Sapphire Skies

by Belinda Alexandra

  SEVENTEEN

  Stalingrad, 1942

  Dear Mama and Zoya,

  It has been some time since I’ve had an opportunity to write to you more than a few lines. But it’s raining today and the Germans are staying away so I am here in our bunker with the other girls and a little stove to keep us warm. To tell you the truth, when you informed me about Roman’s death in Voronezh, I was saddened and found it difficult to talk to anyone. I rallied myself for our missions, but when I returned all I wanted was to go to sleep or to take a walk. As you know, Roman was kind to me. Rightly or wrongly, before we left for the war we promised each other that if we survived we would marry. I wasn’t in love with Roman but he was a good man and perhaps we could have made a happy life together. Now, when we fly missions to cover ground troops, I remember him and do my best to protect the men.

  Having Svetlana here is a comfort to me. Knowing that she looks after my plane gives me confidence in the machine that takes me into battle each day. The mechanics have a harder life than the pilots. They must check and make ready again each plane when we return from our sorties — sometimes six or more times a day — and then they must repair the planes at night with only a torch to guide them. We women pilots and crew share an underground bunker, but as it gets colder the mechanics have to ensure that the engines don’t freeze overnight. So now Svetlana sleeps in a trench near the planes with the other mechanics and with only a canopy to protect her from the elements. When I greet her in the morning I see that she has ice in her hair!

  What a friend I have in Svetlana! With her qualifications she didn’t need to come to the front but she did so to be with me. Her mother writes to her here, I know that, but she never sends Svetlana anything. Perhaps Lydia Dmitrievna is in difficult circumstances. Could you send me the quilt from my bed to keep Svetlana warm and those slim gloves I have in my drawer? She has scabs on her hands and perhaps the gloves will allow her to reach the awkward parts of the engine while protecting her skin. What a pair we will make then: me with my hair in curlers and Svetlana wearing evening gloves to fix the plane! What will Captain Orlov say?

  I haven’t told you about my squadron leader yet. Captain Orlov is the handsomest man I have ever met: tall, with broad shoulders, a strong jaw, brown eyes and chestnut hair. But he is so serious! Of course, the desperate situation we find ourselves in at Stalingrad is no laughing matter and we are all more sombre than we might otherwise be, but Captain Orlov speaks in the same grave tone whether he is talking about the soup, Pushkin’s poetry or informing us that our squadron is about to take on fifty enemy aircraft. His solemnity gives me the giggles, which is awkward, as he has no sense of humour and the harder I try to control myself the more I find myself laughing.

  Mama, you asked me in your last letter if I am frightened when I go into combat. I am terrified when I sit in readiness-one on the runway. As we wait in our cockpits, my stomach churns and my heart pumps so fiercely I almost faint with the dread. There are times when my teeth chatter so loudly I’m sure the whole regiment can hear them. Will this next sortie be my last? Will I ever see you both again? But as soon as the order to take off is received and I move the plane down the runway, a sense of calm washes over me. I deaden all feeling inside and concentrate. I become like a machine and focus only on the mission, not the fear or the consequences. To go into this state I have rituals. In readiness-two, I apply lipstick, powder and perfume. It’s my war paint, my way of saying to the enemy: I am ready to face you! I do not allow myself to think of the Germans as people; never as somebody’s father, brother or husband. To do so would be fatal. I remind myself that I would not be killing Germans if they had not invaded the Motherland and slaughtered innocent people. Before we attack, I cross myself and commit my soul to God. Captain Orlov does not understand these rituals. Several times now he has ordered me to the guardhouse for breaches of uniform regulations. He has also reprimanded me for the items I keep in the cockpit — the little icon you sent me, my lipstick and my powder compact and mirror. He thinks my cosmetics are purely vanity, and even if I tried to explain he wouldn’t understand.

  The guardhouse is not a pleasant place. You have to hand in your belt — so you can’t harm yourself with it — and sit there in solitary confinement. The guards let me sing at least, although I do so quietly so as not to get them into trouble. Even when I use the toilet, they are supposed to go with me and keep their eye on me. But the guards here are gentlemen and always look away. What you have to get used to in a war!

