“To protect what we have and the ones we love.”
“I know, but that doesn’t make me any less weary. And thinking about Rademacher makes it worse. He could have killed us both, but didn’t. Who does that?”
“A man sick of war.”
I nodded. “Or a man touched with madness. I’m not sure which I believe. He never struck me as either when I met him.”
“My head is floating. Do me a favor?” she asked.
“Of course.”
“Sing to me,” she said. She coughed, laughed, and hit me on the top of my head. “Because I’m so awful, the least you could do is serenade me once and show me how it’s done.”
I lifted my head off her shoulder. My stomach tightened. Any requested performance made me nervous, but a final one made my anxiety a thousand fold worse. I tried to think of something to sing to her, something meaningful and from the heart. Something she could listen to, relax to, fall asleep to. And that is how I settled on a lullaby.
My voice carried through the air like an angel consoling the frightened and lost. The entire room had quieted by the end, and when I was finished, I noticed Alexandra was asleep.
She never woke up.
Chapter Twenty-Six
I sat in that chair for countless hours, even when the bed was empty and later occupied by someone else. The halls filled with the wounded, and I learned a bomb had taken out the 895th Rifle Regiment HQ the day before and survivors were still being brought in. I eventually gave up my seat to a recent amputee who had no other place to rest.
Waiting gave me a lot of time to reflect. I’d been so hung up on the idea that being a good fighter pilot was my only path to happiness and self-worth that it took Alexandra’s death to make me realize I was chasing an illusion. What I’d been longing for since that last flight with Martyona was acceptance, not from others—certainly Alexandra and Klara gave that to me—but from myself. And no amount of Luftwaffe dead by my hands would grant me that. As depressing as all that sounded, for the first time I had a glimmer of hope I could heal. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to defend my home, I did, but I did that because of circumstances. What I was choosing at this point was to find a way to be comfortable in my own skin, scars and all. But with a war raging, I knew that would be far easier said than done.
During that time, I took no food, and the only drink that passed my lips was due to the soldier who drove me back to Rakhinka airfield the next morning holding a canteen to my mouth and tipping it up. Most of it wetted my jacket, but what liquid did find its way to my parched throat was soothing.
When the dawn’s light crested the horizon, I found myself sitting in my cockpit at the end of the runway, waiting to fly home. No one was there to hug me and tell me to come back safe. No one told me where I went, they would go. I had no God. No enemy. My only company was loneliness.
“Little Boar, this is Badger,” the radio said. “Repeat, you are cleared for takeoff.”
Mindlessly, I pushed the throttle forward. The plane picked up speed, and for a split second, I thought about letting my feet off the rudder. Without any corrective input, the plane would spin itself off to the side, and with luck, would take me in the crash. But those thoughts were born from frustration and anger. I wanted to live. I also wanted to keep my squadron’s reputation intact. I definitely didn’t want to be known as that Cossack girl from the 586th who left a dreadful mess. Silly, I know.
I was in the air and making my first turn toward Anisovka when I looked left and saw column after column of smoke rising from Stalingrad. Instead of continuing my course home, I entered a steep, spiral climb until I was just under the cloud layer.
“Little Boar—”
I flipped the radio off. Anything they said would cloud my thinking. I made a slow circle of the area, my eyes fixed toward the city. The fighting still raged, and I had to laugh at my own pity. Those dying for gains in the street literally measured in houses, if not rooms or even meters, would laugh at me being this distraught over the loss of one friend—sister in arms or not. How many had each of them seen killed? Hundreds? Thousands? More to the point, when had they stopped counting? I couldn’t imagine, nor did I want to.
But I could imagine something. Gerhard Rademacher’s 109 would be over those skies, looking to pounce on the Red Army Air. I checked my gauges one last time to ensure there were no surprises and put the plane on a direct course for Stalingrad. I wanted to find him, engage him, and put a close to it all, one way or another.
On the east bank of the Volga River, I spied countless Red Army artillery batteries firing into the city. Stalingrad rocked and burned with a violence second only to Mount Vesuvius’s wrath on Pompeii. Even from three kilometers up in the air I could see the fighting was as fierce as ever. The battle in the skies looked non-existent. Not a single Luftwaffe could be seen anywhere.
“I know you’re up here,” I mumbled. “Somewhere.”
Paranoia set in, and I weaved my plane to check my six. He had to be around, watching me, waiting for his opportunity to attack and put me in the grave as he had done to all the girls before me.
I clenched my jaw with frustration and popped above the clouds, thinking he might be flying high. Over the white cotton tops, all I could see was a beautiful blue winter sky with me as its sole occupant.
I eased back the throttle until I was on the verge of a stall so when I slid open the canopy it wouldn’t jam. The cold air roared into the cockpit, blasted my face, and stung my cheeks and nose. My palms ached, and I knew it wouldn’t be long before they became excruciating.
I leaned out the cockpit as best I could, hoping to catch a glimpse of Rademacher’s plane. “Where the hell are you?”
My scream never had a chance against the wind and engine, not that it mattered anyway. As I slid the canopy back into place, I knew he wasn’t around. Then I realized I didn’t want a dogfight with him. I only wanted a confrontation where I could understand him to make sense of all his actions. Sadly, that was the one thing this war would never provide.
I turned the plane north-northeast, pushed the throttle forward, and entered a shallow dive. I skimmed my belly a few meters above the Volga’s surface and followed the river all the way back to Anisovka. Along the way, I wondered what people would say to me about Alexandra’s loss, Klara’s words especially.
Then I wondered where the hell God was in all of this. Was there a method to His madness as to why He never stopped the killing? I turned the question over in my mind, and the more I did, the more I found hope in Alexandra’s words. Maybe God was brushing the world’s teeth and things would become clear on the other side of life. I had nothing else to grab on to.
“Little Boar, this is Den,” the tower at Anisovka said when I neared. “You are cleared to land. Welcome home.”
I swore under my breath. The operator’s voice was so… upbeat. I wasn’t expecting a total breakdown on their end, but acknowledging my flight was returning minus one would have been appreciated.