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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19 December 1944
Sveta knew fear.
It had come into her life in 1935, and the fear had controlled her for many years. She'd learned how to navigate with panic stifling her breath, constricting her heart.
After fear came despair. Between Beria and her mother's suicide, for many months Sveta had come to think that she would die by her father's gun as well.
Then the hatred had crept its way into her life. Hatred fueled the blood in her veins, kept them blazing. Even in the grey mists of the Ardennes, surrounded on all sides by a thousand identical trees, snow blanketing each inch, that hatred kept her warm.
The briefing ended with news of the assault on 1st Battalion. The Nazis had an overwhelming force. 1st had stood no chance. They had been slaughtered. She saw the uncovered faces of the men around her fall. Despair?
Not yet. But definitely fear. Their shoulders hunched inwards, a few rocked on the balls of their feet. Nearly half of them hugged themselves across the chest. In the dark and cold of Bastogne, they shivered equally as much from fright.
Sveta kept her face covered as much as she could. The pillowcase stuffed with a washrag trapped the heat in, covering her nose and mouth. The less exposed skin, the better. Sveta knew this. Fur would've been better, though.
She'd have taken their version of winter clothing over the nothing they'd gotten. But Americans knew how to fight in the winter just about as well as the Nazis. When Sink dismissed them, Sveta stepped away and watched. Winters drew himself up to full height, chatting with his voice low to Nixon, Harry at his side. Dike wandered off. Buck followed him with Peacock and Foley and Shames. Ron joined McMillan and the rest of Dog's officers in walking towards their line. Fox's men petered about. Not despair. Not yet.
She moved over to Zhanna. "How was your night?"
Zhanna sighed. She all but curled in on herself. They all felt the cold, and Zhanna was smaller with less body heat than most. "Cold. But I'm fine."
"I miss the furs from back home," Sveta admitted. Switching to Russian, she added, "I'm not sure these men understand the real danger of the lack of warm clothes."
"Maybe not." Zhanna nodded, staying in English. "But they will. We'll need to help them."
Sveta agreed. Looking around, she tried to stay calm. The endless rows of dark tree trunks contrasted against the white snow and grey fog. Oppressive silence embraced the world. After staring off into the distance, she turned back to talk to Zhanna.
But she'd already wandered off. Sveta frowned. Her retreating form shadowed Compton.
"Hey, Svetlana." Harry called over to her from where he stood with Nixon and Winters. "Come here."
Sveta pulled her makeshift scarf back over her face. When she joined them, Nixon moved to let her into their little square. She nodded her thanks. Hatred for Lieutenant Dike hadn't mended their relationship, but at least they had a common enemy within their own ranks.