  Even though the punishment for a breach of regulations can be several days, Captain Orlov comes and gets me after a few hours. You see, I fly as his wingman, and although he wasn’t happy when I was first given that position, I think he now feels safer with me than any other pilot. We have shared some kills together and I have also scored two solo kills so far in dogfights since arriving here. When Captain Orlov orders me out of the guardhouse, he hopes that I will be contrite and not wear cosmetics any more. But when we go to readiness-two, Svetlana sneaks me my make-up and the pattern starts all over again.

  I haven’t been sent to the guardhouse lately though, and here is what I think has happened. It’s a nuisance for Svetlana each time I am sent into solitary confinement because she has to adjust the pedals of my plane so a male pilot can fly it, and then she has to adjust them back again for me. I am sure that she has expressed her unhappiness, and now it seems Captain Orlov has given up on reprimanding me. You see, I am a good soldier — I always win!

  When our regiment commander, Colonel Smirnov, saw the sapphire brooch that I wear he didn’t admonish me. He simply asked if I didn’t think the brooch was too precious to take into combat. I answered him, ‘I’m precious and I’m going into combat!’ He laughed at that. (You see, Colonel Smirnov has a much better sense of humour than my squadron leader!)

  Anyway, if the rain clears up tomorrow we are sure to be busy and I’d better get some sleep. A kiss to the both of you!

  Love, Natasha

  PS: Mama, I know that you are sad about losing Ponchik. But our doggie lived to a good age and was so dearly loved! Please find yourself another stray from the metro in memory of Ponchik, Papa and Sasha. Those unfortunate creatures must be so hungry and afraid now. Take one of them into your heart. Dogs are loyal and never treacherous, unlike people!

  EIGHTEEN

  Moscow, 2000

  It was Saturday morning and Oksana had come back to Lily’s new apartment first thing after feeding her cats to hear the rest of Svetlana’s story. She had brought the three small kittens she was looking after, and placed them in their enclosed basket on the sofa.

  Svetlana looked from Lily to Oksana and needed no prompt to continue.

  I knew that Natasha was in love with Valentin Orlov even before she did. As for Valentin, his feelings for Natasha were obvious no matter how he tried to hide them. One day he flew a mission with Colonel Smirnov, Natasha and three other pilots, to accompany a squadron of bombers that were going to destroy German supply lines. What should have been a routine mission turned into a dogfight, with our fighter pilots outnumbered twenty to six. One of the Yaks went down in flames, and a dive bomber was disabled and had to make an emergency landing. Despite this, the mission was accomplished and the German planes were forced to flee. But in the chaos our fighters were separated. Valentin, running low on fuel, was the first to return to the airfield. He waited on the runway for the others to arrive. Colonel Smirnov returned next and then the other two surviving pilots. There was no sign of Natasha.

  ‘Did anyone see anything?’ Valentin asked the others. ‘Besides Maksimov going down?’

  ‘I saw her take some hits along her fuselage,’ replied one of the pilots, ‘but no smoke or flames. She appeared to be holding her own.’

  Colonel Smirnov telephoned divisional headquarters to find out if there was news of a downed pilot but they had nothing to report. The tension grew as all of us — Valentin, Colonel Smirnov, the pilots and crew — stared at the
sky hoping to catch sight of Natasha’s plane returning. As time wore on, Valentin couldn’t disguise his feelings. His face was white with anguish. I was on the verge of collapsing myself. Of course, we had been through this many times. Pilots didn’t return from missions; that was the course of things. We buried them or had memorials for them. When Natasha and I were with the 586th fighter regiment in Saratov, it was distressing to wake up in the bunker and see the undisturbed beds of comrades who had been killed the day before. Their half-finished sewing, letters and drawings reminded us that our own lives could be cut short at any moment. Natasha told me to never imagine anything bad happening to her. She believed that what you pictured vividly in your mind would come true. To avoid bad luck she even refused to take her identification capsule with her. She gave it to me to look after before she flew a mission. Despite my promises not to imagine the worst, each time she left for a sortie I would pace the runway anxiously until she returned. Had my fears caused Natasha’s death? I couldn’t bear to think of life without her.

