Authors: Belinda Alexandra
Orlov swallowed. He felt like he had a rock in his throat. ‘So you think this could be it … you think we’ve found her?’
Ilya reached across to the glove box and pulled out a map. ‘I’ve marked the distance between the crash site and the village. If Natalya Azarova parachuted out of the plane she would have landed in one of the fields nearby. She is the only missing female fighter pilot who was active in that area at the time, and if a body is buried there it could well be hers.’
Orlov stared at the map. Did he want to be part of this process? What would be left of his beautiful Natasha now? Perhaps it would be better if Ilya and the Ministry of Defence handled this and simply gave him a forensic report. He looked at the birch trees that lined the road and remembered the plane they’d found in the forest. It was as if Natasha was calling to him, reeling him in like a fish. She’d had a strong will in life. Was it possible that her will had survived her physical death?
After a toilet and tea stop the two men took to the road again. Just over an hour later, Ilya turned the car off the bitumen road onto a dirt one. The farmhouses they passed, with their rickety wooden fences and vegetable gardens, looked the same to Orlov as they had during the war.
They drove through a gate and were greeted by a collection of boisterous farm dogs of all breeds and sizes. A man in a woodcutter’s singlet waved to them, exposing his hairy armpit. Two blond boys with bare chests and buzz cuts ran towards the car.
‘Hello!’ said the man in the singlet. ‘I am Dmitri Borisovich Mochalov. My grandmother is waiting for you in the garden.’
A woman wearing a kerchief on her head came out of the house and introduced herself as Fekla Petrovna, Dmitri’s wife. Two other men in tracksuit pants and singlets, who Orlov took to be neighbours, joined them and the group led Orlov and Ilya to the back garden, where an old woman was waiting for them at a table, surrounded by chickens and more playful dogs. It was always a shock for Orlov to see someone close to his own age. He still had his hair, grey and thinned but still there, and his own teeth. Until his heart problem, his health had been good. This old woman looked ancient, with a sunken mouth and wrinkles so deep her nose and chin seemed to have disappeared into her weathered face. Her eyes were faded and watery, but she sat up straight with her hands on her knees and had an almost queenly pride about her.
Fekla pulled out chairs for Orlov and Ilya and sat down next to her grandmother-in-law. The others gathered around to hear the story. Dmitri stood directly behind Orlov and Orlov could feel the farmer’s belly bumping into his neck. He cringed with the thought that Dmitri was sweating onions and meat through his skin.
‘This is Olga Vadimovna,’ said Fekla, putting her arm around the woman. ‘In 1943 she was a mother of five young children. Her husband and brothers were away fighting. She ran the farm together with her uncle and father. She has never learned to read and has never taken interest in anything except her family and farm, but a few days ago she overhead Dmitri and me talking about the plane that was discovered nearby. That was when she told us her story … about how her father and uncle found the body of a female pilot in the forest.’
Olga studied Orlov and Ilya with the suspicious expression elderly peasants bestowed on anyone from Moscow. But something about them must have overcome any misgivings and she began her story in a raspy voice.
‘In the summer of 1943, the Germans occupied our village. All our produce beyond our basic needs was to be given to their army. Anyone who didn’t comply was executed along with their family. Our neighbour was hanged with a piece of wire for keeping a cow in his barn so that he could give milk to his pregnant wife and two young children. The German soldiers raped the wife and then they tied her two children to her and threw a grenade at them.’ Olga stopped for a moment, clenching and unclenching her fists, then continued.
You can imagine how much we hated the Germans. One day we were working in the fields when we heard the rumble of planes in the distance and machine guns firing. We looked up to see a Soviet plane fly over chased by three Messerschmitts. It made us furious to see the Germans attacking one of our planes. But the Soviet pilot wasn’t going to be caught. The plane cut a jagged vapour trail across the sky as it dodged and weaved to avoid the bullets. Then the pilot turned the plane and headed back towards the pursuers, dividing them and shooting one down at the same time. We cheered as the enemy plane went down in flames. The Germans could have let the fighter go back to its own territory but they were determined to get it. The two remaining planes turned and pursued the Soviet pilot. We were forbidden to watch dogfights but we couldn’t take our eyes off the battle taking place in the sky. The odds were against the Soviet plane, yet the pilot skilfully manoeuvred and again faced his attackers head on.
