The Witch of Stalingrad Page 4

  “Ah, yes. My editor, George Mankowitz, said it was you who arranged for the Russian visa. Thank you very much, but you’re the administrator for the Lend-Lease program, aren’t you? Shouldn’t you be back in Washington?”

  “Lord knows, in the dead of winter, I’d certainly prefer to be, but alas, I have matters to discuss with Mr. Stalin, and some things are best addressed in person.”

  “Lend-Lease, yes. I came here on one of your convoys.” She snorted. “It was the worst two weeks of my life. Not just the storms, but I also saw a merchant vessel sink, all hands lost.”

  “Yes, I heard. War casualties, like our men at Pearl Harbor. I’m afraid there will be many more. I’m sorry Mr. Mankowitz didn’t forewarn you, of that and of the hardships here in Moscow.”

  She tried to lighten the mood. “Hardships, indeed. I’ve just learned I have got to carry my own bags upstairs.”

  Hopkins smiled slightly. “Yes, everyone who isn’t fighting at the front has been pressed into labor service, digging trenches, dismantling industry for transport, camouflaging the city, manufacturing armaments. No able-bodied men left to wait on us, I’m afraid.”

  Alex pressed her glove palm to the tip of her nose, to warm it. “The lobby’s not exactly toasty either. Is this also what I have to look forward to?”

  “I’m afraid so.” Oil and coal are scarce. Did you notice the wood piled up in Red Square? It’s cut in the woods and brought by barge or train into Moscow, where it’s distributed. And of course there’s never enough.”

  “Does that mean I’ll have to…?” The high whine of a siren interrupted her question and she looked around, puzzled.

  “Air raid,” Hopkins said. “They come almost every day at this hour.” The hotel clerk stepped out from behind the counter and signaled them to follow him down a flight of stairs.

  They sat side by side on a bench with the guests who had been in the lobby and others who had filed down the stairs from their rooms. Concussions muffled by the thick walls told her that planes were dropping bombs, but thankfully not many. The other, louder sound of the flak guns on both ends of Red Square seemed to scare the attackers away. After less than an hour, the hotel clerk waved them back up the stairs.

  Once again at the desk where she’d left her luggage, Hopkins took up one of her suitcases. “Come on, I’ll help you with these. What floor are you on?”

  She took hold of the other one and walked alongside him to the stairs. “Third. Could be worse. But do I have to actually worry about air raids every day?”

  “They come most days, but the worrying part is up to you. The flak cannons keep them from doing too much damage, but it’s not very pleasant. Do you plan to stay in the city? What’s your program, anyhow?”

  She stopped at the landing after the first flight of stairs and paused for breath. “As you know, Century is a photo magazine, so I’m here for pictures. Of the Soviet leaders, of the action, of the war. And that reminds me, can you arrange to get me into the Kremlin? My boss is hoping for a portrait of Mr. Stalin. The press has been using the same old photograph of him, and it’s time we had an up-to-date one.”

  Hopkins’s wince told her he thought the idea was daft. “I seriously doubt that in the midst of the battle for the survival of Moscow, Josef Stalin will want to sit for a portrait. You might be better off asking to photograph the new female aviation regiments he’s ordered. That’s something he seems rather proud of.”

  “Female soldiers.” She chuckled, imagining broad-shouldered, brutish women. “How very Russian. In any case, I would be most grateful if you could inquire about photographing Stalin. My editor will be much happier with that.” She resumed climbing.

  “Um…well…We might be able to convince him that the American public, which is, after all, paying for all his war material, would like to see what he looks like. But please do not be disappointed if he doesn’t reply. He’s got a war breaking over his head and…you understand. He’s not the most congenial of men.”

  She thought of the bloody purges, of thousands of political opponents, sentenced to labor in the Gulag, if they were lucky—to execution, if they were not. News of them had reached the United States even before the war began. “So I’ve heard.”