  One of the armourers turned to me. ‘Listen!’ he said. ‘Is that your engine? It is, isn’t it?’

  I strained my ears and heard the faint hum of a plane’s engine. Each of us mechanics knew the sound of our plane as intimately as a mother recognises the cry of her baby. Natasha’s plane appeared from the west. The relief that ran through all of us was palpable. Colonel Smirnov slapped Valentin’s shoulder. Valentin allowed himself a chuckle. The rest of us clapped and cheered. We watched Natasha approach the airfield. There was a dip to her wing, which indicated damage to the plane. She touched down and we waited for her to taxi to the end of the runway but her plane came to an abrupt stop. Had she run out of fuel? We grew quiet with apprehension, waiting for the plane to start moving again. But it didn’t.

  Sensing something was wrong, Valentin and I raced down the runway. Valentin, with his long strides, reached the plane before me. He leaped on the wing, which was riddled with bullet holes. The windshield was shattered. Valentin ripped open the canopy. Natasha lay there, slumped back in the seat. Her face was deathly white and her uniform was soaked in blood. She’d been hit in the shoulder and must have lost consciousness as soon as she’d landed her plane.

  Valentin tore a strip of material from the front of his shirt and folded it into a dressing pad to apply pressure to the wound. ‘Get the medics!’ he screamed to the other pilots and crew who were running to see what had happened.

  Two orderlies were dispatched from the hospital bunker and sped down the runway with a stretcher. Valentin unhooked Natasha’s parachute and harness and lifted her out of the cockpit, cradling her in his arms. ‘Natasha!’ he said softly to her. ‘Natasha, come on!’ He placed her on the stretcher and ran beside it, keeping the pressure on her shoulder as the orderlies hurried to the hospital bunker. I ran after them.

  The nurse cut open Natasha’s sleeve and examined the wound. ‘She’ll need surgery and a transfusion,’ she said. ‘We’ll stabilise her then get her to a hospital.’

  Valentin didn’t take his eyes off Natasha’s face. He wasn’t behaving like a squadron leader concerned about one of his subordinates. The desperate look on his face was that of a man who sees his beloved in pain. As the nurse cleaned Natasha’s wound and bandaged her arm, Natasha regained consciousness and noticed Valentin by her side. At first she seemed puzzled and then she smiled. That smile told me all that I needed to know. I felt so many things in that moment: happiness for Natasha and Valentin that they could still experience love in the middle of all this horror; but also fear for them. It was accepted wisdom that at the front no one should make promises; they should wait until after the war. When life could change in an instant, promises only brought suffering. In the end, my fears were well founded.

  The kittens started to move around in the basket and meow. As captivated as Lily and Oksana were by Svetlana’s story, they took a break for Oksana to mix up some formula.

  Lily realised that she and Svetlana hadn’t had breakfast. While Oksana was busy with the kittens, Lily toasted some rye bread and served it with cottage cheese and sliced tomato. When she handed Svetlana her plate, the old woman seemed lost in thought. Lily sat down next to her. Oksana put the kittens back, but before she rejoined them her mobile telephone rang.

  ‘It’s Doctor Pesenko,’ she said, looking at the number. After a few minutes of conversation, she ended the call and indicated for Lily to come with her to the kitchen. ‘Doctor Pesenko has found a place for Svetlana,’ she said, ‘a good one. It’s an aged care facility that will be able to give palliative care.’

  The day before, Lily would have been relieved by the news. She’d been worrying about what she’d do if Svetlana took a turn for the worse. Oksana had enough on her hands with the colony cats and orphaned kittens.

  ‘So soon?’ she replied. ‘But Svetlana’s just started talking to us. We still don’t know whether she has any family.’

  ‘I’ve got someone checking on that,’ said Oksana. ‘Meanwhile Doctor Pesenko has persuaded the administrator to accept her by giving my details as her caregiver.’

  ‘When do we take her there?’ Lily asked.

  ‘Doctor Pesenko is at the facility now. He wants us to come straight away. We can’t miss this opportunity — there are very few places like this in Moscow. Most Russians care for their elderly relatives at home.’

