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.
Nina almost groaned. “Why?”
“You killed that German and saved my life,” he said simply. “You’re no coward. And if you can’t bring yourself to desert a stranger like me, you wouldn’t desert your regiment unless you had to.”
Nina did groan then. “I can’t believe someone as trusting as you has managed to live this long, Englishman!”
He smiled. “My friends call me Seb.”
Chapter 42
Jordan
August 1950
Boston
Well, Jordan thought, this is awkward. In fact, you could take a snap of this group standing here on the airfield and caption it Ex-Fiancés: A Study in Awkwardness.
“Hello,” she said as cordially as possible, considering she hadn’t seen Garrett Byrne since she’d handed his diamond back and he’d told her to take her advice and shove it. And now they’d bumped into each other at the tiny airfield outside Boston where Garrett had first taken her flying, which wouldn’t have been so bad had Jordan been alone, but she had Tony at her side, standing there with eyes that danced hilarity at all the things that weren’t being said. For a man who had spent years interpreting the spoken word, Tony was remarkably good at interpreting the unspoken ones. “I didn’t know you’d be here, Garrett.”
Her former fiancé wore oil-stained coveralls, very different from the summer-weight suit he wore to work beside his father. “I work here full-time now, helping in the hangar and piloting the joyrides. I bought a part share,” he emphasized. “I’m looking to make something of the place, eventually buy out Mr. Hatterson. Dad wasn’t too happy at first, but he’s come around some.”
So you took my advice, after all, Jordan thought. Garrett looked far more natural in coveralls than in a suit. She managed not to say I told you so! but he could probably tell she was thinking it.
“What are you doing here?” Garrett folded his arms across his chest, eyes drifting to Tony, who had slung an arm around Jordan’s waist. “We’ve met, haven’t we? Timmy?”
“Tony. Rodomovsky. Nice to meet you again, Gary.”
“Garrett. Byrne.”
“Right.”
Jordan shook Tony’s arm off. Really, men. “I wanted to take some shots of the mechanics, if they’re willing.” A Mechanic at Work—her shots of the local boys at the Clancy family garage hadn’t come out, there just wasn’t much visual grandeur in car engines. “Would anyone mind if I went into the hangar and snapped a roll?”
Another man, she thought, might have been spiteful and said no. Garrett just gave a stiff nod, eyes drifting past Tony to the person hovering impatiently behind. “Are you going to introduce me to your other friend?”
Jordan opened her mouth, but Nina Graham ran right over her. “You have planes?” she asked in her strange accent, coming forward in a clack of boots. “Let’s see.”
Jordan had been rather startled to see a blond head in the backseat of Tony’s Ford when he came by the house to pick Jordan up. “I’m sorry to say we have a third wheel,” Tony said with a glare at his passenger. “Jordan McBride, may I introduce Nina Graham, Ian’s wife. The moment she heard me mention this morning that I was driving you to an airfield, she invited herself along.”