Chapter Three
I drifted in and out of sleep as I was taken on a bumpy ride. I caught glimpses of the tan interior of a beat-up car, and occasionally saw the driver and the front-seat passenger. They both wore camouflage smocks and olive M40 helmets. They spoke from time to time, but I’d pass out before I could talk to either.
When I woke for good, I was lying on the ground next to a green GAZ-61 automobile, surrounded by three men. The tallest of the group was both muscular and aged. He wore trousers as grey as a stormy sky and a white cotton shirt with its sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His face reminded me of the infamous Kamchatka brown bear, and I guessed he was nearly as strong.
The other two I recognized as those who’d been in the car with me. The over-sized Soviet uniforms they wore combined with each of their young faces made it seem as if they were playing war in their older brother’s clothes more than they were true soldiers of the Motherland. To that observation, I couldn’t help but let out a stifled chuckle.
“She wakes,” the tall man said, pointing two fingers at me. He kneeled at my side and put his hand on my shoulder when I tried to stand. “Stay on the stretcher,” he said. “I don’t want you to put weight on that ankle.”
My face scrunched. “Who are you?”
“Doctor Grigory Rusak. You’re at my field hospital,” he said, gesturing to his side.
I glanced at the two-story farm house. Though it looked older than the Church, I was grateful for anything indoors at this point. “I could use some water,” I said. “My throat is parched.”
One of the soldiers produced a canteen. “Here. Drink slowly.”
I sat up and snatched it out of his hand. Lighting shot up my arm, causing me to whimper. Still, I tried to take hold of the canteen but ended up dropping it as the pain intensified a thousand fold.
“Allow me,” the doctor said, picking up the canteen and holding it to my lips.
The warm liquid coated my mouth and throat. It spilled from my lips while I chugged, dripped down my neck, and soaked my clothes. In that moment, I couldn’t have been happier.
“Thank you,” I said, once finished. “What happened?”
“I was hoping you could tell me,” the doctor replied. “Soldiers Pasportnikov and Orlov were running supplies when you stepped in front of their auto. I’m guessing they’re responsible for your concussion, but not your burns, nor the half set of clothes you’re wearing.”
“What kind of person rams another with their vehicle?” I asked.
“An accident, I’m assured. What can you remember?”
I looked at the two boys, hoping they would jog my memory. They looked away, shame and worry on both their faces. I laughed.
Grigory tilted his head and he looked at me like I was a curiosity in a museum. “What’s so funny?”
“I called them boys in my head,” I explained. “I dare say they’re my age.”
The doctor smiled. “Good. Your head isn’t as cracked as I feared. How old are you?”
“Twenty,” I said. I was pleased the answer came to me without hesitation. “I’ll be twenty-one this October.”
“You’re wearing the trousers and shirt of someone in the Motherland’s service,” Grigory said. “Were you in combat?”
I looked myself over. Combat? I was in uniform, or half of one at least as I was missing a jacket and boots. Dirt encrusted my pants and tunic, but I didn’t see any bullet holes. I wrinkled my nose at the smell wafting from my lower half. I needed a bath, preferably a foam one in a tub the size of a cargo ship with champagne and strawberries. And as long as I was daydreaming, a personal stylist—the kind the stars of motion pictures had—to tend to my ratted hair would be fantastic.
A plane flew overhead, and the previous day’s events flooded my mind. I could smell the grease from Klara and relished the memory of her embrace. But then I saw the fire inside my cockpit, felt my frantic bailout, and heard Martyona’s fighter explode when it crashed into the ground. My breath left me, promising to never return.
“Easy,” Grigory said. “War is still fresh in your head. We’ll talk later when you’re able.”
Pasportnikov and Orlov carried me inside via stretcher. They transferred me to a table inside a small room that smelled of alcohol and urine. After I was situated, they retreated from the room, and once they were beyond the doorway, I heard them begin to talk about me in hushed tones. Instead of trying to eavesdrop, I stared at a mildew-covered ceiling and thought about Martyona. Those thoughts consumed me in seconds, and I relived her death again and again. Each time I saw her plane go down I was reminded how powerless I was to stop it—how useless.
What did that make me? A failed pilot. A daughter from a long line of holy warriors who’d brought shame to her lineage, to her God. The Almighty, after all, protected His saints, answered their prayers, but did nothing for mine. I wondered what I’d done to warrant His scorn. For a moment, I wondered if He even existed. Immediately, I chastised myself for thinking such things. Saints had suffered more than I’d endured. Perhaps that was why they were saints and I was not.
“Good sprain on that right ankle,” Grigory said, entering the room and holding an x-ray in my face. “Bones are fine, lucky for you. I’m still worried about your head. Any injury that affects thinking has the potential to be serious.”
“So no head-butting my CO, and I should wait till next week for the marathon?” I said, managing a half smile.
“Don’t take your condition lightly,” he said. “The brain can be both resilient and fragile. I’m not sure which yours is. And that leg of yours has a lot of bruising and injured ligaments. You’ll need to stay off it for at least two weeks,” he said. “Light duty after that for another three or four. By then most of your burns should’ve healed. I think I can clean them well enough to stave off any serious infection.”
“Most?”
“The majority are second degree, including the ones on your neck and thigh. They are painful, I’m certain, but not critical,” he said. “Small portions of your hands and arms are much worse. You can see by the charred look they have. I doubt you’re feeling much from them now, but they will likely cause you problems later down the road.”
“My cockpit was on fire,” I whispered. “After I bailed out, I searched through a wreck on the ground.”
“You’re a pilot then. I’d heard they’d put together a few female regiments. You’re the first girl I’ve met from them.”
“I was a pilot,” I replied. With Martyona’s death over my head, I didn’t feel worthy of the title. She was a pilot. I was the person who got her killed.
“Are a pilot,” he corrected. I suspected he hadn’t a clue why I had said what I said because he tried to sound hopeful as he delivered his prognosis. “Your ankle will heal. I’ll need to do some debridement on those burns once you’re cleaned. They might hurt the rest of your life, but I believe you’ll be back in the air sooner than you think.”
“I hope so,” I said, faking a smile. I didn’t believe any of what he said, but his kindness touched me, and I thought the least I could do was make him feel as if he were making a difference. Men, boys, always tried to fix things, and what was wrong with me was nothing they could set straight. Thus I figured it was better to put on a show. I tried telling myself tomorrow would be easier. I almost believed it.
“You don’t sound convinced,” said a new voice. “Not what I would’ve expected from a pilot for the Motherland.”
I craned my neck to see who had spoken. Near the entrance of the room stood a man in his forties. He wore a dark tunic with blue shoulder pads and piping. A leather belt was cinched across his waist, and on it he kept a Tokarev semi-automatic pistol holstered. His dark breeches were also piped blue and stuffed into high-top leather boots. I recognized him immediately as a commissar of the NKVD—the People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs—but I didn’t need to see his uniform to know that. His devil eyes and cruel face told me enough.