Chad Thumann - The Undesirables

But that was different from what Petr was doing, he realized. Petr wasn’t only fighting for his friends, wasn’t only fighting for his brothers and sisters. He was stubbornly fighting for people he didn’t even know.

“Next round’s on me!” Bobby declared as he stepped forward and took a seat next to Jack.

Lenka eyed him from across the table. “What are we celebrating?”

“Russian courage,” Bobby replied. He raised his glass in a toast.

Lenka smiled and raised her glass. “To Russian courage.”

“To Russian courage!” everyone toasted, including Captain Hart.

As soon as Bobby emptied his glass, someone else entered the mess hall. To his shock, it was General Marshall.

“Attention!” Bobby announced, standing and saluting. The other American flyers did the same.

“At ease. At ease, boys,” the general told them. He took a seat at the table. “What’s the drink, and what’s the game?”

“Vodka and five-card stud,” Jack said with a wry smile as he filled a glass for the general. “But first you’ve got to join our toast.”

“Oh yeah? And what are we toasting?”

“Russian courage,” Katia responded with pride.

“I think that’s a worthy toast,” the general acknowledged. Marshall looked at the clear liquor, swirled it, and took a draw, evaluating. “Not bad,” he said with surprise.

“My brother makes it himself,” Katia revealed.

“Moonshine vodka?” the general replied, even more surprised. “Where does he distill it? In the woods?”

“In his bathtub.”

“Isn’t that illegal?”

Katia shrugged. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

The general laughed and pushed his glass back to Jack. “Fill me up another and your secret’s safe with me.”

Jack did as requested and then dealt the cards.

At first the general’s presence made the boys ill at ease. But Marshall had the grace not to criticize, and the good sense not to win. Pretty soon the pilots let their guard down and talked as if the general were just another junior officer. Bobby was impressed. He wondered how much the general learned this way, just making conversation, pretending to be one of the boys.

“I’m looking forward to spending the flight with your girlfriend tomorrow,” the general said to Bobby.

“Thank you. I’m sure Karen is looking forward to it as well.”

Lenka glanced up at the sound of Karen’s name. “Who is this Karen, anyway?” Her words dripped with venom.

“She’s a winner,” the general replied, oblivious to Lenka’s tone. “Smart, practical, a survivor. And I’ve got to admit, she’s a looker. Who’da thought a scrawny kid like Bobby could reel in a catch like that?”

Everyone laughed, and Bobby blushed. “Thank you, sir.”

Lenka stood up from the table. “I turn in,” she announced with frustration.

Katia and Bel stood in support of their friend. “Us, too.”

“Good night,” said the general, oblivious to their angry tone, “and thank you for the vodka.”

The other officers stood respectfully as the female pilots headed back to the barracks. Then the general turned his attention back to Bobby. “Could I have a minute, son?”

“Of course, General.”

The general led Bobby back to his office, where he produced a whiskey bottle out of a desk drawer. He poured it into two paper cups and leaned back in his chair. “I’m beginning to wonder if we shouldn’t keep Karen for ourselves,” he mused. “What do you think?”

“‘Keep her for ourselves’—what do you mean?” Bobby asked.

“OSS wants her, of course.”

OSS was short for the Office of Strategic Studies, a brand-new agency specially created for the war. In previous wars, each arm of the military relied on its own spies to gather intelligence on the enemy. But recently someone had had the foresight to create a central agency that could coordinate espionage activities across all military branches.

“Speaks fluent Russian,” General Marshall continued, “knows the lay of the land. Pretty valuable asset. Anyway, I happened to meet another lady—though I don’t know if you can call a proven spy a proper lady. Now, this other lady, she’s pretending to be a foreign correspondent for the Los Angeles Times, but really she reports to the OSS. She was very interested in your girlfriend. Very interested, indeed. Sent her bosses a coded message via shortwave radio promising I’d let them debrief her when we get home.”

“You mean, recruit her?” Bobby asked with suspicion.

“Well, they’re going to try. They need analysts, she has the language skills, and her experience will give her an edge.”

Bobby took a deep breath. “I don’t think after all she’s been through that she’ll want that.”

“In a way, I hope you’re right. You said she’s a musician, right?”

“A cellist.”

