Aimie Runyan - Daughters of the Night Sky

August 20, 1945

The celebration shook Moscow with a jolt nearly the equal of the bombs that had cascaded down on her four years earlier. Ten Polikarpovs—one piloted by Polina and navigated by Renata—flew overhead, overshadowed by the massive bombers and sleek fighters. I’d been asked, as the commanding officer of the regiment, to lead the honor guard, but ceded my place so that Renata and Polina could go up together. Polina never got her chance to pilot her own plane during the war, and though she never complained, I knew she was happy for the chance to take command.

There had been victory parades before now, but more soldiers and pilots were home to be recognized for their service. There wasn’t the pomp of the rain-sodden parade several weeks prior, where our soldiers tossed fallen German standards at Comrade Stalin’s feet. This was a true celebration of the people and the soldiers who had defended them.

Mama and Grigory joined me in Red Square to take part in the revelry. Both seemed happy to see me out among the living. I was spending less and less time in the apartment, and I let them think it was because I was faring well enough to be out among people. The truth is that I spent most of my time trying to find some escape. I’d taken the initiative to inquire about a university course. I’d spent hours in libraries, even in the neighborhood church, to see if I might find some comfort in Renata’s faith. I’d rather have been nearly anywhere else than the pulsing square that crackled with the energy of a people too long denied a reason to celebrate, but I knew Mama, and especially Grigory, were anxious to join in the excitement.

Even after darkness fell, the lights strobed over the square so brightly it might have been day. I trembled, trying not to think of the German searchlights that had so often spelled our doom.

Do not cower. They’re fireworks. Amusement fit for children. Do not cower.

“You look pale, Katinka.” Concern was etched upon Mama’s brow. “Do we need to go home?”

I shook my head and forced my attention to the podium, where party leaders shouted and congratulated themselves on the victory, as though it had been done at their hands alone. As though millions of soldiers hadn’t paid their pound of flesh to defeat the German army.

“You need only say the word, my dear, and we can find our way out of this mob.” Grigory smiled at me over my mother’s head. He was a soldier, too, and knew something of what I was experiencing.

“I’ll be fine,” I assured them, taking Mama’s free hand in my own. Grigory had long since claimed the other.

The red, gold, and green flashes of light scarred the night sky. Today we celebrated our victory with the naive certainty that such horror would never be seen again. We’d thought the same thing a generation before when we closed the chapter on the last atrocity that had ripped the world apart. The war in the Pacific was boiling to its conclusion. The Americans had destroyed two Japanese cities to end it, and I remembered Oksana’s similar justification for her tactics: the longer the war dragged on, the longer the innocent would suffer.

We were disbanded officially in October. My commanding officer gathered us all in a great assembly room in the Kremlin to present us with the medals we had earned since the last time they had been able to attend to such matters. A gold star dangling from a red ribbon was attached to my jacket. Hero of the Soviet Union. There were twenty-four of us granted this highest honor. It was conferred upon both Oksana and Taisiya posthumously, and I accepted on their behalf as the commanding officer and their navigator. I would take Taisiya’s medals back to her family, perhaps taking the time to honor my promise and see Vanya’s parents, and to see Chelyabinsk and the academy one more time. I couldn’t imagine there being many more occasions to travel that far east again.

“You will take care of yourselves,” I said to Renata and Polina, who wore their medals on chests puffed with well-deserved pride. “It’s my last order to you as your commanding officer.”

“Of course, Major,” Renata said with a crisp salute. “So long as you promise to do the same.”

“I’ll do my best,” I answered softly, not knowing what that might look like after the months of putting their well-being before my own. “And you take care of your Andrei, too, Polina.”

“I will,” she said with a smile. She was married already, just as I had predicted, but enrolling at the university, too. Andrei had secured a job in Moscow, and they would make their lives there. A life in the capital suited them both.

“The quiet is strange, isn’t it?” Renata said. “I didn’t expect it.”

“Deafening,” I agreed. “Unless I’m out on the streets at the busiest time of day, everything seems too quiet. Too slow.” No artillery fire. No roar of the Polikarpov. No din of chatter at every meal. I was glad to not be alone with this thought.

“We’ll adjust,” Polina said in an unusual show of optimism. “It’s what we do best.”

I embraced these dear women, confident in the knowledge that Polina spoke the truth.

The image of Oksana fading in my arms loomed in my mind, her skin growing ashen and cold. “Can you take word to my family in Aix? I want them to remember me.”

It was another wartime promise I could keep, though it would be a great deal harder than a train trip east or a dozen small cakes for hungry children. The remainder of her family was in Aix-en-Provence, which might as well be on the other side of the globe. I would need funds and visas that were both hard to obtain as the country rebuilt itself.

I had promised to inform her family. I had promised to give them Yana’s drawing and to ask them to remember her. To entrust her personal effects to the post seemed both foolish and cruel to her family.

I would have to find a way to fulfill my promise in person.

Vanya’s childhood room still smelled of the innocence of youth—the scent of pine from his bureau, pencil shavings, and books. Even a lingering whiff of chalk on the slate from his school days mingled with the dust particles in the air. His paintings and sketches, ranging from the childish to the masterful, still papered the walls. His favorite books lined his shelf, organized by title, diligently as any librarian. On his little desk was a small toy airplane, not unlike my beloved Polikarpov.

Antonin Solonev had the same ruddy face and walrus mustache as when we had met during the first days of the war, but his eyes looked decades older. Decades sadder. In the depth of his dark eyes, so much like his son’s, I saw proof of Natalia’s words. He had loved his son dearly, and Vanya’s death gnawed at him like an unrelenting cancer.

“I am more glad than I can say that you’ve come to stay with us, my dear,” he said as we sat down to the table. It was laden with good food—beef and vegetables far beyond what Mama was able to procure in Moscow. The farms to the east hadn’t been destroyed in battle or were not as depleted in the service of the army as the ones in the west.

“I’m honored that you’ve asked me, Comrade Solonev,” I said, unable to forget the cold manner of our last meeting.

“My dear, please call me Antonin. I trust you’ll find your room comfortable.”

“I’m sure I will.”

“It is my hope that your stay will be of some duration,” Antonin said, patting my hand. “Natalia enjoys having another chick in her nest.”