17 December 1942

In the army, in her army, in the Red Army, Sveta had been able to get away. The gun had taken time to get used to, but with the women, they had seen her less as a marionette and more as a human. Of course, no one had really forgotten her parentage. Alexander Samsonov's shadow loomed over her wherever she went. But he'd had less direct power while she'd been hundreds of miles away than he'd wielded while she'd been in Stalingrad. But here, in this American military base on American soil in an American uniform, Stalin and Beria and Samsonov managed to shadow her even more. In fact, the mere thought ruined her birthday for her, not that she'd enjoyed birthdays much in recent years.

Her birthday in 1940 had come mere months after her mother's death. 1941 had been no better, marked with war and a desperate attempt to lie low in Morocco. And now, in 1942, the third birthday without her mother, Sveta had to deal with spies and slurs and a language barrier.

Sveta knew Nixon was watching them. If he wanted to play that game, she would oblige. She'd spent too many years putting on masks and playing pretend to have some American lieutenant bother her. Then again, Zhanna had made a connection on day one that she'd never considered.

He was just like the officers.

Not the American ones, not the British. No. The way he watched them reminded Zhanna of the blue caps, the NKVD. Zhanna knew them like Sveta knew them: lurking around every corner, waiting for the smile to drop, eager for the scent of blood or any sign of weakness. Weakness meant betrayal, and betrayal meant punishment.

Sveta knew that there were no NKVD operatives in America. Russia didn't have the money to fund operations so far from the Motherland. That was one reason they'd turned to America in the first place. But she didn't really know that.

Nixon wasn't one; he was too obviously curious about them. But she couldn't help but wonder if the Americans had their own blue caps, their own Gestapo. Did they have a version of the NKVD lurking on this military base? It would make sense. That's how society stayed together.

Whispers on her right pulled Sveta from her thoughts. She stood with the rest of First Platoon at the base of the towers. They reached high above them, 250 feet someone had said. She'd already finished her controlled flights for the day. Now she had to wait for dismissal.

The whispering continued, along with poorly stifled laughter. Luz, Muck, Perconte probably. She'd learned over the last ten days that they would whisper. Cobb, Alley, and More wouldn't even do that. Every little smirk, every little snicker reminded Sveta of how much she hated them.

She hated the way they would burst into song, speaking words she didn't understand. She hated the way their American accents would butcher Stalingrad and Smolensk. She hated the glances. She hated the way Zhanna's name poured from their lips with scorn, and hers with disgust.

Where Zhanna and her platoon had gone off to, Sveta didn't know. They'd finished the tower first that day. The best, in fact perhaps the only pleasant moments in Fort Benning, came when they got to their little shack at night. There they could speak their beautiful language in peace. There, Sveta could relax.

At night she let her mind wander. She would close her eyes and create stories in her mind, stories of traversing a land like Russia, but not Russia. She'd cross a river like the Volga, but not the Volga. Everything wonderful about her home would be there and none of the horrors. The moments between turning off the lights and dropping to sleep, those were Sveta's favorites.

"How d'you think she got that scar? Mishandle a kitchen knife?"

"Hey, Ruski, get tired of playin' soldier yet?"

Sveta stayed where she was. Heat rose to her chest. If the second voice was anything to go by, she thought it was More. But she wouldn't bite. As much as she wanted to rip into these immature men with all the fury she'd been taught, she would wait.

"Must be deaf."

Someone else laughed along with him. Sveta stayed still. She had a thought to turn to them, rebuke them, but her eyes found Nixon standing with Heyliger, her Platoon Leader. They chatted quietly. The latter's shoulders slumped a bit. His gaze moved throughout First Platoon. But beside him, Nixon's own lingered more heavily on the men harassing her than anything else.

"Maybe she's deaf from Shortstop's crying every night."

Sveta clutched onto her sleeves. Arms across her chest, she did everything in her power to maintain the facade. But after years of keeping it together, she felt it crumbling here in America. Her control had been a lie, like everything else. But Stalin be damned if she wouldn't try to take some back for herself. Forcing herself to smile, she turned to them slowly, unhurriedly. Another lie.

