“I have fought as I should, Commissar,” I said.
“The flutter in your voice belies your claim,” he said. “You’re likely a deserter, or a thief who stole clothes. Possibly both.”
“I’m no thief, and I’m no deserter,” I said. I may have cost Martyona her life, but it wasn’t because I left her to die. No one could call me a coward, and I wasn’t about to let that positive bit of my character be stripped from me. And I would never, ever be a thief, so help me God. “I am Junior Lieutenant Nadezhda Buzina, assigned to the 586th Fighter Aviation Regiment at Anisovka.”
The Commissar crossed his arms over his chest and smirked. “And pray tell, why are you so far from your airfield, Junior Lieutenant Nadezhda Buzina?”
“I was patrolling the Don, northwest of Stalingrad, with Senior Lieutenant Martyona Gelman. We intercepted a flight of bombers yesterday, and I was shot down,” I said. My shoulders slumped. Though I wanted to stay strong in the face of this officer, the wounds to my heart were still fresh.
“So I can radio your unit and she will corroborate your story? She will tell me of your bravery and how you stopped the bombers at all costs? Or will she curse your cowardly retreat?”
A lump formed in my throat. “She’ll do neither. She was killed.”
“How convenient for you the brave one perished and you did not.”
“Convenient? Convenient!” I shot up with fire in my blood. “Yesterday was the worst day of my life!”
“It was the worst day of her life,” he said. “Stabbed in the back by a coward who should’ve been loyal to her to the end. You should’ve fought with every bullet you had and when they were gone, you should have plowed your fighter right through their cockpits.”
“I fought until my plane exploded,” I said. “And then I fought with one of their pilots when I crossed with him on the ground.”
“Did you kill him? Or better, bring him back for interrogation?”
“No,” I said. “I took a shot at him as he hid, but I had to escape when the panzers came.”
Petrov snorted. “One shot and you ran. The story of a deserter and traitor. You should have beaten him to death with your hands if you had to. You shame your regiment and aren’t even a step above those filthy Cossacks who betrayed the Motherland.”
I tried to go after him, but Grigory locked his hand on my shoulder and kept me in place. “You have no idea who I am,” I said, balling a fist behind my back. “Do the world a favor and play in a minefield.”
The Commissar pulled his weapon and leveled it at my head. “I should shoot you on the spot and save myself the trouble of an investigation,” he said. “You’d serve as a good example to the rest. Failing one’s duties won’t be tolerated.”
Before I could speak, Grigory stepped forward with one hand outstretched. “If she’s telling the truth, Commissar Petrov, there will be hell to pay,” he said. “She would’ve been handpicked by Marina Raskova, and from what I hear she’ll fight for all of her girls tooth and nail. You don’t want her using her connections with Stalin against you if you act without proof.”
Petrov lowered his pistol and stared at me the way I imagined a hungry shark would watch a wounded seal make it to shore. “Thank the good doctor,” he said. “He saved your life. But talk to me that way again, and I’ll end it without hesitation.” When I didn’t do as he told, he set his jaw and motioned toward Grigory. “I said thank him.”
“Thanks,” I said, not daring to take my eyes off the Commissar.
“I’ll leave you be for now,” Petrov went on. “But I will investigate your loyalty. When I find you in want, not even Major Raskova will be able to protect you. I don’t care how much of a national heroine she is.”
“You’ll not find me in want,” I said. I prayed the lie was good enough, not only because deep down I felt I’d failed on patrol, but also because my family had ties to the White Army during the Revolution years ago. If he found out, he’d label me an enemy of the state and execute me on the spot.
Petrov left, and for the next several minutes Grigory washed my lower right leg and wrapped my ankle in a tight bandage. When he was finished, he broke the silence. “For your sake, I hope you fly better than you mind your manners. Picking a fight with a commissar is like picking one with a king cobra. You can only hope he doesn’t want to waste his venom when he decides to strike.”
“He started it,” I said, despite how childish it sounded. “Why is he after me?”
“The Germans march on Stalingrad,” Grigory said. “We’ve lost the gains we made last winter, and though no one wants to say it, that city is going to be a last stand we may lose. But don’t worry. If they shot every pilot who’d lost his aircraft, we’d have airfields of planes with only ghosts to fly them before the month was up. He’ll move on to other things.”
“I hope you’re right. It’s not easy to relax after staring down the barrel of a gun.”
Despite the doctor’s optimism, I couldn’t shake the feeling the commissar’s fixation on me was far from over. We didn’t discuss the matter any further, and after being given a crutch, I was escorted by a soldier into a room where yellow paint peeled from dirty wooden walls and piles of laundry were stacked everywhere.
A nurse named Sofia entered and shooed my male escort out. She looked older than my mother by at least ten years. Countless wrinkles had set into her round and stoic face, and I found myself jealous of her shoulder-length, curly hair. She wore the hair of a girl. Mine was a boy’s cut, chopped short the day I arrived at Engels to train as a fighter pilot.
Sofia said little as she bathed me with a wash cloth, large bowl, and pitcher. My hair was so grimy that she worked it with her fingers like a baker kneads dough. When she tended to my burns, however, she traded her rough touch for a compassionate one rivaling the angels. Once finished, she handed me clothes and my mood lifted. Funny how something new to wear could do that.
“You carry a lot of guilt for someone so young,” she said, giving me another shirt as the first had been too long. “You’ll put yourself in an early grave if you don’t learn to let it go.”
At first I wanted to deny it all, but I could see it in her eyes. She knew. “How can you tell?”
“I’ve nursed more soldiers than I can count,” she said. “I know the look they bear and why they have it.”
My eyes glistened. I couldn’t deny she had hit the mark, but I couldn’t speak of it either. All I could do was sit there and wonder if those she’d seen had the same regrets I did. This conversation hurt worse than any I could have had with the commissar. Eventually, I managed a question, curious if we had similar experiences and she had some secret she could pass on to help. “How many of them have died in your care?”
“Too many for my likes,” she said as she found me a pair of trousers. “These are probably too large, but they are the smallest clean ones I have.”
I took the pants and put them on, trying my best not to aggravate my ankle. “Did you lose ones you should have saved?”
“We all have, dear, but there’s a saying I’ve taken to: Life is life.”
I grunted, and my face soured. “I hate that saying. It’s so hopeless, as if the world is out of our control.”
Sofia laughed, but quickly recomposed herself. “The world is out of our control,” she said. “That doesn’t make it hopeless.”
“How’s that?”
“You always control your own actions,” she replied. “You can make your own purpose and worth, find your own hope.”