The Diamond Eye

by Kate Quinn

Lyudmila Pavlichenko; twenty-six years old; fourth-year history student at the Kyiv State University and senior research assistant at the Odesa public library—before the war. After the war, thirteen months of continuous fighting against Hitler’s forces on the Russian front. Nickname: Lady Death.

“I won’t miss again. Not ever.”

“No one better to teach you to be a good man than a good woman, I promise.”

So no more mistakes, that flinty internal voice said. And I promised myself: Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever.

it all looked reassuringly academic, which soothed me.

Because I knew right then and there that if he sent anyone home, it wouldn’t be me.

“Be better,”

“From whom much is given, much is demanded,”

“It taught me not to miss,” I said honestly. “At targets?” “At anything.”

I know only that mine awoke when I realized there was no room in my life for mistakes. When I realized I could not miss, not ever.

When you’re young and you’ve known nothing but peace, you assume there will always be time for everything.

I will never apologize for fighting the war that came to our doorstep in 1941. Germany invaded us. Germany wanted our oil, our cities, our flag added to their imperial crown. They wanted to see their damned eagles staked high, from the blue and gold palaces of Leningrad to the icebergs of Lake Baikal, and what we wanted was of no importance, so they invaded. The first shots fired were theirs, the first boots crossing borders were theirs, and if we rolled over and let them do it, my Slavka would be mass-churned into the Hitler Youth and taught to salute a monster.

“What do you want to be?” “Great,” he said simply.

“Look after yourself,” I told my new friend as she was shunted toward the medical battalion. “Eyes in the back of your head until you make yourself some friends who will watch your back.” We didn’t have to say why. All women know why.

I remember the fear. Push it away, push it down, I told myself, but there was no pushing it away, it was everywhere: we lived fear, breathed fear, ate and drank and sweated fear.

How do you know when an enemy is lurking? How do you know if it is just nerves or genuine danger? How do you know if there is a target on your back?

Because I’d trained to be perfect, and perfection had become a habit too strong to allow missteps.

Enemies—but perhaps they had also been husbands, fathers. All the quirks and talents, weaknesses and foibles that made up two unique human lives, extinguished in seconds by two bullets.

“Fate and fortune grant us health,” I quoted my mother. “For everything else, we wait in line.”

My job now was to take lives—I sometimes forgot that I was also saving them.

A sniper puts her life in the hands of her partner, night after night after night. He had better be someone she trusts more than a husband.

You didn’t look into the eyes of Maria Kabachenko after she had been pinned down by four men who invaded her country, then her home, and then her flesh. You didn’t see the desperate, grieving fury in her gaze. You didn’t hold her clutching hands in yours as she begged you, Kill them all. If you had, you would have done what I did. Squeezed her hands back, with all the gentleness in your soul, and then with every drop of rage you could summon, say: I promise I will.

A long silence as my partner rolled a stem of grass between his fingers. “I believe in books,” he said finally. “Just books?” “Books—and friends.”

“Knowledge, to light the path for humankind,” I said at last. “And this”—patting my rifle—“to protect humankind when we lose that path.”

“You lead us down the path,” Kostia said, “I’ll have your back.”

“My orders to you now? Don’t mope, have faith in victory, fight bravely. How many in that tally of yours?”

“Sir,” I said at last, wondering how not to give offense, but wanting this line drawn here and now before his flirtatious first impression of me turned into an assumption that I was available. “Kostia and Fyodor call me Mila. They’ve guarded my back, and I’ve guarded theirs. We’ve killed together, fought together, bled together. I don’t give my nickname unless it’s to a brother in arms.”

“Then until we bleed together,” Kitsenko said without rancor, and raised his mug of tea in salute. “I imagine Sevastopol will give us the opportunity.”

“Hunt to fill your soup kettle and put a pelt on your bed, not just to put a trophy on your wall,” Vartanov grunted unexpectedly. “The forest is like a temple: observe the old customs, be respectful, don’t kill for amusement, and the woods will reward you for it.”

