The Witch of Stalingrad Page 6
“I take it the women really like her.”
“Oh, yes. They’d do anything for her. Our group has been broken into three regiments, with different officers, but everyone who won’t be under her command is disappointed.”
They passed other women, some rolling oil drums, others hurrying out to their aircraft in padded flying outfits and goggles. Inna stopped them and asked them to pose for photographs “for the Americans.” They posed happily in pairs and threes, linking arms like school chums.
At the door of the administration building, Alex offered her hand. “Thanks for the information, Inna. I hope we’ll see each other again.” She meant what she said. She liked the pudgy little mechanic and had no trouble imagining her on a farm some place chopping wood.
*
Major Raskova opened the door to her again, though she halted momentarily in the doorway as another female officer stood up from her chair. Tall, muscular, somber. Were it not for the ample breasts delineated under her tunic, she might have passed for a man. Finally, the true Soviet woman soldier, just as I imagined.
“Allow me to introduce my colleague, Major Bershanskaya,” Raskova said.
“Pleased to meet you,” Alex replied. Bershanskaya nodded and remained silent. All three sat down.
“Did you find out what you needed to know?” Raskova asked.
“I don’t think I know yet what questions to ask. Mostly I’m trying to listen and take pictures. I did just talk to one of your pilots.”
“Lilya Drachenko,” Raskova said. “She’s one of our best. Likes to break the rules, though.”
“Really? She was on an assignment and didn’t have much time for me. Perhaps I can meet again with her later.”
Raskova ignored the suggestion. “She’ll be with the night bombers, though we may move her. We’re also training dive-bomber pilots, which I will command, and a third regiment of fighter pilots, for which a commander has not yet been chosen.”
Women dive-bombers and fighter pilots. The phrases sounded almost cartoonish. “Women pilots in the United States are only allowed to test-fly and ferry planes to the airfields.”
“Our leaders were also reluctant to let women fight on the front,” Raskova said. “But having an enemy sweeping across your land and destroying your cities does change minds.”
“Do the women have the same duties as the men?” Alex thought of the cherubic mechanic Inna and the delicately formed Lilya.
Eva Bershanskaya spoke up for the first time. “They do the same work for the same number of hours as the men, and if two women have to lift a 100-kilo bomb rather than one, so be it. They carry their weight. Don’t ever doubt it.”
Sensing she’d offended her hosts, Alex changed the subject. “I was a pilot myself in my youth. I loved it.”
“Why did you stop?” Major Raskova asked.
Alex shrugged. “The demands of life, I suppose. Finishing university, beginning a career as a photojournalist. Which reminds me, may a take photos of you both?” She drew her camera from its case and held it up. “You’ll certainly have admirers in the US.”
Raskova shrugged. “I suppose if Stalin allowed you to photograph him, I shouldn’t refuse.”
She leaned back in her chair and looked into the lens of the camera and, unlike Josef Stalin, she smiled.
Alex snapped the photo. “And you, Major Bershanskaya?”
“If it’s really necessary,” she said, then stood up from her chair and clasped her hands awkwardly in front of her. Turning her head to three-quarters, she squinted as if about to reprimand one of her cadets and waited. Alex rolled the film and snapped the second photo.
“Oh, the vanity of women,” someone said acidly, drawing their attention.
A bulky male figure stood in the doorway.
“Come in, General Osipenko,” Raskova said, seeming unperturbed by the insult.
The officer took several more steps into the room, and Alex remembered him now. The head of the Aviation Force Committee. She didn’t like him, but she couldn’t remember why.
A woman came in directly behind him—slender with small sharp features that hinted at beauty. But her dark hair was cut shorter than any of the other women’s, and she held her mouth in a tight, almost hostile masculinity. Her expression was somehow more menacing than the softer manliness of Eva Bershanskaya, who towered over her.
“Major Tamara Kazar,” he said, introducing her. Then he pointed to them in turn. “You already know Majors Raskova and Bershanskaya, and this is an American photographer, Aleksandra Preston.”
Kazar bent stiffly from the waist, like a Prussian officer, and said nothing.
“Please, everyone sit down,” Osipenko said, taking a seat along with his tight-lipped companion.
The five of them made up an awkward circle, and Alex wondered if they would ask her to leave while they discussed military matters. But Marina Raskova directed the conversation. “We were just describing the three regiments and their commanders to Miss Preston.”
“Their commanders. What have you decided?” Osipenko crossed his arms over his chest in a faintly condescending way.
“Major Bershanskaya will command the night bombers, and I will lead the daylight dive-bombers. For the fighter pilots, I thought perhaps Katia Budanova.”
“No.” Osipenko raised a hand. “Budanova does not have the discipline. In fact the Aviation Committee has assigned Major Kazar to take command of that regiment. That’s why I’ve brought her to meet you.”
Raskova’s eyebrows rose faintly. “You decided this without consulting me?”
“Major Raskova, the Aviation Committee is not obliged to consult you on anything. You have already been given extreme liberty to choose two commanders, although we could have appointed those as well.”
