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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Her bags were packed. They sat by the door to her bedroom that she shared with Zhanna, ready for the trip to Upottery. All she had left to do was load a truck in the morning.
Sveta closed her eyes. All around her, the grass in the quiet field on Aldbourne's outskirts rustled in the gentle wind. The setting sun cast reds and golds across the sky, bleeding into the dark black of the encroaching night. A peace settled around her.
She took a deep breath. The scent of approaching rain, the musky petrichor seeping into the air, soothed her nerves. Sitting there in the open, alone, Sveta tried to picture Russia. That's what she fought for. The scarlet flag with the golden sickle, the Valdai hills, the Volga river.
Before she'd turned ten, her mother had taken her to Moscow for a vacation. Sveta remembered their trip on the Volga. She'd sworn to her mother that she'd seen flamingos in the wetlands. It had just been Sveta, and her mother, and the waters of the Mother Volga.
Everything had been so much simpler then. They had been simpler for Sveta, at least. She opened her eyes. The sun had almost disappeared, dark clouds covering the stars that should've been shining down. She'd not seen it then. She'd not seen the way her mother had been suffering in silence.
A gust of wind blew her loose hair into her face. Sveta nearly choked on the strands that hit her mouth at the same time she breathed in. Moments later, a mist of rain began to fall around her. Beads of water formed on her bare hands. It plastered her hair to her cheeks.
Her mother had always loved the rain. It had rained that night, the one that haunted Sveta's dreams. But even the thunder hadn't masked the bang of the pistol. Sveta could hear the screams. They'd been her own. Between the flashes of lightning and thunder claps, she'd screamed for her mom over and over and over.
But she didn't wake up. Something in Sveta had died that day, died right alongside her mom. The Korovin pistol had killed her resolve, had killed her hope, had killed her dreams. Then it had only been her, and the fear, and Zhanna against Stalin, and Beria, and her father.
A distant roll of thunder made Sveta look up at the night sky. Lightning streaked across the darkness. She sighed. The rain began to pick up. Pushing herself to her feet, Sveta looked out across the field one more time. At least she had Zhanna. As a child, Sveta had never had friends, just acquaintances with the other kids of Stalin's friends.
Vasily Stalin, Lana's older brother, had turned to drinking the same year Sveta had been captured. 1935 had been a rough year for people near Stalin. She'd only heard from him a few times after the war began. She hoped he was doing well.
With a last look across the dark field, Sveta turned her face up into the rain. She stayed there for a moment. The rain concealed any tears she hadn't been able to suppress. Then she turned away.
Tomorrow they would move to Upottery. Tomorrow they would get one step closer to returning to the mainland. Each step brought her closer to Russia.
