I first started my research into Soviet female wartime pilots in the spring of 2009. Incredibly, in spite of having collaborated for many years as a researcher with various historians and focusing closely on WWII (which involved reading thousands of pages of documents and hundreds of books), I was not even aware of their existence—or that of American and British female ferry pilots. I learned about them from the French historian Claude Quétel, director of the Mémorial de Caen in Normandy and a specialist in the history of WWII. Claude was convinced that someone had to write a biography of Lilya Litvyak, the “White Rose of Stalingrad,” as she was very often referred to in publications—a girl who achieved great renown as a fighter pilot before she was killed in her early twenties. He suggested this project to Antony Beevor, my own friend and mentor, and Antony in turn suggested it to me.
Of course I was interested. I am not a historian, but I have always been fascinated by stories about peoples’ experiences, and at no other time did people have such dramatic experiences as during the war. Lilya’s seemed such a remarkably powerful story. This slender, blonde girl with shining eyes and a courageous heart, a gifted pilot—another pilot tried to convey a sense of Lilya’s rare talent by explaining that she could “see” the air—and a rebel who was never afraid of her commanders. And she had had a love affair with a young, brave pilot who also died too soon.
But straightaway I realized that one could not really write a book about her alone. Lilya died at the age of twenty-one, when her life was just beginning, and before she had the chance to experience all those things that might make up a volume of biography. Together with this realization there came an idea: I should tell the story of Lilya and her comrades, those who died and those who survived the war. I did not want it to be simply a collective biography; I was keen to use the experiences of these young women pilots and their mechanics to help give an account of the first two years of the war. I also ended up writing some chapters about male pilots, those whose regiments Litvyak and her squadron joined at Stalingrad in 1942.
I started reading up and, as I did so, looked for veterans of Marina Raskova’s three female regiments who might still be alive. It turned out that the pilots themselves were almost all dead. Because they needed to clock up a lot of flying hours to be allowed to join Raskova’s regiments, they were generally older than their crews.
But I was very lucky to meet Valentina Neminushchaya (née Petrochenkova) from the female fighter regiment. She was the first person to explain to me the kind of qualities a girl needed to be able to fly a fighter. Unfortunately there was no second visit, but it was through her that I met Elena Kulkova (née Malyutina), a heroic bomber pilot and a very special, generous and strong, intellectual person, who is now and will always be my dear friend. Elena introduced me to “Hero of the Soviet Union” Yevdokia Pasko, from the night bomber regiment, who told me how she and her friends flew at night in tiny plywood and canvas training aircraft.
Elena also gave me addresses in Saratov where I met navigator Olga Golubeva-Teres, who became a writer in her later years, and Elena Lukina from the heavy bomber regiment. Across the Volga from Saratov, I was able to see the town of Engels, the place where Raskova’s regiments were first stationed.
I called Stepan Mikoyan who was a young pilot during the war (and after the war became a famous Soviet test pilot). It was to Stepan’s regiment, the 434th, at Stalingrad, that four of the girl pilots were sent in September 1942. We have met several times, and I am extremely grateful to this amazing man, a fearless pilot and a great storyteller, for letting me catch a glimpse of the atmosphere in which he lived in September 1942 and for sharing some fleeting memories of the four girls who fought alongside him during several incredibly hard weeks.
And now it is time to write about two people who brought my main characters to life, and made my book what it is now: a story based on the recollections of some of those who were there, who saw the dramatic events with their own eyes. I still cannot believe my luck, not only because these two people fought alongside Litvyak and Katya Budanova (who also flew fighter planes with great distinction), but also because they were such special, rare people, people who make the world a better place with every step they take.
I found Nikolai Menkov’s name in the semi-fictional account of Lilya Litvyak’s life written by Valeriy Agranovsky, who quoted Menkov’s letter giving details about the missing girl (whose aircraft he serviced) and the plane. The letter (written in the seventies) mentioned that he lived in Cherepovets. What happened next was nothing short of a miracle. I found Nikolai within twenty minutes of learning of his existence: his telephone number was in the Cherepovets online database. When I called, he answered immediately and invited me to come and see him. I visited him and his daughter Tatyana several times, and each time was unforgettable: a kind, warm reception and fascinating conversations that ranged well beyond the war and aviation. On one of these visits I brought along the regiment’s documents, and Nikolai read and commented on them. All of a sudden the documents came to life.
“I am so sorry, but I don’t let strangers into my apartment,” Valentina Krasnoshchyokova explained politely when I called her first. However, I did not visit alone: Lidiya Zaitseva, the record-setting Soviet sports pilot, a lovely, kind person, brought me along to Valentina’s tiny flat in Kaluga. There were portraits of Litvyak and Budanova on her shelf and I made a beeline for them. Some are included in the book. Kaluga is only 150 kilometers away from Moscow, to the southwest, and it was my great luck that I was able to visit Valentina often. We would talk about the female fighter regiment, and about the 437th, and 9th regiments, as well as the 73rd, which she left in 1944 when she was badly wounded. The two girl pilots who died in the summer of 1943 were sometimes present in our conversations, but not always. Valentina had memories to share that were a lot more important to her than Litvyak and Budanova. I came to love her dearly and so was willing to listen. I recorded and will keep many of her stories about events that happened long after Lilya and Katya had died: for example, how, when Valentina was working at the Oblast Party Committee, she rescued the Soviet bard Bulat Okudzhava from a teaching position at a village school where he had been exiled by the authorities; or how she sat all night comforting a new arrival at the boarding school for children with hearing problems, where she was for many years director (Valentina was almost completely deaf as a result of concussion in 1944). Once I accompanied her to a supermarket and two girls greeted her in sign language. They were too young to have been her students at the boarding school so she asked them how they knew her. The girls explained using signs: people say that a long time ago there was a kind director at our school. I felt very touched, this exemplified my friend: a kind and active person who always helped those who needed her.
Valentina Krasnoshchyokova and Nikolai Menkov, who both died in 2012, will always be in my thoughts. I believe they would have been glad to know of the existence of a book that would tell the world a little about them, about their comrades and about the regiments in which they served so hard and risked their lives, in order to bring victory closer.
LYUBA VINOGRADOVA
November 2014
Maputo, Mozambique