‘No,’ the starosta said. ‘Nikolai will tell the guards. He’ll get the Witch killed and he’ll make a run for it. You can’t trust him. I’ll go.”
Filip pivoted to Katya. The elder nodded at her. The resolve she’d seen earlier on Nikolai’s face was now on Filip’s, the gallows. ‘I’ll do what I have to.’
Josef wasted no time for the tempest on Nikolai’s face; the twin wanted to object but everyone had turned their backs to him. Daniel swung up in his stirrups, a fresh weed clamped in his teeth. Ivan handed the bread and canteen to Katya.
‘I’ll be one minute behind you, Witch,’ Josef said. ‘Count to sixty before you make a move. Start counting when you get inside. I’ll be watching. If you hear gunshots, you’ve got to act quick. The rest of the garrison will come running, we’ll only have a few seconds. Daniel, you and Ivan stay a hundred meters back. When you see us come out with the pilot, bring the horses fast. Bring the German, and the hiwi, too. If either one of them flinches the wrong way, kill him. Filip, give me your rifle. Witch, the pistol.’
The starosta unstrapped his carbine from his back and handed it over. The German guards would not let any Russian come near them with guns, not even a turncoat interpreter and a peasant woman in men’s clothing. Josef reached for the loaf of bread in Katya’s hands. He ripped it open at one end, the stiff crust snapped and flaked. He scooped out a plug of soft bread.
‘Give me your knife.’
Katya pulled the blade from her belt. Josef unsheathed it and slid the knife inside the crust, then packed the white pulp on top of the grip to hide it. He handed the loaf back to Katya. The bread had an odd and deadly weight.
Josef nodded to Katya.
‘The blue house on the far western street. There’s a broken shutter on the front. Look for the guards. You’ll see them.’
‘Blue house. Shutter,’ she repeated.
‘One minute.’
‘Once we’re inside. I understand.’
‘Good. Go get your pilot, Witch.’
Katya moved out, Filip at her side. She remembered the last words of Vera. Go get him.
* * * *
July 10
1030 hours
one kilometer west of Kazatskoe
Without hurry, Filip and Katya rode toward the western rim of the village.
The sun seemed not to have moved from its noon-high perch. It glowered on the two riders, hot and intent, in audience to the rescue they would attempt. Katya sweated in her loose wool coat. She wanted shade and rest.
She wanted not to be afraid. A few times during the ride to the village, she glanced behind her to spot Josef. The man rode far to their left, then was nowhere to be seen.
Filip dug out a kerchief and handed it to Katya.
‘Put this around your hair, Witch. You need to look more like a peasant.’
She mopped her brow with the red rag, then quickly tied back her hair with it.
Filip asked, ‘Have you ever killed a man?’
Katya thought of her missions, hundreds of raids. ‘I’ve dropped bombs.’
‘I mean ever killed a man looking into his face.’
‘No.’
‘I haven’t, either,’ the starosta said.
The elder raised his eyes and looked around him, at the nearing village, dark soil hot as tar under the horses’ hooves. He gazed into a blazing sky. He grimaced under his hat.
Katya cradled the loaf in her arm, sensing the knife stashed inside it.
It was strange to be in this world, to have a reason to kill. A need to kill. She thought of the weight of a life, how heavy would it be in your hand if the years could be stacked? Would it weigh less than the knife? Yes. A knife, a bullet, a shard of shrapnel, they all outweigh any life. She was sure men had died under her Night Witch wings, and she never once felt the weight of their deaths. It was insanity for it to be so. She rode toward this madness with a life tucked inside the bread, held easily in one hand. It was strange because this was not the real world, girls and old men going off to kill; this was a war world, temporary, a nightmare where the only way to wake up was to stay asleep and kill enough. And it was strange, too, because now she was not afraid, the twisting in her stomach was gone. She said Leonid’s name out loud, to announce the release of her fear.
‘Is that your pilot?’ Filip asked.
‘Leonid Lumanov. Yes. My pilot.’
Less than fifty dwellings made up the hamlet, with a half dozen large barns clustered near the silos. Nothing moved in the streets or alleys, the barns were empty and cool, a handful of scattered military vehicles baked in the open. A wind vane creaked somewhere. Their horses made the only living sounds.
The blue house with a busted shutter stood near the end of its dirt street. She cued her horse toward it.
She opened the canteen, her mouth was parched. She swallowed and offered the water to the elder. He declined. The look on Filip’s face was kindly, his many wrinkles arranged themselves into a melancholy welcome of what awaited them. It was a brave face. Impulsively, Katya reached to touch the old man’s arm.
‘You’re the interpreter. You were here three days ago. I’m a nurse.
We’ll get inside and I’ll start counting. Even if it’s not Leonid in there, we’re going to get the pilot out. Just move when I move.’
‘Yes, Witch. I hope it’s your pilot.’
Katya felt the twinge of both sides of this coin, that it would not be Leonid lying beaten in that blue house, scared that it would be.
‘We can do this,’ Filip said, squeezing her hand before letting go.
They rode up the last of the street. A curl of smoke issued from the porch of the house, a guard sat there on the steps smoking, his machine pistol lay across his lap. He peered at them across the sunny day. They did not dismount, staying in their saddles until the guard rose and donned his helmet. He took a few steps into the lane. He did not toss away the cigarette but kept it between the fingers he slipped around his weapon.
‘Ja? Was ist lost’
Filip answered in German. He indicated himself, then Katya. She held up the loaf of bread, feeling the heft of this guard’s life inside it. Another guard appeared around the corner of the house. He called to the one in the street. They waved to each other with lackluster motions, dulled by the heat and boring duty. The second guard eyed the two riders and went back to his station at the rear of the little house. The soldier in the street barked at them to come down and tie up their horses. He returned the cigarette to his lips and waited.
Filip and Katya dismounted. Katya felt as though the point of the knife inside the bread were held to her own innards. Filip was intent and silent.
They tied the horses to the porch railing. Katya stroked Lana before moving away, to compose herself.
The guard climbed the steps. Filip went second, Katya, with the loaf tucked under her arm, came last. She walked across the threshold and began the count. One. The reek that assaulted her inside was unmistakably human.