The Best of Times, the Worst of Times

Dedicated to Anna Yegorova and my beloved авиатриссы, on the 70th anniversary of Russia’s Victory Day 

Anna’s blazing Ilyushin attack plane spun toward the earth, and she burned and tumbled with it. Her next memory: searing pain, as she awoke with a soldier’s boot on her chest. After that, the inside of a cell.

Lieutenant Anna Timofeyeva-Yegorova shouldn’t have survived the churning aerial battle over Warsaw, being shot down, her burns and broken spine, or her brutal internment. But those things didn’t leave the most lasting scars. Six decades later, on a sunny September day in 2005, her eyes are clear as she pages through yellowed photographs of Soviet warbirds and long-dead comrades-in-arms and shares her war stories—and a canteen of home-brewed vodka. “Just like my combat rations,” she grins.

Me, Anna Yegorova, and Margarita at dinner
Me, Anna Yegorova, and Margarita in 2005

Anna points to a photo of a hand-woven straw purse decorated with an embroidered wing insignia and the Cyrillic initials “A.E.” “They made it for me in secret,” she explains, her eyes shining. Among the Allied prisoners at the Nazi POW camp where she spent five months in 1944, the young lieutenant was a sensation: A female pilot had been captured! At great risk, her fellow POWs conspired to send her kindnesses—concealing her documents, weaving her a Soviet Air Force purse, and launching an insurrection to demand that the camp allow another prisoner, a Russian doctor, to treat her wounds.

Her eyes are darkening now, her voice growing quieter. This is the part Anna still cannot bear to tell. Bronzed autumn sunlight slants into the tiny Moscow apartment, two drab rooms made cheerful by shelves of china, books, and photographs. But Anna’s cheer has drained away. “They called me a ‘traitor,’ a ‘Fascist bitch,’” she tells me, the tears coming, her rage undiminished after sixty years.

“They called me a ‘traitor,’ a ‘Fascist bitch,’” she tells me, the tears coming, her rage undiminished after sixty years.

After Soviet troops liberated the camp, Yegorova was interrogated for ten days by a branch of the USSR’s wartime secret police called “SMERSH”—an acronym meaning “Death to Spies”—for the “crime” of being captured. Stalin’s policy was that there were no Soviet POWs, only turncoats.

The Soviets took away her combat medals. Then they erased her from history, along with thousands of other female Soviet citizens who helped win the war as snipers, partisans, and front-line pilots.

Anna never healed from the psychic wounds of her nation’s monstrous betrayal of her. She’d been a patriot, born the year the revolution began. She helped build the Moscow metro and then volunteered for the Air Force when Germany invaded. Her great tragedy was to give so much for a place that too often devours its true believers, a land that gives and takes away, and not always in equal measure.

I’d learned my own painful lessons about things taken away in 1991, in the turbulent final months of the USSR’s existence. I found myself riding a bipolar wave of anxiety and exultation as I watched an empire falling and a new Something being born. But for me, the Soviet Union’s final days will always intertwine with the memory of being assaulted and held captive for the ten longest, darkest hours of my life.

But on that fall afternoon in 2005, I share four of the loveliest hours of that same life—back in Moscow for the first time in fourteen years—listening to a Russian grandmother’s war stories. In the interim, I’d learned to fly airplanes, become a flight instructor and writer, resurrected my disused Russian skills, and yearned for Moscow.

I had long worried that I wouldn’t be able to face the place again, that it had defeated me, and that there was no going back. But hearing Anna’s tales of epic feats and serial calamities, I suddenly realize that my own far smaller calamity was never about defeat. It was about survival.

No matter how we try to impose meaning after the fact, no post-hoc rewriting of a human life can really make sense of things. I didn’t become a Russian-speaking writer-aviatrix in preparation for the moment when I’d sip vodka from a canteen and promise an 89-year-old war hero that I would co-translate and edit her memoir for publication in America. It wasn’t part of some grand plan to help us both heal. It all just happened; one thing led to another, as they say.

What those things led to: The moment when, a half-year before she died, Anna held in her hands an American copy of Red Sky, Black Death: A Soviet Woman Pilot’s Memoir of the Eastern Front. She looked at it and smiled, her eyes bright and clear.

In 2009, Anna gets copies of Red Sky, a handmade quilt, and fan letters from women pilots



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