Author's Note: My spiritual mother, Colonel Marina Raskova, founder of 588th Night Bomber Regiment -- what the Germans in WW2 called "Das Nachthexen," the "Night Witches" -- once asked me, "what is the purpose of prose if not poetry?" She delighted in French Avant-garde theater, Dada art, surrealistic poetry, and so do I. If stream of consciousness bores you, dear reader, you might want to read elsewhere. It is true that erotic war literature can be problematic, I understand, especially for people who live comfortably enough where they will never have to face such moral dilemmas. My mother never had that luxury in 1941 as the Nazis were invading the Soviet Union: Operation Barbarossa. This story is dedicated to all of us who learned how to survive.
* * *
"I want you to pose naked for me."
"What, Sargent Rudenov?"
"Comrade Aleksandra, did you not just knock on my door and enter?"
The younger pilot blinked in the well lit room that served as Sargent Yevgeniya Rudenov's, flight squadron leader for the 588th Night Bomber Regiment, personal quarters.
"Yes, Sargent Rudenov."
"Comrade Aleksandra, did you not just ask me if you would be flying in tonight's sortie?"
"Yes, Sargent Rudenov."
"And when I said no, did you not say 'what can I do to fly tonight'?"
"I'm sorry, Sargent Comrade. Did you just say--"
"Yes. That I want you to pose naked for me."
Aleksandra looked at the decorated Hero of the Soviet Union, Order of the Red Banner and Order of the Red Star sitting before her, trying to make some sense of the offer.
War had stripped Rudenov of her girlish charms, leaving her with a curious, rugged sensuality that everyone – women and men – in the regiment noticed. They say in Russia that there are only two types of females: girls and elderly babushkas. Where does one find the link between caterpillar and butterfly? Who has ever witnessed such a transformation in a world that holds motherhood so cheap? "In what mysterious pupa," one traveler asked, "do Russian women prepare for the next stage of their lives?" The answer is easy: war. War burns away all the virginal blushing embarrassments, the banal madonna-whore complex, the artificial accouterments of a bourgeois society, leaving behind only queer middle-age women who know how to survive.
"Comrade Aleksandra, you have been in camp over a month. We have lost twenty-four pilots and navigators during that time. Girls just like you who came into this very room saying they would do anything to get the chance to drop bombs on the Germans. And now here you are, their sister, obviously, standing before me saying you'll do anything to get the chance to fly in a Polikarpov," Yevgeniya smiled at the obvious confusion and discomfort this was creating in the younger girl. "You tell me that you would do anything?"
"Yes, Sargent Rudenov."
"Well then, you can convince me about that by posing naked for me, right now, yes? So you choose, the night is young, the plane do not leave for another three hours. Come day break, where would you like to be?"
Yevgeniya stood up from her desk, walked over to a small cabinet and removed a large, chrome camera. Aleksandra looked nervously at the older woman, she reminded her of a nun she once had at school. She could feel her heart beating loudly in her chest. It was a cold night. Somewhere outside a crow, the messenger from the other world, cawed in the dark.
"I'm sorry dear, I hate to rush you. Perhaps you'd like to think about this back in your barracks?" She started to door as if ushering the younger woman out.
"No! Please, Sargent Rudenov."
Yevgeniya looked at Aleksandra as if surprised she had spoken.
"Are you sure I can't just--" But here the younger girl was at a loss as to what she could offer. It was either posing for photos or being grounded for who knew how long. "Who would see these photos if I agreed?" The girl stammered, looking at the ground, blushing violently. "I've never been naked before ... anyone one else."
Closing the wooden door to her quarters and pulling the latch, Yevgeniya looked the young pilot up and down. She smiled at the girl's nervous plight. "How did you ever make it through eighteen years of life and never once have the urge to let other people see you for what you are?"
"Sargent Rudenov?" Aleksandra asked, drawing a deep breath.
"My dear girl. I have a dozen other pilots also wanting to fly tonight with far fewer hang-ups than you seem to possess. The pictures will be shown to very few, but please understand I will demand that you are to be naked. You will be posing in extremely ... titillating ways for me."
"But you're a woman!" Aleksandra blurted, then bit her lip before she said anything else moronic. Yevgeniya's omnivorous appetites weren't exactly state secrets.
"Yes, Comrade Aleksandra, I am."
Yevgeniya smiled as she returned to her desk with her camera. Aleksandra's head was a whirl of emotions, her legs felt as if the would give way under her. She wanted to cry. She wanted to run back to her barracks and throw herself into the arms of her bunk mate, Alyona, who took such good care of her. It was cold in the small room and the girl rubbed her arms.
"I'm sorry it's a bit chilly in here, Ukrainian summers are never warm -- drink?" she didn't wait for the girl to answer but poured her a shot of vodka, which she took gratefully. She immediately drained half, then coughed before putting the glass down on the table. Aleksandra watched as Yevgeniya took the camera up and felt sick with nerves at the reality of what she was about to do. She drank down the shot her commanding officer refilled her glass with.
"Nervous?" the older woman smiled at Aleksandra as she nodded. "Well don't be. You're a very lucky pilot. One day I'll tell you what I had to do to win this." She pointed to her Order of the Red Star. "And you are so very pretty, I love your uniform, it shows off your charms so well. Have you ever been an artist's model? My mother had a friend in Paris, Rene Vivian, who looked just like you."
Aleksandra shook her head, looked down at her dress, then heard the camera click as she smoothed it over her hips and blushed again. In reality it was the same standard uniform all the women were issued. But, she had to admit, at least it was a dress. On the first day of training Aleksandra, as well as all the other recruits, had been ushered into a large storeroom, where, piled on the floor in separate heaps, were bundles of enormous boots, rough woolen vests, standard male underwear – nothing to suggest that the 588th Night Bomber Regiment was an all-female unit. In other piles were ugly male tunics, wool trousers, overcoats. Aleksandra walked past the lieutenant who had brought them to the room and picked up two boots at random. They were mammoth. Later that day the sound of hysterical laughter could be heard all over the building as the recruits attempted to fashion themselves uniforms. Woolen vests dangled down below the knee, trousers were hitched up almost to the chin, and greatcoats -- the pride of the Soviet armed forces -- spilled across the floor behind them like monstrous veils for some unholy wedding ceremony.
It was nearly a month later that a package from Moscow brought the girls their dresses – drab, ugly things, true – but at least they were dresses and they could be made to fit. Aleksandra glanced nervously down at the low neckline that she suddenly felt now showed off far too much of her ample cleavage. Small metal buttons ran down the front to her waist.
Click.
"Yes, I think we can keep the boots on, they'll show your legs nicely, it's a shame there isn't a single stocking left in the entire Union. War makes beggars of us all."
Yevgeniya seemed to be thinking for a moment. Aleksandra stood waiting, shivering from cold, nerves, wondering what on earth she was supposed to do next.
