Pavlov's Wireless Operator was a young man named Ilan Hait. He manned a radio in the fourth floor of the apartment building, its antenna raised up through one of the many holes in the bombed-out roof.
Despite his position on the top floor of the building, Hait did not work as a look-out. The radio was too valuable to place near an external wall. Rifle or machinegun bullets could potentially penetrate the brick and destroy radio's delicate machinery. So it was for the machine's safety, not Hait's, that he was placed as close to the very center of Pavlov's House as possible.
Jillian coveted Hait's radio. She had been sneaking out in the middle of the night, up the stairs and out onto the broken roof. From there she lay on her belly and grimaced against the wind that howled off the Volga while she broadcast her O.S.S. reports. She didn't speak into the transmitter from fear of being overheard and caught. Instead she set her spy radio to the covert channel she had been assigned and broadcast her messages in code, turning the receiver on and off to simulate a series of dashes and dots.
She had originally learned that technique from other foreign correspondents who often lacked access to teletype machines in the field. They'd developed the method to transmit their stories in morse code. Now Jillian used the same methodology, but she didn't broadcast in morse code, she did so in America's spy code.
Jillian was putting herself, the Russian soldiers, and all the orphans at risk. Soviet Intelligence Officers could, potentially, overhear her signal and notice the unfamiliar code. Even if they couldn't crack it, they could triangulate her signal and determine the location of her broadcast. The NKVD wouldn't hesitate to arrest everyone occupying Pavlov's House in their zeal to catch a spy. Jillian just hoped the NKVD was too busy right now to bother. So far that hope had been realized. The Stalingrad NKVD weren't engaging in their typical skullduggery because they were too busy acting as shock troops on the front line.
Any moment that could change. With the great victory of Operation Uranus the name of the recent Russian sneak attack, an NKVD unit might start monitoring radio traffic again, trying to intercept German communications. Every time Jillian left the house it was dangerous. Not only was she in danger of waking a sleeping soldier and getting caught with the spy radio, not only was she at risk of being spotted in the moon or starlight and shot by a German sniper, she was also in danger of being overheard by the NKVD.
But every night Jillian faced that danger, broadcasting or re-broadcasting messages with everything she could learn about the successful Russian Offensive. America had to know.
That took a lot of courage, but it also took a lot of electricity. The battery Jillian had stolen from Natasha's mother's car was almost out of power, and Jillian didn't expect to find another. There were plenty of abandoned vehicles in Stalingrad, but they were military vehicles: tanks, half-tracks, and kubelwagens. Military vehicles didn't have battery-powered ignitions. Once her battery died, Jillian's radio would be silenced.
Ilan Hait operated a different kind of radio. Unlike Jillian's spy set, high tech and compact, Ilan's radio wasn't designed to be hidden in a valise. Quite the opposite – Ilan's radio weighted over a hundred pounds. But it was designed to break down into pieces so the different members of the platoon could carry it through battle. When assembled it took up as much space as a bookshelf.
But Ilan's radio had one major advantage over Jillian's model: Ilan's radio could be re-charged by hand. When the battery died, members of Pavlov's platoon took turns cranking it, and soon it was operational again. Jillian had decided she needed the use of that radio.
"Don't you like music?" she asked of Hait the night after the two Red Army pincers met up in Kalach. She spoke in Yiddish, using words she had learned from her grandmother.
Ilan looked at her with surprise. He'd recognized and understood the language.
Jillian smiled inwardly. She had guessed right – he was Jewish, like she was. She hoped that would help her form a bond with the young soldier.
"Of course I like music," he replied. He spoke in Russian. It was an intentional message. He was saying: "Yes, I'm Jewish, I understand Yiddish, but please don't make me speak it."
Jillian understood the message loud and clear. Officially, anti-semitism was illegal in the Soviet Union. But anti-Judaeism was not. Communists believed that religion was "the opiate of the people," and so synagogues were closed and Hebrew was forbidden. The fact that Russian Orthodox churches were often spared the same treatment was not lost on Russia's Jewish population. Yiddish, as a cultural, instead of religious language, was technically legal. But anti-semitism still flourished in the Communist Party despite official policy. So a Jew was wise not to flaunt his ethnic heritage.
"And Angel plays for us every night," Ilan reminded her.
Jillian nodded. Karen was getting better and better on the violin, especially now that she had rosin. She'd stopped performing Peter and the Wolf – she didn't have the heart for it after Anton died – but she did play the promised Dance of the Sugar Plum Faery and other classical pieces that appealed to both children and adults. "Of course she does," Jillian agreed, now switching to Russian, "and she plays beautifully, but you can't dance to it." She backtracked for a second and corrected herself. "Well you could, I suppose, but you would have to be a ballerina."
"That is something I would like to see." Ilan laughed at the thought of soldiers dancing like ballerinas.
