7 April 1943

Camp Mackall, Georgia, United States

They'd been members of Easy Company for nearly four months. And yet despite the time, Sveta felt that not much had changed. Her platoon had stopped their heckling sometime around the end of Fort Benning a month previous. Evidently they'd found a new target. Or perhaps someone had stepped in?

Doubtful. Winters had helped Zhanna some, something she felt grateful for, but she'd gotten nothing but cool cordiality from anyone. Not that she minded.

Sveta disliked Sergeants Martin and Randleman least. Her platoon sergeant, Harris, annoyed her. Several of the men from Zhanna's platoon irritated her too, like Guarnere and Liebgott. Talbert talked too much. Several men in her platoon suffered from that. Luz, Perconte, Muck, Hoobler, and Sisk all prattled endlessly. It made her beyond grateful to retreat to the closet she and Zhanna called home every night.

At first, being stuck into a literal supply closet had angered every fiber of Sveta's being. When they'd arrived at Camp Mackall and Winters had shown them their accommodations, even he had seemed apologetic. He'd frowned, and taken a few deep breaths, his shoulders sagging as he explained that it had been the best the battalion could do. Only his kindness to Zhanna had spared him from her choice words.

It couldn't have been over ten feet deep. Some shelves had been removed, but the nails that had held them fast stuck out at random places along the wall. A flickering light bulb hung down from the ceiling by about fifteen centimeters. At night they had a pull chain made of fraying cord that shut it off.

Sleep eluded her many nights. Outside, in the massive brick barracks building for the officers, footsteps would echo in the hall. Light would flood through the bottom of the door. Even on days when her muscles ached and her eyelids drooped, it made things difficult.

Zhanna never complained. Not that she ever complained about anything. With her, she would either be silent and do as told, or be silent and defiant, ready to pull a trigger if it meant keeping her goal on track. At least they'd completed step one.

They had their wings. Every time Sveta got in the air, in the belly of those planes with the door open to the sky, wind rushing through the cabin and shaking the craft, she felt happy. It had been a long time since she'd felt that way. She'd almost forgotten it. The way her cheeks could sting from smiling, the gentle pace her heart would beat, the smoldering warmth in her chest.

Four months in, and Sveta had finally found it tolerable in America. She could ignore most of her platoon. As long as she kept a close eye on Nixon, she'd not found any other nosy threats. Every so often she'd have short, cordial conversations with Martin and Randleman in training. Four months in, though, the universe had decided she'd had enough happiness.

"Lieutenant Winters said he trained with the 82nd," Zhanna told her. She sat with her back against the wall on her cot, polishing the rifle she held so dear.

Sveta nodded. She'd heard that too, but from Lieutenant Nixon after she'd had another meeting with Sink about Stalingrad's progress since the Russians had retaken it. He'd attempted to joke with her, make small talk. But she didn't trust him. "A Lieutenant Harry Welsh." She paused, undoing the right side of her two braids. "And I had just gotten used to Heyliger."

"I'm sure you'll do fine," she assured her. "If not, I'll shoot him."

That made her smile. She could always count on Zhanna for encouragement. She owed her for that. "At least Nixon's been transferred out," Sveta added. "I still don't think he's with the NKVD, but he watches you too closely."

Zhanna stopped her mindless cleaning. Looking up, she met Sveta's gaze. "You as well."

Of course. But Sveta was used to that. It made her heart pound in her chest and a searing anger settle in her bones, but she'd played the game since she was thirteen. Since 16 April 1935. Almost eight years ago. She paused in her brushing, her thick hair hanging loose to her bust. Eight years. Eight years of fear, eight years of anger.

That meant three years in August since her mother's passing. Her hand clenched around the wooden brush. Passing. More like murder. Veronika Samsonova may have pulled the trigger, but Alexander Samsonov, Lavrentiy Beria, and Joseph Stalin had killed her. It had been an NKVD Korovin pistol. Just like Lana Stalina's mother.

She'd never been able to explain to Zhanna what hate felt like. She didn't know if her friend really knew it intimately. Sveta did. It felt like someone had lit a fire in her chest. It made her shake, tremble with fury at the thought of the way Stalin could smile in all his photos. Stalin's wife had killed herself. Samsonov's wife had killed herself.

Sometimes, when she lay in bed at night, Sveta worried she would be next.

"Sveta?"

At Zhanna's voice, she looked up. Her knuckles had turned white from her grip on the brush. With a sigh, she put it down. Curling up into her knees, she shrugged. "How are the men in your platoon?"

The door flew open. Sveta jerked back in surprise. Against the light of the hallway, a man came to a halt. He seemed as surprised as they were. Leaping to her feet, Sveta sized him up and moved a bit in front of Zhanna. He stood shorter by several inches. A lieutenant's bar flashed in the light. His frown turned into a smile. At least she'd not changed out of her fatigues yet.

"Let me guess. You're Lieutenant Samsonova," he said, "and you must be Lieutenant Casmirovna. Jesus, they stuck you girls in a closet?"

She didn't like the way he smiled. Less sinister than Nixon's, but it seemed less genuine than Winters'. More of a smirk. She narrowed her eyes, looking down at him. "Who are you?"

"Lieutenant Harry Welsh. Guess we'll be working together," he added. Leaning a bit to look around her, he spoke to Zhanna. "And you're in Dick's platoon?"

"She is," Sveta snapped. "Is there a reason you're in here?" The nagging of her mother to smile filled her mind. Starting off poorly would be bad for both of them. She attempted to frown less.