  Lily set aside her impatience to hear the rest of Svetlana’s story and helped Oksana pack a bag for her. They put in the nightdress Lily had bought for her and a dress Oksana had obtained, along with toothpaste and other necessities. Lily fastened a collar and lead on Laika, assuming that she could come along too. During the drive to the facility, Lily noticed Svetlana staring out the window. Is she thinking about Valentin and Natasha, Lily wondered. She remembered Valentin Orlov from the television: a man who had never stopped searching for the woman he loved. Finally he’d found her but she was dead. Natasha and Valentin’s love story didn’t have a happy ending.

  Doctor Pesenko greeted them at reception and helped them to register Svetlana Novikova. When they went inside to the rooms, Lily was relieved to find that it wasn’t so different from the nursing home where Adam’s grandmother lived in Sydney. Everything was clean and freshly painted, and the common room had a television set and comfortable armchairs. Yet the pictures on the walls and the vases of flowers couldn’t hide the fact that for everyone who came here, this was the last stop. The tiled floors, metal hospital beds and locked bedside cabinets were typical of medical institutions, but it was the shrivelled human beings that inhabited the place, with their shocks of white hair and gaping mouths, that marked it as an institution for the old and the dying. Lily watched Svetlana, but the old woman didn’t seem to have registered the change of location.

  Svetlana was assigned to share a room with a woman who was so wasted away that Lily kept glancing over at her to make sure she was still breathing. A plump nurse with brown curly hair entered the room.

  ‘This is Polina Vasilyevna, the matron,’ said Doctor Pesenko. ‘I’ll leave you in her capable hands and check again on our patient tomorrow.’

  Polina tugged the curtain across between Svetlana and the other woman and placed Svetlana’s belongings in the locker. ‘We’ve got a shelf here for mementoes and photographs,’ she said, pointing to a glass cabinet on the wall. She glanced at Laika and smiled. ‘And pets are welcome to visit as long as they have a certificate of health from a veterinarian.’

  Oksana nodded and Lily knew she would get Doctor Yelchin to take care of Laika’s certificate. Svetlana lay on the bed and said nothing.

  ‘It’s natural to be unsettled at first,’ Polina said, patting Svetlana’s hand. She turned to Lily and Oksana. ‘We’re about to serve lunch. Why don’t you stay with her for that? Then when you come tomorrow you’ll see that she’s more at ease.’

  Later, when the two women returned to the car, Lily felt a knot form in her stomach. ‘Svetlana started to trust us and we’ve bundled
her off here,’ she told Oksana.

  Oksana put her hand on Lily’s arm. ‘Sweetheart, she’ll settle in and we’ll come and see her every evening. She’s seriously ill and you wouldn’t have been able to care for her yourself. Also, don’t forget that we don’t know where she was living before. It was probably somewhere a lot worse. She’s safe and comfortable and she’s got what she most wanted — someone she trusts to look after Laika.’

  That night, Lily lay in bed back in her own apartment with Pushkin snuggled against her on one side, snoring peacefully, and Laika on her other side. The dog was restless; she kept nudging Lily’s arm.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Lily assured her. ‘You’re safe and your mistress is being taken care of. You’ll see her again tomorrow.’

  Lily thought of Svetlana lying in her hospital bed with a stranger sleeping next to her. She reminded herself of Oksana’s words: she had done the best she could. Since the fall of Communism, the average life expectancy for a woman in the Russian Federation had fallen to seventy-one. Based on what Svetlana had told them so far, Lily guessed her age to be about seventy-eight. Despite having spent some time in a concentration camp and having a damaged heart, she’d already beaten the odds.

  ‘She’s tough,’ Lily told Laika. ‘She’ll be all right.’

  The following day, Lily and Oksana put Laika into the jeep and set off to visit Svetlana. ‘She’s still quiet,’ Polina said, leading them to Svetlana’s room, when they arrived. ‘But her vitals are good. Doctor Pesenko examined her this morning and praised you both. She’s in better health than he expected.’

  Svetlana was sitting up in her bed. She looked glum, but when Lily held Laika up to her, she brightened instantly.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, kissing the dog. ‘Do you like your new mistress? You must be a good girl for her.’

  ‘Come, let’s explore this place,’ said Oksana.