‘That is no ordinary pilot,’ my father said. ‘That’s why the Germans will not let him go.’
But the Soviet plane was doomed. It began to lose altitude and its guns stopped firing. ‘It’s either running out of fuel or ammunition,’ guessed my uncle. The two remaining German planes closed in but the Soviet pilot wasn’t going to go down without a final strike. We watched as he swerved to approach from the side and rammed one of the enemy planes, sending it spinning to the ground. There was just the one German plane left now, but the Soviet plane continued to lose altitude. It tilted nose down and hurtled towards the ground.
‘Jump! Jump!’ I screamed, although of course there was no chance of the pilot hearing. We watched to see if the hatch would open and the pilot parachute out but nothing happened.
‘The pilot must have been shot,’ said my father through gritted teeth. ‘Or knocked unconscious when he rammed the other plane.’
Then we saw a figure emerge from the cockpit and fall towards the earth. I screamed in horror, but the parachute mushroomed and the pilot landed beyond the trees on the other side of the river. The plane hit the ground somewhere in the forest with a crash that echoed around the valley. The ground trembled beneath our feet. The remaining German plane circled and circled the area where the plane had gone down like a hawk searching for its prey. Then it rose again and flew away. We wondered if the German had seen the pilot parachute out but perhaps he hadn’t. That’s what we hoped.
My father wanted to go and find the pilot straight away. But my uncle stopped him. ‘Don’t be a fool,’ he said. ‘If the Germans catch you, you’ll be shot. Wait until tonight. Those pilots are trained for survival. He’ll know how to hide.’
‘If he isn’t injured,’ my father lamented.
Olga paused and stared at the sky, memories animating her face. In her profile Orlov thought he caught a glimpse of what she had been like as a young woman, watching the battle in the air. Despite her age, Olga had been precise in her account. He was certain from her description that Natasha had been the daring pilot. Natasha was a woman when she lay in Orlov’s arms, but in the sky she was a demon. Many of the male pilots, including Orlov himself, had been dismissive of ‘Little Natashka’ when she had been assigned to the regiment. Orlov had not objected to women in the air force altogether, as some of his colleagues had. He respected the women who were willing to risk their lives to save the Motherland. But while he believed women could capably fly bombers and hit military targets, he didn’t think they had the killer instinct and cunning needed for pilot-to-pilot combat. Natasha had proved him wrong. After the Battle of Stalingrad, the men in the regiment had said, and not in jest, that they were glad Natalya Azarova was on the Soviet side: they would not want to fight her in the air. That was why the Germans had been determined to get rid of her.
Olga continued her story.
My father was grateful to the Soviet soldiers and pilots who were fighting to free us and he would have gladly forfeited his own life to save them. That evening he and my uncle packed a bag with the little bread we had and some vodka to take to the pilot, but as they were preparing to leave German soldiers stormed into the house. At first I thought they were after food, but by the way they overturned the beds and swept everything out of the cupboards before moving on to search the barn it was obvious they were looking for someone. It must be the pilot, I thought. I was glad because that meant he hadn’t been caught yet. Then, to our dismay, some German officers arrived and took over the house for the night. My father and uncle had to delay their journey into the forest until the following evening.
While they were searching for the pilot, my aunt paced the kitchen. I put the children to bed and tried to distract myself by sewing. In the early hours of the morning there was a noise in the yard. We looked out the window to see my father and uncle returning. They were carrying something between them. ‘It’s the pilot,’ I said to my aunt. ‘He must have been hurt.’
But when my father and uncle came into the house, I realised that not only was the pilot already dead but that she was a woman.
‘I couldn’t leave her in the forest for the wild animals to finish her off,’ my father wept. ‘Look at her! She’s just a young woman and she gave her life for us.’
They lifted the pilot’s body onto the table. Her hair and face were covered in blood. I grabbed a cloth and began washing her face. Even with the wound on her forehead, I could see that she had been pretty. ‘She looks like an angel,’ my aunt commented. Even my stern uncle was moved. ‘War is not women’s business,’ he said. ‘They should be at home creating life, not taking it.’ It was his way of expressing his sorrow. He didn’t mean that the young woman had been wrong to defend her country, rather that it was wrong that circumstances should have brought her to have to do so.
