I opened my small suitcase and removed her medals along with the rest of her personal effects. I took her Hero of the Soviet Union medal in both hands and presented the small gold star to her aunt.
“It was her last wish that I give this to you,” I said, speaking as though this were an official presentation. It should have been. “She spoke so fondly of her time with you, and I know she wanted you to remember her and know that she died a hero’s death in service to her country.”
“She was lucky to have a friend willing to travel such a long way for our sake,” Philippe said, taking the star from his mother to give it a closer inspection before passing it to his father. “I remember her visit very clearly. Her French was terrible, and she didn’t like having her hair pulled. I have a few scars to prove it.” He smiled slightly as he recalled the memory, faded at the edges like an old photograph. He had a kind smile the war hadn’t been able to erase. Despite his losses, he was a fortunate man to have retained this.
“I couldn’t trust the postal service to get them to you in times such as these,” I said, fidgeting with the mug handle. “And she was a very dear friend. I know she would have done the same and more for me.”
“God bless you, my dear,” Eliane said, taking my hand. “It’s a joy to know there are still good people in this world.”
“She was a far better person than I,” I deflected. “She dreamed of coming here and building a life after the war. I’m only sorry that never came to pass.”
Eliane unrolled Yana’s drawing, which depicted Oksana so lovingly. Seeing it in the flood of evening light that poured in the large windows, I now saw that it didn’t depict Oksana as she was, but who she could have been in a kinder world. The world she deserved. Eliane sniffled, batting away tears as she studied the sketch.
“It would mean a great deal to me if you would hang this in your home,” I said. “Her friend Yana drew this. Oksana wanted to bring her to the land of Cézanne to perfect her skills. At least now a part of her will always be here.”
“You have my word,” Philippe said. “I’ll frame it myself and hang it over the mantelpiece. It will be a testament to happier times and a tribute to her bravery. Thank you for bringing this to us.”
“Thank you,” I said, reaching over to squeeze his hand, though I hardly knew this man. “Today I feel as though my war has ended.”
EPILOGUE
May 9, 1992, Moscow, Russia
“Grand-mère! I can see spires!” my namesake, little Catherine, squeaked at me, grabbing my hand as we crossed Red Square. Saint Basil’s loomed before us, its jewel-toned peaks brighter than I remembered. “They do look like giant onions!”
“Be careful with Grand-mère. She can’t run as fast as you,” chided Roxanne as she struggled to keep baby Michel tucked safely in her arms. For a boy of two, he could discover more trouble in three minutes than most of us did in a lifetime. I did not envy my daughter the task of raising him, but she had far more patience with her little ones than I could have ever mustered.
Philippe quickened his pace and laced his fingers in mine. His grip on my hand had warmed me from within as I’d walked streets that seemed at once familiar and foreign. At times it still seemed strange to rely on another for strength, as I had never been able to do with Vanya. Philippe calmed my fears when my nightmares woke me, even years after the war. He was the only one I ever confessed to about our near escape into Turkey, and tried to assuage the guilt I still felt on occasion. He endeavored to understand when I wept for Vanya. He had held me tight when the Iron Curtain kept me from my mother’s side fifteen years before, when she lost her battle with cancer. Only in his arms was I able to let my tears flow as the last tie I had to my homeland dissolved.
Mama had been heartbroken at my decision to stay in France, and I was equally devastated when my return home became impossible a few short years after Philippe convinced me to stay in Aix. I would likely been branded a traitor, and would never have been allowed to return to France. On the day Mama died, Philippe promised me that he would bring all of us to Moscow one day to pay our respects. On the very day the Soviet Union dissolved, he purchased the tickets for the entire family. He did arrange for the trip to take place in warm weather, for despite having the warmest of hearts, his seventy-six-year-old bones were none too fond of winter. I don’t think it was a coincidence that he planned the trip to coincide with the annual Victory Day celebrations. It was the sort of thing I would have tried to avoid, and only he would know the seed of regret I would have harbored for having done so. Though I never lost my love of the open sky and taught at an aviation academy for several years, I found that I was a bird who had found her nest and was contented enough to roost there.
I loved Philippe’s motherless children as my own. Violaine walked with her husband, Georges, a few paces behind us as we crossed Red Square. Didier chatted companionably with his brother-in-law. I had given Philippe two more daughters: Roxanne, named for Oksana, and Thérèse, named for Taisiya. Philippe had been willing to give them Russian names, but I wanted them to be wholly part of their father’s culture.
While Philippe crafted his wines, I built the business that made it a viable enterprise. We rebuilt the Lacombe vineyard into something worthwhile, and Philippe passed it on to his son and sons-in-law two years before with the pride of having created a legacy to pass on to his family. Thérèse, who had inherited my mind for figures and her father’s charms, took my place running the business end of things and was already expanding the enterprise far beyond my own considerable ambitions. One day in the coming years, they would also inherit the little yellow villa with the terra-cotta shutters and the sweet drawing of a girl from Kiev over the fireplace, but it would be our home—Philippe’s and mine—for as long as we could manage it.
Now, on Red Square, the parade in honor of the anniversary of the end of the war was just beginning, and the children watched the spectacle with glee. Seven grandchildren in all, and another on the way. We watched the colorful display, and I rested my head against Philippe’s chest. He bent his head to kiss the top of mine. My red hair had become streaked with white, and the mirror reflected a woman who had seen both hardship and joy in equal measure. I loved each crease, for they had been hard won.
I sighed at the crisp uniforms as the veterans marched by to the lusty cheers of the crowd. It seemed only moments before that I had pulled up the oversized trousers and ridiculous boots, trying to make myself fit for inspection.
The crowd was young, and I wondered how different it would be if the war had been lost. If the war had never been fought. The children who hadn’t been born, the children who wouldn’t have been if things had gone differently.
I thought of Sofia and her graceful courage.
I thought of Taisiya and her brilliance and dedication.
I thought of Oksana and her tenacity and unwavering composure.
And I thought of my Vanya, who had the eyes of an artist and the heart of a poet.
They should have been with us to celebrate the victory they had willingly given their lives to ensure.
As I scanned the faces of the crowd and my own family, I wondered why I had been so fortunate. Why I had been given the chance at life—albeit one so very different from the one I envisioned—when my dearest friends and my first husband, the love of my girlhood, had not.