The Witch of Stalingrad

by Justine Saracen

  The answers were no to the former and yes to the latter. While the Soviets were beaten back and their inferior armaments blasted to pieces, they had no desire for that fact to be published. But now the factories in the East were manufacturing a new design of tank and powerful new aircraft, and these she could photograph. She accepted without hesitation.

  *

  On November 2, the orders came permitting her to photograph the Saratov Aviation Works. It took her an hour to pack and a day to join a troop transport to Saratov. They came under fire, but only the tracks took damage, not the railcars. The train stopped, teams came to lay new tracks, and within half a day, they were moving again. She descended at Saratov, and the troop train rolled on to points south.

  As she expected, the production line had many women, but she decided it was an equality they could have done without. The working conditions were appalling. The sound of steel upon steel was deafening, the factory meals weren’t even as good as those provided on the front line, and, worst of all, the factory air was freezing. The workers’ overalls were ragged and filthy, and their breath came out as steam.

  She was able to talk with some of the women briefly on the way to their dormitories after their twelve-hour work shifts, and though they were plainly exhausted and gaunt, their patriotism appeared sincere, even when the factory commissar wasn’t watching. She was impressed and tried to capture the industry and hardship in her photographs.

  On the second day, the foreman guided her to the Yak production line, and she snapped photos of the welders, electricians, and gun mounters. When the foreman invited her to stand on the wing and gaze into the cockpit, Alex’s face warmed with the memory of Lilya’s enthusiasm for the craft.

  “This one’s already finished,” he announced. “As soon as we paint the red star on the tail, it’ll be tested and then go into action.”

  “Who flies them,” she asked, expecting to hear that it was a state secret. He surprised her.

  “This one will go directly over to the Saratov airfield to the women.”

  Had she heard right? “You mean the 586th Fighter Regiment?”

  “Yes. Their commander just arrived to sign the papers for the handover. Would you like to meet her?”

  “Major Tamara Kazar? Yes, of course I would.”

  The office adjacent to the hangar was already crowded when they arrived. The major stood at a table covered with papers, and four other aviators stood behind her.

  Tamara Kazar had the same erect posture, extremely short hair, and the tight, almost hostile masculinity she’d displayed ten months before at Engels. Apparently she was signing the necessary receipts and releases, and when she finished, she caught sight of Alex.

  “Miss Preston. You are photographing our new Yaks?” She stood up.

  “Yes, I’ve just finished, in fact. They’re quite impressive.”

  “I am sure you’ve made us all look good. What’s your next project?”

  Flattered by the commander’s interest, Alex replied with some sincerity. “I don’t know, frankly. I go wherever the Press Department allows me.”

  Kazar looked at her intently for a long moment, as if coming to a decision. “Why not photograph the 586th? Surely we’re as photogenic as our planes.” The burning stare continued.

  “I…uh…well, I’d love to. I’ll have to submit a request with the Press Department. She glanced around at the other pilots. You’ll be flying back with the new planes?”

  “Yes. We came here in a transport, but my pilots will have their own crafts to fly now,” Kazar said. “Why don’t you return with us to the Anisovka air base, and we’ll contact the Press Department from there. They’ll be less inclined to refuse you if you’re already on site by personal invitation of the commander.”

  “What can I say? I accept.”

  *

  Alex collected her camera equipment and rucksack and rejoined the group in the hangar. Once everyone had saluted everyone else, the team of aviators left the hangar and each pilot laid claim to her respective Yak-1.

  Alex had assumed Major Kazar would pilot one of the new planes, but to her surprise, she limped out to the transport plane and signaled Alex to follow her.

  She obeyed, dropping down onto the narrow seat along the wall next to her host. During the noisy flight, they didn’t speak, but Alex snatched an occasional glance at the strange woman beside her.

  Tamara Kazar was not at all like the other female commanders. Marina Raskova had on occasion been almost nurturing, and even the stern Bershanskaya had sometimes let a bit of warmth show through. But Tamara Kazar was made of ice. What, then, was behind her sudden decision to allow her regiment to be photographed? And why did she not fly her own plane?

