Jillian didn't dare travel through Stalingrad during the day. The German advance had been relentless, and she couldn't be sure which streets, buildings and neighborhoods were occupied by the enemy. Her press papers that identified her as a party-sanctioned journalist protected her somewhat from Russian patrols, but she had no such defense from the Germans.
So, she spent the next day thinking about and preparing her essentials. Her "essentials" included her Tokarev pistol, to be used in self-defense or for suicide in case of capture. She also brought a full canteen of water and a bread bag she'd stripped off a Russian corpse. The bread bag had enough Red Army rations for her to survive a few days in case she had to lay low behind enemy lines.
She brought matches and an emergency flair, but no flashlight. She didn't want the temptation of using electric light – it would immediately give her away.
This time she left her codebook at "home" in the chemist's shop, carefully buried in a pile of rubble. She had disassembled and hidden her radio, too. Then she waited until nightfall and headed out into the streets.
Stalingrad was now oddly peaceful. The German 6th Army had finally taken the Rail Station and other strategic targets; only Mamayav Hill and the factory district to the north still boomed and flashed with combat. Elsewhere the city was silent. Germans and Russians alike tried not to make noise, because noise attracted sniper bullets. Cooking fires were shielded from view so that their glow wouldn't provide a target for artillery spotters.
The fires from the bombings had all finally burned out. There was probably nothing flammable in Stalingrad left to burn. The smoke had cleared, too, revealing a sky carpeted with stars. With no light pollution to dim them, they dazzled overhead like the crystals of a thousand chandeliers.
Jillian had discovered she was blessed with extraordinary night vision. So long as she avoided looking at anything bright the ambient starlight provided more than enough illumination to allow her to pick her way safely through the rubble-strewn streets.
Which wasn't to say that she made quick progress. Her target, Gorky Theater, was only a couple miles southwest of her hiding place at the chemist's shop. But it took her hours to reach it. The weather had turned, and the destruction of the streets forced her to grab handholds in order to clamber over and around piles of rubble. Those handholds were cold and dangerous. She could slice open a numb finger on an exposed splinter of metal or concrete and lose a lot of blood before she even felt it. She could slip and twist an ankle, or stumble into a trench flooded with icy water, causing her to die of hypothermia before she found somewhere safe to light a fire. Stalingrad hid countless dangers other than enemy soldiers. So, Jillian knew that slow and steady was the secret to winning this race.
It wasn't quite midnight when Jillian reached Red Square, the cultural center of town. It was dominated by the circular face of the Univermag Department Store. Its huge pillars held a crescent balcony aloft over its front door, and square wings rose like towers on either side of the grand façade. The department store was so imposing that it looked more like one of the West's cathedrals to capitalism than something produced by a communist centralized economy. It was a tribute to the booming economy enjoyed by Stalingrad before the firebombing.
Now the balcony and columns were pitted with shell and bullet holes, the doors and glass windows were shattered, but the building remained otherwise intact.
Huge banners hung from the roof all the way down to just above the balcony. They were limp in the still air which, combined with the darkness, made it difficult for Jillian to read them. The department store's balcony provided a commanding view of Red Square, all the way across to the ruins of Gorky Theater on the opposite corner. But who controlled that commanding view? Were the unfurled banners Soviet or Nazi flags? In the daylight she might be able to tell by their color. But the dim starlight cast everything in shades of gray, like a black and white movie.
Jillian crept closer to the department store, leaving the concealing safety of a blasted office building. It had been struck by Soviet artillery which had caused it to explode outward, spewing concrete blocks in a dagger across the open square. By crawling on her belly Jillian could hide among those blocks.
She crept slowly to the edge of the detritus. And then she waited, staring at the limp flags, feeling the cold air of early November scrape her lungs.
There were sentries on that balcony, Jillian knew. She couldn't see them, but they were there, watching the square. If she edged out any further, they would spot her.
There was a cold breeze. It caused an uncomfortable shiver to run up Jillian's spine, but it also caused the flags to stir. Jillian squinted in anticipation. One gigantic banner twisted and slowly unfolded, revealing the black emblem of a crooked cross – the Nazi swastika.
The Univermag department store, and by extension all Red Square, was in German hands.
Jillian crawled back to the shattered office building. She circled her way through to the other side of the square, and then she got back on her belly. She wormed herself toward the rear of Gorky Theater.
