Daughters of the Night Sky

“He would not want me to say this,” Natalia replied, “but he is far too heartbroken by his grief to be seen. I trust you won’t speak of such things outside the family, but he blames himself for Vanya enlisting.”

“Vanya wanted to fight,” I assured her, seething at the idea of Antonin Solonev cheapening my husband’s sacrifice by insinuating he had been anything less than willing to do his part. “He was proud to do his duty to his country.”

“Of course, my dear. Antonin just feels like his own military service may have compelled Vanya to take more risks than he might otherwise have done.”

“I flew as your son’s navigator for months. I can assure you there was not a more conscientious pilot in the whole of the Red Army. He had a crew to think about, and he would never have risked their lives, no matter the glory of your husband’s reputation.” I sat ramrod straight in my chair, picking halfheartedly at the perfectly golden-brown crust on the potatoes. I did not look up, for my mother-in-law had done nothing to deserve the glare I knew would lance her if lifted from the safety of my plate.

“Come home with me, and tell my Antonin this,” Natalia implored me. “It would ease his breaking heart to hear these words.”

I took a bite of the potato to give myself an excuse not to speak. I immediately regretted it. The food was unpalatable, but I could not insult my mother’s good cooking or my upbringing to spit it out. I labored to swallow, my throat as raw as the day when I was six years old and the doctor had pulled my tonsils in his shining white office.

“He asked me to bring you home,” she continued. “We have no children of our own now. He would like to do for you what we can no longer do for our Vanya. We would welcome you in our home as our own daughter.”

I looked up, my skin tingling at the suggestion. Shouldn’t you already consider me this?

“She has a family,” my mother interjected, viciously piercing a piece of chicken with her fork. Grigory placed a hand on her shoulder, and I could see her breathing even out.

My hand involuntarily lighted over my heart, massaging as though the ache that loomed there were physical. “I appreciate your offer, Natalia. I really do. But I am only just back home.”

“Naturally. You need some time with your mother and new stepfather.” I blanched at the title but forced a tight smile for Grigory. It would take some getting used to. “But know that you will always have a home with us.”

“You are unspeakably generous, Natalia. Please pass my thanks on to Father Solonev as well.”

“Say nothing of it, my dear. It’s our pleasure. I’m only sorry it’s under such circumstances. And far too late in coming.”

I nodded, pushing my food aside, a momentary pang of guilt piercing my stomach at the sight of the uneaten food, but I could no more bring myself to finish the meal than move the Ural Mountains to the sea.

The apartment was small, and it was clear which room was intended for me. There was a single bed with a starched white sheet and a welcoming quilt. There was little in the way of furnishings, but my mother had done her best to make the room cheerful. Grigory had placed my duffel against the wall, but I didn’t want to see any of the clothes I’d been wearing for the past four years. I’d save most of them for the wood stove on the first frosty morning that fall.

I checked in the small bureau and was pleased to find the candy-pink pajamas from my days at the academy. Something from the sunny days of spring that I spent with Vanya and Taisiya. I cocooned myself in the frothy pink flannel and sunk into the feather mattress. I curled up under the warm covers and shut my eyes against the world. I waited for the tears to come, but the sting of my anguish never made it as far as my eyes. I tried to will the tears to fall. I wanted to feel the release I’d felt when I’d cried for Taisiya and Oksana. For all the other fallen sisters.

If I cried, it would mean I wasn’t empty.

But that night I found neither the catharsis of tears nor the respite of sleep.

Vanya’s face came to me as soon as I fell to the abyss of sleep, and it warned me. It warned me that the war would break me.

I stared at the wall. It had to be two or three in the morning. I gripped my quilt like the stick of my plane when I was trying to pull out of a spiraling dive. As though these layers of fabric and ticking could help me regain control of a life that no longer resembled anything I’d ever planned for.

Years of military training and discipline. I was prepared to approach every situation, equipped for various outcomes—both positive and negative. Logically I had known that one of us might not survive the war, but there was nothing almost two decades of schooling and service could have done to prepare me for this.

The specters in my dreams were the only thing crueler than the reality of my waking hours: