Daughters of the Night Sky(25)
“I’m not sure how much they’d appreciate it, coming from us,” Taisiya said. “I hope they know we do wish them well, though.”
I remembered the metallic taste of burning jealousy in my mouth every time I was passed over for a less deserving male classmate at the academy. Our silence and good wishes were the greatest kindnesses we could offer.
The regular barracks were not unlike those at the academy, though not as new and sleek. It would be cold in the winter and stifling in the summer, but none of us had any delusions of luxury, or even comfort, as we enlisted. There was an air of giddiness in the room that night, relief at being selected to serve, but no burden of duty yet placed on our shoulders.
“Tomorrow we train; tonight we celebrate. Une petite gorgée de champagne, mes chères amies? ” A little brown pixie of a woman named Irina floated about the bunkroom serving us cheap sparkling wine in tin cups she’d commandeered from the mess hall when the cook and his staff were occupied with cards.
“Bien s?r,” I answered, accepting a cup of the bubbling wine. It smelled sour compared to the wine I’d shared with Vanya, with its clean notes of citrus and perfectly toasted bread that had heightened our palates to a new plane of existence for a few fleeting moments. The best I could say for Irina’s offering was that the effervescence was festive and fitting for the general mood in the barracks.
“To my father,” said Irina, wearing a smug smile and raising her glass high, “who said Comrade Stalin would never allow women to fly for his country.” We lifted ours in answer and let the bubbles trickle down our throats.
A tall blonde named Lada raised her glass, the defiance plain on her angular face. “To my mother, who said I’d never pass muster at the aviation club and told me to look for a nice boy instead.”
“To my brothers,” Svetlana, a mechanic from Stavropol offered, “who never told on me for borrowing their old trousers so I could play with them like the other boys.”
“To my mother, who never told me I couldn’t do this or anything else,” I said, holding my glass high, not bothering to hide the glistening tears that menaced in the corners of my eyes. “And my husband, who didn’t stop me from trying even though he would have traded his own teeth for me to stay home.”
“Hear, hear,” a few of them said, drinking deeply.
The stories continued for over an hour. We all had someone to thank—either for their support or for exasperating us into success with their doubts. We settled onto bunks, sitting cross-legged, three to a bed on top of the covers. Irina was from Stalingrad. Lada from Minsk. We came from every corner of the country, our families from every kind of circumstance.
“You all ought to get some sleep,” a waif of a woman, Oksana, bade us all. She had sharp features and a perpetually unhappy look about her. “Never forget there are several hundred women who would be happy to take our places.”
“No need to be a spoilsport,” Irina chastised. “We’re entitled to a little fun before training, aren’t we?”
“Do you think this is cause to celebrate?” Oksana asked. “Any of this? The women who were denied their place? The men at the front dying in droves for a few meters of land?”
“We worked hard to get here,” Irina insisted. “I don’t see what the harm is.”
“And I don’t see what the cause is for cheer,” Oksana countered.
“I think you’ve made your point,” I said, stepping between them. I stood a full head taller than either woman. My eyes met Oksana’s icy-blue stare, and she turned on the ball of her foot, stalking back to her bunk.
“Well, isn’t she a box of kittens,” Irina muttered as she downed the remains of her champagne and began collecting the tin cups on the ill-gotten tray from the mess hall.
“She’s one of the best pilots to come out of Kiev in the past five years,” Taisiya said in a quiet voice. “And Orlova knows it. I’d stay on her good side if I were you.”
Irina bit back a reply, expelling a resigned sigh. Though Oksana had effectively ended the party, she hadn’t quashed the buoyant atmosphere in the barracks. Whispers continued long into the night. Most of us were still in the shallowest stages of sleep when distant blasts sounded and the screech of sirens pierced the night air.
“Get up, ladies!” a commanding bark came from the door. Major Orlova stood at the entryway to the barracks. “Get dressed, grab your duffels, and leave by the east door. Do not run, or I will send you home myself.”
Silent panic painted the faces of my new comrades in arms, and I was sure it was mirrored on my own. I threw my coat over my pajamas—army-issued long underwear now, having forsaken the soft flannel back in Miass—and donned my clumsy boots, cursing each second it took to lace them. I tossed my duffel over one shoulder and gripped Papa’s violin in the other hand. I now questioned how wise it had been to bring the instrument with me, but I couldn’t bring myself to part with it when I left home. I exited the barracks to find panicked-looking officers lamely watching the legions of German aircraft approaching from the west, illumined by searchlights that scanned the sky over the city.
We stood, just as dumbstruck as they for a moment, as the reality washed over us like the frigid waters of high tide.
The Germans had reached the capital. We were going to lose Moscow.