C Taylor - Nadya's War

Alexandra looked at me incredulously. “You let her? Surely not. It’s the stupidest nickname I’ve ever heard. You’re not a beast meant for slaughter. You’re majestic and deadly, a bird of prey who has found her talons.”

I liked the sound of that, a bird of prey, and the imagery was a thousand times more graceful and meaningful than a dirty pig. It was fitting for a Cossack, as such birds were free to roam where they saw fit, something we as a people had always done. More important, it gave me a way to attack the words around it without branding myself as a traitor. One does not request to strike out such things and live.

“You don’t like it,” Klara said, eyes glistening.

“I have asked you not to call me that,” I said. With every word I spoke, I could see the proverbial dagger twisting in her gut, and I hated what I was doing, but I had to. I couldn’t live with myself if everything I did was being dedicated to him. “And the colors are bright. I don’t want to be easily spotted.”

Klara’s face and shoulders fell. “I understand,” she said. “I’ll have it painted over before you go up tomorrow.”

“Good,” Alexandra said, wrapping her arm around my shoulder and leading me away. “Glad to see that disaster was avoided.”

I looked over my shoulder at Klara to say goodbye and assure her we’d catch up later, but the pained look in her eyes froze my tongue. She mouthed four little words. “Come back to me.”

A week and a half blew by. Petrov had taken residence in one of the nearby homes. Tamara had said he was temporarily assigned to the unit for an undetermined amount of time. She wouldn’t say more than that, even when I’d pressed the matter on why our own regiment commissar wasn’t enough (Olga Kulikova was her name, and what little dealings I had with her were pleasant enough). While I was thankful Petrov and I hadn’t had any more face-to-face encounters, he seemed to always be nearby, watching me.

Alexandra and I had been on twenty-something sorties together at that point. I wish I could’ve said they were exciting, but they weren’t. They all entailed flying lazy circles around a handful of rail stations and the only bridge at Saratov to keep them safe from enemy bombers, but not a single Luftwaffe came. I became frustrated at our lack of engagements and wondered if I’d ever see them again since our assignments kept us far from the front. How was I supposed to shoot down Rademacher if we weren’t going to be anywhere near him?

To pass the time during guard duty, Alexandra would talk about her fiancé, Yuri, or her father’s work as a surgeon back home and how he only had eyes for her mother. In the lulls of conversation, she’d occasionally sing to herself off key, but for the sake of my ears, I’d snap her attention back on our mission. I didn’t have the heart to tell her how bad she was.

On the twenty-fourth of September, I was lying on my back on my bed in my dugout, trying to figure out what I was going to do with myself for the next hour before I was slated for night watch. The straw mattress was lumpy and cold, but far more comfortable than the damp dirt floor beneath. The evening sun cast a warm glow through the entrance but did little to affect the chill in the air.

We didn’t have the luxury of sleeping in buildings since they were more susceptible to explosions during an air raid. Our earthen homes could survive a near miss by a five-hundred-kilogram bomb, whereas a typical wood dwelling would be turned into splinters by similar blasts. Some nights, however, when water stood on the floor and the mice took home in our covers, I would’ve been willing to risk being turned into a crater for a proper room and a clean bed.

Alexandra slept on the bunk next to mine, something I wished I was doing but couldn’t. My arms hurt from the cold, making rest elusive. Worse, when I shut my eyes, I saw Klara’s face and heard her last words to me over and over, haunting my soul. Sure, we’d spoken some over the last week and a half, but she spoke at me—giving at best factual, short statements. She no longer spoke to me as a friend or confidant. Our friendship had become threadbare at best, and I didn’t know what to do.

“God help me,” I muttered. I was so weary from it all I didn’t even care when Alexandra stirred at my comment.

“What was that?” she said. “You’re not turning religious on me, are you?”

I let out half of a chuckle. “Yep. And I’m taking you with me.”

“I’d rather stick my head in a prop.”

“Well if you do, don’t do it to mine. I don’t want the mess all over my plane,” I said, trying to keep things light even though her remark stung.

Over the past week and a half, I’d learned a few things about Alexandra, most of them good. First, she loved Russian art and literature. Alexei Savrasov’s Winter was her favorite painting, and she could rattle on for hours on anything written by Tolstoy. Second, she was incredibly sensual. She loved chocolate, pleasing aromas, beautiful sunrises, heart-felt songs, and exceptional rubs on the shoulders and neck. I couldn’t provide the first three, but I could sing, and after some instruction, could give “decent enough” massages to help her work out the kinks in her neck from time to time.

The last thing I learned was Alexandra was a life-long communist who had no room in her heart for religion, but at least she wasn’t violent about her opposition like some. Even so, I kept my beliefs to myself. When she’d asked me about them, I dodged answering, much to my shame. I suppose I wanted acceptance, and I didn’t want her looking down on me for any reason.

I sat up at the sound of a dog barking and welcomed the distraction. “Oh damn. He’s back.”

Alexandra groaned. “Already?”

“Unfortunately,” I said. “I don’t think he’s stopping anytime soon.”

A mutt weighing five kilos soaking wet had taken to begging for scraps at the mess hall. This wouldn’t have been an issue if the little fur ball hadn’t also started chasing away Zhenia’s cat named Bri. The cat was a lean, black and grey tabby that was cuddly when the mood suited her, and otherwise was a meowing, clawing, need machine that had no problems drawing blood when petted the wrong way or ignored when she didn’t want to be. Basically, she was a typical feline.

Zhenia had taken in Bri from the nearby streets to be a mouser on account of her phobia of all things rodent. Zhenia had chased the dog off the other day, swearing if she ever saw it again, she’d shoot it dead. The dog’s barks drew closer, and I tensed in anticipation of an ear-shattering, dog-silencing shot.

“Make it stop, Nadya,” Alexandra whined. She rolled over and pulled her jacket over her head.

Bri rocketed into the dugout. Fresh on its heels was the mutt. The two darted around the room, under and over bunks, knocking over boots, books, tin cups and anything else in their way, before leaping onto Alexandra’s bed.

“For the love of all!” Alexandra shouted, flying out of bed. She grabbed a boot from the floor and readied it for a throw, but before she could launch it at either animal, they both took their chase back outside. For a moment, she stared at the door, ready to cream whatever four-legged monster dared to come back.

“Rise and shine, beautiful,” I said. Alexandra shot me a disapproving look, and I shrugged. “What? Could have been worse, right?”

“Only if I was thrown into a dungeon with the two of them.”

Valeriia charged into the room, panting and face flushed. “Get to your damn planes, now!”

Before either of us could reply, she was gone. Alexandra and I exchanged looks of confusion and dread before snapping into action. I grabbed my leather jacket, cap, and goggles from the foot of my bed and raced out of the dugout. Alexandra followed, cursing about how she hated night flights as she tried to put her gear on.