Collaboration with @silmarilz1701
Svetlana knew how to play the game. She'd been caught in the political drama of Stalin's inner circle since birth. The only child of one of Stalin's closest friends, she grew up in the limelight, scrutinized by frie...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
21 August 1944
On most days, Sveta could tolerate the jubilation that echoed off the walls of the English pubs. Some days she even enjoyed it. The camaraderie brought a smile to her face as she sat on the edge. Yes, it stung, not being invited to join in. But at least Zhanna found comfort in their laughs. Zhanna could enjoy herself. And most days, that sufficed.
But the 21st of August was not most days. Even amidst the beautiful clear summer of Aldbourne, a dark cloud shadowed her every move. Sveta slowed, her thoughts scattered. The 21st of August hurt more than any bullet wound, sharpened word, or sarcastic laugh ever could.
Three dates had been branded into her heart. 16 April 1935, the day her life changed the first time, haunted her memories. That was the day her exuberance had died. That was the day she went from laughing to watching. The day she learned to dutifully kiss her father and gently smile at his friends. 16 April 1935 turned her into an expert at posturing and pretenses.
But 21 August 1940 turned her from a master at decoding manipulation to a young woman who felt only the burn of anger and bitterness. The Korovin pistol, small and unobtrusive, had stolen her mother. The silence had left Veronika Samsonova splayed out across a mattress that hadn't taken long to stain red.
She tried to force down the searing ache in her chest as Sveta walked up the last few paces from the road to the Connors' house. She'd had a last minute meeting with Sink, Strayer, and Nixon regarding operations on the Eastern Front. To her annoyance, some blonde woman had tried to get in her way when she'd left. She didn't have time to speak to war correspondents. Not now. Not on the anniversary of her mother's death.
When she opened the door, Sveta heard Mrs. Connors chatting with her friend Amelia Baker. A decade younger than Mrs. Connors, Mrs. Baker enjoyed popping over for tea on a semi-frequent basis. Sveta didn't particularly like her. Thought she was too talkative.
So Sveta decided she'd avoid the kitchen. Her stomach growled, but Sveta couldn't bear the thought of putting food in her body. The pain of an empty stomach paled in comparison to the agony of thinking about the day her mother died.
"Svetlana is that you, dear?"
Sveta groaned. Stopping at the foot of the stairs, she counted backwards from ten. Then she moved down the hall. "Yes."
"Amelia and I are popping out! Could you do me a favor?" Her smile widened as Sveta entered the room. Standing up from the table, she tapped her friend on the shoulder.
With a deep breath, Sveta nodded. "What did you need?"
"We got some flowers from the Army. A lovely young lady said they were a thank you to Robert for all his help in their training." As she pushed past Sveta, Mrs. Connors pointed behind herself. "Could you put them in water? The vase is on the counter."
Such a simple domestic request nearly made Sveta smile. She nodded, and assured Mrs. Connors she would get it done. As the front door shut behind her and Mrs. Baker, Sveta stood in the silence. She could hear the ticking of the grandfather clock near the front door, the occasional drip of water from the faucet. Zhanna had gone out with Compton to the pub. She stood alone. She stood in silence.
Sveta sighed. Turning back into the kitchen, Sveta forced herself to breathe through the heaviness on her chest. No amount of hatred, no amount of suffering would bring her mother back. Sveta found the vase with ease. And next to it—
Roses.
Red roses.
Sveta couldn't breathe. Her mouth dried, her fists clenched. Roses. She tried to grab the counter to steady herself. Trembling fingers hit the vase. It shattered on the ground.
18 February 1938.
The third date.
The day Beria had come into her life. The day she'd gone from quiet rebel to broken marionette. 18 February 1938, the date branded across her soul as the day she'd been forced to forget dreams of rebelling in favor of survival.
Sveta stumbled back. The porcelain crunched beneath her feet. She needed to get out. Sveta needed out. Leaving the remains of the vase on the kitchen floor and the roses splayed out across the counter, Sveta fled the house with only her fear and three bottles of vodka.
The sky mocked her, the sunset's reds and golds reminiscent of her glorious homeland. 21 August 1940 it had rained, poured against the sides of their mansion until all Sveta could hear as she composed a letter to Lana Stalina was the rain. She remembered the candles; Sveta had always preferred the little flames to artificial lamps. The winds had howled outside. The footsteps of the maids had faded.
Sveta settled herself in the grass of the field just outside Aldbourne. Her mind filled with the sounds of that night as tears streamed down her face. The first bottle of vodka, already a quarter gone, sloshed in her hand as she pulled her knees to her chest. The fading light cast shadows around her.
The shadows in the Samsonov estate had been cut by lightning that night. She could hear it. The crashing of thunder, the sheets of rain. She could hear it again. All over again, as if she was once more in 1940 with the flickering candles and the pristine paper on her antique desk. Content in the silence and solitude, the absence of her mother and Zhanna, left alone to her thoughts in a room where no one lurked.
Then came the crack of the bullet, a sound Sveta knew too well. In that moment, she'd heard the screams of the women in Rostov-on-Don, the shrieks of the children as they were ripped from their mothers' arms. She'd frozen, glued to her chair. It had taken mere moments for her to understand that sound.
Sveta choked out a sob. Burying her face in her arm, anger tore through her body. Fury at love, at life. Fury at Beria and Stalin and her father. Fury at her mother.
She couldn't remember how she got to her mother's door so fast. She remembered the dread, the panic filling her body as she opened the door. She remembered the screams.
Her screams.
Her sobs.
She remembered the blood, the fallen pistol on the floor, the unseeing hazel eyes. She remembered the way her mother wouldn't wake up even as her throat ached from screaming. She remembered the way Veronika's body drained of heat.
Sveta's would never drain of heat. She downed another long drink of the alcohol. Even vodka couldn't numb her. Too much anger, too much regret. Too much fire that threatened to consume her.
It had almost consumed her already. By the time Alexander Samsonov had returned from Moscow, Sveta's carefully crafted mask had started to crumble. She couldn't hide the disgust. She couldn't hide the hate. The small, dutiful kisses made her sick. The gentle smiles and curated laughter left her burning.
So she'd left. Another drink, and over half the bottle had consumed her. Sveta felt her sluggish movements as she tried to lie down. She looked up at the gold and red sky through heavy eyelids. She'd left.
She'd traded the politics of Leningrad, Moscow, and Stalingrad for the Red Army. She'd used her connections to get as far from the shadowy grasp of Beria as she could. To get away from the blood, the roses, the ghosts in her house.
One more drink.
She'd traded in her pen and ink for a sniper rifle. Her dresses became a uniform. Fur hats for a pilotka. Hate for Stalin became hate for the Nazis.
Just one more drink.
Sveta let it fill her body. Vodka brought more comfort than Zhanna or a sniper rifle. It drowned out the voices and screams. It drowned out the hate. Except for the hate she held for herself, the crying girl with the dark eyes of Alexander and the chilling fear of Veronika.
