Daughters of the Night Sky(93)

“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.

Now, on Red Square, the parade in honor of the anniversary of the end of the war was just beginning, and the children watched the spectacle with glee. Seven grandchildren in all, and another on the way. We watched the colorful display, and I rested my head against Philippe’s chest. He bent his head to kiss the top of mine. My red hair had become streaked with white, and the mirror reflected a woman who had seen both hardship and joy in equal measure. I loved each crease, for they had been hard won.

I sighed at the crisp uniforms as the veterans marched by to the lusty cheers of the crowd. It seemed only moments before that I had pulled up the oversized trousers and ridiculous boots, trying to make myself fit for inspection.

The crowd was young, and I wondered how different it would be if the war had been lost. If the war had never been fought. The children who hadn’t been born, the children who wouldn’t have been if things had gone differently.

I thought of Sofia and her graceful courage.

I thought of Taisiya and her brilliance and dedication.

I thought of Oksana and her tenacity and unwavering composure.

And I thought of my Vanya, who had the eyes of an artist and the heart of a poet.

They should have been with us to celebrate the victory they had willingly given their lives to ensure.

As I scanned the faces of the crowd and my own family, I wondered why I had been so fortunate. Why I had been given the chance at life—albeit one so very different from the one I envisioned—when my dearest friends and my first husband, the love of my girlhood, had not.

“Are you tired?” Philippe whispered in my ear. “We can go back to the hotel and let the others enjoy the festivities on their own.”

“No, my darling. I don’t want to leave just yet.” I squeezed his hand and looked forward onto the square.

As we strolled we came upon a gathering of veterans who had assembled in a nearby park, singing joyful songs of victory or talking quietly among themselves, reminiscing about their near misses and life on the front lines.

I found myself drawn to a chorus of perhaps a dozen female voices in one corner. They sang loudly in voices young and strong, despite the ages of the women who produced them. For the first time in decades, I wished I had my father’s violin to accompany them, but knew my feeble hands would botch the job. I gave Philippe’s hand a squeeze and left him to walk over to them and join my own wavering voice to their song.