“You make it sound easy.”
“I don’t know about easy. After all, without effort you won’t pull a fish out of a pond,” I said with a growl. I turned and started for the command building, intent on saving my wings. I would not let my identity be forever fixed on being Martyona’s killer. I’d die before ever having to go home with such a thing hanging around my neck. So help me God I would prevail, and woe to anyone who tried to stop me.
“Come back to me safe, Nadya,” Klara called out after me. When I glanced over my shoulder, she shooed me on and gave a devilish grin. “Now get going and get your first kill.”
Chapter Five
Every day for two solid weeks I argued with Tamara to reinstate my flight status. She kept insisting I had to heal before she would give me further consideration, and I kept hammering the topic, saying I was ready. The first few times I ended up with cleanup duties in the kitchen for insubordination, but after that, I respected her warnings—sometimes merely a set jaw or dip of the head—and dropped the matter until the next day.
When I wasn’t scrubbing pots or hauling trash from the mess hall, Tamara had me working with her from sunrise to well after sunset, pushing papers, taking inventory, and scheduling flights, repairs, and resupplies. She had a large map of the war’s southwestern front stuck with pushpins on the wall of her office. Each day those pushpins would move as reports came in, and each day I saw the Germans advance toward Stalingrad. Nothing seemed to slow them down, and a last stand at the city seemed inevitable. At least when they reached the city, Tamara would need every pilot for its defense. She’d have to put me back in the air, and then it would only be a matter of time before I’d cross paths with Martyona’s killer.
Each day I’d also comb over the reports, desperate to find any sort of intel on who that man was. To my dismay, nothing came up, not even when I sent telegraphs to other regiments trying to track him down. It was as if he’d vanished from the war, a ghost never to be seen again. I began to wonder if I’d seen his number wrong and that’s why no one knew who he was. Was it really an eight on his tail? Maybe I’d gotten the color wrong, too.
On the fourth of September, I was walking back from the airfield with dozens of papers from the morning fighter inspection stuck to a clipboard. My steps were brisk, and the pain in my hands and arms had dwindled to a manageable throb in the background.
I sang The Birch Tree as I went. The traditional song had been stuck in my head the past few days, and it reminded me of how beautiful Father’s voice was when he’d sing it. Also, I enjoyed the range of tempo and emotion in the piece, and the lyrics were something I could identify with. The birch had lost its leaves and lost who it was. Exactly how I had. Despite connecting with such words, deep down, I felt flight was more of a possibility than ever before. Maybe that’s why I sang it. I wasn’t afraid I’d lose my wings forever.
I entered the command post and found Tamara sitting behind her cluttered desk of daily paperwork and a week’s worth of plans on top. To her side stood my squadron commander, Evgeniia Prokhorova—Zhenia for short. Her posture was perfect, and though her brown field shirt hung well on her athletic build and the male breeches she wore looked tailored to her body, Zhenia’s large chin and short, fat neck gave her a comical appearance—something she herself would poke fun at from time to time.
Zhenia was loved by all the girls, myself included. She trained all of us in the air as much as she could, and when we weren’t flying, she always gave instruction on the ground, even if it was only a tidbit during a quick passing. Most important, since I’d returned from my ill-fated mission, she’d helped boost my hope I’d fly again.
Given the confrontational look on both their faces, I sensed I’d interrupted something important. “Should I come back?”
“No, there’s work to be done,” Tamara said.
I went to my little space of mundaneness without word, a small desk in the corner, and hoped the two would continue whatever it was they were doing before I entered.
“Do you have anything you’d like to add, Zhenia?” Tamara said. At this point I faced away from them and didn’t dare look over my shoulder, but by the Major’s annoyed tone, I could imagine the sour look on her face.
“Only to remind you this escort you need is short one pilot,” Zhenia replied. She spoke in a cultured voice, but her R’s never came out right. “Olga is still ill from last night, and I’d like it noted I’ve brought this to your attention.”
“So it shall,” Tamara said. “We’re out of pilots today. You knew this coming in, and I want the matter dropped.”
Silence filled the room, settled on my shoulders like a heavy wet blanket. Inside I screamed my name over and over, hoping, praying either Tamara or Zhenia would see the willing—and desperate—girl in the corner, begging to fly.
“As you wish—” Zhenia started, but that’s all she got out.
I leapt to my feet, heart pounding in my chest and sending paperwork flying off my desk. “I’ll go.”
Again, the two stared at me. Tamara looked shocked due to my sudden interruption that might have bordered on insubordination. She had, after all, told Zhenia to drop the subject. I told myself I wasn’t included in that order, so I should be okay. Zhenia on the other hand, with her back turned to Tamara, grinned and gave a wink.
“She’ll do, Major,” she said, facing Tamara once more. “She could use a simple flight after being grounded so long.”
“I can do simple!” I said, bounding forward.
Tamara grunted. She made tight fists and placed them behind her back. “You think you’re ready?”
“I’ll be fine. See?” I hopped back and forth on one leg a few times, showing off the strength I’d regained in my ankle. It warmed under the strain, but I kept a smiling face. I had to be strong. I had to seize this opportunity, an opportunity that could only have been divinely orchestrated. Olga’s sudden illness was proof enough for me.
Tamara remained skeptical. “And your hands?”
I held them up and flexed my fingers several times. Lighting shot through my forearms as I did, but I’d been expecting it and hid it well under a guise of excitement and confidence. “Couldn’t be better.”
Tamara walked over and outstretched an open hand. “Let me see.”
I placed the back of my right hand in her palm. My skin warmed under my collar, and I did my best to keep an even breath as she gently inspected the wounds.
“They do look healed,” she said.
“They are. I promise.”
“Communications are hinting that tomorrow is a big day,” she said, leaning over my wounds and tracing them with a sharp fingernail. “We might be called to help keep the skies clear of Luftwaffe over the front. Do you think you’re fit to assist?”
“Absolutely.”
Tamara clamped down on my hands and drove her thumbs into the scar tissue. Unprepared for the attack, I screamed in pain and doubled over. She let go a second later. “She’s not ready.”
With tears in my eyes, I stood back up and gasped for breath. “That wasn’t fair!”
Tamara’s cold stare cut through me. “Neither is combat.”
Zhenia put her hands in mine. “Grip them.” When I hesitated, she said it again with a growl. When I complied, she added, “Tightly.”
I set my jaw and summoned all of my strength and squeezed. I squeezed until I thought the bones in both of our hands would break. Fire ran through my arms, but I did not yell. I did not cry. I fought the pain with anger. Anger at my one shot at returning to the air being stolen from me.
“Now pull,” Zhenia ordered.
I pulled against her hands so hard I yanked her forward a few steps. I let go, confident the point had been made. Beaming, I looked at them both.