David Robbins - Last Citadel

Katya spoke.

‘Nikolai?’

‘What?’ the twin answered. He’d become more lively than his brother. Perhaps he hoped to wipe away his stain by helping free the downed pilot.

‘The two guards. Were they the same ones who were there three days ago?’

‘I don’t… let me see. Yes, I think yes. I’m sure at least one of them was.’

‘Alright. Ivan, how much food do we have with us?’

Ivan swung his backpack around and dug into it. He pulled from it a canteen and a broad, hard loaf.

‘Bread and water,’ Katya said. ‘Perfect.’

Josef asked, ‘You have an idea, Witch?’ The dark man looked at her with new eyes today. Katya worried all the time who in the partisan cell might be the spy, who had betrayed the Night Witches and the partisans beside the railroad. She’d been troubled that it might have been Josef, he seemed so distant and embittered. She began to believe it would not prove to be him.

She pointed at the twin. ‘At least one of the guards has seen Nikolai before, right? He knows Nikolai is an interpreter.’

She swung the finger to the starosta , stricken in his saddle. Filip seemed to have swapped roles with his traitor twin, he bore the millstone of guilt now.

‘Filip will go instead. The guard won’t know the difference. I’ll pose as a nurse and go with him carrying the food. We’ll tell the guards we’re waiting for the Gestapo, they’re going to interrogate the prisoner again. We’re there to feed the pilot and get him ready. We’ll get one of the guards to come inside. Then Josef, you take care of the one outside.’

‘And the guard inside, Witch?’

She thought of Leonid’s face, too bashed to tell the color of his eyes. His eyes were blue. Sky blue. She fingered the knife at her hip, the pistol in her belt.

‘I’ll do what I have to.’ She looked over to the starosta . The old man still eyed the warm ground.

Josef turned in his saddle to the soldiers Daniel and Ivan, book-ends around the German prisoner. Breit did not understand anything being said, his eyes darted to every speaker.

‘Alright,’ Josef said. ‘When both guards are down, you two come with the Nazi and the extra horse for the pilot. Witch, you and Filip…’

‘I’ll go.’

Nikolai sat straight in his saddle. The twin spoke with his chin high; his brother peered out from under his brim to listen.

‘Filip can stay here where it’s safe. I’ll go. They know me.’

Katya cut her eyes to Josef. Even under such a sun, his gaze was hooded.

‘I’ll go,’ Nikolai said again. ‘I’ve done enough to my brother.’

Josef growled, ‘Shut up, kiwi .’ He faced Filip. ‘Old man? Go or stay?’

Filip raised his head to his twin. Katya watched them stare at each other, the two faces so identical, and so different.

‘No,’ the starosta said. ‘Nikolai will tell the guards. He’ll get the Witch killed and he’ll make a run for it. You can’t trust him. I’ll go.”

Filip pivoted to Katya. The elder nodded at her. The resolve she’d seen earlier on Nikolai’s face was now on Filip’s, the gallows. ‘I’ll do what I have to.’

Josef wasted no time for the tempest on Nikolai’s face; the twin wanted to object but everyone had turned their backs to him. Daniel swung up in his stirrups, a fresh weed clamped in his teeth. Ivan handed the bread and canteen to Katya.

‘I’ll be one minute behind you, Witch,’ Josef said. ‘Count to sixty before you make a move. Start counting when you get inside. I’ll be watching. If you hear gunshots, you’ve got to act quick. The rest of the garrison will come running, we’ll only have a few seconds. Daniel, you and Ivan stay a hundred meters back. When you see us come out with the pilot, bring the horses fast. Bring the German, and the hiwi , too. If either one of them flinches the wrong way, kill him. Filip, give me your rifle. Witch, the pistol.’

The starosta unstrapped his carbine from his back and handed it over. The German guards would not let any Russian come near them with guns, not even a turncoat interpreter and a peasant woman in men’s clothing. Josef reached for the loaf of bread in Katya’s hands. He ripped it open at one end, the stiff crust snapped and flaked. He scooped out a plug of soft bread.

‘Give me your knife.’

Katya pulled the blade from her belt. Josef unsheathed it and slid the knife inside the crust, then packed the white pulp on top of the grip to hide it. He handed the loaf back to Katya. The bread had an odd and deadly weight.

Josef nodded to Katya.

‘The blue house on the far western street. There’s a broken shutter on the front. Look for the guards. You’ll see them.’

‘Blue house. Shutter,’ she repeated.

‘One minute.’

‘Once we’re inside. I understand.’

‘Good. Go get your pilot, Witch.’

Katya moved out, Filip at her side. She remembered the last words of Vera. Go get him .

Without hurry, Filip and Katya rode toward the western rim of the village. The sun seemed not to have moved from its noon-high perch. It glowered on the two riders, hot and intent, in audience to the rescue they would attempt. Katya sweated in her loose wool coat. She wanted shade and rest. She wanted not to be afraid. A few times during the ride to the village, she glanced behind her to spot Josef. The man rode far to their left, then was nowhere to be seen.

Filip dug out a kerchief and handed it to Katya.

‘Put this around your hair, Witch. You need to look more like a peasant.’

She mopped her brow with the red rag, then quickly tied back her hair with it.

Filip asked, ‘Have you ever killed a man?’

Katya thought of her missions, hundreds of raids. ‘I’ve dropped bombs.’

‘I mean ever killed a man looking into his face.’

‘No.’

‘I haven’t, either,’ the starosta said.

The elder raised his eyes and looked around him, at the nearing village, dark soil hot as tar under the horses’ hooves. He gazed into a blazing sky. He grimaced under his hat.

Katya cradled the loaf in her arm, sensing the knife stashed inside it. It was strange to be in this world, to have a reason to kill. A need to kill. She thought of the weight of a life, how heavy would it be in your hand if the years could be stacked? Would it weigh less than the knife? Yes. A knife, a bullet, a shard of shrapnel, they all outweigh any life. She was sure men had died under her Night Witch wings, and she never once felt the weight of their deaths. It was insanity for it to be so. She rode toward this madness with a life tucked inside the bread, held easily in one hand. It was strange because this was not the real world, girls and old men going off to kill; this was a war world, temporary, a nightmare where the only way to wake up was to stay asleep and kill enough. And it was strange, too, because now she was not afraid, the twisting in her stomach was gone. She said Leonid’s name out loud, to announce the release of her fear.

‘Is that your pilot?’ Filip asked.

‘Leonid Lumanov. Yes. My pilot.’

Less than fifty dwellings made up the hamlet, with a half dozen large barns clustered near the silos. Nothing moved in the streets or alleys, the barns were empty and cool, a handful of scattered military vehicles baked in the open. A wind vane creaked somewhere. Their horses made the only living sounds.

The blue house with a busted shutter stood near the end of its dirt street. She cued her horse toward it.

She opened the canteen, her mouth was parched. She swallowed and offered the water to the elder. He declined. The look on Filip’s face was kindly, his many wrinkles arranged themselves into a melancholy welcome of what awaited them. It was a brave face. Impulsively, Katya reached to touch the old man’s arm.