Daughters of the Night Sky(60)
I felt the truth of his words wrap around me like a shawl—one knitted just for me with the love and patience of a grandmother. Warm. A thin but comforting buffer from the outside world. I could have shuffled them off just as easily as I could my babushka’s wrap, but I let myself luxuriate in their woolen softness.
I could have argued that just because I had accomplished a good deal didn’t mean I wasn’t capable of doing more. That I was obligated to do more if I was able.
But I looked into Vanya’s eyes. The desperation there wasn’t that of a man fighting to keep his wife’s safety—he was a man fighting for his own life.
“You’ve been in service for almost two years,” he said. “Go home. Heal properly. Keep up morale at the flight school with tales of your exploits. They’ll give you your teaching post. You’d still be doing your part.”
“It wouldn’t be knitting socks,” I allowed. I’d still have to deal with chauvinist prigs like Karlov, but I had battle experience that even he couldn’t belittle now. A few letters from the right people and the job would be mine.
Vanya, knowing me as he did, saw my thoughts as clearly as though they were printed on my forehead. “You’d be invaluable to the war effort. We need well-trained, eager young pilots as much as we need food and ammunition. And you’ve been at the front. You can train them to know what to expect and how to survive better than any of the commanders in Chelyabinsk. Think of that. Saving lives before they’re even put at risk.”
“I’ll consider it,” I said at length. “I can’t imagine leaving the girls behind. Not now. We just lost our commander and three other pilots and two navigators besides.”
“Take your time,” he said, kissing the side of my face. “You’re not up to travel just yet. I know what your loyalty is. I’ve made my wishes known, and what I can only expect are your mother’s as well. I trust you to make up your own mind.”
“Thank you, my love.”
“God, what I wouldn’t give for a month alone with you. A week isn’t enough.”
“I’m grateful for it,” I said, stroking the stubble of his chin. “It was even worth this to have you close.” I pointed to my side with a wink.
“What a world where a wife must take a side full of shrapnel to spend a few measly days with her husband in a crumbling hospital.” Vanya shook his head, looking out over the grounds instead of at me.
“It’s the world we’ve got. Don’t disparage it.” I gestured to the white bricks and once-stately staircase into the main entrance. “And how dare you call our honeymoon castle a ‘crumbling hospital’? It’s sheer ingratitude.”
Vanya chuckled and wrapped his arm around me as we enjoyed our few hours in the early-August sun.
When it was time for dinner, the cooks begrudgingly served a ration to Vanya, though he was clearly well enough to be at the front. As we sat at the long tables, Vanya made conversation with a young lieutenant who had a badly broken leg but who bore his injury with remarkable cheer. As long as his leg was in plaster, he was safely ensconced here with palatable food and kilometers away from artillery fire.
The post came around as we ate. A courier—a young soldier with a missing foot who hobbled admirably on his crutch and took visible pride in his proficiency—placed a telegraph beside my plate. While Vanya was deep in conversation on the Russian progress westward, I opened the folded missive:
Hoping for your quick recovery and return to your post. Your position as my deputy commander awaits you.
~Major O. Tymoshenko
Oksana had assumed her position and was already going about the business of making the regiment her own. Sofia had groomed her for the job for over a year, and I was confident, from a tactical standpoint, she was the best choice to lead the women into battle. Whether she could bolster their morale in hard times, whether she could light a fire in their souls in the gloom of winter, was less certain in my mind.
I glanced over at my husband, who cast a sideways smile and squeezed my knee as he continued his chatter about Crimea and Poland. The telegraph shook in my hands, the waxy paper rattling, all but screaming its contents to the bustling room. I shoved it hastily in my pocket to silence it. I took Vanya’s hand for one second and brushed my lips against the warm skin of the back of his hand.
To wake up in Vanya’s arms seemed a luxury that ought to be denied in the midst of a terrible war. My sisters in arms sweltered in their tents and fought clouds of mosquitos, aching for a few precious moments of rest. His perfume, an earnest musk he could never quite scrub off that was tinged with the motor oil of his aircraft, seemed too decadent for a world torn in two.
Lie still and enjoy your husband. Lie still.
The mantra repeated over and over in my head, but the urge to get up and find an occupation of some kind gnawed at me. Oksana’s telegram was tucked in my notebook in the nightstand drawer and seemed to taunt me, resentful of being hidden away.
She needs you. They need you. Don’t run away, coward.
“You’re not resting,” Vanya mumbled as he entered consciousness.
“Sorry, my love,” I whispered. “It’s not exactly my strong suit anymore.”
“I know.” He heaved a short, weary sigh. “It’s not mine, either.”
I sat up, vertebra by vertebra, respecting my tender side. Our little stroll was enough to show me how much healing was left to do.