  *

  In the course of the next day, Alex set up her darkroom in her bathroom and made a point of learning the layout of the vast hotel. She hadn’t questioned George’s booking her at the Hotel Metropole, and now she understood the reason. The vast complex held what amounted to the Moscow foreign-press community, and correspondents from major British, American, and French journals wandered its corridors.

  They also filled its dining room, where they presented their foreign ration tickets and received their dinners. On her first evening, there were no vacant tables, so she sat down at one whose only occupant was a plump, amiable-looking man with heavy eyebrows and a wide mustache.

  “Do you mind?” she asked in English, indicating the empty chair.

  “Oh, not at all.” He held out his hand. “Henry Shapiro, United Press Bureau manager.”

  She reciprocated. “Alex Preston. Century magazine. Been in Moscow long?”

  “Since 1934.”

  “Ah, an old hand. Then maybe you can tell me how to get into the Kremlin. I’d like to photograph Stalin.”

  Shapiro’s expression of disbelief was a near duplicate of the one she’d seen on Harry Hopkins the day before.

  “Oh, my dear. Every man, woman, and dog here wants to get into the Kremlin and interview Stalin. We’ve all written letters, which are never answered. On rare occasions, someone gets a personal invitation from the Kremlin Press Department, but we’ve yet to figure out what the criterion is.”

  The waiter approached their table and set down bowls of beet soup and a platter of black bread in exchange for their ration tickets. She ate for several minutes, then wiped her mouth with the linen napkin. “Is this what our meals are going to be?” she asked.

  “By and large, yes. But you learn to enjoy them when you realize that the Muscovites have to stand in long lines every day to get anything like this. This is a privilege we have simply because we can pay for it.”

  Chastised, she changed the subject. “So how do you get your information about the war?”

  He dabbed at his mustache. “Mostly through the Soviet Press Department. For the moment, we’re stuck with summarizing information given to us by the Sovinformburo.”

  “Ah, the Soviet Information Bureau. Of course.”

  “It holds regular press conferences where it hands out official communiqués in Russian describing the military action. I can read Russian, but most of the others need a translator. Then we write our reports and submit them to the censors. When they get finished blacking out what they don’t like, they stamp their approval and we’re allowed to rush down to Central Telegraph to transmit them.”

  “That’s it? That’s the war reporting?”

  “Well, we can also quote articles from Red Star, the official army newspaper. But that’s propaganda, too. The best is to just talk to people, assuming you speak Russian. Even then, you’ll need luck, persistence, and guile. Did I mention luck?”

  “Hmm,” she said, returning to her soup to conceal her shock.

  This was going to be more complicated than she’d expected.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  January 14, 1942

  Lilya Drachenko banked sharply to the left, executed a barrel roll, and leveled out in the Polikarpov U-2. The biplane was so basic, so utterly simple in design, that flying it was much like riding a bike. It was slow; its cruising speed was below the stalling point of most of the high-powered German fighters, but it could skim along only a few hundred meters from the ground and felt, as no other plane felt, like an extension of her own limbs.

  The sight of the aircraft slightly above her at eleven o’clock yanked her from her reverie. Two of them, flying in tandem, and she recognized their shape. Heinkels, she was pretty sure.

  She ban
ked right and returned to the airfield, then marched to the office of the commander.

  Through the crack in the half-open door, she could see her hunched over her desk poring over flight schedules. Lilya watched her for a moment in quiet awe. Marina Raskova held a nearly divine status among her students but was never aloof. Lilya, and most of the women at Engels, would have flown into hell for her.

  She glanced up as Lilya knocked on the doorjamb.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt you, Comrade Major.” She took a breath. “While I was making a practice flight today, I spotted two Heinkels. That means their base is close by.”

  Major Raskova rubbed the side of her face, and Lilya could see the fatigue in her eyes. “We are aware of them. Our reconnaissance knows the exact location of the base, in fact. The Air Ministry has ordered us not to engage them. We don’t have enough fighter planes to take the risk. In a month, perhaps, after the American deliveries.”

