Sapphire Skies (10 page)

A
NNOUNCER
: Our next guest is Professor Andreas Mandt of the University of Cologne. Professor Mandt’s speciality is Russian–German relations and we’ve invited him to speak with us today regarding the war heroine Natalya Stepanovna Azarova, whose fighter plane was recently found in the Trofimovsky Forest, fifty-seven years after she went missing. Azarova’s plane was recovered but not her remains, continuing to support claims that she was a German spy who faked her death to avoid arrest.

Good morning, Professor Mandt. It’s a pleasure to have you on the program.

P
ROFESSOR
M
ANDT
: Good morning to you, Serafima Ivanovna. It’s a pleasure to be here.

A
NNOUNCER
: Professor Mandt, for many years now the Kremlin has refused to award Natalya Azarova the distinction of Hero of the Soviet Union — now Hero of the Russian Federation — based on the lingering controversy about her being a spy. What’s your view on that?

P
ROFESSOR
M
ANDT
: I think it’s an absurd theory that belongs to the Stalin era of paranoia. If, as the proposition suggests, Azarova had indeed been a spy for Germany it would have been excellent propaganda for the German war effort. If Azarova’s identity as a spy could no longer be kept secret and she had managed to escape the country, then why didn’t the German Ministry of Propaganda use her to demoralise the Russian people? Can you imagine? The Soviet Union’s darling heroine, ‘Stalin’s pin-up girl’ as she was often called, having actually been a spy working against her people all along? She could be quoted as having denounced Communism. But even if for some reason Nazi Germany didn’t use that information against the Russians during the war, there would be no reason for the German government to continue to be quiet now. With improved relations between Russia and the West, they could put the matter to rest. The simple fact is they have no information to support the spy theory because it never happened.

A
NNOUNCER
: What you are saying makes sense. Supporters of Azarova argue that her kill record against the Luftwaffe was embarrassing to Germany. This brash young woman brought down some of their finest pilots. Revealing that Azarova had been persuaded to switch sides during the war might have helped redeem their pride in some way. The fact that the Germans said nothing does seem to weaken the spy theory.

P
ROFESSOR
M
ANDT
: Yes, that’s my opinion too.

A
NNOUNCER
: The other possibility, of course, is that Azarova was captured by the German army, interrogated and then executed before being buried in an unmarked grave. But I suppose the German government could have also used her death as propaganda to demoralise the Russian people.

P
ROFESSOR
M
ANDT
: Oh no, I think that scenario would have been different. I don’t think the German command would have admitted to capturing or killing Azarova back then.

A
NNOUNCER
: Really? What makes you say that?

P
ROFESSOR
M
ANDT
: The execution of their beloved heroine would have stirred the Russian people to fight harder. It would have worked against the Germans. Stalin would have called on every warm-blooded citizen to seek their revenge on the German army.

A
NNOUNCER
: Even if Azarova had given away valuable military secrets?

P
ROFESSOR
M
ANDT
: The Russian people would have said that she only gave those secrets away under torture.

A
NNOUNCER
: Yes, I can see how people would find it hard to believe that their revered heroine would have given information away otherwise.

P
ROFESSOR
M
ANDT
: You see that sort of hero worship with the cult of Stalin.

A
NNOUNCER
: That’s true. People were so brainwashed to believe that Stalin was a saviour, the father of the Soviet Union, that even with all the evidence that’s come to light regarding the millions of people who were murdered or who died in labour camps during his years in power, some remain convinced to this day that Stalin was a great leader.

P
ROFESSOR
M
ANDT
: Psychologists call that ‘escalating commitment to a failing idea’: as more evidence comes to light to refute a belief, the tighter the adherent holds on to that belief. But you know that Azarova suffered that condition herself?

A
NNOUNCER
: In what way?

P
ROFESSOR
M
ANDT
: She continued to believe Stalin was a hero even after he destroyed her family.

I
might have had a letter from Stalin supporting my acceptance into the Moscow Gliding School, but Sergei Konstantinovich, the chief instructor there, wasn’t going to make things easy for me.

‘How old are you?’ he asked, staring at me over the piles of paper spread over his desk. His office was situated in an elementary school in Yuzhnoye Butovo.