Home of the Stalingrad Philharmonic Orchestra, the theater had been a neo-classical temple to Russian music. It had been fronted by colossal stairs and Corinthian columns, but now it was a pile of ruins, collapsed upon itself. None of its walls stood, and its roof had crumbled into a mountain of debris.
Jillian stayed low as she crawled toward that mountain, trying to stay out of sight of the department store balcony on the opposite side of the square. She picked her way through the concrete slabs until she found a flight of stairs leading down. The stairs were choked with rubble, so she had to worm her way down.
The Gorky Theater's basement had somehow survived the building's collapse. It was pitch black. Jillian had to move by feel, reaching out her fingers and running them along the wall of the hallway as she walked. Then she felt a crack and a change in texture from plaster to wood – a door. She groped for its knob, turned it, and stepped inside.
She clattered into folding chairs and music stands. This was some sort of rehearsal space. She felt the walls and detected cabinets under her fingertips. Only then did she risk lighting a match.
The cabinets were filled with music supplies – not just bow rosin but also woodwind reeds and mouthpieces and spare strings and drum mallets. The match burned her fingers, and she shook it out.
She slipped the pack from her shoulders and opened its flap. Then she lit a second match and, guided by its flickering light, swept the entire shelf of music supplies into her pack.
Once again, the match went out, but now Jillian had what she came for. She tied her pack shut by feel and then shrugged it back over her shoulder. She was about to step back into the hall when she heard voices.
She froze.
They were male voices, speaking German, and they were coming toward her.
Jillian shrunk into a corner of the room.
The voices halted just outside the practice room, in the hall. There was the flare of a match.
As the Nazi soldiers lit cigarettes Jillian could finally see them. They weren't alone. They had a woman with them, a girl, really, no more than nineteen years old wearing a bloody Red Army uniform. She looked terrified.
So was Jillian. She was trapped, she knew, and it was likely she'd be discovered and caught. They'd torture her to find out what they could about the O.S.S. and its operations. Jillian couldn't let that happen. She drew the Tokarev pistol and placed it under her chin. She angled it back so that the imaginary trajectory of the bullet wouldn't miss her brain. She caressed the trigger and wondered if suicide would hurt.
One of the Nazis barked a command to the Russian girl soldier. She shook her head "no". The Nazi pulled the cigarette from his mouth and jammed the burning edge into her face. The girl gasped in pain. But the Nazi didn't remove it. He held the cigarette against her cheek until the Russian girl reached out a shaking hand and placed it on the Nazi's crotch.
The Nazi finally removed the cigarette, smiling, and his partner laughed in appreciation. The Nazi put the cigarette back in his mouth and grabbed a fistful of the Russian girl's hair. He yanked it, forcing the girl to her knees. Then he began to unbutton his fly.
There was a gunshot and the Nazi fell, his head replaced with blood splatter on the plaster wall. At first Jillian didn't even know where the gunshot had come from. And then she saw the Tokarev pistol held with both hands in front of her, a curl of smoke rising from its barrel. She hadn't even realized what she was doing.
That Nazi's compatriot was even more confused. His brain was having trouble processing what had just happened. He'd been anticipating a joyful sado-masochistic rape and instead he was staring at the inside of his friend's skull. So, Jillian shifted the gun and added his blood splatter to that of his companion.
The Russian girl didn't thank Jillian. Instead, she just jumped to her feet and rushed up the stairs.
Jillian realized the girl was right. Someone would have heard her gunshots. Germans would soon be coming to investigate. Jillian followed the girl up the stairs, risking stumbling in the darkness, and then wiggled her way through the rubble outside.
Jillian could hear voices drifting across Red Square from the department store. The Germans had heard the gunshots, just as she suspected. But there were no spotlights. They must have been afraid of the Russian rocket artillery – the katyusha batteries – across the river.
Jillian ducked behind Red Square, sticking to the rubble-choked alleyways as she raced back to the chemist's shop. This time she was moving too quickly to be completely safe, and she stepped into a frozen puddle, cracking through the eggshell-like surface, and soaking her right boot with muddy, ice-cold water. But it was just her boot, not her whole body, and so it wasn't life threatening.
When she sloshed her way back to the safety of the chemist's shop, she took off her boot and sock, built a fire, and warmed them both dry.