Daughters of the Night Sky

“Comrade Stalin rarely speaks a word he doesn’t mean,” Sofia answered matter-of-factly. “But don’t let the directive make you uneasy. You’re all volunteers. There won’t be gunmen behind us to keep us in line.”

Renata spoke up from the back of the formation, where the armorers stood. “But what about our husbands and brothers on the ground?”

Sofia’s serene countenance faltered as she considered the question. It wasn’t our own necks we worried about. It was never about that—at least, never entirely.

“We have trained and flown together for months now, ladies. If your men possess a fraction of the bravery you have shown, I wouldn’t fear for them.” I could see the truth in Sofia’s blue eyes. She believed what she said, which counted for something.

We were dismissed, but none of us were quick to scatter back to our huts and farms for a bit of rest. Stalin’s words had shaken us too badly for real rest; what we wanted was the camaraderie of our sisters.

It was no afternoon for tunes on my creaky violin or for songs no one wanted to sing. It was no time for poetry or literature, either. I thought of the tools in my arsenal and found the sack where I kept my personal supplies. I removed my comb, pins, and the bright-red pencil that navigators used to mark their maps.

My hair had grown a few centimeters since they cropped it in Engels, and it now fell nearly to my collar, past the awkward length when it grew past the ear but too short to pull back properly.

I poured a cup of water and took small sections of my hair with a wetted comb, pinning them up all over my head.

“What on earth are you doing?” Polina asked.

“What does it look like?” I responded, pinning the last tendril up on top of my head to curl. I looked at my reflection in the mirror and traced the contour of my lips with the red, waxy navigator’s pencil, then filled them in with color. I hadn’t bothered with lipstick since the war broke out, and not often before, but Mama had always said that bad times were easier to endure with a pretty face and nice clothes. I couldn’t do anything about my uniform, but I could do the best with what I had.

“My Vanya will be here to collect me soon,” I said. “Your sweethearts, too. I think it’s best to look like we expect them home any moment.”

I did my best to keep up my cheerful facade for the girls. I never appeared outside the barracks without hair curled and color on my face. They began to pay more attention to their appearance as well, no longer bemoaning the loss of their long locks. I don’t know if they thought my efforts were sincere or bravado, but I felt it did a fair amount to help morale.

The improved mood made me smile. We took pains to alter our uniforms to fit better, the skilled seamstresses of the group being called upon to help those of us with less ability.

“You have a waist,” Taisiya commented as I appeared in my newly tailored uniform jacket. “Much better.”

“No woman wants to look like a rectangle,” I said, examining myself in the mirror and smoothing the fabric against my silhouette. It was a relief to wear my belt normally and not as a cinch that bound the excess fabric in clumps at my midsection, lest the ridiculous trousers fall in a green puddle at my feet.

“Too right,” she agreed, admiring her own form, looking kilos thinner and much more like a proper soldier in a uniform that suited her frame.

Oksana, assuming more duties as Sofia’s deputy, inspected our handiwork and nodded with approval. “You didn’t suit the uniforms, so you made them suit you.” The turn of phrase was telling. The Russian army had one uniform, made like cakes from a mold, each identical to the other. They were meant for one type of soldier—and there was no mistaking that we didn’t fit that mold. “Svetlana, what have you done to your collar?”

“I made a new one from some of the fur from my boots, Captain,” she answered, petting it absently. “I think it’s becoming.”

“I won’t deny that, but it’s not regulation. It’s one thing to make your uniforms fit you properly, quite another to alter them from standard issue. You’ll fix it at the next opportunity and not pull such a stunt again. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Captain.” She unbuttoned her jacket immediately and had her seam-ripper in hand before Oksana exited the barracks. Svetlana muttered under her breath, but I couldn’t fault Oksana’s reprimand. Those new to military life would not be well served by a gentle hand.

As we took to our planes that night, charged with bombing tanks as they advanced east, the evening air scratched at my throat. The west was on fire. There would be no way to harvest the crops as the Germans advanced, so the farmers and soldiers burned their wheat rather than let it fall into enemy hands.

I felt a wet warmth against my windblown face as we approached our targets. Tears streamed down, and I didn’t bother to stem the tide.

Russia was burning.