Raskova’s voice was cold. “I will see to it that the women are informed. The public, as well.” She gave a quick sideward glance toward Alex.
It did not escape his notice, and, in the mild tone of a man who rarely encountered disagreement, he replied. “Given that these are strategic military decisions, I think it wise for our little journalist to return to Moscow and obtain her information from Sovinformburo.”
Little journalist? The condescending bastard.
Raskova’s expression remained neutral. “Will that be all, General Osipenko?”
“For the moment, yes. Thank you for your time. I look forward to the reports of your progress.” He stood up and Tamara Kazar shot up next to him, as rigid as he was relaxed.
Majors Raskova and Bershanskaya got to their feet as well, and a round of salutes followed as an adjutant opened the door. Osipenko strode through with the confident step of a victor, but his companion, Alex noted, had a limp.
What was going on there? What was Osipenko’s interest in promoting her? And Kazar herself was a puzzle. Was it a turf war?
“I’m sorry, Miss Preston.” Major Raskova’s voice called her back to the present. I have no objection to your presence, but it appears that it must come to an end. Perhaps the circumstances will change.”
“I’m sorry, too, since I’ve barely arrived.” Alex tried not to sound bitter as she gathered her camera and parka. “Can you have one of the men drive me back to the train station?”
“Yes, of course. I hope you got enough information to do your story. I’d like the world to know about my pilots.”
“I assure you, it will.”
*
Interesting woman, the American, Lilya thought, taking the U-2 up to 2,000 meters, where the icy wind whistled through the struts. She was well padded and gloved, and the only place the wind chilled her was around her throat. In the future, she’d have to wear a larger scarf.
God, how she loved flying. High above the earth with its mud and stink, she sensed a connection she couldn’t express in words. The lightweight craft let her feel the air as a substance, a fluid that could lift her, oppose her, or send her into a spin. But if she gave herself to it and heeded its laws, it would emb
race her and let her slip deliciously along its surface, kissing her with its icy breath.
She practiced evasive maneuvers, doing somersaults and barrel rolls, testing the power and agility of the little crop-duster. The simple structure could take a lot of damage and still stay aloft, and it had the capacity to fly low and slow, well under the stall-speed of both the Messerschmitt 109 and the Focke-Wulf. Like a mouse pursued by an eagle, it could turn sharply and repeatedly, while the high-speed predator plane continually overshot it.
Over the Volga, she thrust the stick forward and dove precipitously a thousand meters, then another five hundred, then another three hundred, hearing the wind shriek. At the last minute, she pulled up sharply and cut off the engine, to coast quietly along the river.
Her fuel was getting low, so she ascended again and circled leisurely, making figure eights over the airfield in a last dance before landing. Could the American woman see her? Alex, she was called. Aleksandra.
The first American woman she’d ever met. Did they all look like that?
She tried to imagine life for Americans under capitalism. Surely they needed a people’s party to hold them all together and direct their productivity for the general good. She’d learned in school and in her district Komsomol that social equality was impossible without Communism. So why were the Americans so cheerful?
She was a good Communist and had spent years living down the shame of having a father who was an enemy of the people. Did the capitalist Americans have such internal enemies, and if so, what made them so? Communism? The thought gave her a headache.
Under her flight suit, the too-large male underwear they’d all been issued began to itch, but her padded leggings were so thick she had to endure the discomfort. What did American women wear for underpants? The thought of the elegant journalist wearing something scant and silky under her uniform was slightly titillating. Did she have a husband? Someone who bought her nice underpants?
CHAPTER EIGHT
“I’ve brought you something.” Terry Sheridan sat down at the table in the Hotel Metropole dining room and laid a small package in front of Alex. “It’s nylons. From Macy’s. I thought you’d have a hard time getting them here.”
“Thanks, Terry, though in the Russian winter, I wear slacks most of the time.”
“Well, keep them till spring. They’re meant to cheer you up.”
“I could use cheering. Here I am back again from Engels airfield, tossed off the premises, as it were. Really depressing.” She stirred the remnants in her teacup.
“What happened? I thought Stalin had approved your being there.”
“He did. But it wasn’t as if he’d issued an order. It was just a ‘Sure, go ahead. I don’t care’ kind of thing. The Aviation Committee and, more precisely, this General Osipenko apparently have more direct authority. He seems to not even like the whole idea of the female regiments. I don’t know how to get around him. Even Major Raskova, who convinced Stalin to set up the regiments in the first place, has to obey him.”
Terry fished his cigarettes out of his shirt pocket and tapped one out. “That’s the way this regime works. The Supreme Leader makes a casual decision, but the political and military functionaries around him get to do the fine-tuning. And most of the time, they’re all in competition with each other.” He ignited the cigarette with a Zippo lighter and clicked it shut.
“How do you know so much about the workings of this regime?” she asked. “I’m the one living here.”
“It’s the business of the Office of Strategic Services to know. We have to understand these guys to be able to negotiate with them.” He inhaled deeply and blew the smoke from the corner of his mouth.
“Isn’t that what the State Department’s for?”
