The Witch of Stalingrad Read online

  “What do you think of going to Russia?” He puffed again on his cigarette, gripping the ebony filter in his clenched teeth like FDR.

  “Russia? Whatever for? I know the Germans are crawling all over Russia, and Stalin has his back against the wall. But what do we care about the Reds?”

  “When we enter the war, which is inevitable now, the Russkies are going to be our allies. We’re already sending them tons of munitions and supplies.”

  Alex grimaced. “Allies. With Communists. What a mess, eh?”

  “Not a mess, an opportunity. You know as well as I do how much the Russians depend on Roosevelt’s Lend-Lease program. They lost most of their rolling stock in the Blitz, and they wouldn’t have any railroad at all if the US wasn’t shipping them locomotives and railcars. A lot of their planes and trucks are coming from us now, too. There’s a great story there, one that begs for photos, and no one has any yet.”

  “I suppose so, but damn. I don’t want to go to Russia. My parents fled the Communists in 1918 and would turn over in their graves if they knew I was headed back there.”

  “Your Russian background’s exactly the reason I’m sending you. You’re the only person on the staff who speaks Russian. Don’t worry about Pearl Harbor. Everyone and his brother’s going to be fighting with the censors to get the story. Meanwhile, you’ll be getting us a scoop on Stalin and the Eastern Front. Consider it the chance of a lifetime.”

  Alex let out a long breath of surrender. “Stalin. Eastern Front. Crap. So when do I leave?”

  “We’ll need a few weeks to get you a visa and press pass, and to set up travel. You have plenty of time to collect the things you’ll need and enjoy the holidays. When the time comes, I’ll have Sally book you a flight to Hvalfjord, Iceland.”

  “Iceland? How does Iceland come into it?”

  “That’s where the arctic convoys start. From Hvalfjord you’ll go to Murmansk or Archangelsk and then train to Moscow.”

  She protested weakly. “You said they had no trains.”

  “I said they stopped building them. They have our trains now, with at least one line running to Moscow. You’ll do fine.”

  “Jesus, George. You had this all planned, didn’t you?”

  He shrugged. “That’s how you get ahead of the game.” He edged her toward the door.

  She stood in the open doorway for a moment. “Just how long is this little jaunt going to take?”

  “Couple of months. Depends on how long the war lasts. You’ll be home in time to enjoy a New York summer.”

  In a daze, Alex took the elevator down to the lobby of the Manhattan skyscraper. Stepping through the revolving door, she pulled up the collar of her coat and bent into the wind blowing up Broadway. She thought first about Pearl Harbor, the men who were dying, and the many more who were going to die when the United States entered the conflict. Would things change at home, with rationing or an accelerated draft? Well, that needn’t concern her much longer; she wouldn’t be here. She’d be in bloody Russia.

  She headed downtown on Broadway, gazing at the streets lit and ornamented for Christmas. On two corners of Broadway and 42nd Street, little red Salvation Army buckets hung from tripods tended by men in shabby Santa Claus costumes. Obviously word of Pearl Harbor hadn’t reached the street yet.

  Winter in Russia—that would require some planning. She’d definitely need to buy a thick wool parka. A fur hat and heavy wool scarf, too, and she’d charge them to Century magazine. She also fancied the blue polka-dot scarf in silk on display in Macy’s window.

  With a vigorous tug, she yanked open the department-store door, and a wall of warm air enveloped her.

  *

  How pathetic Terry’s penis looked as he snored next to her. Come to think of it, that part of Terry left her cold at the best of times. Fortunately, his extraordinary talent in the oral department had kept their relationship going. He played her “little place” well, while she closed her eyes and imagined Esther Williams, Ava Gardner, Rita Hayworth, or Marlene Dietrich, naked and rubbing deliciously against her. Poor guy. If it weren’t for that penis and the conspicuous lack of breasts, he’d have made a great lesbian.

  He snorted once and then jerked to wakefulness. “Oh, sorry. Must’ve dozed off.” He slid himself up to lean against the bedstead and scratched a hirsute chest. “A shame this is going to be our last time for a while.” He grabbed his pack of Chesterfields and lit one, blowing smoke out of the side of his mouth, looking like Errol Flynn in a cigarette ad.