‘Nearly fifteen.’

Sergei rubbed his horseshoe moustache and shook his head. ‘Tch, tch, tch, even younger than I thought.’

‘I’m mature for my age,’ I assured him.

His frown showed that he thought otherwise. ‘You start with aeronautical theory,’ he said, rising from his chair and guiding me towards the door. ‘If you master that, we will see about gliding.’

‘But I want to fly,’ I protested as he pushed me into the corridor. ‘Comrade Stalin said I could.’

‘And I don’t want you to break your neck. You start with aeronautical studies and then we’ll see.’

The door shutting in my face told me that his word was final.

During winter, on the afternoons that I didn’t have meetings for the Young Pioneers, I commuted to Yuzhnoye Butovo to join the other students of the Moscow Gliding School to learn about angles, direction of motion and how the density of air affected flight.

‘Think of “lift” as Stalin and “drag” as the old Tsar,’ Sergei told us. ‘It is Stalin who makes you soar.’

It was a condition of my parents that I could only learn gliding if I kept up with my school work and piano practice. Even though I had to rise early on freezing mornings to fit in my study, my enthusiasm for what I was learning gave me the energy to continue. On Saturday afternoons, I was allowed to go with Svetlana to the cinema near Smolenskaya Square. Our favourite films were the ones about aviators:
The Motherland Calls
and
Tales of Aviation Heroes
. Afterwards we would stroll along Arbat Street and visit the studios where artists drew portraits. If there was something I hadn’t understood in the flight theory classes, I could ask Svetlana to explain it to me.

‘You will have to remember that flying a glider won’t be like driving a sled,’ she once told me. ‘You won’t be using the rudder pedals to steer the glider but simply by aligning its fuselage to reduce drag.’

As enthusiastic as I was, I couldn’t have kept up all my activities to a high standard forever. I was going to have to make choices about what to concentrate on. In spring, what I truly wanted to do in life became clear-cut to me.

‘All right,’ Sergei announced to our class. ‘We’ve had enough of theory. It’s time to fly.’

Everyone rose from their chairs and cheered.

‘Me too?’ I asked.

Sergei squinted at me. ‘You haven’t grown. You’re still the little doll you were when you arrived.’

He hadn’t actually said no so I joined the others when they met early in the morning to launch the school’s gliders from a high bank of the Moscow River. Launching a glider involved one student sitting in the cockpit while the rest of us, eight each side, ran forward while dragging the glider with all our strength using a rubber rope. Once the rope was stretched tight, the glider was catapulted like a rock from a slingshot and the pilot sailed the air for one or two minutes before bringing the glider to land.

Because of my size, Sergei Konstantinovich assumed I’d be useless to assist in the launching exercise. But gymnastics had given me reserves of muscle power and I used my compact size well. Once he gave in and let me help to launch a glider, he was astonished to see that I pulled best of all.

‘Can I fly now?’ I asked him.

‘No. First you must watch what the older students do and then we will see.’

‘For how long must I watch?’

‘For one hundred flights, at least.’

Not all the pulls resulted in a launch. For every two or three successful pulls there was one in which the glider lifted only a few metres into the air and then crunched back to earth, accompanied by groans of disappointment from those who had pulled the rope and annoyed yelps from the bruised pilot. But watch and learn I did, until one day, when I’d almost given up hope of being allowed to pilot, Sergei pointed to me and then to the cockpit.

I placed my feet on the pedals and my hands on the control stick like someone about to ride a horse for the first time. I concentrated on everything I’d learned in my classes, from Svetlana and from observation. I didn’t want my first attempt to end with the glider nose down in the grass.

The other students dragged me forward. ‘She’s so light,’ cried one boy. ‘It’s like there isn’t a pilot in there at all!’

When the glider launched into the air, I gave a cry of delight. I was flying! For a moment, the whole world seemed quiet and still apart from the whirl of the wind. The air smelled pure and clean. I landed into the wind like a bird. While my landing wasn’t smooth, I did manage to keep both wingtips off the ground. I looked up and saw the other students waving at me from the top of the river bank. They were cheering. Even Sergei was smiling. I knew then that to become a pilot was my destiny.

