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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September 6th 1943
RMS Samaria
Agata had kept Zhanna close by her side when they left home, always in arm's length. It was for safety as much as comfort, the streets of Stalingrad a lawless place. It was lawless for those who were lesser. While she hadn't appreciated it in the shadow's of the inner circle's towering homes, Zhanna had come to rely on it. That closeness and the smell of her soap was a comfort and she didn't miss it until she had lost her.
Zhanna hadn't wanted her mother's hand on her own until Agata and Casmir had left her with Maria. She couldn't hold her new guardian's hand so she had filled the hole with a need to follow close behind. In Maria's shadow, she had pushed closer and lurked in the safety it had provided. There were no smiles or whispers of "Perelko," but it was something. It was safe.
Then she had been ripped from her too and Zhanna had been left, in the bright sun, without a hand to hold or a shadow to step into. No safety for that split moment, until she was passed, like goods on bartered exchange across the plush carpet of the Samsonov home, no longer living in the alleys that were overcast by the stones and wealth, and Zhanna's hand had been clasped in Sveta's. She had been safe ever since, looking for that shadow.
She had followed her, that debt and that shadow calling her name but she had lost that too. One split second, Zhanna had turned her back on Sveta for a split second and she was gone, swept up in the crowd of soldiers. They had been on the ship, the RMS Samaria, for no more than a few moments. She had turned to watch the shadow of the great statue, the one that stood for Liberty, freedom and a plethora of American principles, falling over her like a blanket. The little wings pressed against her skin only a few inches from the star of David that Agata had clasped around Zhanna's neck before she kissed her goodbye the final time. It hit her then. She was going home.
She turned, to tell Sveta, to share this moment with her and the chains of the necklace tightened around her throat like a garrote, threatening to suffocate her before her fear did. Sveta was gone.
Zhanna did the only thing she could, the only thing she had ever known how to do. She pushed her way through the soldiers, through the crowds, and searched for Sveta. She wasn't in the long hallway that led to the staterooms for officers. She wasn't on the deck. Jostled and shoved, Zhanna's breath came in short gasps. The lifejacket's strings, pulled as tight as possible, trailed behind her, a leash to her devotion. It took all her self control to not break into a run, as if speed would help her find Sveta.
The Samaria had the look of faded glory, a king with a dying kingdom. Zhanna was out of place here, even here. She kept going, the subdued carpet leading to a staircase, going down down down. She shivered and took a step.
Something yanked her back. Her chin collided with the floor, her teeth grazing the side of her mouth. Zhanna lay dazed there for a moment, while the world righted itself and the panic set back in.
