Daughters of the Night Sky Read online

  “Comrade Dokorov, I insist you provide my daughter with the same lessons as you give the boys,” Mama said, placing my primer from the previous year with a thud on his polished desk. “I have no wish for my daughter to be reading these fairy stories when she should be learning geometry and physics.” She stood tall and wore her best dress, which was no high compliment to the worn frock.

  “Comrade Ivanova,” he replied, “you have not had training in education. I must insist that you leave the classroom and let me begin the school year without further disruption.” He stood to his full height, as though to intimidate Mama into hasty retreat to the laundry. He clearly had never had extensive dealings with my mother.

  “I’m afraid you misunderstand me. This was not a request. I may not be a trained teacher, but I am an educated woman. My husband, a loyal and true patriot of this country and decorated hero of the European War, was an honored professor. I will not see his daughter given a second-rate education by the likes of you. You will teach my daughter, and the rest of the girls, the same material as the boys, or I will speak to the party officials. Do I make myself plain?”

  “I hardly think it’s appropriate—”

  “But Comrade Stalin does, Comrade Dokorov. Your quarrel is with him, not with me. Nor is it with my daughter or any other member of this class. Know that I am a woman who makes good on her promises. Good day.”

  My mother turned heel and exited the classroom without a word to me. I was grateful, at least, that she hadn’t given me a parting kiss or any sort of endearment. I would never have lived down the shame. It wasn’t her usual practice, anyway.

  “Well, Ekaterina Timofeyevna. It seems your mother wants you educated like the boys. Is that right?” His lips curled into a sneer around his putrid, yellow teeth as he addressed me with mock formality. I wasn’t aware he’d even known my father’s name to address me by my patronymic.

  “Yes, Comrade Dokorov. I wish to be a pilot. For this, Mama says I will need a proper education.” I tried to summon my mother’s moxie and succeeded in not running from the room in tears. It was victory enough.

  “She is not wrong about that. But it is hardly a profession for a woman. Russia needs women to build families. Aviation is a man’s field.” He spoke as though he made the final pronouncement on my career path. The matter dismissed in his mind, he placed my antiquated primer back on my desk and returned to the blackboard.

  “I disagree.” My tone was hardly louder than a whisper, but the boys on either side of me sucked in their breath. This would mean the strap, if I were lucky.

  “What was that, Ekaterina?” The teacher turned around, slowly, giving me time to retract my words.

  “I disagree, Comrade Dokorov. With respect.” I had found my voice—a reedier version of my father’s baritone—and it did not waver. I stood straighter and jutted my chin in his direction.

  He walked back to my desk, took the primer, and fixed me with his black eyes. “Very well, young lady. But if you waste my time on a whim, I will be sorely disappointed.” He took the book, placed it on a shelf with dozens of other dusty volumes, and began his lesson.

  I pulled my notebook and my father’s favorite fountain pen—simple and sturdy, like him—from the worn leather bag he had used for carrying students’ papers to and from the university each day. The pen was handcrafted from wood—rosewood, he had guessed. It was a gift from one of his professor friends, and a token he was quite fond of. I loved using it and had even had one of the craftsmen in town teach me how to fashion new nibs from steel scraps in exchange for running a few errands.

  I sat ramrod straight in my chair and used my father’s pen to write down every word pertinent to the lesson. When it came time for mathematics, the other girls and I were allowed to participate with the boys. The figures confused me at first, as I had little instruction beyond basic arithmetic, but I took copious notes. If the teacher would not help me with my questions after class, I would ask Mama. If Mama couldn’t help me, I would find someone who could. There were always floors to scrub or marketing to be done in exchange for knowledge.

  Deep within me I knew my work had to begin that very moment if I was to have wings of my own.

  CHAPTER 2

  April 1941, Chelyabinsk Military Aviation School of Fast Bombardiers

  The sun beat down on me in the rear cockpit of the small training craft, and my stomach lurched as Tokarev dove the trainer in the final approach toward the painted patch of grass that was our target. I leaned over the edge of the cockpit to get a glance of the terrain below. Until Tokarev banked, the only things I could see were the back of his head and the terrain past either side of the wing. Nothing ahead or directly below. I verified we were on course for the coordinates the instructor had given me and checked my chronometer.

  “Five seconds to target,” I said, speaking clearly into the radio so my pilot could hear each syllable. I opened the top of the metal flare. “Three seconds. Mark!” I tossed the flare over the edge to illuminate the target for him.

  When he circled back around to drop his dummy bomb, Tokarev hesitated just a few moments too long before he released. As he banked right to set course for the airstrip, I saw he’d missed the bright painted X by a wide margin. If we’d been aiming for a military outpost, we’d have hit the school next door.

  My hands shook as Tokarev landed the plane on the edge of the academy’s airstrip, and it was just as well. If they had been steady, I might have throttled the clumsy dolt. He had completed the passes with adequate technique but still managed to miss two of the seven practice targets.