  “A month? Couldn’t we simply bomb them? We could use the U-2s that we train in. A surprise attack by a squadron, each one carrying, say, two bombs, would do real damage, don’t you think? We could at least keep them awake all night.”

  “The U-2s?” Major Raskova frowned slightly. “The enemy flak could shoot you down the minute they see you.”

  “Yes, but I have an idea about how to deal with that, Comrade Major. May I explain?”

  *

  “Lilya, I can’t believe you convinced her to go through with this.” Inna Portnikova trudged alongside Lilya and the other three volunteers on the airstrip. In the sub-zero January air, they walked fast to keep from freezing, and on her short legs Inna had to almost run to keep up. “And that you…” She jabbed Katia Budanova in the side. “You fell for this lunacy, too.”

  “It’s not lunacy. It’s a good plan. Just make sure our engines are oiled and warmed up. We’ll do the rest.”

  Inna snorted. “Don’t worry. You two may be big show-off pilots, but I’m still the best engine mechanic on the airfield. The engines are oiled, and the armorers have loaded both your planes with bombs.”

  Lilya slapped her on the back. “I never doubted you for a minute. Now, help us turn the propellers and then please stick around. There’s almost no moon, and with the blackout, we can’t land without your light to guide us.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be there. I’ll always be there.”

  Lilya stepped up onto the wing of the biplane and into the cockpit. As promised, it was warmed up and started immediately, in spite of the freezing air temperature.

  Behind her, in the navigator’s seat, Tatyana plotted their course with her map and a stopwatch.

  In the air, half an hour later Tatyana announced, “We’re one minute away from target.”

  “All right. Time to dance.” Lilya cut the motor and shoved the stick forward, bringing the U-2 into a steep, soundless dive. At an altitude of only 300 meters, she glided to where the target should be, then yanked both drop wires to release the bombs. At almost the same moment, she started the engine again and accelerated on a steep curve upward. She’d barely climbed another 50 meters when the bombs detonated and the force threw them sideways. She regained control and a moment later heard the second two bombs from Katia’s plane detonate. And never a peep from the anti-aircraft guns.

  “Wahoo!” Without radio contact, either with the ground or with the other pilot, Lilya could share her glee only with her navigator, but that was enough. They’d shown that even in their flimsy all-but-toy airplanes, the women could bomb German positions. The men back at the airfield wouldn’t be snickering now.

  *

  Morning came, and Lilya and Katia filed in with all the others to stand before the newly posted lists. Katia scratched her forehead. “Damn.”

  Lilya’s heart sank. “I didn’t make it to the fighter-pilot list. You didn’t either. That doesn’t seem fair,” she added bitterly.

  “Stop complaining, you two,” a stocky woman standing next to them said. “I don’t get to fly at all. I’m listed with the armorers. I’ll be dragging bombs out to the field every night for you to go out and play heroes with.”

  “Shameful talk. Stop it now!” It was Major Raskova, and the women parted on both sides of her, dropping their glances. “Listen to yourselves, all this talk of ‘I deserve this’ and ‘Look where they put me.’ Do you think we can fly missions without navigators, without technicians and armorers? Individual ambitions are unworthy of a Soviet woman.”

  Her voice softened, and she laid a hand on the shoulder of the woman who’d complained about being an armorer. “Don’t worry. You’ll all have your chance to prove yourselves, and you’ll all be heroes in your own way.”

  She pointed with her thumb. “As you can see by the lists, we’ve divided you into three regiments. The 588th Night Bombers, the 587th Regular Bombers, and the 586th Fighter Force.” Each regiment has its own pilots, navigators, armorers, technicians, and office staff.”

  “Excuse me, Comrade Major.” Katia spoke up, her somber contralto always giving her a sort of authority. “Who’ll command the night bombers?”

  “That will be Major Bershanskaya. I’ll command the day bombers, and no one has yet been chosen as commander of the fighters. So, are there any other complaints? If not, return to your quarters.”

  The women drifted away grumbling. Only Inna seemed content. She linked her arm into Lilya’s as they walked. “I’m so glad we’ll be serving together, the three of us. I love being in the air force, but I never for a moment wanted to fly a plane.”

