His bony face was full of soft, dazed wonder, and Nina’s heart squeezed despite herself. Four years locked in the flat stasis of fear and restlessness and hunger, and he was still capable of wonder. Nina couldn’t decide if that was foolish or admirable.
Night fell, and the two Englishmen jumped at every noise from the woods as Nina cooked their dinner. Bill was still inclined to bristle whenever she gave him an order—English soldiers clearly weren’t used to female lieutenants, Nina saw in amusement—but he stared at her when he thought she wasn’t looking, and so did Sebastian. “I’m sorry,” the younger boy apologized when Nina caught him watching her with that air of slight disbelief. “We don’t mean to be rude. You can’t imagine how strange it is, seeing a woman’s face after forty-eight months of nothing but chaps.”
Nina paused, rotating venison strips over the flames. “Am I going to have trouble with either of you?” she asked bluntly.
Sebastian’s shoulders began to vibrate. Nina tensed, then realized he was shaking with laughter. “Lieutenant Markova,” he said between gusts of mirth, “I was raised a gentleman. Now, my father’s version of a gentleman pulls out chairs for ladies and otherwise doesn’t think they’re good for much, but my older brother’s version pulls out chairs, asks a lady her opinion rather than assuming it, and never puts a hand where it isn’t invited. But even if I weren’t a gentleman, I’m not an utter idiot. And only the greatest idiot on earth would force anything on a woman he first met erupting from a bush to slash an armed man to ribbons with a razor.”
His laughter was infectious, and Nina couldn’t help smiling.
The three of them gorged on chunks of venison, charred on the outside and half raw inside, wolfing it till grease ran down their chins. “I don’t care if I get nabbed and sent back,” Sebastian said thickly, chewing through deer gristle. “This beats any kriegie meal I’ve had in four years. Is it true Warsaw is up in full rebellion?”
“Last I heard. Is it true Paris was liberated?”
They traded war news eagerly in two languages. After the food was gone, Sebastian tried to limp around the fire, but only managed a few lurching steps. “That tickles,” he joked, lips thinned in pain, and Bill gave him a long look. Sebastian returned it, and the two men began a quiet discussion. Nina had a feeling she knew what they were deciding. She rose to check if her overalls were dry, hung over a nearby branch after being rinsed of as much of the German’s blood as possible, and when she tugged them on over her unbloodied trousers and shirt and came back to the fire, Bill was going through the spoils from the dead soldiers.
“He’s leaving you.” Nina sat down by Sebastian. “Isn’t he?”
“I told him he’ll have a better crack at getting free if he’s not dragging me and my gimpy pin. If he takes the Kraut uniform—the one not sopped in blood—he can head for the nearest train station, try to bluff on with the German’s identification, aim for free France.” Sebastian tossed a stick into the campfire. “I’d do the same if it were me.”
“Would you?” Nina couldn’t conceive of leaving a wounded sestra behind.
“It’s what everybody does, planning escapes. You split up once you’re outside the gates, to even the odds one of you gets clear.” The English boy was trying to sound matter-of-fact, but he wasn’t as good at hiding his emotions in Russian as he was hiding his accent. They watched Bill try on the German’s uniform. It hung off his bony shoulders but wasn’t a bad fit. Bill smiled for the first time and began tugging on the German’s still-shiny boots.
“He’ll be caught in a day,” Nina said.
“Probably. Most of us are, when we blitz out—get noticed, get snatched, get thrown back in within a day or two. But some make it. Fellow named Wolfe in my unit, Allan Wolfe—he made it out on his third try, hasn’t been seen since.”
“Because he’s probably lying in a ditch.”
“Or he’s back in England, free as a bird. Somebody has to get lucky.” Sebastian turned a stick over in his bony hands. “If Allan Wolfe, why not Bill Digby?”
“He shouldn’t leave you,” Nina stated, watching the man going through the German’s identity cards.
Silence from Sebastian. “I wasn’t even supposed to be part of this blitz-out,” he said after a while, softly. A curious conversation to be having in front of the oblivious Bill, but with the barrier of language, they might have been talking alone. “It was Bill and Sam, they were in it together, chums from Dunkirk. The Jerries threw me in with them at the last minute, doing roadwork in threes, and it was yank me along or scrap the plan. They thought I was a bit useless, and”—a shrug—“well, I got myself wounded while Bill killed one Kraut and you killed the other, so they weren’t wrong, were they? Either way, I’m not Bill’s responsibility.”
Not now that Bill met me, Nina thought sourly. Westerners—show them an armed woman with a chestful of medals and six hundred sixteen bombing runs to her name, and what did they think? Wonderful, a nurse! Dump the wounded man on the woman and be on your way with a clear conscience, because naturally she’d take care of him.
Well, Lieutenant N. B. Markova wasn’t taking care of anyone but herself. She was going west, no time to play nursemaid.
“Get some sleep,” she told Sebastian Graham and retired to her own side of the fire. She heard an uneven hitching breath or two across the camp, but turned off her ears. West.
Bill took off at first light. Seb shook his hand and Nina gave him directions, tucking her compass back inside her shirt when she saw his eyes linger on it. They watched Bill tramp off through the trees, doubtless already dreaming of England, and Sebastian turned to Nina with an air of getting everything over with.
“I imagine you’ll want to rejoin your regiment as soon as possible, Lieutenant,” he said formally. “I shan’t hinder you from making for Warsaw. I’ll be picked up quite soon, I would guess. Back in time for a proper dinner of ersatz coffee and dehydrated-turnip soup.” He tried to smile. “Frankly, all this was worth it just to get a belly full of venison and a night’s sleep under the stars.”
He stood there listing to one side, trying to hide the fact that his wound was hurting him. Fuck your mother, Nina thought. Fuck—your—mother. “Nina Borisovna,” she said.
“What?”
“I’m not your lieutenant, call me Nina Borisovna. I’ll stay with you awhile.” She glared, stuffing her hands in her pockets. “Only until your leg’s better. After that I head west.”
“West?” He looked puzzled. “Why aren’t you rejoining—”
“I can’t rejoin my regiment, because I’ll be arrested. I’m no deserter,” she flared, seeing the flick of his eyes, “and I’m no coward either. My father spoke against Comrade Stalin, and my entire family was denounced.”
She could see him doubting her. Anyone would. She hoped he’d do the cautious thing, tell her to leave him. Then she wouldn’t be stuck nursing a green boy with a bad leg when all she wanted to do was run.
“I believe you,” he said.