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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Since arriving in Britain Zhanna had enjoyed very little time to herself, something she had regularly sought. In the Samsonov's residence in Stalingrad, she would be left to her own devices for the most part and occupied her time with borrowing a bottle from their extensive vodka collection and finding a nice quiet corner. Some similar scenarios could be said of her time in Smolensk. When they were not on the field, she could find some sort of burning liquid to freeze her fear. Whether it gifted her with numbing courage or to ward off the memories, either would do.
Zhanna hadn't spent time on her own since leaving Russia, always in Sveta's constant company. Though Sveta wasn't the worst company, they rarely spoke, relying on wordless communication, Zhanna had managed to snatch up only a few short moments of solitude since Stalingrad fell.
She couldn't even enjoy alcohol now. What did that American propaganda say? Loose lips sink ships? Well, Zhanna had nearly plummeted her safety to the bottom of the ocean with the Polish slip up. And while Skip and Malarkey offered to take her back to the pub, she declined. It was too much of a risk.
Since their transfer to Upottery and Sveta's assimilation to the officers' company, Zhanna had managed to slip away once or twice. There wasn't much she could do but she was satisfied to find a quiet corner of the camp, in between rows of tents, and spread out her wool blanket. There she would take care to take apart her rifle.
Agata had never allowed Zhanna to break apart, to shatter like ice, but in disassembling her gun and cleaning away all the grime that weighted it down she felt as if a part of her was being refreshed too. Zhanna couldn't be taken apart and studied for flaws or snags but the rifle could. Zhanna had to be in perfect working condition and so did her rifle but only one could be in disrepair.
As the preparations for the impending jump into Europe grew in intensity and the still unknown deadline was surely growing closer, Zhanna retreated to that hidden spot. The gun wasn't even dirty, hardly being used, but she needed to keep her hands busy. If she stopped and thought too much, Zhanna would begin to recall things she would rather forget.
The first time she had come to England when running from the Germans and into the waiting arms of the Allies, Zhanna had buried more than a few secrets in the soft peat. The pounding sound of machine guns, the feeling of cool dirt on her belly as she lay like a snake in the grass. She hadn't thought they would still be there. She didn't think they would still make her skin crawl.
The bruise on her face from the Samaria had still been fresh when the full force of the memories hit her, nearly knocking her off her feet as she disembarked in England. She hadn't slept well, not with the continent of Europe so close. Not when she had been closer than she had been in years to home.
The rows of tents, set up like the street she had grown up on, reminded Zhanna a little too much of home. A little too much of the things she had lost that night and everything torn from her since. Footsteps drummed dimly against the ground somewhere among the tents, the vibrations sending her back to lying awake in bed in that freezing room. Footsteps marked the loss of another neighbor, another friend. Boots against cobblestones marked the nights that would end in blood on the streets and an empty house.
