I headed toward where he was landing, and he disappeared behind the far side of a rise. My feet sank deep into the snow with every step, making the travel at times both difficult and tiresome. As I blazed my trail to Rademacher, I questioned the wisdom in such a thing. He’d be armed and obviously had no qualms about killing people. Moreover, he’d be working his way back to his own airfield and wouldn’t let anything or anyone get in his way—especially with the Red Army on his heels.
I considered avoiding him and taking the safer route to find Klara and get home. But my entire life on the southwestern front had revolved around him one way or another. I had to bring it to an end if it was the last thing I did. If I didn’t do it for myself, I had to for Alexandra and Martyona. They deserved rest more than I deserved closure. And of course, I had to know why he did the things he did.
I crested the hill and found the German pilot lying on his back. He struggled with getting out of the mess of lines wrapped around his leg and lower torso. I ran up behind him, pistol raised and ready to shoot.
“Hände! Hände!” I yelled.
Rademacher’s arms shot into the air. “Nicht schießen! Nicht schießen!”
I froze and couldn’t help but crack a smile at the absurd situation. My orders had fully taxed my German vocabulary, and it wasn’t as if he didn’t speak Russian.
I eased around Rademacher and for the first time I got a look at the man who’d been trying to kill me—who’d killed my friends. He stared at me with eyes belonging to an innocent babe, not the devilish ones I thought they’d be. His thin lips, combined with a narrow chin and large, broken nose made him appear more comical than threatening. He wore leather gloves and a well-fitted fleece-lined jacket in near pristine condition with a white scarf. I was envious of the ensemble, for I still had my original, ill-fitted heavy winter coat and pants I’d been wearing since my first day of training. I looked like a hobo, a child at best, pretending to be a valiant and noble fighter pilot. He looked to be the real thing.
Rademacher was the first to break the silence. “Oh, it’s you. I’d congratulate you on shooting me down, but I guess you rammed me. I didn’t expect that.”
“There’s a lot I haven’t expected when it came to you.”
He looked up at his hands still held high. “They are tired. May I bring them down?”
“So you can shoot me?” I scoffed. “I think not.”
“No, but if I may,” he said. Keeping one hand high in the air, he slowly reached for the 9mm Luger at his left side. Using his thumb and forefinger, he took it out of its holster and flung it on the ground at my feet.
I picked up his pistol and stuffed it in my satchel, all the while keeping my revolver pointed at his head. “What makes you think I still won’t kill you?”
“If you were going to you would have by now,” he said. “But if you plan on taking me prisoner, go ahead and shoot me.”
“You killed my friends,” I said as memories of Alexandra flooded my mind. The gun shook in my hand and my voice cracked. “I should send you straight to Hell.”
“I did,” he said with a large, unexpected amount of remorse. “But you killed mine as well. Those men had lives, families, and friends, too.”
“Maybe they should’ve thought of that before they invaded our land.” My finger tightened on the trigger, my hate being barely contained. Looking back, I’m surprised the weapon didn’t go off.
“They fought because they had to,” he replied. “As do I. Surely you know what that’s like. Stalin has killed millions of your people and invaded Poland, yet you defend him with your life.”
“I’ll never defend him. I defend myself and the innocent people you’d murder.”
Rademacher shook his head. “I don’t go after civilians, nor would I. It’s why I fly fighters and not bombers. I decide who to engage, who to shoot. At least this way whoever fights against me has a chance.” He shrugged and finished untangling the lines around his leg. “You and I are not so unlike. We both fight for madmen who would kill us as much as praise us, and why? Because we must.”
I lowered the weapon. As much as I hated to admit it, his words had a ring of truth to them. He had no more choice in invading Russia as I had in defending her. I wagered some of the fascists enjoyed the conquest and wanted to see Germany rule it all, but that wasn’t the feeling I got from him.
“So what now?” I asked, unsure what to do with all these new thoughts.
“We can part ways, or you can shoot me. But I won’t be taken prisoner.”
“No, I can’t do that,” I said. “You’ll fight again and shoot down more of my friends.”
“On my word I’ll do no such thing,” he replied. “I’ve been tired of this war since it began. Hitler never learned from Napoleon’s mistake, never respected the vastness of Russia nor her mighty winters. He will lose this war, and I have no desire to be there when he does.”
I smirked, certain I caught him in a lie. “You said you fight because you must. You’ll fly the second they give you a new plane.”
A loud explosion thundered through the air, and Rademacher looked behind me. “I don’t think the Romanian lines will hold much longer,” he said. “My superiors will assume I died on the ground if not in the air. Believe me, I’ve thought long and hard how I can make my exit, and now I have a chance, if you’ll let me live.”
“If I let you live,” I repeated. His words resonated in my soul. I’d been sick of the killing as well, and if the roles were reversed, I’d be making the same plea. But, God, I wanted him dead. No, I wanted more answers first.
He pulled his ID tags from around his neck and tossed them at me. “Take them. Proof to your commanding officers that you won the day.”
I picked the tags off the ground. They were oval with smooth edges and had three holes punched on the top and bottom. In the middle, printed twice, was his unit and a few other numbers I assumed identified him.
“Do you know how many planes I’ve shot down?”
I cocked my head at the unexpected question. He said it with such a flat affect he might as well have been asking if I knew how many brothers and sisters he had. “A lot, judging by the tail on your plane.”
“Yes, a lot,” he said. His face turned morose. “Forty-seven to be exact. You’ve gotten a few as well since we first met in August.”
“You’re number six,” I said.
He smiled as if the number was something both to be proud of and pained over. “You’ve come a long way since then. Such a sloppy flyer our first fight. You still fire too soon and waste ammo. I knew your guns were dry when you set me up with your wingman.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because every night when I go to sleep, I see each kill I made over and over, and I sit there and think about how one day, when I meet my maker, I’ll have to account for all the lives I took. Worse, should I ever be allowed to walk the streets of Paradise, I’ll no doubt come face to face with those souls. I fear their look more than anything.”
“Tell me something. Why didn’t you ever shoot me down?” I asked. “You’ve had a few chances you’ve passed up.”
“I told you, I’m tired of death,” he replied. “You were no longer a threat when I let you go, and I didn’t want my soul blackened any more than it already was.” I don’t know what my face did, but he paused for a moment and nodded. “You know that feeling, don’t you? Executing someone who’s helpless. It’s a wound I fear I might never recover from.”
“Yes. I know what that’s like.”