Among the Red Stars Page 14

  One more way we were being treated like second-class citizens. I asked, “Do they even fit our planes?”

  Masha waggled her hand noncommittally.

  “Well. Life is life and we shall have to make do,” said Tanya. She walked over to the navigators and I followed. They were clustered around a map planning our route. Iskra had out her little aeronavigation book.

  “How’s that going?” I asked.

  “We’ve got a tricky job tonight, thanks to the clouds,” said Zhigli, making a face. “I heard the division navigator asking Bershanskaya, ‘Do your girls know how to navigate through clouds? Will they get lost if they can’t see landmarks?’”

  “On the bright side, not even an eagle would be able to spot us through that,” said Tanya.

  “You can be happy about it; you aren’t concerned with trivialities like finding the target,” said Vera.

  Tanya rested her chin on her navigator’s shoulder and put her arms around her. “Verok, darling, I trust you absolutely.”

  Galya, our aide-de-camp, vaulted onto Number 9 like the gymnast she was, a stack of letters in hand.

  “Galya, our plane is not your climbing toy,” said Vera.

  Galya responded by flipping upside down with her knees hooked over the edge of the cockpit. She held up a battered envelope. “This is the closest I’ll get to a plane while I’m in the VVS, apparently.”

  “Are you still sore about your assignment?” I asked.

  “Don’t I have a right? I have my pilot’s license, but they didn’t even make me a navigator.”

  “Someone has to be on staff,” I said, privately thankful that it wasn’t me.

  Galya plopped onto the wing’s leading edge and said forlornly, “I didn’t even know there were staff positions in the army. I thought everyone carried guns and killed people.”

  “Truly this war has disillusioned us all,” said Iskra.

  Galya held up a battered letter. “Anyway, Valka, there’s a letter for you.”

  I took the proffered envelope.

  “News from Pasha?” said Iskra, and the rest of the flight perked up. None of them had boyfriends of their own, so they loved hearing about mine, no matter how many times I told them that he was nothing of the sort.

  I had been hoping for something from Pasha, but I had no intention of betraying the depth of my disappointment. I said loftily, “For your information, this letter is from Lilya. I wrote to ask how things were going at the 586th.”

  “Lilya?” Interest piqued Iskra’s voice. “How’s she doing?”

  I unfolded the letter and read. “‘Hello, Valka! It’s so nice to hear from you,’ etc, etc. ‘I’ve heard that you girls are wreaking havoc all over the front. But we became combat active first, and don’t you forget it.’”

  Tanya snorted. “Guarding an aircraft factory in Saratov across the river from where we trained doesn’t count as being combat active.”

  “It’s not a contest,” said Vera.

  “‘The 586th had to compromise and hire some male mechanics because our girls don’t have enough training to work on the complex Yak-1s by themselves. It’s a good thing my hair is growing out. I looked terrible at Engels! I have decided to be in love with one of the mechanics. His name is Tolya.’”

  Galya stifled a squeal of excitement. Zhigli said, “It’s about time!”

  “‘I know you’ll think I’m very silly, but that’s because you have not seen Tolya. Anyway, you can hardly criticize me given all the time you spend writing to that dear boy of yours, who I sincerely hope you’ve . . .’ I’m skipping that part.”

  A chorus of disappointed voices. Iskra tried to grab the letter. I slapped her hand away and continued reading. “‘Is the 588th still untainted by menfolk, and if so, how are Iskra and Zhigli holding up?’“

  “With difficulty,” said Iskra.

  The next paragraph ordered me to make up with Zhigli. I skipped that part, too. Never mind that Iskra wasn’t permanently harmed, I still couldn’t forgive Zhigli for what she’d tried to do. “‘The men certainly aren’t the problem around here. That would be Major Kazarinova.’ No surprise there. ‘Her leadership style consists of always finding something to berate us about. Our regiment came in first in the division for marksmanship, but all she had to say was that we were too slow recovering from dives!