  “I’m sure you’ll find lots of girls while I’m gone.”

  “In my business, it’s not so easy to meet girls.” He took another drag on his cigarette. “Strategic Services is in such a tizzy about spies, they want to know everything about my contacts.” He pinched her shoulder playfully. “You have no idea the ruckus you caused when my boss found out your real name was Aleksandra Vasil’evna Petrovna.”

  “Terry, you know that’s ancient history, and that they changed my name at Ellis Island. I was just a kid. I’m as loyal an American as you are. Russia may be our ally now, but I hate the Communists.”

  “No one’s questioning your loyalty, Alex. But we were talking about me meeting other women, and if I hope to rise in the ranks, I have to keep my face clean. So to speak.” He scratched his upper lip.

  “So what exactly will you be doing while you’re keeping your face away from ladies’ wet places?”

  “Protecting America’s shores. Moving secret people in and out of dangerous places. Catching bad guys. Secretly.” He took another puff and tilted his head to exhale smoke upward like a chimney.

  “Good man. Try to catch a few of them on my route to Russia so I make it to Moscow alive.”

  “Roger, will do.” He stubbed his cigarette out in the glass ashtray and looked at his watch. “Someone’s supposed to pick me up right about now, but I think I can squeeze in another fifteen minutes. What do you say?” He leaned sideways and slid his hand over her breast.

  She gently nudged him away. “Sorry, old boy. It’s late and I have to go to work early tomorrow. Put your pants on now, and go save America. Secretly.”

  He obeyed, grumbling, drawing on his boxers and trousers, tucking in his shirt while she rose and pulled on a bathrobe to walk him to the living room.

  At the door to the corridor, he took his trench coat from the coat rack, popped his fedora on his head, and gave her a peck on the cheek. “Bye, sweetheart. Promise me not to go to bed with any Russian men. I hear they’re brutes.”

  “Promise,” she said with sincerity, and closed the door behind him.

  Bored, and not yet sleepy, she wandered over to the window. The morning’s snow had turned to slush, as it always did in Manhattan, and 112th Street at night looked positively dreary. Idly, she peered down at the sidewalk as Terry exited the building. A woman, gray-haired and portly in a heavy winter coat, stood by a car and returned to the driver’s side as he climbed in. Then they pulled away from her building.

  Hell of a secretary, to pick up her boss at midnight from his girlfriend’s house. Obviously the Office of Strategic Services had a larger budget than Century magazine.

  She showered and returned to her bed to read another chapter in her detective novel. Then she flicked off the light and fell asleep within minutes. She dreamt, bizarrely, of Russian soldiers sitting around a fire, and one of them was her father in a Tsarist uniform.

  CHAPTER THREE

  October 15, 1941

  Lilya shifted her pack higher on her shoulders and tried to avoid stumbling on the blacked-out Moscow street. She had passed the tests and interviews for the women volunteers and had thought the final transport to the training school would be more joyful. But the dark forms of Muscovites all around her fleeing the city produced an atmosphere of mute terror. An air raid had struck just that evening, leaving a shell hole on Red Square, as if to underline the mortal danger that menaced them. Everyone was rushing to escape, in near panic.

  Next to her a
nd several inches taller, Ekaterina Budanova cursed as she tripped and then caught herself. “It’s this damned uniform they’ve issued me. The pants drag on the ground.”

  “I know. Mine’s just as bad. We’ll just have to cut them down to fit. Don’t you know how to sew?”

  “No. I only know how to fly. Besides…Ooof—” A bulky black form stumbled against her. “Oh, sorry,” a young woman said. “I’m not used to the crowds, and I don’t know where I’m going. Is this the way to the Belorussia Railway Station?”

  “Oh, yes,” Lilya said. “That’s where half of Moscow has been running since the air raids started. Are you trying to evacuate to the east like all the rest?”

  “No, not in that sense. I’m going to flight school with Marina Raskova. If I can find the right train.”

