Chad Thumann - The Undesirables

Krasnoyarsk was a surprisingly beautiful city built up along either bank of the wide, flat Yenisei River. The formation of Russian and American warplanes circled the entire area before lining up, one by one, for landing.

Bobby’s aircraft was last, giving Karen the opportunity to admire the city in silence. She was surprised by the historic architecture; she’d imagined Siberia to be a wild land only recently and forcefully populated, as Chelyabinsk had been. But Krasnoyarsk’s skyline was spotted with the tall spires of Russian Orthodox cathedrals that were hundreds of years old, and its docks were lined with beautiful old mansions that in czarist times belonged to adventurous nineteenth-century merchants made rich by their exploitation of Siberia’s vast resources.

Emerald hills and forests surrounded the city, which in turn surrounded beautiful green islands serving as parks in the middle of the river. A ribbon of railroad track twisted through the forest and over the short mountains before passing through the city across a magnificent bridge. Karen realized that the tracks belonged to the Trans-Siberian Railway, and her eyes followed them southeast until they disappeared over the distant horizon.

They finally landed. There was no hiding Karen now. Before Bobby slid back the P-39’s cockpit canopy, the Russian ground crew spotted an extra passenger in his lap. They watched in openmouthed wonder as Karen climbed out and hopped down, still wearing Bobby’s leather flight jacket.

“Hello,” she greeted them in Russian, with a smile. The Red Army soldiers didn’t say anything; they just avoided her gaze and went about their business checking the airplanes. The same could not be said of Lenka, one of the Red Army pilots escorting the Americans out of Siberia.

“You’ll be reported,” she threatened as soon as she caught Karen alone outside one of the airplane hangars.

“Reported for what?” Karen kindly asked.

“Treason.”

“But I’m not even Russian. I’m American,” Karen replied in English.

That surprised Lenka, who stared daggers at Karen. “Who are you?” she asked.

“My name is Karen.”

Lenka didn’t offer her own name. Karen only discovered it later when she asked Bobby. Instead, Lenka just stormed off in anger. Now that it was an open secret Bobby had brought a stowaway, it was only a matter of time before General Marshall himself found out. When he did, he invited both Karen and Bobby to dine with him.

Karen was nervous. She expected the dinner to be much like the ones she’d had to avoid on the train to Chelyabinsk. She was worried she’d somehow spoil the formal occasion, saying or doing the wrong thing in front of this important American dignitary.

She was surprised to find dinner presented on a folding card table in the general’s ad hoc office. And it wasn’t caviar on silver platters; it was salted pork and mashed potatoes—the same food the pilots ate.

“I know it doesn’t look like much,” the general said, tucking his napkin into his collar, “and I’m afraid to admit it doesn’t taste like much, either.”

The general was a distinguished gentleman with graying, slicked-back hair. His soft face and warm eyes immediately made Karen want to trust him. He would have looked perfect in a priest’s collar or a judge’s robes. His military uniform wasn’t starched and covered in medals like those of the Russian generals she’d seen on the train. Instead, it was well worn and looked comfortable.

“Isn’t that right, Lieutenant Campbell?” Marshall continued. He was smiling at Bobby, who nodded. The general winked back. “I think they call it slop.”

“Call it worse than that sometimes, General,” Bobby confessed.

The general laughed. “I’m sure they do. But whatever it tastes like, it’ll fill you up, and that’s the whole purpose of food, isn’t it?”

“It looks delicious,” Karen politely replied.

“Maybe it does, maybe it does at that,” the general murmured thoughtfully. “Well, dig in.”

He mixed the pork and potatoes and scooped a helping into his mouth, his eyes never leaving Karen’s.

“I can understand wanting to sit in your boyfriend’s lap,” he continued, “but that isn’t exactly the safest way to fly, is it, Lieutenant Campbell?”

Bobby paused midbite. “It’s safer than it looks,” he replied defensively.

“But what if we come under attack? What if you were shot down? You don’t have two parachutes.”

“General, you and I both know we won’t come under attack,” Bobby said.

Karen was shocked by Bobby’s boldness. No one would dare speak to a Russian general like that.

But if Marshall was offended, he didn’t show it. “All right, then,” he conceded, “but what if we run into bad weather? What if we have to climb? You got two oxygen masks?”

Bobby knew the general was right. Flying double in a single-seat aircraft was dangerous. But it would have been far more dangerous to leave Karen behind. Somehow, he had to convince Marshall of that fact.

“I know you’re right, General, but you’ve got to understand. She’s not Russian, she’s American. She’s a refugee. It’s our duty to bring her home safely.”

The general chuckled as he raised his hand to make Bobby stop talking. “Don’t worry, son, we’re not going to leave her behind. I just meant it would be safer for her to ride in the C-47.” He looked at Karen. “What do you think? There’s plenty of room.”

“I’d be honored. Thank you, sir.”

“No, thank you,” the general replied, shoveling another spoonful into his mouth.

Karen was intrigued. There was something in the general’s tone that suggested he wasn’t just being polite. He seemed genuinely thankful. But what had she done? She was mystified.

“Thank me for what?” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m sorry, sir, I was just wondering… what have I done? What are you thankful for?”

The general peered over at Bobby. “You didn’t tell her?”

“No, General,” Bobby replied, blushing.

“Tell me what?”

“Well, Miss Hamilton,” the general began to explain, “the whole country owes you a debt of gratitude. For the intelligence you provided.”

“Intelligence?” Karen still didn’t know what he was talking about.

“Your letters,” Bobby told her.

“My letters?”

“From Leningrad,” the general continued. He quickly added, “Don’t worry, we didn’t read them. A gentleman never reads private mail.”

“I told them the important stuff,” Bobby explained. “About what was really happening in the city, about how Russia was losing.”

The important stuff was what she’d written to Bobby about how she felt about him, how she was surviving for him. Until this moment she’d almost forgotten about those letters, and now, thinking about them, all the emotion she’d felt writing them came crashing back over her.

“That wasn’t the important stuff,” she muttered.

“I know,” Bobby reassured her. He took her hand and squeezed it.

“I can understand how you feel,” the general told her, his words heartfelt. “I wouldn’t want anyone reading my wife’s letters, either, but I can assure you, whatever you wrote that was private—that stayed private. At least to us.”

“‘At least to us’—what does that mean?” Karen asked, suddenly worried.

“The Soviet State censors read them,” Bobby replied, never letting go of her hand.

Karen closed her eyes. She was so embarrassed. Those letters had been intimate. She never expected anyone but Bobby to read them.

“I’m sorry,” the general continued quietly, “but we have no control over the Soviet postal service.”

Karen’s voice caught in her throat now. So she just nodded. At least the general hadn’t read them. She didn’t have to be ashamed in front of him.

That gave her the courage to open her eyes again. And once again she wondered what was happening to her. Against all odds, she’d survived Leningrad. Somehow she’d managed to hold it together through that entire trying time. But now that she was safe, she was an emotional wreck.

“I can assure you,” the general said, “that what you communicated in those letters was important.” His tone was fatherly now, but not like her own father, who’d always seemed so distracted. General Marshall seemed like the ideal father, both proud and protective. Karen took comfort in that, even if she was finding it difficult to find comfort in his words. He added, “So important, in fact, that this entire mission was based on them.”

“Mission? You mean the summit?”

“The summit was just cover,” Bobby said gently.

“Cover for what?”

“We can’t afford to let Russian industry and resources fall into German hands.” Once again the general’s voice had changed. Now he was strong, commanding. How had he learned to be so many things at once? No wonder he was one of America’s top military leaders.

“Our objective,” Bobby explained, “was to scout Russian air defenses, so we might come up with a way to bomb them.”