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.

"Oh shit!" It was Skip Muck. His voice, the deliverer of many jokes at her expense, was one she was familiar with. But his tone wasn't teasing but one of genuine concern. "Are you okay?"

"Jesus, Skip, you broke her!" Malarkey was the constant companion of Muck and a member of the mortar squad. His presence wasn't a surprise. Skip pushed her onto her back and lifted her up by the front of her life preserver.

"Gee, Shortstop," Skip said, sheepishly as he dusted imaginary imperfections off her life jacket. "I'm sorry. I didn't think you'd go flying like that."

Zhanna couldn't answer, the salty taste of blood was still in her mouth and her shortness of breath hadn't been assisted by the fall to the floor. She had the wind knocked out of her and Zhanna's lungs were trying to remember how to function.

"What are you doing down here?" Malarkey asked, glancing around as if he was worried Sveta had seen their abuse of her partner. "Shouldn't you be with Samsonova?"

"I can't find her." Zhanna said, breathlessly. Skip set her back on her feet and she swayed for a moment before regaining her balance. "Do you know where she is?"

"I don't usually keep tabs on her," Muck admitted. "Come with us, don't want someone else to knock you over."

Zhanna should have said no. She could have said no, and kept wandering around the ship until, by some miracle, she found her friend and spotter. But Zhanna didn't want to be alone.

So she said. "Alright," allowing them to lead her down that set of stairs, their footsteps echoing in the metallic space.

"How did you and Samsonova end up as partners?" Malarkey asked, as if he couldn't contain the question any longer. "I mean, she's..." his voice trailed away.

Sveta was a Samsonov. Zhanna was only a Pole and a Jew. They didn't know that, of course, but she was obviously lesser in standing to her friend. Anyone could see that and she was surprised it had taken them this long to ask.

"I came to live with her family when I was fourteen," There was so much that Malarkey and Muck couldn't understand, and they would never understand, if Zhanna had a thousand words to explain. She could never bring them to fully comprehend the intricacy of their relationship. Zhanna didn't even understand it.

She had been fourteen. A child, who had only known survival, given to the powerful Samsonovs. Sveta didn't understand her and Zhanna didn't understand Sveta. But they had stuck together through it all. Through Veronika's death and sniper training. And they would stick together until their feet touched Russian soil again.

"You were adopted?"

"No," Her presence had brought only suffering to the Samsonovs. She brought that curse with her. Their kindness was already too much, a heavy weight on Zhanna's mind. Was it really kindness, or was it pity?

Veronika had accepted her, taken her in but adoption into one of the most powerful families of the Soviet Union was a bit of a stretch for a Polish girl. Veronika and Sveta had been silently rebelling for years and Zhanna's presence would have been their pièce de résistance. A Pole in the home of a man who's work to slaughter and stamp out every remaining taint from his country was well known. A Jew under the nose of Soviet Russia, who's leaders had never been one for religion or moral ties. Zhanna was their little resistance and had been Veronika's downfall.

And how had she repaid her?

Zhanna had passed the locked door, the taste of stolen vodka still on her lips. She had heard the gunshot. It rang in her ears, an echo. And she had run away.

Bitter taste in her mouth, the echo of the gunshot, and the closed door. Zhanna had run away. She always ran away.

And now, she had to pay the Samsonovs back. That debt, written on the sheets with blood and rebellion. That was her life jacket in this midst of this storm of a war.

"You heading back home to Russia?" Malarkey asked.

"That's the plan." Zhanna said. Oh her plan. To get Sveta home, no matter the cost, was a receipt of her debt. Zhanna would pay it in full and then find her family. Once she had Agata and Casmir, their hands in her own, Zhanna would find safety elsewhere.

Skip's hand grabbed the tie to her life jacket and led her through the crowd of men and bunks that made up the belly of the ship. It stunk of sweat, smoke and seawater. Zhanna's nose wrinkled as they pushed their way past Dog and Fox company towards familiar faces.

"Must be nice to know where you are going," Malarkey said, wryly. He allowed a comrade to deal him into a game of cards while Skip continued on his path.

"Right now, some lucky bastard's headed for the South Pacific," Skip said, pushing Gordon and Sisk out of the way. "He'll get billeted on some tropical island, sitting under a palm tree with six naked native girls, helping him cut up coconuts, so he can hand feed them to the flamingos."

Zhanna wasn't sure if that was a thing to envy but the men seemed to think so. She pushed her way through the crowd, past Perconte and Sisk, following Skip to his rack, where the paratrooper offered her a hand. With his assistance, she jumped to sit on the thin cotton sheet that was stretched between the metal frame, a prayer being the only real support. There were hundreds of soldiers, all from different platoons, companies and battalions jammed into the belly of this ship. It made her skin crawl and tiny droplets of sweat bead on her forehead, that had nothing to do with the heat. There were so many of them.

Skip didn't seem to pinpoint the cause of her sudden wide eyed gaze and fitful glances but he did offer a small smile, as if the motion would cease her worry and soothe all fears. It didn't, not entirely. But it did help.

Zhanna hadn't thought the men of Easy would be so willing to offer a hand to her, in more ways than one. And yet, here she was, deep in the jungle of bunks, being treated with almost the same camaraderie that they had for each other. She still didn't have Sveta.

"What if we don't get to Europe?" Gordon, who's nickname "Smokey" confused Zhanna to this day, asked. "What if they send us to North Africa?"

"My brother's in North Africa, he says it's hot," Guarnere, loud and from the city of Philadelphia, where it seemed a large

"Really? It's hot in Africa?" Malarkey dead panned, lowering his newspaper, stolen from an empty bunk, to glance at Zhanna. She managed a small snort of laughter, an exhale of amusement. "What are you gonna say next? It's cold in Russia?"

