Daughters of the Night Sky

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.