Daughters of the Night Sky

“It reminds us of who we were,” I said, painfully aware of the past tense. Would we be those young girls again—perhaps not carefree and giddy, but at least living our lives in relative calm and safety? The unasked question hung in the air like Polina’s overly sweet perfume that she’d refused to leave behind, and of which she seemed to have an inexhaustible supply.

“Maybe,” she said noncommittally. “My best friend, Yana, was far more fond of curls, dresses, and shoes than I. I was the tomboy. I let her dress me and do my hair when there was an occasion, but I spent most of my time in boy’s trousers and plain shirts with my hair pulled back with a leather string. It horrified my mother and amused my father.”

I chuckled at the admission but didn’t want to draw too much attention to myself. It was the first time I’d heard her say more than one sentence that had nothing to do with aircraft, orders, or a mission.

“I’m sure Yana enjoyed it,” I said after a moment. “No doubt she’ll want to dress you like a girl for months after all this time in uniform.”

“There will be more important things to do after the war,” she said, her voice mirroring her cold tone. “Rebuilding our country, for one.”

I thought of the burning fields of wheat. Who knew what damage was done to the soil by the fires, the shrapnel, the land mines? The land might not grow proper crops for years. This was to say nothing of the decimated roads and bombed-out buildings. Even with manpower and supplies in abundance, rebuilding Russia would be the task of generations, and the war showed no signs of slowing.

“But it will be a country free from tyranny,” I said, thinking of the rumors of Hitler’s cruelty. “Better to rebuild than to have left the motherland intact and hand it over to the likes of Hitler.”

“Do you think Stalin is so very different?” Oksana asked quietly.

“How can you ask such a thing?” I whispered.

“Very easily. He claims to be a man of the people but has no problem sending hordes of his people to die for him. That’s not the act of a benevolent leader.”

I scanned the room for listening ears and hoped the gentle snores I heard on the nearest bunks were genuine. I pinned the last curl atop her head. She turned to look at me.

“Then why do you fight in his army?” I couldn’t help but ask. “You’re no draftee.”

“Just because I fight against Hitler does not mean I fight for Stalin. I fly to protect my people and my country. I fly for Russia as she could be, if given the chance.”

In her gray-blue eyes there was a wisdom born of suffering. I didn’t know what she’d seen in her twenty-three years, nor could I bring myself to ask.

“I think we all do, Oksana. We fly for the promise of better times.”

“Of course,” she said in a tone that indicated the conversation had come to its conclusion.

Part of me longed to press her, to learn more about Yana and her past, but I knew her well enough to know I’d only succeed in brokering more silence, or worse, resentment. So I went on about my daily ritual of lying in my bed, closing my eyes against the sun, and willing each muscle to relax. I started from bottom to top, focusing on each minuscule part of me. Toes, go to sleep. Feet, you’re next. Legs, hips, waist, and so on. I didn’t achieve real sleep, but I found the profound state of relaxation was better than tossing in bed counting sheep for hours on end.

Rest was no luxury. We needed to be alert up in the air. The slightest error in judgment cost lives. Try as I did to relax on this morning, my mind wandered back to Oksana. She appeared hostile so often, but today I saw more sadness than anything. I found myself torn between wanting to soothe her and wanting to unearth the mystery behind a demeanor so clearly designed to keep everyone at a distance. But, as my papa often said, it was no use hoping a wall would become a door.

CHAPTER 15

November 7, 1942, North Caucasus Front, Sorties: 164

The short, warm nights of summer had given way to the interminable dark and relentless ice of winter. Where we had been flying anywhere from five or six sorties, now we aimed for eight to ten. The Germans had attempted a few raids on our camps the previous day, trying to torch our planes. Anything to keep us from interrupting their sleep. But the raids were always poorly planned, and the foot soldiers encamped nearby warded them off without too much trouble. But they had succeeded in being as big a nuisance to us as we were to them. I understood why they hated us.