  A frigid wind was blowing when they landed at the Anisovka air base, and Alex knew it was the precursor of another deadly Russian winter. The fighter pilots, she noted, were housed in better conditions than their night-bombing sisters. The women lived in wooden huts, camouflaged and built low against an earthwork to both conceal and protect them from bombardment.

  Kazar led her to the nearest one. “Lieutenant Ratkevich, will you set up a bunk for our guest?” To Alex she said, “In the meantime I’ll telephone the Press Office and explain your presence here. After you’ve settled in, please stop by. My quarters are over there.” She pointed toward a wooden hut adjacent to the hangar. “Shall we say in an hour?” She bent slightly at the waist in the hint of a military bow and marched away, in a strange, stiff posture that exacerbated her limp.

  “Well, come in and make yourself at home. You’re the photographer, aren’t you?” One of the women guided her by the arm to an empty bunk.

  She dropped her rucksack and scanned her surroundings. A brick stove heated the room, but, like the oil barrels the night bombers used, its warmth extended only a meter or so. The wooden floors, however, were a significant improvement over dirt and mud.

  Mosquitos seemed to be a problem. She slapped one on her forearm.

  “The women from the night regiment told us about you. You’re going to send pictures of us to America?”

  “Yes, if they’re approved. For a magazine.” She held up her camera case. “I just have to take care of these.” She unpacked her rucksack onto the bunk, noting that she’d gotten quite good at traveling light. All she really carried was clean underwear, sleepwear, a comb, and a toothbrush.

  Someone had just brought more wood in and fed it into the stove, causing the fire to blaze up for a moment and send out a delicious wave of heat. “The latrine is the last shed on this side,” the newcomer announced. “If you want to wash, you have to heat water here on the stove. As for bathing, well, once every ten days, they truck us in to Saratov to the baths.” The young woman laughed. “You’re lucky we were there just a couple of days ago.”

  Alex studied the faces of the young pilots. “I remember some of you from Engels. Forgive me if I’ve forgotten your names.”

  “That’s all right. We’ll remind you. I’m Raisa Beliaeva, and this is Klavdia Nechaeva. We remember you. Lilya talks about you a lot.”

  “Lilya talks about me?” Her face warmed. “Has she returned to the regiment since her accident?” Since I abandoned her, she thought.

  “Yes, she’s been back for a week now. She’s already shot down two Junkers.”

  “Oh? Is she in this bunker?” Alex glanced around at the bedrolls, as if she could spot which one belonged to Lilya.

  “No, she’s in the other one, with Katia Budanova.” Klavdia laughed. “The two of them are the best in the regiment. They make the rest of us look like amateurs.”

  “And Inna Portnikova? I know she wanted to be transferred.”

  “Yes, she’s here, too. In the ground-crew bunker. She does all the work for Lilya and Katia. They refuse to fly until she’s examined their engines.”

  “That sounds like Inna. I mean, she’s the ace of mechanics, isn’t she?” Alex glanced down at her watch. “Oh, excuse me. I believe the commander’
s waiting for me.”

  “She’s in the shed next to the hangar,” Raisa said in a faintly deprecating way. “But be careful to agree with everything she says.”

  “Really? Of course I’ll be diplomatic. I’m a guest, after all.” She shouldered her camera bag and started toward Commander Kazar’s quarters.

  Knocking, she heard an immediate “Come in.” Tamara Kazar sat at a makeshift desk with an open map. Behind her was a bulletin board with other maps and what looked like duty lists. The tiny bunker had a single cot on one side and, on the other, a brick stove much like the one in the pilots’ bunker. It heated the small space nicely.

  “Are you all settled in?”

  “Yes, though I don’t have much to ‘settle.’ Will I be able to take meals with the women in the mess?”

  “Of course. Though perhaps you will dine with me occasionally. You can even have your own vodka ration. Let’s start with today’s share, to celebrate your arrival.”

