The Soviet Union became an ally purely by virtue of mutual interest. But it wasn’t a trusted friend. American military experts didn’t believe that Russia could withstand another summer of German aggression. The Wehrmacht’s war machine had been unstoppable everywhere it marched, including Russia. Mechanization—trucks, airplanes, and tanks—seemed to have broken those barriers that prevented Napoleon from conquering Russia 150 years earlier.
Germany’s Army Group South had stalled, digging in over the winter and consolidating its gains. But there were already signs of it stirring. American generals believed it would soon be back on the move, driving south toward the rich oil fields of the Caucasus Mountains, in Baku, which appeared to be the key to the entire war. They provided an almost limitless supply of petrol. If Germany could secure that fuel, and by all appearances it seemed they would be able to, Russia was doomed.
And so, too, might America be. America’s greatest advantage was her size and industry. Japan was an island nation with limited resources, and Germany was only slightly bigger than Texas. But Russia was vast. With access to Russian manpower and resources, German industry could dwarf that of the United States.
So the real reason Bobby’s squadron had been transferred to Alaska was to help prepare a fallback strategy. If Germany’s Army Group South were to succeed, if they were to capture the oil fields at Baku, America wanted to bomb those fields.
They couldn’t stop there. They would have to bomb Chelyabinsk, so-called Tankograd, Russia’s boomtown military-industrial complex, which had recently relocated to Siberia. America simply couldn’t allow all that Russian industry to fall into Nazi hands.
The pretext was Lend-Lease. The United States would provide Russia with warplanes, flying them across the Bering Strait from Alaska. Russia considered the proposal, not suspecting that America’s secret desire in flying the planes over themselves was to identify the Russian airfields they’d need to capture for a future bombing campaign. But things seldom work out according to plan. Contrary to everyone’s expectations, the Russians ultimately refused.
They didn’t refuse the planes; they wanted the planes. But it seemed they didn’t trust the Americans any more than the Americans trusted them. They didn’t want Americans flying through Russian airspace. They wanted to send their own pilots to Nome, where they would then take possession of the American planes and fly them to the Russian front themselves.
The whole plan was a bust, and as a result, the American pilots had nothing to do. They didn’t know it was a bust. It was all top secret. But the truth was they were just wasting their time playing cards until the Russian pilots arrived, with no prospect of getting into a real fight.
“Raise,” Wally finally announced, tossing another bottle cap on the pile.
“Call,” Bobby said, matching Wally’s bottle cap with one of his own.
“I’m out,” Jack groaned, laying his cards facedown on the table.
“I guess that just leaves me,” mused Max. “I guess I’ll see your duty chip and raise you one more.” He tossed two bottle caps into the center of the table.
Wally sighed. He tossed another cap on the pile. Bobby nodded and did the same.
Max eyed Wally before laying out his cards. “Two pair.” He had two kings and two queens.
Wally beamed and put down his hand. “Straight.” He had a three to a seven, all in order, a great hand. He leaned over to scoop up the duty chips.
“Hold on a second,” Jack griped, hoping to save his friend Bobby at least. “Bobby? What you got?”
Bobby looked at his cards. His second draw had been extraordinarily lucky. All five of his cards were now spades, a flush to beat Wally’s straight. But he just frowned.
“I got nothing,” he said. He dropped the cards facedown. “Take your winnings, Wally. The duty’s all mine. Guess I better start plowing the runway.”
Grinning now, Wally scooped the duty chips into his pile as Bobby got up and started bundling himself into his parka, sweater, and hat.
CHAPTER 31
THE CELLIST AND THE ORGAN-GRINDER
The train broke down fifty miles east of Tikhvin. No one seemed to mind. In fact, it was a relief to get out of the crowded boxcars. Soldiers stumbled down the railroad embankment and lay down in the grass.
It was a beautiful, warm day. April had come, and spring had finally sprung. White clouds surrounded the bright sun but never eclipsed it. Karen closed her eyes and relished the warmth of the sun on her cheeks. Somehow her fingers had found Petr’s, and she enjoyed the feel of his grip.
There had been hundreds of soldiers on the train, perhaps even a thousand, but they hardly made a sound. All Karen could hear were the grinding chirps of the cicadas and the distant clang of an engineer trying to repair the locomotive. She hoped the engineer didn’t succeed. She was so content lying in the grass, she could have stayed there for hours.
The other soldiers seemed to feel the same way. They were veterans—all of them—which meant they had fought the Germans, and they had lost. Most of them were all that remained of their platoons, companies, and even battalions, so they were being shipped back for reassignment. They’d all seen their fair share of death, and they knew they would be seeing it again. In their past was the war, in their future was the war, but right now was peace. They all just wanted the warmth of the sun and the smell of the grass to last as long as possible. But even in the most peaceful repose, some men grew restless. They began to mutter and to move. The sound of voices and laughter rose up in the sky, silencing the cicadas.
And then came the sound of music.
“Look,” Petr said, gently tugging at Karen’s hand.
Karen didn’t want to look. She wanted to lie there forever, to forget about the war—and about the impossible journey before her. She began to wonder whether she could stay in Russia, after all. Maybe if she went far enough east, the Nazis would never reach her. Just keep going east, no real goal, just east. That would be so much easier than figuring out how to get back to America.
Karen giggled when she thought of America. She used to think it was so large. Her aunt was an opera singer who lived in San Francisco. Karen visited her every Thanksgiving, and it seemed so far away. It took three days by train. Now Karen realized that three days was nothing. It had taken far longer than that just to get from Leningrad to Tikhvin. How long would it take her to cross Siberia, to cross Alaska? Was there even a train in Siberia?
Of course there was. The Trans-Siberian Railway was famous. But even if she could get a ticket, that train went to China, not to Alaska. The Japanese had invaded China. It was as bad as it was in Russia. If Karen was going to escape, she needed to go northeast, not southeast. But that seemed impossible. Better to just keep running, keep hiding, outrun the Nazis.
The Russians couldn’t win. Everyone knew that now. Maybe she could convince Petr to come with her. They could find a little cabin in the woods, like the hunting shack. They could hide there, Petr could hunt deer, and they could just wait in peace until the war was over.
“Look,” Petr repeated, tugging Karen’s hand again.
Karen propped her elbows behind her and lifted her head. The music was coming from an accordion. Soldiers had surrounded the accordion player, smiling and clapping along with the music. They were so happy. Karen remembered the water-bucket lines, when everyone in Leningrad started singing that silly song. Maybe her father was right. Maybe music was more important than bread or fire or security.