Daughters of the Night Sky, page 28
“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.”
“I don’t know how long I will be able to stay,” I admitted. I thought of the specter of Vanya that permeated his room like smoke, and knew it wouldn’t be long.
“We know how hard it must be right now. Everything is so unsettled for you,” Natalia said. “You can stay here to find your feet. And when the time comes, we can help you find another young man from a good family. Vanya wouldn’t want you to be lonely forever.”
I flinched, feeling the blood drain from my face.
“Not right away,” she pressed.
“The local officials have been speaking of this,” Antonin interjected. “Our young women will need to do their part to replace our fallen soldiers. Young men will not be in great supply, and we can help make sure you find a good match.”
“I appreciate your concern,” I said. “It’s a lot to think about.”
“Of course,” Natalia said. “You’re a beautiful young woman. You have time to sort things out. We’re in no rush to see you leave.”
“You’re very kind,” I said, pushing the food around on my plate. Their son is dead only a few months, and they’re marrying his widow off. Oh, my Vanya, how could you have come from such people?
“We want you to feel like the daughter of this house,” Antonin urged. “We will provide for you just as Vanya would have us do.”
“There is something,” I said, setting my fork down and bringing my eyes to his. “I would like to take one of my fallen sisters’ medals and personal effects to her family in France. She doesn’t have any family left here. Would you be able to help me arrange for the papers?”
“Things are in a bit of disarray, but I’ll see what I can do,” Antonin said, stabbing a chunk of beef and looking thoughtfully past me, mentally tracing the lines of red tape he would have to maneuver to procure the papers.
“You shouldn’t go alone, my dear,” Natalia said. “It’s so far.”
“I think I can manage,” I said, failing to keep the disdain from my voice. It doesn’t matter how many medals I have on my chest, how many bombs I dropped on the heads of the German army. Because I am a woman, I must be protected.
Antonin looked at me indulgently and shot his wife a silencing look. “We’ll see what can be done in the next week or so, dear,” he said. “It is right for you to pay respect to your comrade’s family. And when you return, you can give more thought to your plans.”
Plans. Russia needed to be rebuilt, and I needed to find my place in this new world.
After luncheon Natalia showed me the press clippings she’d collected of Vanya’s accomplishments in the war. She’d even gathered a few of mine, though each entry for me was put in as E. Solonev. The reader would read of what I’d done and imagine an Erik or Eduard Solonev, fighting bravely for the Red Army. Any mention of Ekaterina Soloneva was relegated to the few articles in women’s magazines they’d used to drum up patriotic fervor among the idle peasant women in the east. Surely if this woman can fly a plane, you can work in a factory for the glory of the motherland.
I never wanted to be a show pony for the army, but it was clear the opposite was the case. I didn’t need to see my face in all the papers or my name on every page, but they minimized all we’d done. As I read my mother-in-law’s papers, it seemed the contribution of the women in mixed regiments was almost entirely ignored. My own regiment had a few mentions, but nothing like the male regiments, who had achieved half as much. When the women were released from duty, we were expelled from the military altogether in most cases. They wanted to pretend they’d never needed us. How I wished that had been true. Fine thanks for our sacrifice from a grateful nation.
Perhaps Oksana was more noble than I was. She had wanted to do her part to rebuild the country and see it thrive again. I felt no guilt in leaving that task to others who had not already paid the same price we had. It seemed just.
Later I wandered about the house, looking idly at the impressive collection of books, wishing any one of them held the answer to what path I ought to take. I removed a dusty tome from the shelf. An antique atlas. Some of the countries pictured in it no longer existed; others were yet to be formed when the maps were printed. Even now borders were being erased and redrawn. Men like Hitler and Stalin had great plans to conquer the world and divide it up for their own purposes. The rest of us merely longed for our place in it.
CHAPTER 28
May 1946, Aix-en-Provence, France
Over the course of a week, I saw what remained of Europe. Western Russia, Belarus, and Ukraine were starved and gray, but rebuilding. Poland, Germany, and Austria were attempting to emerge from the cinders. When we descended into what had been the “free zone” in France, we seemed to be entering a different world. There were patches of damage from Allied bombs, but the cities remained mostly intact. The vibrant blue of the sky seemed something from an artist’s palette instead of something born of nature.
The train rattled into the station in Aix-en-Provence. Before it came to a complete stop, I had gathered my worn suitcase and was standing by the exit, waiting for the conductor to open the door to the platform. Though the chill of spring had yet to give way to summer in Moscow, I was warm as the southern French sun caressed my bare arms. I wore the simple turquoise dress that had belonged to Mama, remembering the day in the lush meadow when Vanya had painted my likeness. The ache in my heart reassured me he was still there.
