Daughters of the Night Sky

The drive from the outskirts of Stalingrad should have taken three days on good roads, but with the cratered roads near the city and the summer rains, Vanya was now counting on seven—three to go. Vanya’s leave would expire before we reached the border, but neither of us mentioned the danger that imposed on us. If the officials from the convalescent hospital had reported us missing, he was already in mortal danger.

“I can drive,” I offered for what had to have been the fifth time that day.

“I’m fine, Katyushka. Get some rest.” His reply was the same each time. He gripped the steering wheel like a life preserver, his eyes roving over the landscape for any sign of danger, leaving me with no occupation but to redouble his efforts as sentry and let my worry run rampant in time with the ineffective whish-whish-whish of the windshield wipers. Our vigilance seemed as pointless as our service revolvers would be in the face of real danger.

Ahead we saw a convoy of trucks, much like our own, headed north, back toward Stalingrad or one of the bases to the west. “Take a detour,” I suggested. “Going in the opposite direction will attract their notice.”

“Right,” Vanya agreed, glancing at the map. He took a hard left onto a road that looked more like a barely widened walking trail.

Vanya’s knuckles shone white as we jostled about on the road, mud splattering at the windows as we pitched from side to side. The road was nothing more than a glorified trench, with muddy walls on either side. We reached a section of road that had partially washed out, and Vanya tried to ease the wheels up over the pile of rock and mud on the right side of the path. Once the front wheels found purchase, the back lost contact with the ground and we pitched to the left and flipped all the way over, landing with the wheels up, like a hapless turtle stranded on its shell. We ended up in a jumble on the canvas ceiling of the truck and scrambled to exit before the flimsy metal framing bent under the weight of the vehicle, crushing us in the process.

“Goddammit,” Vanya swore, wiping mud off his face. “Are you hurt?”

“Just shaken. Can we right it and go back to the main road?”

“I doubt it,” he said, assessing the damage. Vanya smoothed his hair back with both hands, muttering a curse. “Even if we did, I’m not sure I can repair it without tools. We’ll have to find shelter and figure out another plan in the morning. Dammit.”

I stooped back into the truck, fetching my duffel and his without putting more than my arm in harm’s way.

“We’ll need these,” I said, handing Vanya his pack and gently easing mine over my shoulders. Vanya found the map, still mercifully dry and safe on the ceiling of the truck, before sliding his pack on as well.

The drizzle became more sincere, and I longed for the protection of my thick uniform jacket instead of the flimsy summer garments Vanya had procured for me in town. A thin lavender dress and lightweight jacket were fine for a stroll on the streets in Moscow in August but hardly suited a border crossing. I would have even been glad for the loathsome oversized boots I kept concealed in my pack instead of the low heels that now filled with sludge as we waded along the eroding side trail in the direction of the main road. I tried to ignore the persistent ache at my side, but it was growing more relentless with each step. Vanya would have to find medication when we stopped.

“There’s a village six kilometers west,” he said, orienting himself on the map, doing his best to protect the precious paper from the rainfall.

“Good,” I answered between labored breaths. An hour until I could rest. Anything was endurable for an hour. “Don’t slow down.”

We were both soaked though and caked in mud by the time the town came into view. Vanya inquired after an inn, and I followed him like a bedraggled dog. A bed. A hot bath, if there is any kindness left in the world—though how I’ll keep my wound dry is a mystery.

A fat woman with a sour expression showed us to a room the size of a generous broom closet. “The best I’ve got for the night. Washroom in the hall. The kitchen is open at six for supper—such as it is.” She turned her massive frame and wheezed her way back down the stairs.

“Charming old crone,” Vanya said, discarding his mud-caked shoes.

“One who didn’t ask questions,” I said. “We couldn’t ask for better.”

“I suppose,” he muttered, removing his socks and trousers.

I perched on the edge of the bed to remove my own soiled garments but felt my muscles seize in protest after the slog. My hands shook involuntarily, and the room grew fuzzy about the edges like a newsreel.

“Can you move to the side, dearest? I—I need to lie down.”

“Of course. You’re run ragged. Let me help you with your coat, and you can rest before we find food.”