“Pretty girl like that, talented. With her story, I have a sneaking suspicion she’d do more good working for us selling war bonds.”

Bobby tried to imagine Karen dolled up in a fancy dress, barnstorming from town to town, playing cheesy musical numbers and appealing to humble Americans to support the war effort. He couldn’t.

“I think she’d rather work for the OSS,” he confided.

The general laughed. “Well, then, let’s see if you and I can’t convince her.”

Karen spent the entire night searching for Petr. She finally found him coming out of a Red Army recruitment center.

He had a bundle of clothing—a new uniform—and a rifle. Obviously, he’d joined up again.

The recruiter had been suspicious—even though Petr was a war hero—that Petr had somehow deserted. But Petr claimed he was captured by the Germans and kept as a prisoner of war during their summer campaign. He’d managed to escape and wandered back until ending up here.

It was an unlikely story, but since the Second Shock Army had been completely destroyed, there was no way to verify it. They couldn’t have proven that Petr was lying even if they’d wanted to. And the truth was, they didn’t want to. The Red Army needed every soldier it could muster, especially veteran heroes like Petr.

Petr and Karen faced each other on the sidewalk. He halted when he saw her, then composed himself. “What do you think?” He held up the new uniform against his chest. It was tan instead of green, and it wasn’t quilted like the winter uniforms.

Karen had to admit that the earthy color complemented Petr’s blond hair, and she could imagine its straight cut would also complement his broad shoulders and angular physique. “It looks smart,” she said.

Petr shrugged as he bundled it back up under his arm. “Doubt I’ll be able to keep it that way.”

“When do you leave?” Karen asked.

“First thing in the morning. Another boxcar,” Petr added with a smile.

“I’ll see you off,” Karen promised.

Petr gazed at her sympathetically, then shook his head. “No you won’t—you have a plane to catch.”

“Aren’t you…” Karen hesitated. Then she gathered her courage and said what was on her mind. “Aren’t you going to ask me to come with you?”

Petr stared at her in silence, for a long time. “No,” he said finally. “I’d never do that to you, not where I’m going.”

“I would,” Karen replied.

Petr shook his head. “No, you wouldn’t, not if you loved me.”

Karen knew he was right.

“It was a beautiful dream,” Petr continued, “our dream of living the rest of our lives together. But that’s all it was: a dream. The war’s reality. We should have known that someday we’d have to wake up.”

Karen was surprised. She’d written those same words months ago, in her letters to Bobby—the same letters now being used by army intelligence against the Russians.

How was it that she and Petr could be so alike, having grown up so far apart, so differently? She hugged him, uniform bundle and rifle and all, and again she cried. This time, so did Petr.

But eventually they parted because, as usual, Petr was right. Someday they had to wake up from their dream. And today was that day.

Or was it?

Karen began to wonder during her walk back to the airfield. Not everything dies. Her father died, but his symphony didn’t. Why should dreams have to die?

The airfield was dark when Karen returned. But the moon and the stars were out, providing just enough light for her to see Bobby, already there. When she walked up, he turned to her, smiling, apparently relieved. “I was worried you’d be late. The general wants to depart at dawn.”

“I’m sorry,” Karen said, “but I’ve come to say good-bye.”

She turned and walked away. She didn’t look back; she couldn’t bear to face Bobby. She couldn’t bear to talk to him.

“You are coward,” said a voice from the darkness.

Karen turned toward the voice. It sounded familiar. There was a flash and a flame. The flame rose to a cigarette, and Karen saw a girl’s pretty face.

It was the Russian pilot who’d accosted her earlier. What was her name? Lenka?

“No, I’m not,” Karen shot back.

“Look at him,” Lenka insisted as she inhaled the cigarette’s smoke.

Karen glanced over her shoulder. She could barely see Bobby’s dark outline. His shoulders slumped as he stared up at the moon. He looked defeated.

“He deserves explanation.” Lenka held the cigarette out to Karen. “Take this. It will help.”

Karen did as she was told. She inhaled and immediately coughed. But the nicotine’s narcotic effect soothed her brain. It gave her strength.

“Now tell him,” Lenka advised.

Karen nodded, handed back the cigarette, and returned to Bobby. He didn’t seem to hear her approach. He didn’t turn around.