Daughters of the Night Sky

I plagued Mama all summer until courses resumed, and in an act of utter capitulation, she spoke to Oleg Dokorov. The schoolteacher was a tall man, with a long, pointed nose. His greasy black hair and yellowed teeth repulsed me, but Mama insisted that I always treat him with the respect his position commanded. Mama addressed him firmly, but respectfully, in front of the entire class before lessons began on the first day of school. I stood a pace behind her, my clasped hands shaking behind my back. If he refused her, I would never fly. Most of my classmates were boys, as many families in the area still chose to teach their daughters at home. This largely meant the girls were taught enough reading and arithmetic to do the marketing and keep the family accounts in order, and little else. In Moscow, girls had to go to school along with the boys, but no one paid attention to us here. The presence of a handful of girls was accepted because people assumed our mothers needed a place for us to stay while they worked. It wasn’t entirely untrue.

“Comrade Dokorov, I insist you provide my daughter with the same lessons as you give the boys,” Mama said, placing my primer from the previous year with a thud on his polished desk. “I have no wish for my daughter to be reading these fairy stories when she should be learning geometry and physics.” She stood tall and wore her best dress, which was no high compliment to the worn frock.

“Comrade Ivanova,” he replied, “you have not had training in education. I must insist that you leave the classroom and let me begin the school year without further disruption.” He stood to his full height, as though to intimidate Mama into hasty retreat to the laundry. He clearly had never had extensive dealings with my mother.

“I’m afraid you misunderstand me. This was not a request. I may not be a trained teacher, but I am an educated woman. My husband, a loyal and true patriot of this country and decorated hero of the European War, was an honored professor. I will not see his daughter given a second-rate education by the likes of you. You will teach my daughter, and the rest of the girls, the same material as the boys, or I will speak to the party officials. Do I make myself plain?”

“I hardly think it’s appropriate—”

“But Comrade Stalin does, Comrade Dokorov. Your quarrel is with him, not with me. Nor is it with my daughter or any other member of this class. Know that I am a woman who makes good on her promises. Good day.”

My mother turned heel and exited the classroom without a word to me. I was grateful, at least, that she hadn’t given me a parting kiss or any sort of endearment. I would never have lived down the shame. It wasn’t her usual practice, anyway.

“Well, Ekaterina Timofeyevna. It seems your mother wants you educated like the boys. Is that right?” His lips curled into a sneer around his putrid, yellow teeth as he addressed me with mock formality. I wasn’t aware he’d even known my father’s name to address me by my patronymic.

“Yes, Comrade Dokorov. I wish to be a pilot. For this, Mama says I will need a proper education.” I tried to summon my mother’s moxie and succeeded in not running from the room in tears. It was victory enough.

“She is not wrong about that. But it is hardly a profession for a woman. Russia needs women to build families. Aviation is a man’s field.” He spoke as though he made the final pronouncement on my career path. The matter dismissed in his mind, he placed my antiquated primer back on my desk and returned to the blackboard.

“I disagree.” My tone was hardly louder than a whisper, but the boys on either side of me sucked in their breath. This would mean the strap, if I were lucky.

“What was that, Ekaterina?” The teacher turned around, slowly, giving me time to retract my words.

“I disagree, Comrade Dokorov. With respect.” I had found my voice—a reedier version of my father’s baritone—and it did not waver. I stood straighter and jutted my chin in his direction.

He walked back to my desk, took the primer, and fixed me with his black eyes. “Very well, young lady. But if you waste my time on a whim, I will be sorely disappointed.” He took the book, placed it on a shelf with dozens of other dusty volumes, and began his lesson.

I pulled my notebook and my father’s favorite fountain pen—simple and sturdy, like him—from the worn leather bag he had used for carrying students’ papers to and from the university each day. The pen was handcrafted from wood—rosewood, he had guessed. It was a gift from one of his professor friends, and a token he was quite fond of. I loved using it and had even had one of the craftsmen in town teach me how to fashion new nibs from steel scraps in exchange for running a few errands.