In addition to travel papers, Antonin had verified the address of Oksana’s family and that they had, in fact, survived the war. I would have gone to find them even without the information, but now that the long journey was behind me, I was glad I would not have long days—possibly even weeks—ahead of me to track them down, nor did I have to worry that the trek had been in vain.
I clutched the paper with the directions to their home, a small villa on the outskirts of town. I’d been told I would be able to hire a car to take me as far as their house, but I’d spent too much time cooped up in trains to be able to contemplate entering another vehicle. A few kilometers by foot in shoes that weren’t four sizes too large and on a road that wouldn’t have me ankle-deep in mud seemed as close to paradise as I could dream.
As I strolled down the streets, some of the shops shuttered and cafés nearly empty, I could still easily imagine the city in its prewar glory. The residents glanced sideways at me with downcast eyes, suspicious of those they didn’t know. I considered smiling at them to ease their disquiet but wondered if the gesture might make me seem even more suspicious in their eyes. I decided to let them find their trust in their own time.
It was less than two hours before I found the little villa belonging to Oksana’s mother’s family, the Lacombes. The sun hung low in the sky and haloed the house in the vivid orange glow that could only come from a late-spring sunset. It was an inviting home, painted a buttery yellow with rust-colored shutters. Two small children played in the garden while a woman in her late forties plucked stray weeds from her impeccable garden. I could see Oksana’s high cheekbones and large eyes on the woman’s face. It had to be her mother’s sister. A man, presumably Oksana’s uncle, repaired loose terra-cotta tiles on the roof.
I stood for a moment, not wanting to call attention to myself and shatter this vision of domestic tranquility. It wasn’t more than a few seconds before the older child, a boy with thick brown curls who was perhaps five or six years old, noticed me standing at the garden gate.
“Grand-mère! There is a lady!” He pointed his spindly finger in my direction, and she raised her head to assess me.
“Who are you?” she asked, wiping her hands on her apron and approaching the gate but not offering me a hand to shake. Her lips were drawn in a line, and she looked at me as if I were the tenth salesman standing with a long line winding behind me, all ready to peddle our shoddy wares. The man climbed down the ladder and jogged to his wife’s side, his expression even less welcoming than hers.
“I was a friend of Oksana Tymoshenko. I believe she was your niece?” I hadn’t used my French since before the war but thought I found the words well enough, even if my accent was clumsy.
The woman fumbled to open the gate and escorted me into the house, muttering apologies for the cold greeting and performing hurried introductions. Her name was Eliane; her husband was Marcel. The children, Didier and Violaine, belonged to their son, Philippe—Oksana’s only cousin—who spent his days rebuilding the vineyard now that he was returned from the war. Eliane explained in whispered tones that her daughter-in-law had fallen ill after the occupation, and with medical supplies so scarce, she had not recovered. Eliane ran off to brew coffee, ordering her husband to make me feel welcome. Flustered, he offered me a chair at their large kitchen table and commanded the children to play upstairs.
“How do you know our Oksana?” Eliane asked, placing a mug of coffee before me, the steam rising from the cup in thick spires. Before I could answer, Philippe, a towering man with tanned olive skin and black curls, entered the room. He was covered in a good amount of dirt and was clearly surprised to find a guest at the table.
“I was Oksana’s navigator in the war,” I explained as Eliane placed a mug before her son, kissing his temple before she took her seat.
“Navigator?” Marcel asked. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Oksana was a pilot, and the commander of our regiment for many months. I had the honor to serve with her for nearly three years. I was with her when she died.” I didn’t tell the full truth, that she had ordered me from the cave and had died alone and at her own hand, but they deserved the comfort of knowing she had been with a friend in her final moments. Not for the first time did I wish I’d ignored Oksana’s orders and held her hand in her last moments. I would have likely suffered no worse than my day’s trek in the woods, and I would have been able to look at her aunt without hating myself for the half-truths I told.
I opened my small suitcase and removed her medals along with the rest of her personal effects. I took her Hero of the Soviet Union medal in both hands and presented the small gold star to her aunt.
“It was her last wish that I give this to you,” I said, speaking as though this were an official presentation. It should have been. “She spoke so fondly of her time with you, and I know she wanted you to remember her and know that she died a hero’s death in service to her country.”