"I feel bad for you," she said. It didn't go unnoticed that everyone around them had stopped what they were doing. She supposed even here in America, being a Samsonov held power despite them not realizing why.

"For us?" More asked. He snickered. "Fancy that, boys. She feels bad for us."

"Of course I do," she added. "It is unfortunate that Americans can't learn simple Russian names. I'm so sorry that you face these hurdles."

The false sincerity was enough to piss them off even further if the frowns that replaced their laughter was any indication. Sveta didn't even try to suppress the genuine smile that replaced her fake one. But they hadn't finished.

"Wonder if her mom's as much of a talker as she is," Cobb shot back. Though he aimed the question at the men who had surrounded them, he looked right at her.

Sveta froze. Images flashed through her mind. Blood on white bedsheets, her father's pistol on the floor, the open hand of her mother that had held it splayed out over the edge of the bed. She remembered thinking how glassy her mother's hazel eyes looked without life. Sveta had raced into the bedroom at the bang she'd come to associate with the Korovin pistol. Instead of the warm embrace of her mother, she'd found her cold body.

Veronika Samsonova had kept her mouth closed. That's what had killed her.

Svetlana Samsonova would not make that mistake.

They must've seen her change because several of the boys who had laughed shuffled where they stood. Luz, Muck, Perconte's smiles fell. More and Cobb watched her like hawks, or vultures. She took a step forward. Some of them took a step back.

As much as she wanted to scream at them, she remained as calm, or pretend to be as calm, as she could. Nixon and Heyliger had turned towards them at the sudden change in the group, and she didn't need to give Nixon more of a show than she had to.

"You would do well to keep your mouth shut, Private. I'd hate to see what would happen if you spoke out of turn one too many times. You are lucky that the only Russian weapon I brought is my rifle. Pray that I don't use something worse."

Sveta knew fear. She'd known to fear her enemies since birth. She'd known to fear her friends since 16 April 1935. And in that moment, she knew they understood fear too. A few held her gaze. The rest glanced between themselves.

"First Platoon, listen up!"

Heyliger's shout interrupted the silence. The men turned away, falling into formation. Sveta followed Cobb with her eyes for a moment. Then she joined them, taking up the farthest spot on the right at the front. Muck stood to her left.

Her gaze found Nixon. There he was again, but this time he stood with Winters. When he was with Winters, he let his guard down. Sveta stowed that information away for later.

"First Platoon, good work today. Tomorrow's the end of Tower Week, so rest up. We'll be doing some night practice." Heyliger offered smiles to all of them. He even smiled at Sveta. "You're dismissed. Go grab some dinner."

Sveta let out a long, silent breath as the swarm of First Platoon moved towards the barracks to change. Her gear weighed heavily on her shoulders and squeezed her chest and legs. The tight braids keeping her dark hair pinned against her skull longed to be taken out. And, she was getting a headache.

Just what she needed on her birthday.

Before she realized it, Sveta stood alone by the towers. Their metal frames loomed overhead, visible even as night fell. Some of the men complained endlessly about the chilly weather. They even called it cold. Sveta had just laughed to herself. She'd been in true cold before, and this state of Georgia was not it.

"Lieutenant."

Sveta stopped staring at the towers. Winters and Nixon had walked over, the former speaking. She didn't particularly care for Lieutenant Winters. Zhanna suffered in his platoon. But then, he'd been cordial thus far. He'd engaged in none of the spiteful teasing of the enlisted.

"Lieutenants," she responded. Smile, Sveta. "What can I do for you?"

Nixon gave the tiniest huff of laughter. Her headache increased. But he didn't mock her, instead, he just shook his head and pointed at the towers. "Pretty crazy, huh. Can't wait to jump out of an airplane for real."

"It's certainly different," she agreed. Winters smiled. The sincerity in the way it spread to his eyes made her jealous.

Winters turned from her to the towers again. After a long pause he turned back. "How's your training? I'm sorry that Lieutenant Casmirovna's had to face opposition from my platoon," he added.

