Sgt. Pavlov was a quiet, unassuming man. His round face wore an expression of boredom or disinterest. It was an expression Jillian had seen in a lot of Soviet citizens; it was worn like armor by men and women who had discovered their intelligence could be perceived as dangerous to Stalin's totalitarian regime. It was an expression that assured NKVD men that they had no ambition and therefore posed no threat to the revolutionary government.
And Pavlov was smart, Jillian knew. She knew he was smart because he had successfully defended this ruined apartment building for almost two months against everything the Germans had thrown at them.
She stared into his dull eyes. "What is the strategic significance of Pavlov's House?" she asked, "my readers would like to know." She waited with her pen poised over her steno pad, ready to record his response.
"'Pavlov's House'?" He blinked at her, uncomprehending.
"That's what everyone calls it – this building – they call it Pavlov's House," Jillian clarified.
"But it's not my house," Pavlov replied, "I never lived here, before the battle."
"You've defended it, so that's what they call it. Even the Germans call it that."
"My men have defended it," Pavlov corrected.
"And they call it 'Pavlov's House' too." Jillian answered him.
Pavlov swallowed, uncomfortable. Jillian wondered if he was uncomfortable because he was modest, or if he was smart enough to know that celebrity could be dangerous. "The strategic importance..." she prompted him.
Pavlov shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. "The building is on the Volga. It prevents the Germans from gaining access to the riverbank, where they could shoot our re-supply ferries and barges. So long as this strongpoint remains in Russian hands, they cannot cut off our supply lines."
"But your supplies have been cut off," Jillian reminded him, "by winter."
Pavlov smiled at that. "No, not by winter," he corrected. "This is still autumn. And it's only temporary. When mother winter comes, she will freeze the Volga solid, and the supplies will resume."
"When do you expect that to happen?"
Pavlov shrugged. "Days, weeks, a month at the most."
"Can you hold out for a month? With no reinforcements?"
"We've never had reinforcements," Pavlov reminded with confidence.
Jillian scribbled the response in her quick shorthand. A response like that was pure gold, just what her newspaper readers wanted to hear: a small unit of men, with no reinforcements, stopping the German war machine cold. "Never was so much owed by so many to so few," she remembered Winston Churchill saying during the London blitz. He'd been talking about the British Spitfire fighter pilots who had defended England from German bombing, but he could so easily have been looking into the future and be talking about men like Pavlov, standing in the last line of Russian defense, defying the odds in Stalingrad. She scratched the thought down, so she would remember it when she wrote the article. "And how have you done it?" Jillian asked. "How have you succeeded where others have failed?"
"Look around," Pavlov said, spinning his hand over his head in a circle. "We are surrounded by open ground, a killing field. The Germans burned down the trees in the park, so now when they try to attack, they must cross open ground with nothing to hide behind."
"Have they attacked with artillery?"
"Of course," Pavlov said dismissively. "But we hide in our shelters and come out when the shelling stops."
"Why don't they shell you while they attack across the open ground, while you're hiding in your shelters?"
"They can't," Pavlov informed her. "If they do, they risk shelling their own men."
"What about tanks?" Jillian persisted, "have they attacked with tanks?"
"They have tried," Pavlov nodded. "But we discovered something funny about German tanks. They cannot elevate their guns." He gestured with his arm, raising it and halting, like it was the barrel of a German tank. "And when we shoot at them from up high..." Pavlov raised his other hand above the first and pointed down at it, "...well the armor on a tank's roof is not so good."
"And what about planes?" Jillian persisted. "Haven't they tried bombing you?"
"Yes, they have," Pavlov nodded, suddenly somber. "They would have succeeded, but we have a guardian angel."
"Guardian angel?"
Pavlov smiled. "The Bell Over Stalingrad."
Jillian was confused. "What is the 'Bell Over Stalingrad'?" she asked.
"Not 'what', but 'who'. We don't know his name. He is a pilot who flies a Yak fighter plane, with bells painted on the side. Like church bells, yes? When the German bombers come, he shoots them down."
Jillian scribbled Pavlov's response down. This was interesting: another hero. If she could find this pilot, he would make an excellent subject for another article. "Where does he come from?"
Pavlov shrugged. "Our airfields are across the river."
"And how does he know to come? How does he know the Germans are attacking?"
"We call out on our radio. Ask for air support. He comes with all his friends, and German planes die."
Jillian nodded. It was clear Pavlov knew little about his mysterious guardian angel, so she moved on. "Tell me about the children," she prompted.
Sergeant Pavlov was taken aback. "What children?"
"The ones living here, with you and the other soldiers."