"Point is, it don't matter where we go. Once we get into combat, the only person you can trust is yourself and the fella next to you." Guarnere looked over at Zhanna who had been watching with wide eyes.

He didn't add "or woman," or make any adjustments to the exclusion of his remark. Did the men think she wouldn't fight for them? She knew the road to trust was a long one and couldn't remember the last time she had walked it, but Zhanna would have hoped that at least some assurance in her ability was due.

"Hey, long as he's a Paratrooper," Toye said, fiddling with his switchblade. The rasp of steel sent shivers down Zhanna's spine, despite the clamor of men's voices and she was grateful for the wings that were threaded through the silver chain, hanging close. Her ticket home and the last piece of home.

"Oh, yeah? What if that paratrooper turns out to be Sobel?"

"If I'm next to Sobel in combat, I'm moving on down the line," Toye snapped the switchblade again, to "Hook up with some other officer, like Heyliger or Winters,"

"I like Winters, he's a good man," Guarnere paused. "But when the bullets start flying, I don't know if I want a Quaker doing my fighting for me."

Sveta had excelled at laying secondary meanings beneath her words and Zhanna had learned to discern the truth through her heavily shrouded mystery. Guarnere was a novice at this skill. He thought the slight jab at Winters would be taken as just that. A slight jab. But Zhanna knew, to her trained eye, that he was prodding her and Sveta.

"He ain't Catholic," Guarnere said, as if that explained it. "Now Sobel, that prick's a son of Abraham,"

"He's what?" Liebgott had been listening in half interest but now rested his elbow against his knees, cigarette in hand. Fully alert and ready to do what Zhanna had learned to expect from him: instigation.

"He's a Jew." It was hotter than the sun's fiery surface in the bowels of this ship but Zhanna's fingers went numb. Maybe it was her tight grip on the front of her life jacket, the only thing that could hold her afloat when things came tumbling down. Like they always did. Jew.

"Jew," from Zhanna's mouth had been comforting and familiar, a piece of her family and her home. She had relied on the cool silver necklace and the promise of protection. It was a good thing.

"Jew," From Guarnere's mouth was harsh and disgusted, a curse or a less than desirable taste. Scum. Like the Soviets and Germans said. There was no protection that her little star could offer from the slap to her jaw his words had delivered.

Zhanna didn't have a temper to lose. But Liebgott did.

"Oh, fuck. I'm a Jew." His voice was cautionary, promising a boiling temper that Zhanna could see behind his eyes. He pushed himself towards Guarnere, a presence larger than the actual stature he possessed.

"Congratulations. Get your nose outta my face." Guarnere was stubborn. Like a bull, he didn't see anything but the path in front of him and the only solution in his mind was to plow through it with brute strength.

The first blow was to Liebgott's chest and before another could land, Zhanna had leapt to her feet and ran to the men. She wasn't sure what she hoped to accomplish. She wasn't sure what her body was doing. But being thrown backwards for the second time wasn't her plan.

The slander of Jews had hurt equally to the pain of Guarnere's arm colliding with Zhanna's head. Sharp, stabbing pain exploded across her face and her vision went blurry as she hit the floor, the wind knocked out of her.

"Break it up!" Bodies rushed past her, while she lay weighless on the floor, to break up the fight when she had failed. There were the muffled sounds of fists hitting fabric until the sounds of Easy Company overpowered it all. Shouts, and curses richoteted like shrapnel in

"Hey! HEY!" Lipton's voice was lifted above the rest, shattering the pandemonium with his cool authority. "Lieutenant? Are you alright?"

She still couldn't see but Zhanna supposed she was alright. The flesh along her jaw was still stinging but she was still conscious. Slowly Zhanna sat up, her head spinning but she was still conscious. She was alright.

"Jesus, look at the state of her," Zhanna could hear Skip's voice dimly through ringing ears. She was glad she couldn't see herself. Her jaw was tender under the exploration of her fingertips and she winced.

"God, that's turning purple already!" Someone shouted.

"Look what you did to the kid, Guarno," Skip said, pulling Zhanna up from the floor and closer to his side. "Jesus Christ."

"I'd like to find Sveta now," Zhanna said, thickly, pain flaring red hot on her face. Guarnere said nothing in his defense and she wanted to leave. She should have been with Sveta. She shouldn't have been in the bowels of this ship and Zhanna shouldn't have tried to be one of the men, to stop that fight. The blow to her face was payment for trying to be something that she wasn't: American.

"She's in the officer's quarters," Lipton said.

Zhanna stumbled toward him, through blurry eyes, gripping Skip's arm for balance. "Take me there,"

Ascending the stairs was difficult and the walk to the officer's quarters was a slow one, thick with tension and anxiety, punctuated by the now dull throb and swelling on Zhanna's face. The door opened before Zhanna could reach for the knob, and through heavily-lidded eyes, she saw Sveta's dark ones staring back at her.

She didn't say anything but Sveta's eyes had the ability to speak without words. Brown but almost black in color, almost like the ones that had watched Casmir and Agata from the shadows. These eyes had burned through many Soviet politicians and had flickered with the anger and fury that Zhanna knew was ready to strike at a moment's notice.

It would never be at her. Sveta had never loosed her fire and flood upon Zhanna. It would be in her defense and Sveta was ready to burn through the RMS Samaria with all the Samsonov fury and power. Power that Zhanna could admire from afar but never possess. A power that left Zhanna reliant and indebted to her spotter and her friend.

"Go inside," Sveta said with a carefully contained fire. "I'll find a medic for you."