He laughed softly. “The State Department’s just the pretty face of the government. We do the real work, sneaking in spies, sneaking out information and informants, and State acts on the basis of the intelligence we provide.” He poured out another glass of the black-market champagne he’d brought into the dining room. “So, tell me about the School for Women Pilots. Were they all the big hairy brutes you expected them to be?”
“No, not at all. Some of them were rather attractive. I only got a few shots, mostly of the women posing together, so the censors passed them and I sent them back to the magazine. Otherwise, I spend all my time here in Moscow photographing people getting on trains—the soldiers going westward and the factory workers going eastward.”
“Well, you may end up photographing the fall of the Soviet Union.”
“Really?” Her voice grew somber. “The war news is that bad?”
“Yes, it is. Stalin and the winter weather have kept the Germans from taking Moscow so far, but the Soviet offensive has pretty much halted. The Germans have Leningrad encircled and are battering their way toward Stalingrad.”
“Does the War Department think Russia might lose?”
“Chances seem about fifty-fifty now, and we’re keeping an eye on what the Red Army’s doing. And if they win, we’re just as concerned with Stalin’s plans after the war. That’s another reason I want to talk to you.”
“You want me to tell you what Stalin’s planning?” She laughed. “You’re joking.”
“No, I’m not. Stalin needs the Allies to save Russia, and so he more or less cooperates. We give him millions of dollars of materials too, so we do have his attention.”
“But…?”
“But we don’t trust the man an inch, or his international aspirations. Communism is…well, you know, ‘Workers of the world unite,’ and all that nonsense. We need to keep an eye on that.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“You speak excellent Russian, and other than Harry Hopkins and the ambassador, you’re the only American who’s been inside the Kremlin. We want you to go back in there and win their trust. Then talk to people, keep an eye on things, notice things. It wouldn’t hurt if you got a little extra friendly with someone in the Kremlin hierarchy, if you know what I mean.”
“You want me to be a spy. And sleep with Communists.”
“In so many words, yes.” His smile bordered on the unctuous, and he fingered the package he’d brought. Were nylons a symbol for sexual trade-offs?
“My answer, in so many words, is no. I’m as patriotic as you are, but I’m already being watched. You see that plump man with the bald spot sitting behind me a few tables away? He’s not a guest, but he shows up in one corner or another of the dining room every day watching all the foreign journalists. He’s almost certainly NKVD, and right now he’s watching you and me. I’m the last person you want to spy for you.”
“You’ve got a good eye. Yes, he is NKVD. My office already knows him. But the fact that you spotted him so fast tells me you’d make a good agent.”
“Or that he’s a really bad one. Anyhow, it’s still not my milieu. I’m a journalist. I expose secrets, not keep them.”
He crushed his cigarette stub into the ashtray and shrugged. “All right. Forget I asked. I have a few other leads, so I’ll be in Moscow a few more days.
“Only a few days? It takes two weeks to get here, and you stay for only a few days?”
“It takes two weeks if you’re hitching a ride with a convoy. Those of us with more important business fly in from the other direction, through China. It’s still a haul but takes three days instead of two weeks.”
“Bastard! I had to go through hell for two weeks to get here when there was an alternative?”
“George Mankowitz arranged your trip, and it had to be by convoy. I’d have had to pull a lot more strings to get you that kind of diplomatic transportation and couldn’t do it just for a journalist.”
“But you would for, say, spies, moles, informants.”
He took out his Chesterfields again and fingered one out. “Don’t be naive, Alex. You know how governments and their agencies work. In any power hierarchy, you have only so much capital and you want to spend it judiciously.”
“That depends on how nicely you treat me.” He poked her shoulder playfully. “So, how about our getting together? It’s been awhile.”
Alex thought for a moment about a young blue-eyed pilot with blond ringlets under her flight helmet and bombs under her wings. Did anyone ever blackmail her into sex?
“Sure. Why not? I’m in room 307. Come by this evening after dinner. And bring more champagne.”
CHAPTER NINE
May 1942
All things come to those who wait, Alex thought. For three months, while the male journalists staying at the hotel came and went and filed their battle stories based on printouts from Sovinformburo, she had obediently photographed acceptable subjects: the faces of women and children, soldiers on leave, factory machinery being loaded onto railcars, the anti-aircraft emplacements throughout the city, the aerostat women raising and lowering the barrage balloons.
But she found fewer and fewer scenes to photograph in Moscow, where the wretched populace worked fourteen-hour days on strict rations, where the available food for which they had coupons still had to be obtained by standing in endless lines in all weathers, and where they went home to unheated apartments and slept in their coats under whatever covers they had. In winter they all looked the same: round bundles of wool, under fur ushankas or thick scarves, they scuttled by with their sleds of firewood or coal for their pathetic cooking stoves. When the warm weather came, they froze less, but the lack of coat and ushanka revealed how gaunt they’d all become. She photographed them discreetly, for her own records, but the pictures were of no use to the magazine.
The Press Department censors passed only the most robust and smiling faces, of citizens cheerfully laboring for the Motherland. And in the second year of the war, she didn’t see any of those.