio or parachutes. What does it say about the West when the Communists have more respect for women than you do?”
“Hey, take it easy.” Parker raised a conciliatory hand. “It was just a wisecrack. I appreciate that Russian women are tough. I’ve known a few of them, if you get my drift.”
Alex turned away and studied the war-torn landscape. Were these guys going to be her only support for the next weeks? Suddenly she longed for quiet and unpretentious conversation with Eva Bershanskaya and Marina Raskova. How much more would she have learned about the war and the Russian people from them?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
September 1942
Katia Budanova landed her Pe-2 on the airfield, relieved to be on the ground. The three aircraft had successfully engaged the enemy planes and downed two of them. But in view of the worsening weather conditions, Commander Raskova had ordered them to halt pursuit and return to base.
Grumbling at the missed opportunity, Katia obeyed. She had been assigned to the 586th regiment on another airfield, but then Stalin’s “Not a step backward” order had arrived. Suddenly, pilots were switched around like chess pieces, and she’d been thrilled to learn that she was to fly with Marina Raskova and her dive-bombers.
With the skies around the Stalingrad quadrant full of Luftwaffe, they had made four runs, broken only by brief refueling and rearmament stops, and the last one had left her head buzzing with hunger and fatigue. Still, it would have been nice to take out that last enemy plane.
Marina Raskova walked just ahead of her, but her labored gait and round shoulders told Katia she was just as exhausted. Of course she was. She demanded nothing of her pilots that she didn’t do herself. She had a strange combination of womanly warmth and unflagging determination, and Katia would have followed her anywhere.
Katia was well aware that she loved the commander more than she could ever love a man. It had shocked her at first, but then she came to accept it wasn’t a bad thing. She could admire and emulate her commander’s courage without shame, and in a sort of chivalrous loyalty, she imagined that every enemy plane she shot down was a gift to her.
And she’d done quite well in that department, too. Her only scoring competition was from the slightly more reckless Lilya Drachenko, who was momentarily out of action. But sweet Lilya was more like a younger sister, who always seemed a bit dreamy and lately had talked about nothing but the American journalist.
She’d let her thoughts drift to supper and a smoke when she was brought up short. Just ahead of her, Major Gridniev, commander of the airfield, had come out to meet Major Raskova, and the conversation seemed serious. Katia drew close enough to hear.
It was what they all dreaded. One of their planes that had set out earlier was down. The crew had survived their crash landing but sustained serious injury and had radioed in their coordinates.
Raskova turned to the pilots who stood at her shoulders. “You’re dismissed, but I’m going back.”
“I don’t think so, Major,” Gridniev said, laying a hand on her arm. “We’ll send another crew. You’ve been up four times already.”
She shook her head. “Out of the question. They’re my women and I’ll take care of them. Have the mechanics refuel my plane so I can leave immediately.”
“I’m going too, Comrade Major,” Katia said, falling into step with her as they headed toward the mess bunker. I’ll ask Inna to refuel my plane.”
“Thank you, Katia. I knew you’d volunteer. Come have some hot tea before we take off again.” She glanced over her shoulder, and Katia was shocked to see her eyes, bloodshot and with dark circles around them. Even her hair, always held so tightly in a bun, was coming apart, and strands hung loose on both sides of her face.
“I know I’m out of place to say so, Comrade Major, but you look exhausted. Commander Gridniev was right. Why don’t you rest for a change and let Klavdia and me take care of this?”
“Impossible. I know those women personally. Many of them joined the regiment because of me, and I couldn’t rest for a moment knowing they were injured and waiting in the cold for help.” She laid a hand on Katia’s shoulder, something she’d never done before. “No. We’ll bring them back and then all of us will rest.”
*
In less than twenty minutes, the two Pe-2s took off again into the fog. The same fog that had prevented their earlier pursuit of an enemy plane less than an hour before.
They ascended to 1,900 meters and cruised westward, though the cloud mass they flew in gradually became so dense Katia lost any sense of moving forward. “Visibility is almost zero, Comrade Major. Please advise, over,” she said into her radio mouthpiece.
From her earphones she heard, “Descend five hundred meters and see if we can get under this cloud cover. Over.”
They dropped to 1,400, then to a thousand, and flew in a wide circle over the crash-site coordinates according to the compass, but still had no visibility in any direction. “We’re losing daylight,” Katia said. “Even if the clouds open up, we won’t be able to see them on the ground. Over.”
“You’re right, Lieutenant. We’ll have to try to land before we run out of fuel. Over.” Exhaustion and disappointment at their failure was evident in her voice.
“I’ve lost visual of you, Comrade Major. I’m flying blind. My altitude is currently 500 meters. Should I try to land as well? Over.”
“Stay at that altitude until I advise. I’m going in low to look for landing space. At some point I should be able to get beneath the cloud cover. Circle until I’ve landed safely and I’ll guide you in by radio. Over.”
“Yes, Comrade Major. Standing by. Over.”
A few minutes went by with radio silence and only the roar of the airplane engine in her ears as she watched the compass. Suddenly, soundlessly, the gray mist all around her flashed pink and orange, and a second later she heard the dull sound of the explosion.
“Comrade Major, what happened? Major Raskova, please reply. Repeat, what happened? Reply! Reply!”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
September 1942
&n
bsp; Alex’s “tour” lasted longer than any of them had expected. Voronezh, Rostov, Stavropol, Krasnodor. They’d just been names on a map, but now their images were marked in her memory, filled with blood and smoke. Some towns they’d reached before the onslaught, others were already ruined, and occasionally the battle still raged. She photographed men hunched behind their exploding cannons or silhouetted against flames, their long bayonets like spears.
As they edged south- and westward, more fighter planes began to appear overhead, and Henry taught her how to identify them by their outlines as German or Russian. When she could spot the Russian Yaks and Sturmoviks, she wondered if the pilots were women, if one of them might have blond hair curling out from under a flight helmet.
She traveled back with the others to Moscow twice, submitted her photographs to the Press Department censors, and sent the approved ones off to Century by way of diplomatic pouch. The four men submitted their dispatches as well, grousing at every deletion by the same censor, then dutifully cabling their sanitized stories at Central Telegraph. Each trip back she wired George Mankowitz that she was alive and well and photos were forthcoming. Then she went back to the hotel to hand wash her laundry.
On her third trip back to the front, as she cleaned her lenses in preparation for another patrol, Parker came into the press dugout.
“Hey, this should interest you. I was just at division headquarters trying to get an interview when the news came in. One of their big women aviators just crashed.”
“Who? Which one?” Please let it be someone I don’t know.
“I don’t remember the name, exactly. Roskov, Kosova, something like that.”
“Marina Raskova?” Her heart sank.
“Yes, that’s it. That’s the one. Here, I can’t read Russian, but you can. Take a look yourself.” He held out a copy of the military newspaper Red Star. “The Russians seem to think it’s a big deal.”
The Witch of Stalingrad Page 10