  *

  Lilya lay in her dormitory bed brooding at the injustice. “We have to get into the fighter regiment,” she whispered to Katia, who sat on the bunk next to her brushing her thick, short hair.

  “Don’t be in such a hurry. They don’t even have any planes yet. They’re waiting for some to arrive on the convoys from America.”

  “Nice of them to give us planes and weapons.” Inna’s voice came from the other side. “But I don’t think they’re such good soldiers themselves. They’re all a bit pampered, and I hear the women dress like tarts.”

  Lilya rose on one elbow. “Really? I saw the American ambassador’s wife once in Moscow, and she looked nice. Just because we all look like boys now, we shouldn’t make fun of attractive women.”

  “That’s easy for you to say, Lilya, with your little blond curls,” Katia said. “No matter what they do to you, you look adorable. The Americans will have nothing on you.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Lilya said, but she smiled to herself. Amazing what a few drops of peroxide would do.

  The evening buzzer sounded lights out, and the entire dormitory went dark. Lilya lay in the darkness, random thoughts trailing through her drowsy mind in no particular order.

  Her assignment to the night bombers. Aerial battle against the Germans for the Motherland. A good first step, and not at all bad for the daughter of an enemy of the people. She rarely worried about that stain any longer, not since she’d made her rite of passage through the Komsomol and regained her honor as a good Communist. But now she could even allow herself a bit of pride and work toward flying bigger and faster planes. God, how she loved being up there.

  American fighter planes. Could she learn to fly one? She was sure she could.

  American women. Where they really all that attractive? Would they find her attractive?

  The thoughts swam together in her sleep-befuddled brain, the women and the planes—foreign, powerful, alluring.

  CHAPTER SIX

  After her sixth air raid spent in the roomy and well-lit cellar, Alex appreciated the advantages of living at the Hotel Metropole. She’d even grown used to the ever-repeating meals of soup or rice with chunks of meat or fish, which she appreciated was far above what the Muscovites were getting.

  This morning she sat idle over her powdered eggs and dipped her dry bread into her tea. The same pudgy man with a small bald spot and in a slightly rumpled brown suit sat again at a table within sight of her.
He wasn’t a hotel guest because she’d asked at the desk about him. That, and his sleekness when most Russians were undernourished, convinced her he was NKVD.

  It didn’t much worry her. True, she’d snapped a few photos from the windows of the embassy of the women digging trenches and painting camouflage. She’d shipped them, uncensored, to the Century office via diplomatic pouch to be published without her name. But she could photograph only so much from embassy windows, and if she wanted to expand her range of subjects, she needed to work within the system.

  She sipped her tea, which now had bread crumbs in it, and wondered how she could spend the day. She regretted taking so few photos on the Larranga, with a fighter plane like a figurehead on its bow, but then remembered the weather.

  The familiar figure appearing in the doorway of the dining room improved her mood significantly. She waved him over. “Mr. Hopkins, how nice to see you.”

  He pulled out a chair and sat down in front of her, smiling. “I’ve just had a rather productive meeting with Foreign Minister Molotov. We discussed increasing the monthly tonnage of Lend-Lease materials, in exchange for greater cooperation with our journalists. I thought you’d be pleased. Dozens of other foreign journalists are in Moscow, but only you had the audacity to ask for photographs of Stalin. Molotov agreed.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful news. Did he say when I’d be allowed in?”

  Hopkins shrugged amiably. “I couldn’t get him to commit to a date or time, of course, but he hinted that if you appeared at the palace and were willing to wait, Stalin might try to find a few minutes’ time for you. I would suggest you go today, while the iron’s hot, so to speak.”

  She leapt to her feet. “All right then. Just let me get my cameras.”

  “Don’t take too much equipment. I doubt he’ll want to pose for very long,” he called after her.

  She met him at the hotel entrance in fifteen minutes, in parka and boots, with her Corona View camera and a dozen flashbulbs in a sack slung over her shoulder.