The Witch of Stalingrad Read online

  Table of Contents

  Synopsis

  Acclaim for Justine Saracen’s Novels

  By the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Postscript

  About the Author

  Other Justine Saracen Titles Available via Amazon

  Books Available from Bold Strokes Books

  Synopsis

  As the German Blitzkrieg brings the Soviet Union to its knees in 1942, a regiment of women aviators flies out at night in flimsy aircraft without parachutes or radios to harass the Wehrmacht troops. The Germans call them “Night Witches” and the best of them is Lilya Drachenko. From the other end of the world, photojournalist Alex Preston arrives to “get the story” for the American press and witnesses sacrifice, hardship, and desperate courage among the Soviet women that is foreign to her. So also are their politics. While the conservative journalist and the communist Lilya clash politically, Stalingrad, the most savage battle of the 20th century, brings them together, until enemy capture and the lethal Russian winter tears them apart again.

  Acclaim for Justine Saracen’s Novels

  “Mephisto Aria could well stand as a classic among gay and lesbian readers.”—ForeWord Reviews

  “Justine Saracen’s Sistine Heresy is a well-written and surprisingly poignant romp through Renaissance Rome in the age of Michelangelo. …The novel entertains and titillates while it challenges, warning of the mortal dangers of trespass in any theocracy (past or present) that polices same-sex desire.”—Professor Frederick Roden, University of Connecticut, Author, Same-Sex Desire in Victorian Religious Culture

  “Saracen’s wonderfully descriptive writing is a joy to the eye and the ear, as scenes play out on the page, and almost audibly as well. The characters are extremely well drawn, with suave villains, and lovely heroines. There are also wonderful romances, a heart-stopping plot, and wonderful love scenes. Mephisto Aria is a great read.”—Just About Write

  “Sarah, Son of God can lightly be described as the ‘The Lesbian’s Da Vinci Code’ because of the somewhat common themes. At its roots, it’s part mystery and part thriller. Sarah, Son of God is an engaging and exciting story about searching for the truth within each of us. Ms. Saracen considers the sacrifices of those who came before us, challenges us to open ourselves to a different reality than what we’ve been told we can have, and reminds us to be true to ourselves. Her prose and pacing rhythmically rise and fall like the tides in Venice; and her reimagined life and death of Jesus allows thoughtful readers to consider ‘what if?’”—Rainbow Reader

  Waiting for the Violins “…was a thrilling, charming, and heartrending trip back in time to the early years of World War II and the active resistance enclaves. …Stunning and eye-opening!”—Rainbow Book Reviews

  “I can’t think of anything more incongruous than ancient Biblical texts, scuba diving, Hollywood lesbians, and international art installations but I do know that there’s only one author talented and savvy enough to make it all work. That’s just what the incomparable Justine Saracen does in her latest, Beloved Gomorrah.”—Jerry Wheeler, Out In Print

  “Saracen blends historical and fictional characters seamlessly and brings authenticity to the story, focusing on the impacts of this time on “regular, normal people”…Tyger Tyger [is]a brilliantly written historical novel that has elements of romance, suspense, horror, pathos and it gives the reader quite a bit to think about…fast-paced…difficult to put down…an excellent book that easily blurs the line between lesfic and mainstream.”—C-Spot Reviews

  The Witch of Stalingrad

  Brought to you by

  eBooks from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  http://www.boldstrokesbooks.com

  eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  Please respect the rights of the author and do not file share.

  The Witch of Stalingrad

  © 2015 By Justine Saracen. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-62639-374-5

  This Electronic Book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, New York 12185

  First Edition: March 2015

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Shelley Thrasher

  Production Design: Susan Ramundo

  Cover Design By Sheri ([email protected])

  Cover Model: Celine Bissen

  By the Author

  The Ibis Prophecy Series:

  The 100th Generation

  Vulture’s Kiss

  Sistine Heresy

  Mephisto Aria

  Sarah, Son of God

  Tyger, Tyger, Burning Bright

  Beloved Gomorrah

  Waiting for the Violins

  The Witch of Stalingrad

  Acknowledgments

  I must first thank Colonel Julie Tizard, U.S. Air Force Reserve, for educating me about the Night Witches in the first place, and then for giving me information on how to fly a plane. Lt. Col. Barbara L. Sawyer, USAF, Ret., also kindly helped by providing a diagram of the Yak cockpit. Galina, a valuable friend of Lesbian Literature in Moscow, assisted with the Russian expressions, so I wouldn’t embarrass myself. While it would be tedious to list a bibliography, I wish to credit my main source regarding Soviet women pilots, Wings, Women, & War, by Reina Pennington, which I strongly recommend to anyone wanting more historical details.

