The Huntress. Kate Quinn
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form sliding into the crowd as noiselessly as he vanished into the taiga around the Old Man. Will I ever see you again? she wondered, and somehow thought not. There was some relief in the thought, some regret, some pleasure. No need to rank one over the other.
She was sitting cross-legged on her bed that night, cutting carefully into the seal pelt to fashion herself a new cap, when Tania turned on the radio. “They’re broadcasting a women’s antifascist meeting in Moscow.” Nina barely listened, cutting away at the sealskin. A proper flying cap with flaps to tie down over the ears, just the thing for open-cockpit flights.
“… The Soviet woman is the hundreds of drivers, tractor operators, and pilots who are ready at any moment to sit down in a combat machine and plunge into battle.”
Nina paused. “Who’s that?”
“Marina Raskova,” Tania said. Nina glanced at the cutout newspaper photograph on her mirror. The woman on the right, dark hair, sparkling eyed, very easy and capable in front of her Tupolev ANT-37. Nina had devoured every word about Raskova, but never heard her speak. Her voice came through the radio warmly intimate, clear as crystal. Nina would have followed that voice off a cliff.
“Dear sisters!” Marina Raskova cried. “The hour has come for harsh retribution! Stand in the ranks of the warriors for freedom!”
Tell me how, Nina thought.
THE ANSWER CAME, not that night but in a matter of weeks, the day Soviet troops were driven back to the Mozhaisk Line only eighty kilometers from Moscow. The day another piece of news swept over the air club: Comrade Stalin had ordered the formation of three regiments to be trained for combat aviation under Marina Raskova, Hero of the Soviet Union.
Three regiments of women.
“The local Komsomols have been asked to screen and interview volunteers,” Nina heard a fellow pilot saying. “I’ve submitted all my paperwork already. Only the best recruits will be sent to Moscow—”
How can I make them choose me? Nina thought. A little barbarian from the taiga with patched-together schooling and a record of individualism, when women everywhere would be clamoring to join—women with university backgrounds, impeccable records, Party connections.
There’ll be a chance, Nina Borisovna, her father had said. Don’t ask, when you see it. Just fucking take it.
She didn’t bother filling out paperwork. Instead she went home to collect her essentials—passport, Komsomol membership card, certificates for completing pilot training and glider training—then crammed a few clothes into a bag, stuffed her hair into her new sealskin cap, and went running under an iron October sky for the train station. She threw every ruble she had onto the counter and said, “One way. Moscow.”
May 1946
Boston
The day after Jordan’s father escorted Anneliese off on their honeymoon, Jordan took Ruth to the Public Garden. Nothing like ice cream and a swan boat ride to get a little girl smiling … and talking.
“Chocolate or strawberry?” Ruth chewed her lip in indecision. “Both,” Jordan decided. “You deserve it.” That got a shy smile from Ruth, who was still hanging on to Taro’s leash like a safety harness, but who seemed to be unfolding into something like trust.
Which you’re taking advantage of, Jordan thought grimly, but pushed that aside. People aren’t obliged to drag out their old hurts or dirty laundry just because of your need to know, her father had told her not long ago, but he was off on his honeymoon with a woman who had carried a swastika down the aisle, and Jordan’s need to know was burning her up.
Licking their ice creams, Jordan and Ruth wandered down to the duck pond, Taro wagging between them. The water reflected the summer tourists throwing bread down from the bridge, but for once Jordan had no impulse to capture the moment on film. “See that flicker, Ruth? That’s a dragonfly. Did you see dragonflies at the lake in Altaussee?” Ruth looked puzzled. “That was where you were, wasn’t it? Before you came here.”
Nod.
“What else do you remember, cricket? I’d like to know more about you, now that you’re my sister.” Squeezing Ruth’s hand. “What do you remember before coming to Boston?”
“The lake,” Ruth said in her soft voice. Her trace of a German accent was already fading. With her blond braids and blue jumper, she could have been any little American girl. “Seeing the lake every day through the window.”
“Every day?” Anneliese hadn’t said they were in Altaussee very long. “How many days?”
Ruth shrugged.
“Do you remember your father? How he died?”
“Mama said he went east.”
“Where east?”
Another shrug.
“What else do you remember?” Jordan asked as gently as she knew how.
“The violin,” Ruth said even more softly. “Mama playing.”
Jordan blinked. “But she doesn’t play the violin.”
“She did.” Ruth’s eyebrows pulled together, and she reached for Taro’s soft back. “She did!”
“I believe you, Ruthie—”
“She did,” Ruth said fiercely. “She played for me.”
Never had Anneliese said she could play an instrument. She never asked to turn on the radio to listen to music either. And she didn’t own any violin—Jordan had seen her things carried in to be unpacked after the honeymoon, and there was no instrument case. Maybe she had to sell it?
Jordan looked down at Ruth. “Your mama said there was an incident by the lake in Altaussee. A refugee woman who, um, wasn’t very nice to you both.”
“There was blood,” Ruth whispered. “My nose bled.”
Jordan paused, heart thumping. “Do you remember any more?”
Ruth dropped her melting ice cream, looking upset, and Jordan couldn’t keep pushing. She just couldn’t. She opened her arms and Ruth burrowed into them. “Never mind, cricket. You don’t have to remember if you don’t want to.”
“That’s what she said,” Ruth mumbled into Jordan’s middle.
“Who?”
A pause. Then, “Mama.”
But her voice lifted as though she wasn’t entirely certain, and her small shoulders hitched. Jordan bit her tongue on any further questions—what could she even ask?—and hugged her new sister tight. “Let’s go for a swan boat ride. You’ll love that.”
“But I dropped my ice cream.”
“You can have mine.”
Ruth calmed down by the time they got to the boats with their paddle-operated swans. Jordan still felt like a monster. Wasn’t that productive? she scolded herself. You upset your brand-new little sister, all to learn that maybe Anneliese played the violin, and that a refugee woman made Ruth’s nose bleed in Altaussee. That’s proof of nothing, J. Bryde.
Anneliese had brought very few belongings to the house, hardly suspicious for a woman fleeing the wreckage of a war. Jordan had already looked through her closet and drawers, guiltily, but there was nothing to be found. If the new Mrs. McBride had anything incriminating, it had gone on her honeymoon along with the Iron Cross.
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