  My job was to get us to the target and mark it so the pilot could focus on keeping the plane aloft. I was armed with nothing other than coordinates, a chronometer, and compass, flares, and my own eyes. I hadn’t missed a single mark that run, nor had I missed more than I could count on my fingers since Captain Karlov had reluctantly let me in the rear cockpit to begin practical training as a navigator toward the end of my first year. I could see Karlov’s distaste for women in uniform every time I came into his view, but my performance record gave him no choice but to advance me through the three-year program. Women were beginning to make names for themselves in aviation, setting records and joining flight schools and civil aviation clubs in droves, but it had taken the looming jackal at our western gates to encourage our leaders to take women’s emancipation to heart.

  Honestly, I hadn’t wanted to fly for the military, but the cauldron of war that boiled on every Russian border had afforded me the opportunity to earn my wings. I hadn’t particularly wanted to serve as a navigator, either. I wanted training as a pilot, but the rear cockpit was the place I was given. It was better than staying on the ground, at least.

  “A decent run, Tokarev,” Karlov said when we rejoined our classmates at the edge of the airfield, “but Cadet Ivanova could have left you a wider margin for error with your targets.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” Tokarev replied to the lukewarm praise.

  This was nonsense, but I remained silent, as I did so often in Karlov’s presence. Opening my mouth was rarely worth the resultant flare of temper. When Karlov looked away, Tokarev shrugged and turned a Golly gee, that stinks for you smirk my way.

  “He should have been able to hit those targets, Captain,” another third-year spoke up. Ivan Solonev had transferred into our division a few weeks prior. Karlov had been thrilled, as Solonev was a military legacy of sorts. His father was a hero of the European War and a brilliant strategist. My father had been decorated in the war as well, but Papa wasn’t a local man, so his reputation wasn’t known here like Solonev’s father’s, and I didn’t crow about it to ensure it was.

  Karlov had whirled his way. “What was that, Cadet?” he asked, the ends of his walrus-bristled mustache twitching in annoyance. Almost anyone else questioning his appraisal would have been launched halfway back to the barracks by now from the sheer volume of his tirade. A bead of sweat trickled down the nape of my neck as I wondered what Solonev would say and how Karlov would blame me for it.

  “With all due respect, Captain, when Tokarev is at the front, he’ll be flying in every sort of condition. If he can’t hit a perfectly marked target in clear weather and with no enemy fire to contend with, he has no hope of making his mark in battle.”

  Karlov nodded and turned his attention to the pilot and navigator then taking their turn at the run. I watched with interest, noting the idiosyncrasies of the pilot and the technique of the navigator. There was almost as much to learn on the ground as there was in the cockpit.

  I looked over at Solonev, with his chiseled features that looked so much like the ones that graced the propaganda posters the party was so fond of. I had hoped when he arrived he’d be all flash and no substance, but he was, much to my annoyance, as skilled a pilot as had ever crossed the academy’s threshold. A tad arrogant and none too fond of authority, but no one begrudged him his pride after they saw him in the air. Should I thank him? Scold him for butting in? I couldn’t decide which. Aside from Taisiya Pashkova, my dearest friend at the academy—perhaps the dearest friend I’d ever had—he was the only person who had championed me in the three years since I’d entered the academy. I was more than capable of championing myself, but it was exhausting work at times.

  I wanted to shove my elbow into Tokarev’s ribs and hiss, “At least someone here knows the truth,” but a little prat like Tokarev would certainly whine about it to anyone who would listen.

  Only a few more months. This will all be over in June.

  When Karlov dismissed us from our practicals and we dispersed for the evening meal, I caught Solonev’s eye and mouthed, Thank you. He shot me a quick nod with a somber expression. He didn’t like Karlov’s behavior any better than I did. As much
as I hated that he had felt the need to stand up for me, I hadn’t so many allies that I could afford to be less than grateful to any of them.

  “Germany has invaded Yugoslavia and Greece,” Taisiya said by way of greeting as I perched on the end of my bunk to remove the heavy combat boots that still pinched and rubbed my feet raw after three years.

  The women’s bunkroom was little more than a large, repurposed supply room lined with nine bunks and a small space heater keeping us from freezing in winter. As in so many areas of military life, our group’s presence forced improvisation.

  “Hello to you, too,” I said with a roll of my eyes, massaging my feet. “It’s so wonderful to have a friend who always greets you with such cheerful news.” Though the fact was I appreciated her keeping me informed—better to get news from her than read about all the warmongering for myself. There was nothing good coming from the papers these days.

  She peeked over her gray newspaper curtain and stuck her tongue out at me. “Katya, the Germans are moving forward every day. It’s nothing to take lightly.”

  “The nonaggression pact will hold,” I said dismissively. She was right, of course, but it was too much reality to take on after a full day of classes and practicals.

  “We can hope, but Hitler’s reach keeps growing. All this land grabbing frightens me,” Taisiya said with a heavy sigh.

  I grunted my reluctant agreement. The more I learned of Hitler, the warier I was of him. Then I thought of our own Stalin, who preached equality and the rise of the proletariat while extending his own grasp farther and farther west. I hoped Stalin wasn’t simply Hitler in a different uniform but dared not voice my concern.

  “How were your practicals?” I asked to divert the subject.

  “Fine. Made every mark. Yudin of course said nothing.” She placed her newspaper down and stretched her arms over her head to loosen the knots in her back. “The usual.”

