Daughters of the Night Sky

Of the twenty-five crews, Taisiya and I had gained the reputation of being among the most fearless teams in the air—each earning the rank of senior lieutenant for our efforts—and Renata and Polina had grown into the regiment’s most respected ground crew, serving as our eyes and ears on the ground, nursing our plane when she suffered broken bones and keeping us supplied with the bombs and ammunition that kept us alive and the enemy at bay. But today was a day of rest, a holiday in honor of the October Revolution.

Our residence was currently a factory that had been abandoned for a safer location to the east—a wise move, given the amount of bomb damage it had sustained. We lay about our makeshift barracks, unable to make friends with the calm. After a year in service, we were too used to constant activity to sit idle. Though our minds yearned for it on the long nights, our bodies betrayed us now that we had the chance for a few hours of rest and leisure. Some of the girls read; others mended uniforms. A few snores sounded from the corner of the room from the lucky few able to sleep.

Sofia’s voice called out, echoing off the bare walls: “Ladies, put aside your diversions, and make yourselves presentable. We’re having a proper celebration tonight. Katya, you’ll want your violin, and Renata, your flute.”

The sluggishness of pilots too long denied proper sleep transformed at once into the bustle of schoolgirls moments before a big dance. Overlarge flight suits were discarded in favor of our daily uniforms, thrown on hastily and in no way ready to stand inspection.

Smells of roasting meat wafted from the dank warehouse designated as our mess hall, and our stomachs rumbled in appreciation. So often we ate what we could between sorties—Polina and Renata always ready with a plate of something, anticipating when we would need it. We never had the time to taste our food, let alone enjoy it. There were other times we were simply too tired, too overwhelmed, to eat much at all.

It was clear the cooks had gone to special effort. This was, after all, in honor of the October Revolution, and the commanders would have seen to it that the best food possible was sent to us to mark the occasion. Roasted beef and pork, piles of white potatoes whipped into clouds, green beans, beets, cakes, and pies. On each table was a large flagon of wine, the first any of us had been offered since training. The male regiments had daily rations of vodka and wine, but our commanders had forbidden it for us. None of us complained at the deprivation—we had more to prove—but we didn’t refuse alcohol, either. The burgundy liquid, lush and warm like velvet, with the taste of warm earth and blue skies infused in the grapes, brought color to all our cheeks.

“Let us hope this means our advances are getting noticed,” Taisiya said, lifting her glass. We raised ours in unison to toast our achievements.

“I assure you, they are, comrades,” Sofia chimed in. “Stalin himself has made it known that he’s proud to see how well Russian women have risen to the cause, especially our regiment. You’re to be congratulated.”

Applause sounded and more toasts were made. The wine flowed freely, more than I had seen even in the days before the war. I found myself eating with more vigor than I had felt except perhaps in the hungriest days of my adolescence, when meals never seemed to sate my hunger. I reveled in the rich meats and sweet pies, giggling with my sisters in arms as though we were not in the clutches of war in a world gone mad.

As the meal waned, the conversation grew still livelier. I removed my violin from the case and kept my tunes light and carefree. Renata accompanied on the flute and Svetlana on a discarded balalaika she’d found in the factory. Sofia’s voice sounded clear and true, singing words of happy songs that belonged to bygone days:

Under the pine, under the green pine,
Lay me down to sleep.
Little pine, little green one,
Don’t rustle above me.

The wine and song gave warmth to the cold cement room with its high ceilings. The world outside was chilled November frost, but we were wrapped in blankets of mirth for one evening.

“I’m proud of all of you,” Sofia declared after a song had ended. “The Russian people will recognize what we have done here as extraordinary. The papers will tell your stories, not just to boost morale for the other troops, but because you are fine aviators—fine soldiers—in your own right. In fact, I have some fan mail for all of you.”

She read: