Aimie Runyan - Daughters of the Night Sky

Vanya ordered a whole host of dishes, this time straying from the familiar rustic fare and venturing into the world of caviar, fine wine, smoked herring mousse, and other foods I’d only heard of. The waiters served small portions of what seemed like dozens of dishes, each providing a few bites before we moved on to the next delicacy. In some cases I was glad to move on, but most of the courses placed before us were beyond what I had imagined food could taste like. The idea of eating fish eggs had repulsed me, despite my mother’s assurances that caviar was quite good. The explosion of flavor—a burst of seawater and the most delicate fish—was an experience unto itself. I knew the meal had to cost a small fortune, and I offered silent thanks to Antonin Solonev and his deep pockets.

“I hope you don’t mind me throwing this together without telling you first,” he said after the waiter cleared away the poached salmon.

“I’ll forgive you on one condition,” I said. “You will not spend one minute of this evening discussing war or trying to persuade me not to do my part. Let me enjoy one night in peace as your beloved wife.”

“How delicious that sounds,” he said, unable to keep the smile from his face. “But, agreed. Tonight isn’t meant to be spent on such matters. God, I wish we’d had more time, though.”

“I know, but we can’t speculate on the ‘woulds’ and ‘shoulds’ these days. We should be grateful for the time we have.”

I woke up nestled in Vanya’s arms in the moments before dawn. I could have luxuriated in his caresses for a lifetime, but we had to face the morning. Rushkov’s goodwill would only last until the morning bell signaled the beginning of classes.

“I wish you’d weaseled a full week out of him,” I moaned into his chest.

“Unfortunately for us, I did not catch Rushkov in the act of murdering a party official, so one night was the best I could do. Comrade Soloneva, let your husband admire you one last time before you dress,” he purred from the comfort of his down pillows and thick bedding.

I obliged, standing in the brisk morning air, opening a curtain to let the light shine on my pale skin.

“I love to see you when you’re thinking like an artist,” I mused, unabashed by his gaze on my bare flesh.

He gave a slight start. “How can you tell that’s what I was thinking?”

“You expect your wife to betray all her secrets on the first day of wedded bliss? I don’t think so.”

He pounced atop me, tickling me with fingertips and tender kisses until I begged for mercy.

“It’s your expression,” I confessed, breathless from his playful assault. “You look both focused and relaxed. Except the time I saw you painting, you’ve only managed one of those expressions at a time.”

“I will spend a lifetime painting you, my love,” he said as his eyes and hands roved over every slope and curve of my body. “Thin and agile as you are now, round with my child, wrinkled with old age and contentment. You will be my greatest study.”

“And I your loving subject,” I said, leaning in to drink in a few more kisses. “But dress, my love. My Vanyusha. I won’t have our wedding night marred by a lecture.”

With a reluctant sigh he released me, and we checked out of the hotel. We didn’t speak as the truck rattled along, but he drove with my hand in his until we crossed onto the campus grounds.

Rather than the usual order and precision we were used to, there was a nervous energy, a thinly controlled chaos, as we entered the mess hall.

“Where have you been?” Taisiya demanded as I took my place next to her.

“I had some leave. I’ll explain later.” I couldn’t risk the entire mess hall overhearing about our elopement. “What is going on here?” Though everyone seemed to be speaking, the volume in the mess hall was about only half the usual buzz, and the tone at every table was strained.

“Katya, Germany invaded yesterday. They’ve taken Kiev already and are getting closer and closer to Moscow as we speak.”

I felt my eyes widen, looking for some sign on Taisiya’s face that it was some cruel joke, but there was no trace of irony on her face.

“What’s being done?” I asked. “Are we called up?”

“No one knows yet. It sounds like Stalin refuses to believe it’s possible. We’re all on alert. Graduation and exams are canceled. Every candidate who was passing their courses and who has their hours will get their certificate. The first- and second-years will be promoted tomorrow and continue their training. No summer leave.” At least my marriage wouldn’t have to remain a secret long. The commanders had far more pressing matters to deal with now.

“So we have our wings,” I said numbly.

“Not quite the fanfare we hoped for, is it?” she said, shaking her head.

“It never is, Taisiyushka.”

It’s not often in the weeks following an invasion that a sentimental wish comes true, but so far mine had. Vanya wasn’t called up immediately, leaving us with a few weeks to enjoy our married life. They needed troops quickly, so they called first upon the men at hand in the western cities. We spent two days near Korkino with Vanya’s parents, who made their distaste for their new daughter-in-law, so plainly from the working class, quite clear. The Solonev family had amassed a small fortune in coal mining, and while they played by the party’s rules, they were allowed to retain much of the wealth they had passed from generation to generation so long as they didn’t live lavishly or try to broker power. The trip ended with Vanya storming out of the house with me in tow, and I wasn’t sorry to end our visit.

We then took a short trip to Miass, where Mama had the chance to meet Vanya and give us her blessing. He offered her the painting he’d made in the meadow as a token of his filial love and appreciation. My mother was simultaneously overjoyed to have us home for a few days and embarrassed that she had no better home in which to welcome her new son-in-law. She knew what kind of people the Solonevs were. She’d lived among their sort in Moscow and would no longer be truly welcomed among them, save for those who remembered my father. Vanya, however, made not the slightest hint that our humble home was in any way less welcoming than the old Romanov palaces. I loved him for it. He’d immediately set about making himself useful, and was chopping wood for the kitchen fire while Mama and I busied ourselves in the house. He wasn’t used to these sorts of chores, but he performed them with enthusiasm, if not skill.

“Put the mending aside, Katinka,” Mama said, having set her own hemming aside after ten minutes of staring out the tiny, cloudy window rather than sewing. “Indulge your mama, and let me wash your hair.”

A smile tugged at my lips as I followed her to the kitchen sink, placed the back of my chair from the table against it, and tucked in my collar as Mama heated water on the stove. No matter how tired she was, how hard she worked, she always had time to wash my hair on Wednesdays and Saturdays—and long after I was old enough to do it for myself. She made a ritual of it, chatting and taking the time to massage my scalp and scrub gently. She scrimped to buy the good soap for the occasion. I always thought it was her way of apologizing for not being able to do the little motherly things she used to do before Papa was killed. But in those evenings, those long, soapy chats with Mama’s strong fingers relieving all my childish worries were worth more than all the homemade cookies and embroidered dresses that she could never provide.