  “Well, I…uh.” Alex stammered, but the major already had the bottle and two glasses in front of her. She poured intimidating quantities into the two glasses and handed one over. “Health!” she said, and drank hers in a swallow.

  Alex followed, out of courtesy and a fear of offending, but the sudden assault of high-octane alcohol caused her to cough. “Sorry, American here. We mostly drink beer.”

  “Is that so? I seem to recall your cowboys drinking whiskey all the time.”

  Alex smiled. The vodka was already warming her and putting her at ease. “Only after they’ve rounded up all the cattle and shot all the cattle rustlers.” She couldn’t think of the Russian word for rustlers. Perhaps there wasn’t one, so she substituted “cow bandits,” and Kazar burst out laughing.

  “What a wonderful image that is. Cows with masks and pistols.” She laughed again and poured out two more glasses of vodka. “Drink up, Miss Preston. May I call you Aleksandra?”

  “Alex will be fine.” She sipped at the glass until the major tapped at it from the bottom, encouraging her to drink it down like water. Then she poured a third glass for them both.

  Alex raised a hand. “Sorry, two’s my limit. Beyond my limit, actually. I can’t drink like a Russian.”

  “I understand. Drink that one up, and we’ll put the bottle away.” She downed her own third glass.

  Alex acquiesced and tossed it back, though she was already becoming dizzy.

  Kazar corked the bottle and set it aside. She tugged her tunic down into place and took a deep breath, as if to begin a speech. But all she said was “So, Miss Pres…Alex. How does an American speak such good Russian?”

  Alex took extra care to pronounce all the consonants in her words. “Immigrant parents.”

  “I see. Anti-Bolsheviks, eh? Well, we all have dark family secrets, don’t we?” She held a cold smile. “Nothing friends can’t forgive. So how did you end up back in Russia in the middle of a war? Why aren’t you home with your husband?”

  She hated questions like that. “I could ask you the same thing? Why aren’t you?”

  “That should be obvious. My country was attacked.”

  “So was mine.” The vodka was definitely going to her head now, and she hoped the conversation wouldn’t get political.

  “Come, come, Alex. Your country hasn’t been invaded. You haven’t been forced to put the rest of your life aside and fight for the very survival of your people.”

  “Yes, that’s true. I‘m here because I want to be where the great events are happening. I don’t want to be tucked away some place safe and treated like a doll. I want the same freedom as men.”

  The major beamed. “I see we’re kindred spirits. We both know that women are capable of the same achievements as men. But I’ve learned that a woman can’t be soft, for if she is, men will take advantage of her.”

  “Do you think so?” Alex was beginning to find it hard to separate her words. “Surely it’s possible to be both soft and strong-willed.”

  “No, women have to be hard on themselves and learn not to break under pressure. As commander, I am unyielding because I must be. If my women are to have the same privileges as men, they must endure the same rigors. Perhaps things are different under capitalism.”

  Alex was silent for a moment, trying to both order her thoughts and control her lips. “I…um…can’t speak for all of capitalism, just like you probably can’t speak for all of communism.” She paused again. What did she mean to say? How could she say it succinctly? And politely.

  “I think our people are basically the same.” She licked her lips, to make them work better. “Women in both countries are under constant pressure to prove themselves as good as men, but they shouldn’t try to act like men. I like women who are hard when they’re flying planes but soft with their friends. With me.” She stood up unsteadily.

  The major came to her side. “In vodka veritas, eh? Aleksandra Preston, I like your ideas. We must do this more often.” She laid her arm across Alex’s back and guided her to the door. Was it Alex’s drunken imagination, or did she feel an unusual pressure of the major’s breast against her side?

  She staggered from the bunker, and the ice-cold evening air sobered her a little. She buttoned her collar and pulled down her cap before glancing around the Anisovka air base.

  It was clearly meant to be permanent, for it had a hangar and several solid bunkers. The runway too was more than wood laid over mud. She took a few unsteady steps toward the first airplane and studied the ground underneath it. Concrete octagons were laid out in an interlocking pattern, forming a hard, stable surface that resisted mud. Ingenious. Even in the event of bombardment, the shell holes could be quickly refilled and covered with the same segments to re-establish the runway.