  “Well, we’re going, too. I’m Lilya Drachenko and this is my friend Ekaterina, um, Katia.” She held out a hand, realizing a moment later that the gesture was invisible in the darkness. It brushed against the woman’s coat and she took hold of it, shaking it vigorously.

  “Inna Portnikova, pleased to meet you. You’re right. The crowd’s getting dense and obviously moving in one direction. Let’s try to stick together.” She linked arms with Lilya, and the three of them plowed forward shoulder to shoulder.

  Near the station, she could make out the outline of its two towers, black against the lighter cloud-filled sky. With the station in sight, the crowd was more aggressive. The stream of evacuees shoved and jostled them through the great archway into the main station. In the sudden light, she could now see families with enormous bundles dragging along toddlers, schoolchildren, old people. Was this what the death of a city looked like?

  They stopped as they reached the overhead departure panel. It listed tracks and train destinations but no departure times. All three stood, momentarily at a loss.

  At that moment, Lilya caught sight of a woman in an air force uniform facing away from them. She approached her and tapped timidly on her arm.

  “Excuse me, please, Comrade Colonel,” she said, and the woman turned to face her. Shocked, Lilya took a step back. It was Marina Raskova, Heroine of the Soviet Union, whose face was known to every person who flew, and to millions who didn’t.

  Raskova chuckled. “Not a colonel, my dear, just a major. I suppose you’re looking for our train. It’s over there on track eight. We have the last five railcars.” With a pat on Lilya’s shoulder, Raskova turned away and directed her attention to the entryway, apparently on the watch for more of her charges.

  Lilya, Katia, and Inna elbowed their way through the murmuring crowd toward track eight, where a long freight train waited. Uniformed men stood guard at the entry doors.

  Lilya held out her identification papers. “We’re new recruits. Major Raskova sent us over here.”

  “Very good, move along.” The guard seized her by the upper arm, shoving her up a gangplank into the last car. She stood for a minute, to get her bearings, until Katia and Inna nudged her from behind.

  The car was fairly full, with some twenty other women sitting with their knees drawn up on bedrolls or straw mattresses. Wire had been strung along the entire wall of the freight car, and naked bulbs hung at intervals. They were unlit, but presumably would illuminate once the train was underway. A stove, currently cold, had been anchored to the floor on a metal plate at the center of the car. Next to it, a bucket held a supply of coal.

  Scattered amid the women were some still-unoccupied bedrolls, and they claimed three that were together. Another scan of the murky interior revealed the corner partitioned by a curtain. Lilya assumed it covered the hole over the tracks that would function as their toilet. She hoped people wouldn’t use it too frequently while they were stopped in the station.

  It was a relief to be part of something purposeful, rather than flailing about like the people in the train station, struggling for space on one of the trains. Inside the women’s car, the roar of the anxious and aggressive crowd was muted.

  Once settled in, Lilya glanced around at the other recruits, many of whom she’d met during the interview days. Some of the women near the door had removed their military shirts or trousers and, wrapped in a blanket, had begun to sew on them by the light of the station. Others were simply curled up on their pallets, talking. She chatted with the others, getting to know them, then dozed lightly in the close warm air of the car. Finally, in the third hour, a figure appeared in the entryway.

  “Good evening, comrades,” Marina Raskova said in a voice that was at once authoritative and congenial. “You’ll be glad to know that we have clearance to leave so I can tell you that our destination is Engels airfield and training school. It’s not far south of us on the Volga, but the whole country is mobilized, and we have very low priority. We’ll have to stand aside and surrender the tracks to trains moving west with troops and supplies and those moving east with factory equipment and workers. I suggest you occupy yourselves learning military regulations and the mechanics of your planes. If you brought sewing materials, it might also be a good time to cut your uniforms down to size so they’ll fit when you arrive.”

  “What about our boots?” someone asked. “They’re gigantic.”

  “I’m sorry, we can’t do much about those. You could try doubling your foot cloths. That will keep you warmer, too.”

  “What will we do about food?” Inna ventured.