  “Better than me. I made every mark, but Tokarev still missed two. Karlov blamed me.” I pulled on my cotton uniform slacks, wishing they issued us something in between the thick wool of our winter uniforms and the thin cotton for summer. The women’s barracks were cold and drafty, but the mess hall was always stifling.

  “Sounds like Karlov. What an ass.” Taisiya stood up and followed my lead, changing into her uniform for the evening meal. “Three months left,” she said. “We can endure these idiots for three more months.”

  There were only the two of us in the third year, the others having joined the academy after us. The younger girls were just as ambitious, though not quite as serious yet. The second-year girls, Iskra in particular, were fairly driven. Marta and Klavdiya, our first-years, fell far short of their standard. They performed at the middle of the pack, neither brilliantly nor poorly, and never strove to break into the upper echelon. Just as Taisiya and I did, they idolized women like Sofia Orlova, who had shattered world records and been named Hero of the Soviet Union, but they were still learning the amount of work it took to achieve such lofty goals.

  I was grateful to have Taisiya. School had been a lonely slog, and she was one of the first people who truly understood how deeply the desire to fly had sunk into my bones.

  Taisiya gave herself a quick glance in the mirror and gave an impassive nod, which meant her uniform looked tidy and she was pleased enough with her appearance to go up. On the rare occasion she had to wear a dress, the effect was charming. She looked like a young matron who ought to be chasing a ball with her three sturdy sons. When she was in uniform, her middling height, brown hair, and even features simply blended into the academy walls. It was possibly her greatest asset in her advancement so far. My towering height and auburn hair attracted much more attention than I would have liked, but I refused to slouch. Nor would I cover my red tresses with dye to make myself invisible.

  We joined the rest of the cadets in the mess hall to endure a supper that grew more and more inferior as war drew nearer to our doors. In a room buzzing with over two hundred cadets, the nine women of the academy sat together at a long table in the back of the hall. As was our custom, we pulled out our training manuals, textbooks, and notes during the meal and saved our chatter for the hour just before bed, when we were too tired to get much good out of studying.

  “If you ladies are nervous,” a jeering voice called out from the next table, “why don’t you do something else? Sew uniforms, perhaps? Or go west and dig trenches when the time comes?” The comedian was a first-year student with rust-colored hair and crooked teeth, surrounded by mates shaking with laughter.

  “Shut your insolent mouth, boy,” I snapped. “And learn some humility in front of your superiors before you open it again, if you have brains under that godforsaken orange mop you’ve got.”

  The cadet and his entire table went quiet and returned to their meal while the women all looked over to me with silent approval. We studied constantly because we didn’t have the luxury for error, and I refused to accept cheek from underclassmen for it. I had to be even-tempered with the instructors, but junior cadets were welcome to the full brunt of my anger when they deserved it.

  “Jackass,” Taisiya hissed under her breath. “He doesn’t know which side of the plane to keep upright.”

  If that were true, he’d have a hard time earning promotion from theoretical studies to practical runs toward the end of his first year. If he wasn’t promoted soon, he would be either transferred to a nonflight field—learning to run the wireless, most likely—or shown the door. I’d gone through the very same thing, despite stellar theoretical skills. It took my registering a formal complaint with the academy’s commanding officer to get in the air.

  It was always a battle, and some days I worried I’d be tired of fighting before I even got to the front.

  I retreated to the dank and chilly confines of the bunkroom after supper. Most of us reviewed notes or perused our books for another couple of hours, but uniforms were shed. I gratefully traded my coarse uniform for my quilted flannel pajamas and dressing gown. Mama had been careful to send drab greens and blues my first year, thinking it would be best in my military setting. When my second year came around, I begged her for periwinkle, pink, lilac—anything feminine—much to my mother’s astonishment. She rose magnificently to the occasion, sending me thick quilted pajamas of the softest pink flannel adorned with tiny rosebuds along with a matching pink dressing gown. I knew it had to have cost her dearly, but as my burden on her finances was so light now, I didn’t begrudge her the little indulgence.

  Taisiya had a letter from Matvei, her beau, who had taken over the running of his family’s farm near the little village of Serbishino. Matvei’s letters were one of Taisiya’s few sources of unmitigated joy, but her face turned ashen as she read his words.

  “He’s been called up.” She looked down at the paper, incredulous.

  “It sounds like things are worse in Poland,” I said, not knowing what reassurances might help. “But it may all come to nothing. They need troops at the ready in case the worst happens, but there’s no reason to believe he’ll see action. And if he does, at least he’s enlisted and training now.”

  “He’s a farmer, Katya. He’s not built for this. He hasn’t been trained like you and I have.” She set the letter aside and buried her face in her hands.

  I sat next to her on the thin mattress of her bunk and wrapped my arm around her shoulders. “They’ll train him, Taisiya. It makes no sense for them not to.”

  “Logic has never been the strong suit of the Red Army,” Taisiya snapped, picking up the letter and placing it in her bedside table with the rest of his correspondence. “Stalin needs warm bodies, and I don’t think he cares how long they stay that way.”