  Clever people, these Reds, she thought as she shuffled, trying not to stagger, toward her own bunker. She glanced back at the field behind her where the sun was just setting. The entire field had a cold solemnity about it. Empty and dead on the outside, but just a few meters away, crouching in their shelters around their stoves, dozens of women were very much alive. She’d missed being surrounded by women, and now she was among them again. Was that what “comrade” really meant?

  *

  Damn. When she awoke the next morning, the other women had already left. How embarrassing. She recalled groping her way along the bunks the evening before and undressing to the friendly snickering of the women. She remembered struggling with the laces of her boots and finally yanking them off her tired feet. But nothing after that.

  The fire in the stove had burned down to ashes, so she had to dress in icy cold air. Hurrying from the bunker, she asked the first woman she passed where the mess was.

  “In that bunker over there, but you’d better hurry. Everyone’s starting duty.” Alex could see now that several clusters of women had gathered on the field. Lilya had to be in one of them, but there was no way to know which one. It seemed a kind of punishment.

  “You’re lucky. We still have tea and a little kasha left,” the mess officer said. Sugarless tea and kasha, apparently the universal diet. The powdered eggs of the Metropole were delicious by comparison. She rewarded the mess officer by photographing her with her cooking equipment. Everyone, it seemed, liked to have her picture taken.

  She turned to one of the other stragglers. “What are the pilots doing today?”

  “Can’t tell you exactly. “Some of them escort the bombers that come in from Saratov, and others fly defense of the positions our army holds. The best pilots go out on active missions.”

  “Does that include Lilya Drachenko?” It gave her a tiny thrill to say the name.

  “Sure, it does. And Katia Budanova, Raisa Beliaeva, Klavdia Nechaeva. They make up the first squadron. They took off already at dawn to escort some bigwigs to Stalingrad.”

  “Ah, so Lieutenant Drachenko is fully recovered from her injury.” She feigned casual interest. “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “Recovered or not, she’s top-notch. Hasn’t anyone
told you the story of the barrage balloon?”

  “Barrage balloon? No. What about it?”

  “Well, the Germans had this balloon for their artillery spotters, see? They lowered it for the spotters to climb into a basket, and when they let it float again, the spotters could find our positions and direct their guns. The balloon was surrounded by flak cannons, so all our attempts to knock it out failed. But Lieutanant Drachenko found a better way.” The young woman took a long drink of her tea, no doubt to increase the suspense.

  “Only Lilya was brave enough, or maybe crazy enough, to fly along the front line before swinging back through enemy territory. She came at the balloon from the rear, where they had no cannons.”

  “Did she succeed?”

  “On the first pass.”

  Alex smiled. “That sounds like her. I’ll send the story to my magazine, if the censors let me.”

  Another of the mechanics appeared in the doorway. “First squadron’s come back.”

  Alex hurried outside and watched the three fighters taxi to their respective places on the airfield. She waited by the hangar until a handful of figures approached from the field, obviously to make their report.

  Inna Portikova was first, beside Katia, hands dancing in the air in some mechanical description. Raisa Beliaeva came next, and two women ran to greet her.

  Lilya Drachenko was alone. As she approached the hangar, she slid her helmet back on her head, and blond hair erupted over her forehead. Alex let the others pass and walked out to meet her.

  Lilya stopped and simply gazed at her for a moment. She seemed small inside her bulky flight clothing. The brown wool gymnasterka gathered under a wide black belt made her upper body look inflated. Her chest was a jumble of pockets, canvas parachute straps, and the small cord-cutting knife. Enormous padded jodhpurs and the parachute that dangled behind her gave her a slightly comical look. But around her throat, barely visible under her collar, was the thin line of a blue polka-dot scarf.

  “Hello,” she said simply.

  “Thank God you’re all right.” Alex swallowed hard. “I thought about you every day.”