While I was enjoying learning to glide, the atmosphere in Moscow was growing darker and more apprehensive. Black vans appeared outside buildings at all times of the night. There were rumours of a mass grave of executed enemies of the people in Yuzhnoye Butovo, near the gliding school. But it was impossible to know what was the truth and what was the creation of overactive minds.

One day, our mathematics teacher, Olga Andreyevna, came to school sobbing. I heard her whisper to the music teacher, Bronislava Ivanovna, that her husband had been arrested the previous evening. The next week, Olga Andreyevna was gone too.

‘Who would have thought mild Olga Andreyevna was an enemy of the people?’ I said to Svetlana one afternoon while we did our homework together. ‘The question that puzzles me is why these criminals don’t try to run away and hide? Surely they know they’re going to be arrested?’

Svetlana looked up from her textbook. ‘Maybe they believe they are innocent. Or maybe someone denounced Olga Andreyevna and her husband out of spite. Mama says we must be careful what we talk about on the tram and while standing in line at the store in case something we say is misinterpreted and we’re mistaken for criminals.’

I stood and poured us both some tea from the samovar before returning to the table. ‘Mama says the same thing. And when he was last here on leave, I heard Sasha telling her to be careful not to complain about anyone or get into arguments with students who don’t pay on time, because all sorts of lies are being told to the authorities by disgruntled people. But I think it’s foolish for him to be worried.’

Svetlana picked up Ponchik and nestled her chin against his head. ‘Why?’

‘Because Comrade Stalin will know who is innocent and who is guilty. If anyone is arrested for something they didn’t do, they’ll soon be released.’

Mama and Lydia came into the kitchen. Mama poured some tea for Lydia, who sat down next to me and took off her shoes. I realised that she was wearing the dance slippers that had been given to me by Stalin.

‘I hope you don’t mind that we borrowed them,’ said Mama, kissing me on the forehead. ‘Lydia’s own dancing shoes have fallen apart and she’s having trouble finding another pair.’

‘No, I don’t mind,’ I said. ‘I’m happy to share my present from Comrade Stalin.’

Lydia raised her eyebrows. ‘Comrade Stalin? You mean, thanks to Comrade Stalin we can all enjoy such bounty?’

‘No,’ I said, smiling. ‘They were a gift from Comrade Stalin himself. After Papa and I attended the reception at the Kremlin for Valery Chkalov, he sent them to me.’

Lydia looked askance at her daughter. ‘You didn’t say anything to me about that.’

Svetlana looked away and I wondered why she didn’t tell her mother about good things that happened to me. I boasted to Mama constantly about Svetlana’s achievements. Lydia examined the shoes before handing them back to me. ‘Svetochka, you have a science examination tomorrow and I expect you to come top of the class as usual,’ she told her daughter.

Poor Svetlana. I suddenly understood why she didn’t tell her mother about what I did. If I achieved something, she would be pushed harder to achieve something more impressive. But Lydia needn’t have been so competitive. We all expected the best from Svetlana: she was destined to study at the Moscow Aviation Institute and make a name for herself. She was the brightest girl in our school. I wasn’t doing as well as I used to in our subject tests but I didn’t care. I was losing interest in school work anyway. All I wanted to do now was to fly.

The telephone rang. Zoya came into the kitchen to say that it was Pyotr Borisovich on the line, Svetlana’s father. I’d met him a few times. He was a quiet and serious man; I’d never seen him smile. Svetlana said it was because he had an important job at the construction factory and worried a lot, but also because her mother was bossy and he’d got used to listening.

My mother picked up the receiver in the hallway before Lydia could reach it. ‘Pyotr Borisovich,’ she said in a flirtatious voice. ‘Why don’t you ever come to have dance lessons with your wife?’

I had put the same question to Svetlana once.

‘Papa doesn’t mind that Mama dances with the other Party officials when they go to functions,’ she told me. ‘He’s content to be an ordinary factory manager and Party official. It’s my mother who is ambitious for us to rise in life.’