  For this novel, and for all its predecessors, I owe profound gratitude to my editor Shelley Thrasher for her sharp eye, open mind, and general wisdom. Recognition is due to Sheri for a great cover design, and to Celine Bissen for agreeing to pose for it. And above all, thanks to our Alpha, Radclyffe, without whom this would all just be lesbian fantasizing.

  Dedication

  For Lilya Litviak, Katia Budanova,

  Marina Raskova, and the other women of the Soviet Air Force who died fighting fascism.

  PROLOGUE

  August 1943

  Airspace over the Ukraine

  Lilya Drachenko was ferocious when the demon burned in her. Now, clear-eyed and murderous, it focused her eye on the German Junkers 88 and let fire. The bomber belch
ed a spray of smoke and fire and spiraled downward. She careened away, indifferent to the scream of its descent and the detonation of its crash, and made a tight loop back. Another Junkers came into view, and within seconds she had locked onto it. She sensed no sky, no earth, no world, had not a single thought but the yellow spot at the center of her cannon sight that trembled along the enemy fuselage. She fired. Tracer bullets showed her aim was true, and the incandescent burst confirmed it. She banked to scan for other craft, and then she saw them.

  Messerschmitts. A cloud of them.

  She dove precipitously, but she was a second too late and her Yak-1 jerked with a hit. Smoke filled the cockpit and she struggled for control as another hit took off her wingtip. She tried to pull up, to use her momentum to curve back eastward, toward friendly territory.

  She was over woodland now, and the trees rushed up with terrifying speed. She banked, but one wing struck a branch, and the force of the blow ripped her out of the cockpit. As she tumbled between the branches, she felt the agonizing pains that told her bones were breaking, and when she crashed to the ground, she lost consciousness.

  Moments later, she came to with a pounding head and blurred vision. Every breath was excruciating, and moving her left arm caused a jolt of agony. She smelled smoke and panicked; she was going to burn alive.

  But as she peered upward she could make out patches of green overhead and realized she’d been thrown from the plane. Before she had time to be grateful, the hazy forms of German soldiers gathered around her, rifles pointed at her head. In the last moments of her fading consciousness, the faces of those she’d failed passed before her: her mother, Katia, Major Raskova, and, most cruelly, the one she loved. Oh, Alex, she thought. Then merciful darkness closed in again.

  CHAPTER ONE

  October 12, 1941 (two and a half years earlier)

  Cold, filthy, and exhausted, Lilya Drachenko hefted another shovelful of dirt onto the bulwark that would form Moscow’s outermost ring of defense.

  The Germans had overrun their borders and their airfields, virtually wiped out their air force, bombed and slaughtered all the way to the outskirts of Moscow.

  They were close now, terrifyingly close. When the wind was right, you could hear the faint sound of artillery in the distance, and the air raids had been battering the city for weeks. The foreign embassies, many government offices, and some of the factories had evacuated toward the east, and the hospitals were filled to bursting with wounded streaming in from the outlying areas to the west.

  And here she was, a young pilot full of aspirations, grounded and laboring with the old men and the women of Moscow.

  The crunch of her blade slicing into the gritty subsoil was broken by the harsh voice of a neighbor, a bitter, broken-toothed old party member who shared their apartment block.

  “What a comedown, eh, Lilya? No more flying around like a big shot. Now you’re stuck in the dirt with the rest of us.” She cackled and forced her shovel again into the resistant ground.

  Lilya said nothing, for the accusation had an element of truth. She simply recalled the last time she flew in the flying club’s old U-2 biplane. The June day had been bright and clear, and the land below heartbreakingly beautiful with patches of cultivated land broken by woodlands. She’d flown low, following the deep S curve of the Moscow river, with the Kremlin jutting from the top of the lower curve like a bauble on a swan’s breast. Rodina, the Motherland, she’d murmured, and could have wept.

  The next day, Germany had invaded and all flights were grounded. All the male pilots had been pressed into military service and the women assigned to fortifications. And by fortifications, they meant dirt.

  A whistle sounded. “All stop, comrades,” the foreman said. “Come on, there’s tea in the workers’ hall.”

  Gratefully, she laid her shovel next to the others and climbed from the pit, brushing the damp soil from her overalls. How futile it seemed, like the anti-tank obstacles on the main streets, pathetic blockage to the invasion.

  A central stove warmed the hall, and two enormous and slightly battered samovars fueled by charcoal stood at opposite ends of the room. She lined up with the others, receiving a speck of rationed sugar and a shot of syrupy black tea, then filled her tin cup from the samovar with hot water to dilute it. At the end of the table she helped herself to one of the slices of larded black bread.

  The murmur in the room became subdued as the foreman switched on the radio to the All Union First Programme. Patriotic songs floated over their heads for a while, until an announcer spoke and the murmur died down.

