May 16th 1938

I keep listening for their footsteps on the street outside. I try to hear them coming up the stairs. Maybe this was all a mistake and they'll come back for me, run away with me. Mama said they would come back for me.

Maria's attic is cold. Colder than the snow of winter, colder than the icy Neva.

Maria's attic is empty. There is a bed and a dresser but nothing else. Like she forgot about this place above her home. Is she going to forget about me?

She has baskets of roses in the corner, they are all dried and shake when the wind blows. They cast shapes on the walls. I think that's just the roses, anyway.

My hands are cold and the pages feel like they might be made of ice instead of paper. Mama said that I should write to them in this book. Papa said that they would be back.

Dear Mama,

Maria has bouquets of roses, just like you always wanted to plant.

Dear Papa,

I'm alright and I'm staying warm.

There are shapes on the walls. I don't think they are flowers. Maybe if I write them down, I'll remember where everything in the room is. So I know that I'm alone.

Empty wall. Window. Dresser. Bed. Roses. Empty wall.

No one is here. I'm alone.

Empty wall. Window. Dresser. Bed. Roses. Empty wall.

Empty wall….

I don't have a pen. I don't have icy paper. If I did, I would write:

March 24th 1945

Dear mama,

You've been dead for five years and I still think I'll hear your footsteps.

I don't have paper. I don't have anything. Journal, burned. Last tie to my mother, gone.

Why do I write letters in my head to my mother?

This plane is rattling. I don't remember it being this loud in Normandy.

Nixon looks nervous. Do I look nervous?

Nixon didn't want me to go.

"Zhanna, are you out of your goddamn mind?"

I made him take me. I made him take me along. Now I'm on an airplane, somewhere over Germany, and I'm writing letters to my dead mother.

Maybe I should have been writing letters to the person who had never left me.

Maybe I should have spoken as frankly to myself as I had to my mother in those letters.

Maybe I shouldn't have run from Sveta's anger and Easy's lies.

Maybe I should stop lying to myself. But I can't stop lying and I can't stop running.

I can't stop running.

I ran from Russia and now I'm running back. Or am I running away again?

I'm running away from Sveta, I'm running away from my family and my past.

I'm running from who I am.

I ran from my faith.

It was only a matter of time before I ran away from Easy Company too.

Will I keep running?

Why do I run?

Why do I run?

My parents taught me to run. If someone asks questions on the street or if there was a knock on the door, to run. You run.

This plane is loud. Too loud.

I don't have a pen or paper. Maybe if I say it enough, I'll remember it. Remember it enough to write it down later. Maybe burn it later?

If I lived. If I keep running, maybe I'll live long enough to write this all down.

But you can't outrun the river and life is a river. You can't push the river, either, you have to let it flow. But if I don't run, I'll drown and if I drown I'll be dead and I can't make it home. And who am I if I'm not going home?

Home was somewhere on the horizon. Maybe a bed of flowers or a hidden attic.

I thought home would be with Sveta. I thought many things would be with Sveta.

Who am I without Sveta? I thought Sveta was my friend.

I think she is my best friend. But I don't think you are supposed to be chained to your friend.

"Zhanna," Sveta had said. "Weak."

I'm not weak. I've been running, swimming my whole life. Floating and trying to stay alive. Sveta doesn't know what that's like. Sveta doesn't have fear, she has power. She doesn't have to run. She can make a path. Sveta can tell the river to move and it will move because she is a Samsonov. Because of who she is.

And what I am not.

I'm not a Samsonov. I'm a Polykova.

So I can't push the river. But I can't swim anymore. And I don't want to keep running. I'm tired of running but that's all I know how to do. I'm done with letting the river flow. I'm tired of being afraid. And I'm tired of being okay.

I'm not fine. Nothing is fine. Life isn't fair, it's deadly. I don't have anything left. Necklace gone. Journal burned. Friends, family, allies, gone. Gone. gone.

I'm not weak, I'm tired. I'm not running, I'm surviving. I'm not swimming, I'm drowning.

I don't have a friend, I have a prison guard.

Or is she my prisoner?

I don't have allies, I am reliant. I don't have faith, I have a death sentence. I don't have kinsmen. I have nothing but fear.

And yet, they are afraid of me. And I'm not sure how. I'm not sure why.

I'm afraid. And I'm tired.

"Cas, are you ready?"

One last jump, to finish it all. Push through the river, the exhaustion and the stares. I need more time.

More time. The light turns green but the plane is too high. More time. No time. I don't have more time.

I jumped.

The air is cold. The explosion behind me is warm. The parachute slick through the air.

Zhanna Casmirovna Polyakova isn't weak. I am determined.

"ZHANNA!"

Determination doesn't help when you are plummeting to the ground. It doesn't determine your chances of survival.

Bodies all around. Bodies everywhere. Men? Paratroopers? Flames.

Chest freezing in fear. We are doomed