We wanted to give the pilot a proper funeral but the village priest had been shot a week earlier for helping the partisans. My aunt and I removed the pilot’s uniform and clothed her in my wedding dress, the only white item of clothing I had. We were uncertain about what to do next because the sun would be rising soon and it was too dangerous to be caught burying her. My aunt remembered the crypt in the cemetery. It belonged to a Polish family that had left the village long before the war.
My aunt ran ahead of us to make sure all was clear and then my father and uncle opened the crypt and placed the pilot’s body on a shelf inside. I laid her leather helmet and gun, which my uncle had found beside the body, on her chest. Then we quickly crossed ourselves and rushed home to say prayers for her soul. Our intention was to leave her in the crypt and inform the Soviet authorities about her body if anyone came in search of her. But a few days later there was a fierce battle in the village as the Soviets fought the Germans to liberate us. My father and uncle both were killed. There were many more bodies then and much grief to deal with. The pilot remained forgotten until now.
Olga fell silent. Everyone seemed to be staring at the ground. The old woman’s story had brought tears to their eyes. Orlov thought that he had never felt sadder or lonelier. No doubt when he passed away, there would be an obituary in the newspaper and a funeral with full honours. The President would make a speech. Natasha had been interred simply with love and devotion by simple farmers. Olga and her aunt had dressed her in the best clothing they possessed. Their gratitude for her sacrifice moved him greatly. It wasn’t only words but true feeling.
Ilya took a photograph out of his pocket and showed it to Olga. Orlov saw it was a black-and-white picture of Natasha in her military uniform and flying helmet.
‘Is this the pilot?’ Ilya asked Olga.
Fekla took the photograph from him and held it up for the old woman, who squinted at it. ‘Yes, I think it is. Or I think it could be. It was a long time ago and, you see, we didn’t have electricity in those days, only lamplight, and her face was covered in blood.’ Olga studied the photograph again with the expression of an elderly person who has seen too much tragedy. ‘Yes, I am sure this is her. She was pretty like this young girl.’
‘You say that her helmet and gun were found beside the body?’ Ilya continued. ‘And that she had a wound to the head?’
Olga nodded.
Ilya’s and Orlov’s eyes met. If the tight-fitting helmet was off then Natasha must have removed it herself. That meant she wasn’t dead when she hit the ground. Did she shoot herself? Orlov knew that the women pilots had a pact with each other that if ever they were in danger of being captured they would commit suicide rather than be taken prisoner. Not only could they be tortured for information by the Germans but stories abounded of the pack-rape of female Soviet prisoners. That seemed the most likely explanation if Natasha’s pistol had been beside her and not in her holster.
‘What did you do with her uniform?’ asked Ilya.
Olga thought for a moment. ‘We burned it. We didn’t want it to be discovered if the Germans searched our house again.’
‘What about her identification?’
Olga looked confused and Ilya explained to her about the Bakelite capsule that members of the armed forces kept in their pocket with their name, home town and relatives written on a piece of paper inside.
Olga thought about it. ‘Yes, there was such a capsule,’ she said. ‘We didn’t know what it was, but we thought it might be important so I wrapped it in the helmet along with the gun.’
‘Natasha wouldn’t have been carrying her identification,’ Orlov said.
Ilya looked at him, an eyebrow lifted quizzically.
‘It was a superstition,’ Orlov explained. ‘Natalya Azarova believed that if she carried her identification capsule into battle, she’d be killed. She used to give it to her mechanic before she got into her plane. Her mechanic was like a sister to her and she’d put the capsule in her pocket alongside her own until Natalya returned.’
Ilya frowned. ‘You’ve never mentioned that before, Valentin.’
Orlov grimaced. ‘I had to argue with Natalya Azarova about every formality, but her belief was so strong that I turned a blind eye to that one. You can tell from the description of the battle what a skilled pilot she was, but she was as stubborn as a mule. I was strict about identification, but you have to understand that carrying it wasn’t a formal air-force policy the way it is now, or as it was then with the German and British armies. It was left as a matter of personal choice.’