As the arrests continued, even my light-hearted father grew anxious. I would hear him pace the floor for an hour before going to bed, and I blamed my mother for his agitation. Papa possessed a cheerful personality, while she was a worrier. Every time a car stopped outside our building at night, she would stiffen, expecting the worst. It was her jitteriness that was getting to Papa — and to me.

One evening I found her packing a bag with warm clothes, underwear, money, toothbrush and some toothpaste. I realised instantly what she was doing. She was preparing necessities for Papa in case he was arrested.

‘You’re inviting bad luck by doing that!’ I scolded her. ‘Comrade Stalin has only praise for Papa. He even gave him a toast at the reception for Valery Chkalov.’ I took the bag from her and put the clothes back in the wardrobe. ‘And Papa is no enemy of the people! His life’s work is to give the Soviet people pleasure, which is exactly what Comrade Stalin wants him to do.’

Mama pursed her lips then said, ‘It seems to me that it doesn’t matter what you contribute to the Soviet Union if your family once served the aristocratic classes.’

One day I met my father alone in the living room. ‘Papa, are you going to be arrested?’ I asked him.

He placed the sugared fruits he had been examining on the side table. ‘Natashka, darling!’ he said. ‘Have you been worrying about that? I had no idea! I thought you were having fun with your gliding lessons.’ He took my hand and pulled me down onto the sofa next to him. ‘Please don’t be concerned for me,’ he said, wrapping his arm around my shoulders, ‘I may have seemed tense lately because of Pavel Maximovich.’

‘What’s wrong with him?’

Papa offered me a sugared fruit. I declined, but he took one and rolled it around his mouth. The scents of strawberry and melon reminded me of carefree summer days, and were at odds with the apprehension I was feeling.

‘Despite the factory’s high status, Pavel Maximovich can’t get the supplies of cocoa beans and palm oil needed to keep up production,’ he said. ‘The factory didn’t meet its targets for New Year’s Eve. For the first time there were shortages of Red October chocolate.’

‘But that’s not his fault,’ I said.

‘Of course it isn’t,’ Papa agreed. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his fingers. ‘But some of the workers see it differently. If Pavel Maximovich orders them to do anything these days they become difficult. The cooperative atmosphere at the factory is gone.’

Reassured by my father’s explanation that he was concerned for the factory’s chief manager and not for himself, I concentrated on my school work and glider lessons again.

Then one morning when I was having breakfast with my mother in the kitchen, Papa came home from the factory early. I gave a cry when I saw him. His clothes were dishevelled and there was blood on his sleeve. Mama stood up, her face twisted in horror. ‘Stepan!’

Without looking at me, my father gestured for Mama to follow him to the living room. He shut the door behind them. I sat in the kitchen with Ponchik, too shocked to know what to do.

‘It can’t be true!’ I heard Mama say in response to something Papa had mumbled. ‘Pavel Maximovich cut his own throat? Was he so sure that he’d be accused of being a wrecker?’

‘There are troublemakers at the factory who threatened to point the finger at him if they didn’t get what they wanted,’ Papa replied.

My parents were so agitated they had forgetten to speak quietly. I could hear every word they said.

‘And you found him?’ asked my mother. ‘Just you?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did you do?’

Papa paused before he replied. ‘I called the police and the NKVD came. They questioned me and told me that I wasn’t to tell anyone. Not even you, Sofia. You must never repeat what I have told you. Tomorrow Pavel Maximovich’s death will be reported in
Pravda
as a heart attack along with a warning for all Soviet citizens to make sure they keep up their exercise regimes.’

My mother gasped. ‘They’re covering it up! You must speak to Comrade Stalin! He is the only one who can protect you!’

After the death of Pavel Maximovich, my father went about as if he were in a trance. The strain became worse when a new manager was brought in to replace Pavel Maximovich.

‘Don’t come to the factory any more, Natasha,’ Papa told me. ‘The new manager watches me all the time. I find it impossible to work.’

I couldn’t believe that anything bad would happen to my father, but trying to reason with my mother to remain calm was impossible. I stayed longer at my glider lessons or went to the aerodrome to watch the planes to avoid the tense atmosphere at home. I was taking advanced classes in glider flying now but my real ambition was to soar in airplanes to the far corners of the Soviet Union and be one of Comrade Stalin’s eagles.