  The war news was brief, all of it bad. Many references to courage but no mention of the word retreat, though that was all the Red Army could do. Lilya paid little attention until the announcer said the magic name, and Marina Raskova began to speak.

  Marina Raskova, heroine of the Russian skies. Everyone in the hall knew her from her magnificent achievement in 1938 of flying the width of the Soviet Union, breaking all records. Lilya stood up and approached the speaker box, watching it as if it contained the woman herself.

  Comrades, I speak to you all, bravely struggling for our Motherland. You know of the heroic men who are fighting at the front every hour of every day. We women struggle, too. Soviet women, the hundreds of thousands of drivers, tractor operators, and munitions workers, who are ready at any moment to sit down in a combat machine and plunge into battle. Today, on the initiative of Comrade Stalin, the State Committee for Defense has authorized me to form air regiments, of women who know how to fly, navigate, or service airplanes, and those who want to learn. And so we call upon you, our sisters and our daughters, to take up this task and to enter the battle directly with our men. Dear sisters, the hour has come for harsh retribution. Send your name and qualifications to the Ministry of Defense attention Marina Raskova, and I promise you that I shall read every one of your messages personally.

  Thank you.

  A minute of crackling followed and the grim news report resumed.

  Lilya continued staring at the speaker in a silent dialogue with herself. Did she qualify? As a flight instructor she surely must. Were there enough aircraft for training all the new recruits? German bombers had, after all, destroyed squadron after squadron on the western airfields. But if Comrade Stalin had suggested the regiments, perhaps they would build new ones. Would her mother allow it? Probably not, but she’d find ways around that. She set her doubts aside and concentrated on the details.

  Good writing paper. Yes, she could get some from the flight school. Scarcely looking where she walked, she stumbled back to her post. As she took up her shovel, she formulated what she would write, and by the end of the duty shift, she had composed the entire letter.

  CHAPTER TWO

  December 7, 1941

  New York, Office of Century Magazine

  Alex Preston hated working on a Sunday, but she had a deadline, and she hadn’t been able to develop her photos of the steel factories until that morning. Arriving at two in the afternoon, she passed her editor, George Mankowitz, leaning back in his desk chair and listening to the baseball game. Through the open door, she could hear the hissing of the crowd and the high-pitched sing-song voice of the sportscaster. Giants vs. Dodgers, she recalled, but she didn’t give a damn who won.

  She reached her desk and had barely opened her briefcase and taken out the folder of photographs when someone at the tickertape machine called out, “Holy Christ!”

  “What? What is it?” She was less annoyed at the profanity than by the interruption of her train of thought.

  “The Japs. They’re bombing our base in Hawaii. It’s going on right now.” He held up the tickertape as if she could decipher it from across the room.

  “What?” She rushed to his side to read it herself. At that moment, Mankowitz appeared in the doorway of his office. “Listen to this!” He waved them all toward him, and Alex filed with the others into his office.

  This is WOR radio reporting. We repeat, Washington has con
firmed that the naval base at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii is under assault by the Japanese. The attack, which began at 7:55 local time, includes Pearl Harbor, as well as the Hickam, Wheeler, Ford Island, Ewa Field, and Kaneohe air stations, and reports are coming in that it is still in progress.

  The staff stood quietly throughout the broadcast. Someone said, “This means war, of course.” Another grumbled, “The Japs are gonna regret that.”

  When the report was finished and the others filed out, Alex stayed, deep in thought. What a horror, to have to listen helplessly as American ships were sunk and American men were dying.

  “George, let me go and take pictures,” she said. “I can fly out tomorrow morning. You know I can get you great shots.”

  He shook his head. “You’re the best photographer we’ve got. You have the prizes to show for it, but this is out of the question. For starters, they’re not going to let civilians fly there.” He drew a pack of Pall Malls from inside his jacket and tapped the open end against his fingers to extract one of the cigarettes.

  “How do you know that?”

  He fumbled in his jacket pocket until he came up with a sleek black cigarette filter and pressed the cigarette into one end of it. From yet another pocket he brought out a lighter and ignited the tip, sucking in a lungful of smoke. “I’m no expert in national security,” he said, the words coming out of his mouth embedded in smoke. “But I’m betting the navy won’t want the world to know how much damage there was, or to what ships. That’s all strategic information now. The military’s going to scrutinize every photo—down to specific weapons that appear and soldiers’ ranks and insignias—so enemy intelligence can’t use the data.”

  She ran a hand through her hair, flattened by her hat. “I’m sure you’re right. It’s the start of the war. But damn. I’ll be stuck here photographing steel factories, unless they’re making war material, and that’ll be off limits, too. Crap.” She dropped down, sullen, onto one of his office chairs.