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...
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18 December 1944
The dark and cold of 0400 in mid-December broke only for the flashing of headlights and zippo lighters. Sveta stood at an oil drum, hands over the raging flames in a desperate attempt to grab warmth before returning to her jobs. Shouts and pounding boots echoed around her. She had lost track of Winters and Nixon after a last-minute meeting with Sink, the former heading off to locate his Company Commanders, the latter looking to find whatever information he could from the Brass above them. Sveta didn't have to do that. She just had to look after herself.
The fragile peace of the previous night had broken while most of Easy sat in on a movie. Sveta hadn't joined them. Harry had asked her to join in on a poker match, which she also had declined. Instead, she'd been asked by Colonel Sink to do an interview with the little round-faced, blonde war correspondent she remembered seeing back in England.
The woman, who Sveta had come to know as Sophie Connors, had sat her down in one of Sink's offices at Regimental HQ. She had all sorts of questions. Apparently, the enterprising young women of America wanted to know what it was like to fight in combat. The WASPs, the WAVEs, the WAC all asked to hear her story.
Sveta didn't like the attention. Even as Sophie had poked and prodded about her time with the men, she'd tuned her out. When Sophie had come to the more sensitive ones, ones about her home life and training in Russia, she'd answered as any trained diplomat would.
Sveta knew how to say nothing an infinite number of ways. "We do our best," was one of her favorites. It could be used in almost any situation. Armed with years of half-truths and masks, she'd navigated the interrogation with poise and skill.
She'd been rather proud of herself by the end. Even as she stood around the oil drum, bare hands already cracked from the cold finding almost no relief in the flames, she smiled. The rush of freedom she'd felt while escaping the hospital, the jail cell that had kept her caged, had remained in her stay in Mourmelon-le-Grand. No Alexander, no Stalin, no Beria. Just her and her allies.
Maybe Americans weren't so bad. Sveta looked into the dark again as a group of officers from Able company hurried by. Their CO barked orders, but in the noisy chaos, Sveta understood none. As much as she'd hated the Americans for being so loud, it did mean she could watch from and fade into the background.
With a sigh, Sveta moved away from the flames. It didn't take long for the cold to seep back into her bones. The Americans hadn't issued winter clothing yet, and now they were headed to Bastogne. She'd never been there, but Sveta knew from the reports that winter in the Ardennes would only spell trouble for the men who were woefully underprepared.
Sveta wasn't underprepared. She'd been in true cold before. She'd spent winters in Leningrad, taken trips to Finland. And now she had a different fire to keep her warm. With every passing day, Sveta had thought about Ron's words in the hospital. Did she really have to go back? Back to the place where she was more marionette than woman?
