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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17 December 1942
In the army, in her army, in the Red Army, Sveta had been able to get away. The gun had taken time to get used to, but with the women, they had seen her less as a marionette and more as a human. Of course, no one had really forgotten her parentage. Alexander Samsonov's shadow loomed over her wherever she went. But he'd had less direct power while she'd been hundreds of miles away than he'd wielded while she'd been in Stalingrad. But here, in this American military base on American soil in an American uniform, Stalin and Beria and Samsonov managed to shadow her even more. In fact, the mere thought ruined her birthday for her, not that she'd enjoyed birthdays much in recent years.
Her birthday in 1940 had come mere months after her mother's death. 1941 had been no better, marked with war and a desperate attempt to lie low in Morocco. And now, in 1942, the third birthday without her mother, Sveta had to deal with spies and slurs and a language barrier.
Sveta knew Nixon was watching them. If he wanted to play that game, she would oblige. She'd spent too many years putting on masks and playing pretend to have some American lieutenant bother her. Then again, Zhanna had made a connection on day one that she'd never considered.
He was just like the officers.
Not the American ones, not the British. No. The way he watched them reminded Zhanna of the blue caps, the NKVD. Zhanna knew them like Sveta knew them: lurking around every corner, waiting for the smile to drop, eager for the scent of blood or any sign of weakness. Weakness meant betrayal, and betrayal meant punishment.
Sveta knew that there were no NKVD operatives in America. Russia didn't have the money to fund operations so far from the Motherland. That was one reason they'd turned to America in the first place. But she didn't really know that.
Nixon wasn't one; he was too obviously curious about them. But she couldn't help but wonder if the Americans had their own blue caps, their own Gestapo. Did they have a version of the NKVD lurking on this military base? It would make sense. That's how society stayed together.
Whispers on her right pulled Sveta from her thoughts. She stood with the rest of First Platoon at the base of the towers. They reached high above them, 250 feet someone had said. She'd already finished her controlled flights for the day. Now she had to wait for dismissal.
The whispering continued, along with poorly stifled laughter. Luz, Muck, Perconte probably. She'd learned over the last ten days that they would whisper. Cobb, Alley, and More wouldn't even do that. Every little smirk, every little snicker reminded Sveta of how much she hated them.
She hated the way they would burst into song, speaking words she didn't understand. She hated the way their American accents would butcher Stalingrad and Smolensk. She hated the glances. She hated the way Zhanna's name poured from their lips with scorn, and hers with disgust.
Where Zhanna and her platoon had gone off to, Sveta didn't know. They'd finished the tower first that day. The best, in fact perhaps the only pleasant moments in Fort Benning, came when they got to their little shack at night. There they could speak their beautiful language in peace. There, Sveta could relax.
