Aimie Runyan - Daughters of the Night Sky

Back in the barracks I threw off my flight suit and threw myself under the covers of my bunk in my long undergarments. I knew sleep wouldn’t come, and I didn’t seek it out. I thought of the best way to return to Chelyabinsk and the flight school. How I could get word to Vanya of where I’d gone and to Mama to know to expect me. I cursed my folly for not taking my leave of service when I’d had the chance.

“I’m sorry,” Oksana said by way of greeting at the midday meal.

She sat apart from the others, as was her custom, and had gestured for me to sit across from her. I placed my tray on the table with more force than I intended but joined her all the same. She was my commanding officer, and though I was her second in command—for now—she was still my superior. I wouldn’t let my anger give anyone cause to criticize my discipline.

“I’m willing to forgive a moment of foolishness on your first sortie as my pilot,” I said. “On one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“Fly smart,” I said, picking at the grayish chicken on my plate and feeling what little appetite I had shrink further still. “It was the only promise I made my husband, and I intend to keep it.”

“Do you think the Germans are flying cautiously?” Oksana asked. “That their commanders are letting their pilots avoid risks?”

“No,” I said, looking up from the nauseating mess on my plate. “I know this is a war, Oksana. I don’t need you to patronize me. But there are lines we don’t cross. I won’t be a martyr. Don’t destroy what Sofia worked so hard to build. If you cared for her, don’t treat her memory so lightly.”

“I loved her like a sister,” Oksana said. “Don’t think for a minute that I didn’t.”

“I want my own plane. Or at least a new pilot, if you want to keep me in my place,” I said, knowing my tongue-lashing was enough to see me downgraded to an armorer. I just hoped Oksana was the judicious sort who wanted her second to speak her mind, not simper and follow.

“If that’s what you want,” she said, standing with her plate. “I need you to come into the village with me today. I have a few errands there, and I’ll need an extra pair of hands.”

“Very well,” I said, biting my tongue against a refusal.

“Meet me in fifteen minutes.” She turned on the ball of her foot without another word, passing Renata and Polina as they entered with their meals.

“It’s good to have you back,” Renata said, placing her tray next to mine. Polina sat across from Renata, eyeing the food with stoic acceptance.

“Thank you,” I said, still watching Oksana’s form shrink in the distance. I wanted to tell them I was happy to be back among them, but couldn’t voice the untruth. “How have you been managing since—”

“As well as we can,” Polina said, cutting short any bumbling euphemism I might have manufactured.

“Oksana got everyone up and flying in two days, even though she couldn’t go herself,” Renata interjected. “I think it was the best thing she could have done. To see another unit come in and support our missions would have been the worst thing for morale.”

“Too much time to think,” I said. “I had weeks of it in the convalescent hospital.”

“Too right,” Polina said. “We’ve been too busy for too long to take kindly to sitting idle.”

“We’re none of us built for it,” I said. “Do you think Oksana is doing well?”

“She’s not Sofia,” Polina said. “She doesn’t have the… I don’t know what you might call it. The confidence? The way she made us all pay attention without trying?”

“Poise,” I supplied. “Self-assurance. Sofia had those in spades.”

“That’s it,” Polina agreed. “I’m not sure Oksana needs it, though. She knows her stuff, and people respect her, even if she isn’t friendly.”

I drew my lips into a line, wondering if that was for the best. Should they be willing to follow her when she was capable of risking so much for so little?

“She knows her aircraft, and she’s a good pilot,” Renata said. “She wouldn’t put anyone in unnecessary danger. She’s worth following. It won’t be the same, though.”

“No, nothing ever is,” I said, wiping the corners of my mouth and standing to make my departure.

With two minutes to spare, I joined Oksana, who was loading a box of supplies into the back of a truck whose paint was so badly singed, it could only have been in too-close proximity to the blast of a German bomb.

I slid into the passenger side, Oksana taking her place behind the wheel. We drove into a village just outside Taman. The few remaining buildings almost seemed to quake in anticipation of the next air raid. The residents wore the gaunt, haunted look of those who had lived too long in fear. Even the lucky ones who had managed to eat well enough still bore the appearance of a people who could never rest in earnest.

Oksana pulled up to one of the largest buildings, a school by the look of it. She looked around cautiously before exiting the truck and motioning for me to join her.

Oksana whistled, and at once several children scampered from the building and threw their arms around her midsection.

A cherubic little boy missing his front teeth grinned up at her. “Have you brought us any sweets?”

“No, my darling boy. You have new teeth coming in. The sugar wouldn’t be good for them. How about some good bread and some soup?”

The children nodded enthusiastically, and she pulled the box from the back of the truck. A little girl took my hand as we entered the building that smelled strongly of gunpowder and coal. She had no idea who I was, but the uniform told her all she needed to know—I could be trusted. I was on her side.

Their teacher, a wizened old man who must have been deemed too old for service, smiled at the sight of Oksana and guided us into the school cafeteria.

“We’re glad to see you, my dear,” he said. “And you brought one of your comrades. How nice to meet you.”

“Excuse me. Captain Soloneva, meet Comrade Mishin. He looks after the children here at the school.”

“Pleased to meet you,” I said, offering the stooped man a smile and sticking out my right hand. He took it in a firm handshake, his chest puffing with pride, as though Oksana were presenting him to Stalin himself.

“Can the regiment spare all this?” he asked, his eyes widening at the box, which contained a large jug of soup and two loaves of black bread along with a handful of bandages and a few odd first-aid supplies. The food looked like just enough to give each child a few mouthfuls, though they all danced in anticipation of their warm meal. “I cannot accept your help if it will land you in trouble, my dear. I couldn’t live with myself.”

“The cook himself gave me permission to bring this to you and the children, Comrade. It’s my honor to do so.”

“You’re an angel, Major Tymoshenko,” he said, breaking the bread into portions for each child as Oksana dished up the soup into the bowls the children produced from the nearby kitchen. I looked around for an occupation and ensured each child had both clean spoons and napkins for their meal.

The children smiled up at me with dirt-streaked faces that all looked far too thin and far too wise for their years. The oldest child was not yet thirteen, the youngest still toddled, clutching the sides of benches as he learned how to navigate the expansive room. He climbed up into the lap of one of the older girls, gumming his bread in between dimpled smiles.

“The wee one looks a bit young for school,” I commented to Oksana, who had served Comrade Mishin a larger portion of soup and bread with an admonishment to eat it all so that he would be better able to keep an eye on the children. “Is he tagging along with an older sibling to stay out of his mother’s hair?”