Pavlov's expression changed from pride to worry. "I would rather you not write about the children."
"My readers would be interested," Jillian persisted.
"So, might, Soviet authorities." There was a clear warning in Pavlov's tone of voice.
Jillian lowered her own voice, even though there was no one nearby who could possibly hear. "Aren't they allowed to be here?"
Pavlov shrugged. "I do not know. But I do know they have nowhere else to go. If not here, they would die."
"Yes," Jillian nodded in agreement. "But surely Stavka wouldn't – "
"Not Stavka," Pavlov agreed, "but maybe...the NKVD?"
Jillian was shocked. "You think the NKVD wouldn't allow you to shelter war orphans?"
"With the NKVD," Pavlov sighed, "one never knows."
Jillian thought about it and realized Pavlov might be right. If Stalin, the Soviet Politburo, or the NKVD cared about the lives of children, they would have allowed them to evacuate the city. The callous command to take "not one step back" clearly demonstrated civilian safety was not their foremost concern.
An image of the German sniper who had pinned her down outside of the rail station came unbidden to Jillian's mind. He was a German, the invader, a Nazi, a monster. He had tried to kill Jillian. But he had offered no threat to Natasha and had even given her food. Were the Germans really any worse monsters than Russia's communist leaders? Were they worse than her? After all, Jillian had briefly considered putting Natasha in danger, likely getting her killed, to recover her code book.
Jillian closed her eyes, forcing the treasonous thoughts from her mind. The Germans had their own monsters, she knew, their own versions of the NKVD. And Hitler and the Nazi party were just as bad as Stalin. Individual soldiers might have a conscience, might not want to hurt children, but there were plenty of others willing to do the deed.
She opened her eyes and gave Pavlov a re-assuring nod. "I won't mention the children, you have my word."
Pavlov smiled with obvious relief.
"What the fuck is she doing here?!"
The interruption came from behind Jillian. She couldn't see who it was, but she recognized the voice: it was Karen.
Pavlov's eyes lifted their gaze past Jillian to the young woman standing behind her. "This is Jillian Crooger. She's a reporter."
"An American reporter," Karen accused.
"That's right," Jillian admitted, as she turned her head to look at Karen over her shoulder. "But everything I write is subject to Soviet censorship. If my story is good, it's extremely likely to be published in Pravda."
Pravda was the Russian state-run newspaper, a propaganda mouthpiece for the Soviet ruling elite. Some considered it ironic that Pravda meant "truth" in Russian, since the primary purpose of the paper was to obfuscate the truth and praise communist leadership.
Everyone in Russia knew that Pravda couldn't be trusted. Lately, though, it had been mostly composed of vignettes about the war, short profiles of the men and women holding the line against the German invasion here in Stalingrad. The vignettes were designed to raise morale, and they succeeded. Unlike previous journalistic attempts, these had the ring of truth to them. They didn't just describe battles or tactics; they didn't focus on the strategic genius of Stalin or other communist leaders; instead they profiled individual soldiers. They described who they were, what they did before they were drafted, and where they had come from. They weren't professionals, they were conscripts. And the latest newspaper articles celebrated that fact instead of hiding it.
Stalingrad's defenders loved the new approach. Earlier in the war, Pravda had been used as toilet paper or campfire kindling. Now, here in Stalingrad, it was read and re-read, passed from soldier to soldier to pass the time. Reading about other soldiers like themselves, other soldiers willing and likely to die, it made Pavlov's men feel less alone.
"I don't think we can trust an American," Karen persisted.
"But aren't you an American?" Pavlov retorted. Even though it was a question, it wasn't.
Karen's expression flared with anger. "Is that what she told you?"
"She didn't tell me anything," Pavlov calmly replied. "Natasha did."
Karen closed her eyes and sighed.
"She brought rosin," Pavlov continued, his face as serene as a Buddha. "Now you can play Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy." He hesitated a moment and narrowed his eyes. "For the children."
Jillian, looking over her shoulder, saw the defiance drain out of Karen's expression. Sergeant Pavlov was lord and master of this domain, but the children were its heart and soul. He'd made his decision, and that decision held moral weight because it was based on the children's welfare instead of his own.
"Is it true?" Karen asked. "Did you really bring rosin?"
"Yes," Jillian replied. "And extra violin string, too."
Karen laughed to herself, rolling her eyes to heaven. "Amazing. Where in this city could you have possibly found rosin?"
"It wasn't easy," Jillian admitted.
Karen smiled and nodded with respect. "I'll bet it wasn't."
A feeling of warm pride seeped from Jillian's heart. For the second time in as many days she thought that maybe she wasn't such a bad spy, after all.