“She was lucky to have a friend willing to travel such a long way for our sake,” Philippe said, taking the star from his mother to give it a closer inspection before passing it to his father. “I remember her visit very clearly. Her French was terrible, and she didn’t like having her hair pulled. I have a few scars to prove it.” He smiled slightly as he recalled the memory, faded at the edges like an old photograph. He had a kind smile the war hadn’t been able to erase. Despite his losses, he was a fortunate man to have retained this.
“I couldn’t trust the postal service to get them to you in times such as these,” I said, fidgeting with the mug handle. “And she was a very dear friend. I know she would have done the same and more for me.”
“God bless you, my dear,” Eliane said, taking my hand. “It’s a joy to know there are still good people in this world.”
“She was a far better person than I,” I deflected. “She dreamed of coming here and building a life after the war. I’m only sorry that never came to pass.”
Eliane unrolled Yana’s drawing, which depicted Oksana so lovingly. Seeing it in the flood of evening light that poured in the large windows, I now saw that it didn’t depict Oksana as she was, but who she could have been in a kinder world. The world she deserved. Eliane sniffled, batting away tears as she studied the sketch.
“It would mean a great deal to me if you would hang this in your home,” I said. “Her friend Yana drew this. Oksana wanted to bring her to the land of Cézanne to perfect her skills. At least now a part of her will always be here.”
“You have my word,” Philippe said. “I’ll frame it myself and hang it over the mantelpiece. It will be a testament to happier times and a tribute to her bravery. Thank you for bringing this to us.”
“Thank you,” I said, reaching over to squeeze his hand, though I hardly knew this man. “Today I feel as though my war has ended.”
EPILOGUE
May 9, 1992, Moscow, Russia
“Grand-mère! I can see spires!” my namesake, little Catherine, squeaked at me, grabbing my hand as we crossed Red Square. Saint Basil’s loomed before us, its jewel-toned peaks brighter than I remembered. “They do look like giant onions!”
“Be careful with Grand-mère. She can’t run as fast as you,” chided Roxanne as she struggled to keep baby Michel tucked safely in her arms. For a boy of two, he could discover more trouble in three minutes than most of us did in a lifetime. I did not envy my daughter the task of raising him, but she had far more patience with her little ones than I could have ever mustered.
Philippe quickened his pace and laced his fingers in mine. His grip on my hand had warmed me from within as I’d walked streets that seemed at once familiar and foreign. At times it still seemed strange to rely on another for strength, as I had never been able to do with Vanya. Philippe calmed my fears when my nightmares woke me, even years after the war. He was the only one I ever confessed to about our near escape into Turkey, and tried to assuage the guilt I still felt on occasion. He endeavored to understand when I wept for Vanya. He had held me tight when the Iron Curtain kept me from my mother’s side fifteen years before, when she lost her battle with cancer. Only in his arms was I able to let my tears flow as the last tie I had to my homeland dissolved.
Mama had been heartbroken at my decision to stay in France, and I was equally devastated when my return home became impossible a few short years after Philippe convinced me to stay in Aix. I would likely been branded a traitor, and would never have been allowed to return to France. On the day Mama died, Philippe promised me that he would bring all of us to Moscow one day to pay our respects. On the very day the Soviet Union dissolved, he purchased the tickets for the entire family. He did arrange for the trip to take place in warm weather, for despite having the warmest of hearts, his seventy-six-year-old bones were none too fond of winter. I don’t think it was a coincidence that he planned the trip to coincide with the annual Victory Day celebrations. It was the sort of thing I would have tried to avoid, and only he would know the seed of regret I would have harbored for having done so. Though I never lost my love of the open sky and taught at an aviation academy for several years, I found that I was a bird who had found her nest and was contented enough to roost there.
I loved Philippe’s motherless children as my own. Violaine walked with her husband, Georges, a few paces behind us as we crossed Red Square. Didier chatted companionably with his brother-in-law. I had given Philippe two more daughters: Roxanne, named for Oksana, and Thérèse, named for Taisiya. Philippe had been willing to give them Russian names, but I wanted them to be wholly part of their father’s culture.
While Philippe crafted his wines, I built the business that made it a viable enterprise. We rebuilt the Lacombe vineyard into something worthwhile, and Philippe passed it on to his son and sons-in-law two years before with the pride of having created a legacy to pass on to his family. Thérèse, who had inherited my mind for figures and her father’s charms, took my place running the business end of things and was already expanding the enterprise far beyond my own considerable ambitions. One day in the coming years, they would also inherit the little yellow villa with the terra-cotta shutters and the sweet drawing of a girl from Kiev over the fireplace, but it would be our home—Philippe’s and mine—for as long as we could manage it.