  “‘If you ask me, she resents that we get to fly while she’s permanently grounded with an injury. She says we ought to respect her because she spent ten years laying the groundwork for women in the VVS and none of us would be flying now if it weren’t for her, not even Marina Raskova. As if that made her any better a commander. What she doesn’t understand is that a leader is more than her technical qualifications. She needs to be someone we want to fight for.

  “‘The pyaterka and I have had enough. We went to the division commander and demanded that she be replaced.’”

  Iskra whistled. “Insubordination!”

  I kept reading. “‘We didn’t get our way, of course. But we are getting out of her crew-cut hair and reclaiming our natural place at the top of the aviation food chain: our regiment is being split up and I’m being transferred together with the pyaterka pilots and a couple of other girls. You’ll never guess where we’re going: Stalingrad. The hottest part of the front. . . .’” My voice stumbled. I hadn’t read the letter ahead of time, and this part blindsided me. The letter had exclamation points, but I couldn’t read it with the excitement Lilya seemed to have.

  Everyone went quiet.

  “‘It isn’t the most logical transfer. We’re being sent to a regiment that flies LaGG-3s. How will my poor mechanic find Yak parts over there? I know perfectly well that Kazarinova is just breaking up the troublemakers. But so what? I’m going to shoot down some Fritzes!’ And she ends with ‘Give love and kisses to everyone.’”

  The others had lost their smiles. Tanya and Vera edged closer to each other. Galya flipped awkwardly through her stack of letters, opening her mouth and closing it again, and finally said timidly, “Is she really going to Stalingrad?”

  “That’s what the letter says.”

  “‘Hot,’” said Iskra. “That’s one way to describe Stalingrad.”

  Tanya exclaimed, “Stalingrad’s a death trap! We lose ten planes a day there. You send someone to the far east if you want them out of your hair. You send them to Stalingrad if you want them dead!”

  “Maybe it will cool off,” I said, knowing it wasn’t true.

  “Number 41 is all set,” announced Masha, and we had to end our discussion and get into our planes.

  We took off into a gloomy night, the cloud bank as thick and heavy as a gray wool blanket. Warm mist condensed on my face and trickled in droplets down the instrument panel. Our U-2 was its own tiny universe.

  Lilya’s letter occupied my mind. She was being sent to her death. And at Kazarinova’s command. Once again I felt another friend being torn away from me.

  The 586th was fragmenting before it had scored a single kill. The 587th was still training. Somehow the 588th, the regiment I had once considered a consolation prize, was the only one that had seen real combat.

  Even that might not last if the division commander had his way. But at least I understood his prejudice against us. I still couldn’t wrap my brain around Kazarinova. I thought of our own commander. No matter what the front threw at us, Bershanskaya protected us at all costs. If she were to give me an order like the one Kazarinova had given Lilya, it would be a betrayal.

  “We’re here,” said Iskra.

  We were still surrounded by featureless gray. I disengaged the engine and brought Number 41 down out of the clouds. Our target was a barracks, full of soft, unarmored targets, foreign invaders who wanted to enslave us. I had to think of them that way, because if I let myself imagine them as people like Pasha, even for an instant, then my feelings would rebel and I wouldn’t be able to bring myself to complete the mission.

  Better yet, think of them as nothing but a pattern of
lights that I have been assigned to hit, a training exercise, a game.

  “Bombs away,” said Iskra as the plane gave a familiar lurch. The finned ends of the bombs disappeared into darkness. A cluster of plumes rose behind us, then died away quietly. I reengaged the rattly engine and pulled up the elevators. But Number 41 didn’t come out of the glide as nimbly as usual. Something felt off.

  “Do you feel that?” I asked.

  “Yeah, our slug is a little sluggish,” came Iskra’s reply.

  I looked over the edge of the cockpit. A dark, round shape clung to the bottom of the lower starboard wing. “I knew it! A bomb didn’t release.”

  “No problem. Take us over that road. I don’t want to waste it.”

  I obliged. There was a click, another click, and an exclamation of “That is one stuck bomb. Give the wings a waggle. Maybe you can jostle it loose.”

  I rocked the aircraft, but the last bomb stubbornly refused to fall. My initial thought of “I knew captured bombs didn’t fit right” was quickly overwhelmed with uneasiness. I licked my dry lips and said, “Iskra, this is a problem.”