"Come on," Jillian encouraged, "don't you ever want to listen to something with some swing?"
"Swing?"
"Yeah, you know, swing." Jillian pivoted her arm rhythmically up and down at the elbow and punctuated each movement with a loud snap of her fingers.
"I don't know the swing," Ilan admitted.
"Oh you're gonna love it!" Jillian assured him. "Move over, I'll find a station for you." She crouched down beside him and tried to push him aside with her hip.
But Ilan still resisted. "We have to keep this station open," he scolded her, "in case of emergency military broadcasts."
Jillian scoffed. "Oh come on, live a little."
"But what if there's an emergency?" Ilan protested.
Jillian dismissed the concern. "They send those emergency broadcasts over and over again. We can just flip back between songs and we won't miss anything." Jillian gently twisted the dial and heard the familiar static and discordant melody of the tuner passing through different channels. Then she zeroed in on the O.S.S. station broadcasting from Turkey. Suddenly the radio's speakers sang out with Tommy Dorsey's "Song of India".
Ilan's eyes widened. "I've heard this before..." he muttered.
"Oh sure," Jillian agreed, "this was a big hit in '37."
"No, no, I've heard it here, at a symphony." Ilan announced.
"Symphony?" Jillian replied with skepticism. "If you say so."
"It's Russian!" Ilan assured her with pride.
Jillian decided not to argue the point. "Well I'll bet you've never heard it like this, though."
"No, never like this," Ilan agreed, lost in the deep tones of Dorsey's trombone.
Jillian grabbed both of Ilan's hands and rose from her crouch, lifting the Russian soldier to his feet beside her. Then she began to swing her arms, still attached to Ilan's, and tap her feet.
Ilan looked at her shoes and monkeyed her movements.
Then Jillian began to move her feet, in and out, front and back.
Ilan did his best to follow. "Like this?" he asked.
"Yeah, that's great!" Jillian encouraged. She lifted his arm and spun herself under it.
Ilan seemed to love that, because he began spinning her over and over again.
"Now dip me!" Jillian commanded as the song came to a close. She pulled him closed and backed into his arms as the music ended. When she looked up she saw Ilan was smiling like a kid who just hit a little league home run.
"That was Tommy Dorsey," the Turkish announcer said in English, "performing his 1937 hit, Song of India, based on a Russian opera. That's dedicated to the boys in the Red Army. Give old Fritzy a punch in the nose for us!"
"Well I'll be damned," Jillian said as she separated from Ilan, letting go of his arms. "It really is Russian."
"I told you so," said Ilan, smiling and nodding.
"Do you want to flip back and check for emergency broadcasts?" she asked.
"What?" Ilan blinked, having completely forgotten. "Oh," he remembered, "no, let's dance to another song," he suggested, instead, completely intoxicated by the American rhythm.
They danced to Count Basie, and the sound of their feet and the radio drew the interest of other soldiers, who also wanted to learn to dance. Jillian moved from soldier to soldier teaching the basic moves, and when the soldiers couldn't dance with her they danced with each other.
Never before had Jillian had the attention of so many men and her choice of so many dance partners. She felt like the belle at the ball and she had to admit she was loving it.
Then they were interrupted by Sergeant Pavlov. He stared at them with a grim expression and they immediately stopped dancing and turned to face him. Pavlov seemed to be doing mental arithmetic and Jillian knew he was taking an inventory of the men and making sure none of them were shirking their duties. But they were all off duty, so he didn't get angry. Instead he just said: "German warplanes have been spotted. You should report their positions to Sredneia Airfield."
"Yes, Sergeant!" Ilan replied, and he switched the channel away from the music.
The men watched Pavlov's face nervously as Ilan broadcast the information to the aviators across the river. But Jillian stared at the radio, taking mental note of the channel Ilan used and the radio protocols he called out in order to communicate with the airfield's wireless operators. When he finished he dutifully turned back to the Red Army general military station.
"What about the music?" Pavlov asked, his expression still stern and accusing.
Ilan looked up, ashamed, "I'm sorry Sergeant, it won't happen again."
Pavlov's expression changed from stern to disappointed. "Why not?" He turned to Jillian. "I had hoped the lady would teach me to dance, too?" he asked, almost shyly.
"It would be my great pleasure," Jillian beamed. Then she took him in her arms and nodded to Ilan.
Ilan spun the station back to the Turkish broadcast and Jillian taught Pavlov how to dance to Benny Goodman's "Sing, Sing, Sing."
Eventually the orphans found their way up to the dance party, and even Karen and Petr. By the end of the night Jillian was exhausted. But she'd been successful. Pavlov's platoon was now addicted to American Big Band music, and they tuned into the Turkish station every night.
Which meant Jillian could listen for her secret activation codes without anyone being the wiser.