Beautiful Assassin (16 page)

A good-looking, dark-skinned doctor would stop by to check on me.

“How are we feeling?” he asked.

“Tired.”

“It’ll take a while for you to regain your strength,” he said as he lifted my gown to inspect my belly.

For the first time in a long while, I felt the return of modesty, something I thought I’d lost forever. I was embarrassed as he nonchalantly poked and prodded my naked belly, had me sit up so he could listen to my heart. With my one good arm I tried to shield my breasts. I felt my cheeks redden.

As he took my pulse, I asked, “When can I rejoin my unit, Doctor?”

Ignoring my question, he took a light and looked into my ears. “How is the ringing?”

“Not bad,” I lied. The ringing had continued, though I’d almost gotten used to it. “But I
will
be able to fight again, won’t I?”

Then he said an odd thing to me. “Sometimes it takes a woman a while to adjust to such a change. Especially one as young as you.”

I stared at him, not fathoming what he was telling me. “What do you mean?”

“Didn’t they tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“The wound you suffered was very severe. It damaged your reproductive organs. Infection set in. They had to do a hysterectomy on you.”

I still didn’t quite understand what he was saying to me. I stared at him dumbly, waiting for him to explain.

“You will not be able to have children. I’m sorry.”

Then he turned and left me there with my sudden barrenness. I felt like sobbing, wished for the soothing balm of tears, but for some reason I didn’t cry. Couldn’t cry. I placed my hand over my stomach, where my Masha had lived with me for nine months. I felt a gaping hole in the center of me, as if they’d not only taken my female parts but had also amputated my very soul. I thought of what Zoya had told me—of the imperative of having more children after the war, of replenishing the lives the Germans had stolen from us. The vague desire that I had flirted with over the past year, of having another child someday, that too was suddenly stolen from me.

For weeks I lay in my bed in a fog. I ate and slept and slowly recovered from my wounds, but all I can recall of that early period in the hospital was thinking how alone I was, with everything I’d once had now stolen from me. Not only my past, but my future too.

Then one day I awoke to see on my nightstand some cards and letters. They were from various dignitaries, important figures of state. There was even a note from President Kalinin, expressing the nation’s gratitude for my “heroic efforts in destroying the Hitlerites.” A number of important Party officials as well as military top brass stopped in to see me. One of my visitors was General Petrov, the commander of the forces at Sevastopol. He had a shiny bald head which resembled a pickled egg, and small dark eyes beneath gold pince-nez. On his chest was a cluster of bright medals. I thought how he and his staff had slipped out of the city, leaving behind tens of thousands of soldiers, sacrificial lambs to be fed to the German wolf. With him was a captain with the distinctive NKVD shoulder boards.

“It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Comrade Levchenko,” General Petrov said to me. “How are you feeling?”

“I am fine, sir,” I replied coolly.

“And they are treating you well?”

“Yes, sir.”

He made a perfunctory attempt at small talk before turning to the captain. The other handed a box to the general, who opened it, removed a medal.

“Tat’yana Aleksandrovna Levchenko,” he recited formally, “for your gallantry in fighting the fascist invaders of Sevastopol, on behalf of Secretary Stalin and the entire Soviet people, it is my great honor to present you with the Gold Star medal, honoring you as a Hero of the Soviet Union. Congratulations, Lieutenant,” Petrov said.

Then he placed the medal on the flimsy material of my hospital gown. After which, he stood at attention and saluted me. The award, I must confess, came as a surprise, as did the promotion to lieutenant. But more surprising was the fact that I really didn’t care about any of that now, the medals and honors, the number of Germans I had killed. Others in my unit had fought just as hard and as bravely as I. And so many had given their lives. In fact, it all felt hollow to me now. Just more empty propaganda from the big shots in the Kremlin. I thought of all the troops left behind in Sevastopol, abandoned by men like this Petrov, men who’d saved their own necks because they were too “important” to die for the Motherland. I told myself to let it go, that it would serve no point. Besides, I was a soldier, and it was not my place to question the decisions of my superiors. Still, I felt I couldn’t remain silent. I had to speak for the others who couldn’t speak for themselves.

“The soldiers left behind, sir,” I said.

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

“What of them?”

The general nodded gravely.

“Yes, indeed. A terrible tragedy.”

“They felt betrayed, General.”

I saw my comment reflected in Petrov’s startled expression. He stared at me, his thin lips pursed, his eyes inflamed by such impudence.

“It was a very difficult decision, Lieutenant,” he replied curtly.

I hesitated, wondering how far I could go. How far I
dare
go. Yet then I thought of Captain Petrenko, Zoya, the others left behind.

“You betrayed us, sir.”

“That will be—” began the captain harshly, but General Petrov stayed him with a hand.

Petrov turned toward me, his eyes softening.

“In war,” he explained, “unpleasant decisions have to be made. Sometimes a battle must be lost in order for the war to be won.” Then he reached out and took my left hand in both of his. “I understand how you feel, Lieutenant. Believe me, they are all on my conscience. Before I go,” he said, “is there anything I can do for you, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir, there is. A soldier in my company, Corporal Zoya Kovshova. We were a sniper team. This medal is as much hers as it is mine. We were separated in the last days of Sevastopol. If it is possible, I would like to find out what became of her?”

General Petrov turned to the captain, who wrote something in a little notebook. “I shall look into it,” Petrov said to me.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Anything else, Lieutenant?” said Petrov, glancing at his watch.

“One more thing, sir. My husband, Nikolai. I have had no word from him for nearly a year. He was sent to Leningrad.”

“I’ll have Captain Meretskov here look into it. The people of the Soviet Union are grateful to you, Lieutenant. You have been a tremendous inspiration to all of us.”