  “I’m aware. Do you think you could land her?”

  I was good at landing, but one false move and that bomb would detonate. I thought of the planes crowded on the airfield, mechanics checking the instruments, pilots and navigators waiting in their cockpits or getting out and stretching while armorers surrounded their aircraft, Galya running around delivering tea and letters. And us landing in the middle of that, carrying death. “It’s too big a risk. You’ll have to release it manually.”

  “Manually, as in . . .”

  “As in with your hands.”

  “Are you crazy?” Iskra was losing her cool. Iskra never lost her cool.

  I tried to speak with the authority of an aircraft commander instead of a nervous cousin. “You’re over the lower wing. I’ll keep her level. Go.”

  The ticking engine slowed as I throttled it back as far as I could without stalling the plane. I heard the click of my cousin’s harness being released. Glancing back, I glimpsed Iskra putting a leg over the edge of the cockpit and onto the wing’s ribbed surface. She slipped between the control wires and stepped out onto the middle of the wing, clinging to a wooden strut with one hand while holding out the other for balance. She stood over the remaining bomb.

  Cupping a hand around my mouth, I yelled, “Try bouncing!”

  “Bouncing?” The wind nearly whipped away Iskra’s reply.

  “Jump on the wing. Gently! Don’t put your foot through the canvas!”

  The biplane shuddered. When I looked back again, to my relief Iskra was still there. So was the bomb. Iskra knelt, then lay flat on the wing. Still gripping the strut with her left hand, she reached out over the front edge of the wing and felt for the manual release.

  We had been following a pale ribbon of muddy road speckled with black water-filled craters, but now I spied a dark obstruction ahead, small and distant, but growing quickly. It resolved itself into barracks, tents, vehicles. I yelled, “Iskra, I have to turn!”

  “No!” Iskra screamed. I could only make out half her words. “. . . barely holding on . . . bank . . . I’ll . . . and die!” And, raising her voice, “And then I’ll kill you!”

  “Then hurry up! There’s an encampment ahead.”

  Iskra tremblingly let go of the strut. She pulled herself forward so that she could reach farther under the wing and fumbled with the bomb rack. The encampment loomed. A row of flak guns stabbed the sky. Were they manned? I couldn’t tell. No searchlight beams cut through the darkness, but they could light up in an instant when the operators heard our rattling engine. My instinctive fear of the guns vied with the need to protect my cousin. I risked a look at the wing. Iskra brought her hand to her mouth and pulled off her soft leather glove with her teeth. She reached down again.

  I cut the engine. My fingers dug into my palms, numb with the effort of holding back my fear, of not grabbing the control stick and pulling us out of there. As dead silence enveloped our little aircraft, voices rose from below. The guns were manned. I held my breath. Surely they couldn’t spot the plane in the darkness. Nothing up here, just endless black sky.

  As Number 41 reached the encampment, there was a jolt. The bomb fell.

  It detonated with a bright flash. The plane shuddered from the impact of the hot air. The searchlights came on as their crews scrambled into position. I reengaged the engine and gunned the U-2 forward. I tensed, waiting for the shells to rip into Number 41’s fragile canvas skin.

  A scream rang out. Iskra had slipped. She was clinging to the back strut, one hand gloved and the other bare, her legs hanging over the edge. In a moment of panic, I had to suppress the urge to climb out of the cockpit and help her. All I could do was fly straight and level. Iskra got a footing on the wing with one leg, then the other, until she could reach forward far enough for me to grab her forearm. She had lost her glove. I pulled her up so she could clamber into her cockpit.

  At first there was no sound but the two of us catching our breath, and then we burst into relieved laughter. Iskra looked back. “I think we hit one of the guns.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  16 July 1942

  Dear Valyushka,

  We captured a couple of German scouts yesterday. Not spies, just regular soldiers in faded camouflage. They were about my age, proper blond Aryan boys, but ragged and scrawny as starved rats. I expected them to be defiant. They weren’t. They seemed dazed, like they weren’t sure what had happened or how they had ended up here.

