Daughters of the Night Sky(92)

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!”