The crash overhead nearly deafened me. The shriek of mortars—normally I was impervious to the sound of German artillery, but two weeks in hospital away from the clangor of the front line had softened my ears. Maybe softened my spine too, because at the scream of shellfire overhead, I erupted out of my chair as if I had been electrified, grabbing desperately for my rifle, which wasn’t there.
“Mila—”
The table rocked as I dived under it, clamping my arms to my ears, heart hammering through my chest.
“Mila—”
I couldn’t tell if there were more mortars coming; my damaged ears were ringing and roaring. I shuddered, my eyes screwed shut. Were the German bastards starting again so soon? Did nothing stop them?
“Mila.” Warmth around me, a voice vibrating low and soft beside my ear. He sounded calm, but his muscles were tense. “It’s not an attack, just the Hitlerites giving us a little night music. Trying to keep us scared.”
I’m not scared, I tried to say, but the words jammed in my throat. What an idiotic thing to say, anyway—I was clearly afraid; I was under a table with my arms around my ears. My company commander had had to crawl under the table after me. I felt his arms tight around my shoulders, gripping me against his chest. I’d felt such relief in hospital when I’d realized I didn’t have to hide my fears from him . . . but I was out now, I was supposed to be recovered, not still cowering and petrified. Such a wave of shame swept through me that I nearly sank through the floor like a domovoi, one of those old hearth spirits people made offerings to in the days before the revolution, before education and rationality conquered fear and superstition. Except of course, such things are never conquered, no matter what the Party says.
“I’m sorry,” I muttered, trying to pull away, trying to shrivel into my collar, but Lyonya just tucked me more firmly into his shoulder.
“Believe me, I’m the frightened one here. I was right behind you getting under the table.”
We were both huddled against the floor now, the canvas drape of the makeshift tablecloth curtaining off the rest of the world. My heart was still racing in misplaced alarm; I peeled my hands off my ears and watched my fingers sink into the front of Lyonya’s jacket instead. “They’re—they’re not attacking.”
“Doesn’t sound like it.”
I listened hard. Boots walking past outside, the occasional low laugh, the clink of tin cups. A company going about its evening routine, no screams or shouts or chatters of machine-gun fire. “Don’t tell them,” I whispered into his jacket. “The company, the men and the officers, don’t—”
“Don’t tell them what?”
“I—this.” Lyudmila Pavlichenko curled in a shaking ball. The girl sniper, sniveling under a table.
“You’ve killed more than two hundred men while looking them square in the face as you pulled the trigger.” Lyonya’s hand moved over my hair. “No one thinks you’re a coward.”
I do. “Do I still dazzle you?” I managed to say harshly.
I could feel him smile against my temple, pressing his lips over my ear. “Utterly.”
We disentangled, climbing out from under the plank table. The tin plates were safe, but the shell-case vase had been knocked over, the winter bouquet scattered on the dirt floor. “It’s all right,” Lyonya said, but I scrambled to retrieve the juniper fronds, the maple twigs. Those bright leaves like fire cupped in my still-shaking hands, jammed into a 45mm shell case—if that wasn’t wartime life in a nutshell, I didn’t know what was. A stray frond of beauty here and there, jammed into something mass-produced and violent, usually toppled and trampled underfoot before too long. Dead and withered tomorrow, but still glowing with life today.
Like us.