Nothing makes a party sing like the knowledge that death awaits you tomorrow, but you’ve dodged it today.

“To Lady Death and her pack of devils,”

Amid war’s dreadful thunder, her voice was a solace and comfort to me . . .

Snipers must make themselves calm in order to succeed, and that is why women are good at sharpshooting. Because there is not a woman alive who has not learned how to eat rage in order to appear calm.

“So I can steal a kiss,” he said. “Last time you kissed me. I feel I should return the favor.” “I knew that kiss was going to come back and haunt me,” I retorted. “Hopefully your daydreams, not your nightmares. Would you shoot me if I laid a smack on you, Comrade Senior Sergeant Pavlichenko?” Kitsenko went on, grinning. “I might.”

“You really are terrifying. Are you sure I can’t kiss you?”

“I prefer not to fraternize with sergeants. Just exceedingly lovely hedges. I dated a hawthorn for a while; oooh, she was prickly. I had better luck with a viburnum, but her affection withered. A garland thorn, now—”

My memoir, the unofficial version: My luck ran out.

“But last week you were convinced you’d be dead on this one,” Kitsenko pointed out. “So it sounds to me like you’re changing your story. Are you so determined to be a martyr that you’ve forgotten how to count?”

I tried giving him a sour look, but it was hard with a mouth full of chocolate.

“The only thing I was shocked by was the sign on the carriage saying FOR WHITES ONLY.” The girl sniper forked a mushroom off her plate. “It’s a strange thing to see in a country that started with ‘All men are created equal.’”

“Your former husband is hovering at the door. Shall I steal that kiss now, to make him jealous?” I choked back another laugh, tempted. “No.”

Get as many as you can now; do as much as you can now—because your sand has almost run through the hourglass.

“When I propose marriage after dinner,” Lyonya explained, “I’d prefer the offer not be overlaid with any sense of obligation, coming from a lieutenant to a sergeant. Vodka, my one and only?” he offered as I choked on a mouthful of stew.

“No one thinks you’re a coward.” I do. “Do I still dazzle you?” I managed to say harshly. I could feel him smile against my temple, pressing his lips over my ear. “Utterly.”

“Do you have something?” I asked, and kissed him. He tasted of vodka and pine. “Something?” He was already kissing me back, hands in my hair, both of us lurching against the dugout wall. “You know.” I pried at his collar; he pried at mine as his mouth traveled down my jawline. A button spanged off the table. “Do you have—” “I don’t have a ring,” he confessed. “It was hard enough getting a loaf of decent bread and a damned can of stew.” “For the love of—” I pushed him into the chair, climbed into his lap, put my forehead against his so we were eye to eye, dark eyes drowning in blue, and locked my other hand around his belt buckle. “I will not get pregnant on the front line, Lyonya. Do you have something?” “Oh,” he said. “Yes,”

“We’ll work on the marriage part.” He kissed my temple as we began to disentangle. “I’ll ask you again tomorrow. In the meantime, do you want to sleep over?” “Sleep over, like we’re on holiday? We’re in a dugout. Shells may cave the roof in at any moment.” “Well, you can’t say it doesn’t add excitement . . .”

“Upset? I’m relieved. I thought maybe you didn’t want to marry me. If it’s just a matter of a still-living husband, well, I can work with that.” I raised an eyebrow. “What, do you mean to kill him?” “I’m not ruling it out,” Lyonya said cheerfully, going to the stove to heat up some tea.

“It’s not funny,” I protested, but found myself laughing anyway. It was Lyonya’s gift, I’d already come to realize—he could bring laughter like a stray thread of sunshine to brighten even the most shadowed room.

“See you in the morning. Kill lots of Nazis. Don’t die.”

“Can you put an end to it?” I looked up, still smiling. “Yes.”