  “I’ve arranged for a few crates of herring and some bread to be distributed. And there should be enough tea. We’re hoping the trip won’t last longer than three or four days. You were all issued long wool underwear, and I suggest you get into them. You have a stove, but the coal ration is limited so you’d best save it for nighttime.”

  Raising a hand, she said, “Welcome to the air force,” and turned back out of the train car onto the platform.

  *

  “Unngh, what day is this?” Katia mumbled as she awoke, her contralto voice even lower than usual. She sat up and ran a hand through her hair. “I can’t remember. Five? Six? Twenty-seven? Days and nights are all the same.” She rubbed her face. “Uff! Is there any bread left?”

  Inna already knelt by the stove, shoveling in the last of the coal, though the heat scarcely reached the far ends of the railcar. “No, nothing left. But we’ve got hot water and a little bit of tea. I’ll make us some. If only we had some sugar.”

  “Sugar? What’s sugar?” One of the women close by groused. “I’ve forgotten what it tastes like.”

  “Anyone know where we are?” Lilya looked around at the other faces, puffy and unwashed.

  “On another siding someplace,” Inna said. “I went outside to pee instead of using the privy, but no one was about.”

  At that moment, the steel door slid open with a dull metallic screech and Marina Raskova appeared again. She looked weary herself, with dark rings around her eyes, though her hair was still immaculately parted in the middle and held in a tight knot at her neck.

  “How’s everyone doing?” she asked. Her cheerfulness seemed strained, but Lilya appreciated the effort.

  Katia spoke up in her distinctive low voice. “We’re all fine, I think, but we’re out of food. We’re hoping—”

  “Of course you are. I understand. Unfortunately, we have no provisions left. But take heart, comrades. We’re close to Engels, and with any luck, we’ll arrive tonight.”

  *

  The promise of “tonight” was fulfilled, though they arrived at three in the morning at the Engels station. Tying their bedrolls over their rucksacks, they clambered out into the shock of cold and fog. Like Moscow, the town of Engels was in blackout, so, exhausted, they marched with their ponderous packs behind their leader like shades in the underworld.

  Men from the school met them carrying blue-tinted flashlights and guided them to a massive hall. “It’s the barracks’ gymnasium,” the guide informed them. “The men gave it up so you could have it as a dormitory.”

  Lilya glanced around at the sea of bunk beds, in r
ows along the walls and down the center. Bare bulbs hung on long cords from the ceiling, giving the entire space the look of a warehouse. She marched in line to her assigned bunk and hefted her pack and bedroll onto one end before dropping down on it with a long exhalation. Katia and Inna, she noted, had bunks close by.

  Forcing wakefulness, she sat up and rummaged through her rucksack for a few personal items. She would arrange her field kit and extra clothing in the morning and stow them in the wooden lockers beneath the bunk beds.

  She peered toward the far end of the hall where signs indicated the toilets. But a long line of women was already waiting. She had relieved herself in the train only two hours before, and her teeth could go a night without cleaning, she decided. Grainy eyed, she undressed and drew on her woolen shirt and trousers, then slipped under the blanket. In spite of the buzz of the multitude of other women, she fell asleep in minutes.

  *

  An overhead buzzer roused her from sleep, and she rose automatically from the bunk to stand before it, like everyone else. Rubbing her face, she turned her attention toward the platform at the end of the hall. On the gymnasium wall hung an enormous red banner with the hammer and sickle, and next to it, a portrait of Josef Stalin looking powerful and avuncular. Marina Raskova stood in front of it with a microphone.

  “Good morning, comrades. We have allowed you to sleep a bit past the usual hour since we arrived so late. But this is the last time you’ll have this luxury. Starting now, you have half an hour to stow your belongings in the lockers below your beds and dress for morning report. At nine o’clock you will fall in at the parade ground for roll call. Your first duty will be to receive your metal identification tags, instruction manuals, training equipment, and a haircut.”

  Lilya heard an audible gasp at the last word.

  “Then, and only then, will you march to the mess hall for breakfast. That will be all.” With that, the commander stepped off the platform and exited the hall.