His own smile dropped a little. With a roll of his eyes, he gestured back down the hall. "Colonel Sink wanted someone to get him a vase, or something," he explained. "Sobel volunteered me."

"Sounds like him," she muttered. But Sveta's pride had taken one too many blows. With a growl, she turned to Zhanna and spoke to her in Russian. "I am finished with this goddamn closet."

"It's a nice closet." Zhanna tried to placate her. But it fell on deaf ears.

After a quick glance around, Welsh smirked when he found what he was looking for. He pulled down a clouded glass vase from a shelf that remained. "There we go."

"I'm coming with you," Sveta told him. She left no room for argument, grabbing the leather jacket they had given her and slipping back into her boots.

Welsh shrugged. "Suit yourself."

She spared Zhanna a last look before the door closed. The stupid closet door. The shack in Benning had been barely tolerable. This, she wouldn't stand for. Her boots pounded against the concrete. The noise echoed off the walls. Beside her, Welsh inspected the dusty vase with a frown. She sighed. Smile, Sveta. It wasn't this man's fault that Sink had stuck her in a cell.

With a small scoff, he stuck it under his arm. He rummaged in his pocket. "I thought I had it bad being an errand boy for a day," he said. With a rueful smirk, he looked at her. "You two have it worse."

"Get used to it, Lieutenant," she told him.

He offered her a cigarette from his pack. Sveta hesitated. As they turned the corner and came to the large doors to the outside, she accepted. The black sky had a few hundred stars speckled across it and a full moon nearly at its peak.

After he lit hers, and then his own, Welsh spoke again. "There's a lot of talk about you two around the base."

Sveta scoffed. "This does not surprise me. Americans are far too loose with their tongues." She took a deep drag of the smoke. Not as good as a drink of vodka would've tasted, but something at least.

He started chuckling. "Oh, come on, Lieutenant. We're not that bad."

The only response she gave him was a roll of her eyes. She had to give him credit, though. Unlike the other officers she'd met, he didn't ask questions. A welcome change, really. So she tried to force at least a neutral smile onto her face and slowed her pace. "I am not used to it. It's very different in Russia."

They moved down a brick path towards the nearby headquarters that Sink and the rest of the Battalion staff had for their offices. In the dark, they rose like black towers. Dark windows, dark doors, dark everything. Except for two windows on the ground floor. Light spilled out though her view was obscured by curtains. Around them, very few men moved about. Only the sentries, really.

"He might still be here," Welsh told her.

They both dropped their finished cigarettes onto the ground before ducking inside. The off-white hallway seemed to glow in the low light. She followed Welsh out of the entry down to the left. Sink better be there. She had half a mind to light a fire under him and wake him up.

He poked his head into an office. "Hey, Nixon, is Colonel Sink still here?"

Nixon. Of course he had to be here. Sveta shook her head. She supposed it made sense. They had transferred him to the Battalion that morning. Leaving Welsh to chat to him, she moved to Sink's. Only a desk lamp lit the room. He'd left. A quick glance around the room confirmed it.

Her heart stopped. Sveta couldn't breathe. Her mouth dried. It couldn't be. In the desk lamp's light lay a half dozen roses.

Red roses.

Red like blood.

Red like the bands on the NKVD caps.

Red like Beria's wax seal.

It couldn't be him. He couldn't be here. Tears stung to her eyes, pricking at her like needles. In the desk lamp's light, they almost glowed. Fragile, but with thorns. Her hand trembled as she covered her mouth. Flashes of memory, of the tear-stained face of her mother as she rubbed her temple at her desk at home, burdened by fear daily, filled her mind.

Blood had spilled from the same place on her head when Sveta had found her on the mattress. Red roses. Red like the blood of Veronika Mikhailovna Samsonova. Red like the blood of Nadezhda Alliluyeva Stalina.

She felt the room spin. Sveta stepped back. She knocked into something. Not something, someone. Nixon and Welsh had both entered the room. The overhead lamp came on. Smile, Sveta. Smile. Smile!

"Sink left about ten minutes ago," Nixon told her. Then he frowned. "You okay?"

Smile, Sveta.

Smile.

Smile!

She turned from him back to the roses. He didn't know. He couldn't know. If he knew, the Americans would've been searching the base for signs of a Russian infiltrator. Or they'd have pinned it on her.

"Lieutenant?" Welsh added.

She forced herself to breathe. The lump in her throat hurt to force down. She pointed at the roses. "Who are those from?"

"The flowers?" Nixon chuckled.

"Who are they from," she demanded.

He stopped laughing. They all still stood nearly in the doorway. Sveta glanced past the two men into the hall. She didn't hear anyone. She didn't see anyone.

Welsh shrugged. "Sink's wife," he told her. "Apparently she grows them."

Nixon's dark eyes narrowed. "Why?"

Nixon monitored her every move. She could feel it. Sveta narrowed her eyes. His wife... Turning back to the roses, she moved closer. Sink's wife. Her heart raced.

"Why, Lieutenant?"

Sveta glanced back at Nixon. Dark eyes, dark intentions. Pulling herself up straight, she tried to act as nonchalant as she could. His wife. Not a spy, not yet at least. Sveta took a ragged, deep breath. "Merely curious," she replied. Then she frowned.

"Sorry you missed him," Welsh ventured.

But Sveta just shook her head. "It doesn't matter. We can survive a closet. Sleep well, gentlemen." Wasting no more time, she didn't spare the roses another glance. She pushed past them. Her boots pounded against the ground like drums until she burst out into the night.

Sink's wife. Sveta sighed. She'd gotten lucky. But she knew her luck couldn't last forever.