  It was impossible not to see myself in them. I wondered if they had enlisted or been drafted, whether they fought because they truly believed in fascist ideals or because they were made to fight, or simply because Germany was their home and they didn’t know what else to do.

  Pashkevich interrogated them himself. I don’t know if he was supposed to or if he just wanted to. Of course they didn’t speak Russian. Pashkevich berated them and smacked them around a bit for that and then found someone to translate. Petya clung to Vakhromov, who whisked him away, muttering, “The child doesn’t need to see this.”

  Turns out they didn’t have anything to tell us that we didn’t already know. Pashkevich refused to believe that. He took out his service pistol and struck one of them across the mouth. It broke his jaw. The other begged him to stop and swore that they had already told him everything. So Pashkevich shot them. First the wounded one while his comrade watched. Then the other. One bright orange gunshot after another.

  Pashkevich saw me staring at the bodies. He said, “Do you have a problem, Danilin?”

  I said, “No, sir.”

  He said, “Good. Now take out this trash and bury it.” And I did.

  I could make excuses. I could say that it wasn’t my place to say anything or that it wouldn’t have made any difference. But the truth is that he was hurting them and I was afraid that if I tried to stop him, he would hurt me.

  Or worse, give me the pistol.

  I keep thinking about what I would have done if he had ordered me to shoot them. I wish I could say I don’t know. But I do. I would have done it. I would never have forgiven myself but I would have pulled the trigger. I wouldn’t have had the courage not to.

  You worry about what bombing the enemy says about you. But you’re doing what must be done in a time of war. If no one was willing to drop bombs, we would lose the war and we would all be enslaved or slaughtered at the hands of the fascists. Those scouts, though, their deaths helped no one. And I allowed it to happen. What does that say about me?

  Our vacation by the reservoir will come to an end soon. We’re awaiting orders. I’m reluctant to touch my radio for fear of what I’ll hear. Do you remember the troops encircled at Rzhev, how they bravely held out for all those months? They’re gone now. Wiped out. If they weren’t important enough to save, I have no illusions about what will happen to us.

  Yours,

  Pasha

  29 July 1942
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br />   Dear Pasha,

  Part of me wants to ask how Pashkevich ever became an NCO, but I know. The Red Army likes them that way. Hard and angry and ready to do anything. But we can’t let ourselves become like that, not even to win the war. If I were there, I would straighten him out. And he would have to listen to me, because I outrank him.

  I don’t want to hear you agonizing over what you should have done or what you didn’t do, and especially not what you might have done under other circumstances. You can’t change what’s already happened. All you can control is what you do next.

  I’m keenly aware of this. Our regiment has suffered two disasters, and the second one was entirely my fault.

  The first was a freak accident amid the chaos of rebasing. The fascists are still pushing us back. Every few days we’re forced to move again, flying through skies thick with smoke from fields set alight by fleeing peasants who had no time to harvest them. There’s a rumor that the village of Trud Gornyaka was burned to the ground. I feel sick thinking about what might have happened to Anna Alexandrovna and the other peasants. Iskra saw me poking at my kasha at breakfast and she gave my hand a squeeze, too quick for the others to notice. She knows when to not say anything.

  Moving around as much as we do, we can’t always tell what parts of a particular field are for planes, what parts are for vehicles, and what parts are for people. That’s what caused the accident. Iskra and I were reporting after a third sortie when there was a scream and a squeal of brakes. We dashed over. Galya, worn out from running errands around the airfield all night, had lain down for a short rest. A fuel truck was rushing to the planes. The driver didn’t see her until the wheels met her.

  Galya was alive, but in bad shape. Her face had lost its usual color and was very, very pale. Sweat broke out on her forehead with every ragged breath she fought to draw as they lifted her onto a stretcher to await the air ambulance. We held her hands and told her, “You’ll be okay, Galya, just hold on,” even though we were far from sure.

  I’ve never seen Bershanskaya so furious. I can only hope her fury is never directed at me. She ripped into the already-miserable driver and threatened to have him court-martialed.