My recovery went slowly. The ringing in my ears lessened to a low drone, and the wound in my belly had healed enough to permit me to get up and walk a little. But I was exhausted after just a few steps. When I took a bath, I was startled by both the bright pink scar that slashed over my belly and by the weight I’d lost. My ribs stuck out, and my normally well-toned arms were thin. My face too had become gaunt, my eyes dull and sunken. Still, each day I pushed myself a little harder, walking farther up and down the corridors. I forced myself to eat despite having no appetite, hoping to get back to the front sooner—that was the one thing that inspired me, kept me going. Whenever I met the doctor, I’d ask when I could return to the war. He would always say something vague like, “Soon, soon.”

I read books whose titles I couldn’t remember, met people who
came in to see the Hero of the Soviet Union but whose names and faces I quickly forgot. I wrote to Kolya, at first long, rambling letters talking fondly, nostalgically of our days in Kiev, a city that no longer existed, about a life that no longer existed either, letters I knew had little chance of finding their way to him. But then I began to write more truthfully, more honestly, of how I felt. Of how I’d always felt. Perhaps knowing that the letters would never reach him permitted me at last to be honest, knowing they were more for myself than for him. Perhaps too it had something to do with the fact that I could never have children, that if I returned to my marriage it would just be the two of us, forever. Without even the possibility of children to soften the loneliness that would enclose the two of us like a cell. I no longer felt as I had when I thought I was going to die. One’s feelings are exaggerated, distorted at such extreme moments. I loved Kolya, but it was the love one has for a dear friend, for a brother. Not for a husband. And while I didn’t say it in my letters—that would be too cruel—I knew now that if we were able to survive the war and meet again, that I would leave him. As much for his sake as mine. He deserved to have someone love him as much as he loved me. And I deserved to be honest with myself, to live a life
I
wanted and not one that others wanted for me. Writing truthfully of my feelings, I felt a heavy weight lifted from my shoulders.

As I walked along the corridors, I saw many of the other wounded, some much worse than I—soldiers missing limbs, others badly burned or in wheelchairs, some paralyzed and confined to bed. I befriended one young soldier who had been blinded in the fighting at Odessa, a private named Polyakov. His face and hands were terribly disfigured from burns. It was hard to look at him at first. He resembled a shriveled-up old man with a mummy’s leathery face. I would sit by his bedside and read to him. When I finished reading, he would say, “Please. If you wouldn’t mind, just a little more, Comrade.” I knew it was mostly that he didn’t want to be alone. So I’d read a few more pages.

“Does it look so bad?” he asked me once. “You can tell me the truth.”

“No,” I lied.

“Before the war I had a fiancée. Zhenya was a pretty girl. All the young men in my village wanted to court her.” He paused for a moment, staring off with his sightless eyes. “I wonder if she will still want me now.”

“Of course she will,” I said to him. “You have sacrificed much for the country. What girl wouldn’t want to marry someone like that?”

“But the war has changed me. I’m not the same person she knew.”

“On the outside perhaps.”

“I
feel
different too. Do you feel different inside, Lieutenant?”

“I suppose, a little. But it’s the times that we live in. We’re still the same people. When it is over, everything will go back to being the way it was.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Of course,” I replied.

Later, as I lay in bed staring out at the sea, I thought of what I’d told the young private. How everything would go back to the way it had been. A lie, I knew.
I
wasn’t the same person anymore. I was as different from that woman as the burned man was from his former self. And I knew neither of us could go back to those former selves.

One day a soldier showed up in my room, carrying a burlap sack over his shoulder.

“You are Tat’yana Levchenko, no?” he asked.

“I am.”

He dropped the sack on my nightstand. “This is for you,” he said and left.

Inside, I found a pile of mail. Hundreds of letters, all addressed to me. I took out a letter, opened it, began to read.

I picked out another, this one in a thick brown envelope that had some heft to it. When I opened it, something solid and heavy fell onto my lap. I picked it up. It was a 7.62 mm bullet. On the side of the shell casing was written,
FOR FRITZ
.

I read another and then another. They praised or thanked me. They spoke of my courage. They told me how proud they were of me. They said how much my bravery had inspired them, given them hope. Many offered prayers for my speedy recovery. A few sent photos of loved ones who’d died. Others enclosed small gifts, sweets or cigarettes or tinned food. In one there was a rosary. In several I found articles cut out of newspapers, articles about me. As I read them, I found tears welling up in my eyes.

Over the next few weeks I received piles of such letters, from all over the Soviet Union. Each day I would read some. They were mostly from women, mothers and grandmothers, daughters and sisters. But there were also a few from men. One man wrote a poem to me, expressing his undying love. A father sent a picture of his little daughter who said she wanted to grow up to be like Lieutenant Levchenko and kill Germans. I could read only so many before being overcome with emotion. Hearing of my countrymen’s losses, of the deaths of loved ones, of their pain and suffering, of the fragile hopes they’d fastened to me—I found it nearly overwhelming. But at the same time, the letters also buoyed my spirits. I felt both proud and humbled. The depression I’d felt since being wounded began to leave me. Slowly I started to feel better, to regain my strength. Now I wanted only to get well so that I could rejoin the fight. So I could fulfill everything they’d said about me.

One day after I’d been there for almost a month, I was returning to my room after having read to the burned soldier. Standing at the window looking out was a small woman in uniform, her back to me.

“May I help—” I began, but I froze when the woman turned toward me. “Zoya!”

We rushed to greet each other and hugged fiercely. When I winced from my still tender wound, Zoya said, “I’m so sorry. Are you all right?”

“Don’t worry. Come, sit.”

We sat on the bed and held hands, and alternately cried tears of joy and hugged each other and giggled like a couple of schoolgirls.