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.
September 16th 1943
We were only in America for a few months, though it felt much much longer. Sveta is finding it hard to fit in with the paratroopers. I'm finding it hard, still. They have accepted us but their trust hasn't been earned yet. Sveta isn't helping. She lashes out. She scared one of the enlisted, a sergeant named Guarnere. Sveta did it for me. She does a lot for me.
The wind on the deck flipped the pages of her journal and Zhanna wondered if she should retreat to the narrow berth that had been given to her. But there was something freeing in the brisk breeze, pushing her hair back from the nape of her neck and giving some cool relief to the bruise on her jaw.
The medics had iced it while Sveta stalked her prey and while some of the swelling had gone down, Zhanna still had an assortment of colors that drew the eyes of passersby. At dinner, Zhanna had kept her head down, but Winters and Nixon's second glances had burned into her mind. Out here, on the deck of the Samaria, where a storm seemed to be brewing on the horizon, Zhanna was allowed to be alone. To pull the hair back from her cheek, and let her face touch the sun. Living in shadows had left her skin pale and her blood chilled.
We have our wings and our destination is unknown. The men said we could go to North Africa or Italy. I don't need to go to Africa. I don't need to go to Italy. I need to get Sveta to Russia. And I need to get to you.
Zhanna paused, her pencil frozen over the page. Agata's voice echoed in her mind. ""Do not push the river, it will flow by itself."
Sometimes I forget you aren't here. I can hear your voice, and see you out of the corner of my eye. I think the necklace keeps you close. I still wear it. Of course I still wear it.
"Perelko, we'll be back," Agata had said, tracing a hand over Zhanna's braid. She had longer hair then.
"Can't I go with you?" Zhanna had begged. "Please can I go with you."
"We need to go,"
They had to go. They had to leave. So, all Zhanna had left of her parents was that final memory and the little silver star that Agata had clasped around her neck, the only piece of Poland that her mother had left.
"Do not push the river, it will flow by itself." Her mother had grown up in the valley of the Chodelka, passing the behavior of the river onto her daughter through long walks on the banks of the Volga in Stalingrad. Rivers were powerful, though not as untamed as the ocean that writhed and tossed with a fervor below Zhanna. Rivers were unrestrained.
Rivers didn't follow directions. Rivers didn't surrender to human will. They flowed, like life, sweeping away what it wished and leaving behind scattered remains. The rivers of life had pushed the Polyakovs to Stalingrad, away from home and family, isolating them in the rapidly reddening country.
They had been overworked, underfed and Zhanna had never met her older brother, who had wasted away in the frigid winters. But Agata and Casimir hadn't frozen. They had let the river of life keep pushing them, with a grace and acceptance that had been drilled deep into Zhanna's mind.
Life wasn't fair but Zhanna had her family. Yes, they didn't eat that night but she had had a good breakfast. Yes, Zhanna and Agata had to keep their heads down when leaving the house but they could still practice Shabbat at home. Yes, Casimir was overworked in that factory and his body was slowly breaking down but they had money and a roof over their heads. Life wasn't fair but they were okay.
That's just how the river flowed and it would keep flowing, no matter their wishes. Yes, Zhanna was thousands of miles from home and her final memory of her parents was from years before but she had Sveta and she had those wings. The wings that had offered her flight back home. Yes, life wasn't fair but she was alive and because of her, many weren't so lucky.
The river was pushing her and Zhanna could keep floating, keep swimming. She was alright.
I have my rifle, I have my necklace, I have Sveta, and I know that I will make it home. I'm not pushing this river. I am trusting that it will flow and I with it. Life isn't fair but that doesn't mean I won't make it home.
Home isn't Russia or Stalingrad. It's with you, Mama. You and Papa. And right now, it's with Sveta. I need to make it home. These men don't like me, because I'm Russian. I know what that feels like but Sveta doesn't know how to take it. But...never mind. I'll make it home. I'll make it back to you.
The pages of her journal were quickly filling up but Zhanna saw the approaching completion of this ritual as a sign. She would be going home soon. She would give Agata that journal. Twisting the silver Star of David around her pinky, Zhanna's hand brushed the bruise on her jaw. Jew. Pole. Whatever she was, she was going home. Even if she had to freeze the river of life to get there.