Even that statement seemed genuine. His tone, the tiny frown, the way his shoulders sank ever so slightly, pointed towards sincerity. "Yes. It's a pity," she agreed. Sveta tried to mask her own anger, stifle it down. "After all, your Washington said they want us here. I'd hate for an American to do something stupid and jeopardize that."

They both straightened up ever so slightly at her statement. For a moment, she regretted it. Sveta hadn't meant that as a threat, not this time. She'd meant it. For her own sake as much as for the Americans, they needed to somehow reach an understanding. But her apology stuck in her throat. So she opted for something else, a question that had been nagging at her since she'd arrived in Fort Benning.

"Tell me, is it common for Americans to be so..." She couldn't find the word in English. "They speak how they want." Sveta had been in America for nearly four months, but she'd only really been around high-ranking military officials. Since being around these enlisted men, she'd wondered about their lack of self-censorship.

Nixon looked at her closer. "What do you mean?"

She bit her cheek, thinking. It puzzled her, amazed her really. They didn't really care what they said. She'd heard a few speaking openly about their religion, another making jokes about Captain Sobel. And of course, their insults.

"The way they're treating you and Lieutenant Casmirovna is unfair," Winters added. "They shouldn't speak the way they do to anyone, especially an officer. If it continues, I'll have to step in."

He'd step in. And do what? Sveta's confusion must've been evident because they both exchanged a glance. Stupid, letting them know she didn't understand.

"What were you expecting?" Nixon seemed confused.

Sveta shrugged. "I'm just surprised that they're permitted to speak so freely." Shaking her head, she looked in the direction the men had walked off. "In Russia..."

"What?"

She turned to Nixon. There it was. In the light of the fluorescent spotlights strung up around the base, his eyes seemed to glint. She froze. Smile, Sveta. Smile. Stupid, letting her guard down! She shook her head. "Stalin would never permit it. It is poor form, a display of vulgarity."

"Stalin can't be everywhere in Russia," Nixon joked.

He couldn't be everywhere, no. But he was. He was everywhere, listening, making sure loyalty to the Motherland came before all else. The NKVD were his arms, and his hands. The Red Army his feet. Beria, his eyes. But they were all the same. Anger, fear, disgust filled her entire being. "Stalin is Russia," she spat.

At her words, they all paused. Terror seized her. For a moment, her smile dropped. What had she said? All her years of practice, all the moments spent before the mirror practicing her smiles and her frowns and her kisses and waves, they'd failed her in this unfamiliar country.

Her mother had died because she'd kept her mouth shut. Svetlana would die because she couldn't do the same.

"I need to change," she said, a few pounding heartbeats later. "Excuse me."

Sveta left them behind, standing there beneath the tower in the dark. By the time she reached their barracks, Zhanna wasn't there. Fear gripped her again. What if she'd been found out? A scream fought to escape. But she couldn't. She stuffed it down.

Three bottles of vodka lay undisturbed in her footlocker. Sveta grabbed one. She opened it and took a drink. Then she took another. With a groan, she fell back to sit on her cot. Running her right hand through her hair, Sveta tugged at the braids and felt the grime on her skull. All appetite had disappeared. With three words in the presence of the wrong person, Sveta knew she'd potentially endangered herself, and Zhanna too.

She was the one who had to keep up appearances. Zhanna just had to stay quiet. Sveta had conquered quiet once upon a time, but then she'd been forced to get loud. Unfortunately, she had to be loud and cautious. Just be loud about the right things, at the right time, to the right people. Play the game.

Sveta was a Pawn, not a Queen, though. She knew Beria had suspicions about her loyalty already. He'd sent her a rose, once, while she'd been in training. Sveta had never been so terrified in her entire life. The threat had come through clearly. Disloyalty meant worse than death.

Another drink, and another deep breath. Her hair fell over her face as she leaned over her knees. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to breathe. Instead, she saw red. Red roses, red stars, red flags, red blood.

One more drink.

The bottle sloshed as she closed it up and stuffed it below her clothes. Barely enough to numb the fear, really. Sveta climbed into her cot. She closed her eyes. The paradise she concocted in her mind eluded her. All she wanted was to see Russia as she imagined it could be. Instead, she got Russia as it was: Joseph Stalin.