‘What’s your name?’
‘Dimitri Konstantinovich Berko. At your service. And who are you?’
‘Sonya.’
‘Just Sonya?’
‘Yes, Private. Just Sonya.’
She did not smile when she called him Private. This was a hard one, this woman, not a silly girl from the villages. She looked to be in her mid-thirties, a well-preserved lass, even in these war years. She must be, in fact, a teacher or something like that, maybe one of those damned Communists. She was firm in her ocean eyes, even her smiles and laughter were resolute. Dimitri had the instant concern she was smarter and better born than him.
‘Yes, well.’ He made a face. ‘Just Sonya.’ He played the clown a bit for her. ‘I’m a private in this army. But actually, when there’s no war going on, I’m a hetman.’ He tapped his own chest, in the mud there from the dripping water. ‘My father was a hetman. And his father.’
Sonya pursed her lips, impressed. ‘What is a hetman?’
He narrowed his eyes. She doesn’t know. Ah, she’s too much trouble.
One more go-round, then enough. Back to my tank.
‘I am a Cossack leader. In my sietch, I am the final say.’
‘Your sietch.’
‘Yes, woman. My… my community. Village. Me. The little private.’
‘The dirty little private. Are you a tanker, Dima?’ This was the diminutive of his name, the affectionate form.
‘Yes. Right up the hill there. Those tanks. The 3rd Mechanized Brigade.’
‘You’ll be fighting here, then. When it starts. Around this trench.’
‘Yes. Along the Oboyan road. The Germans are going to give it everything they’ve got to take it. But I think this trench alone will stop them. I mean, look at it. You’ve done a marvelous job. There won’t be much fighting for me to do.’
Sonya took a deep breath and looked at Dimitri with softer eyes. He noted the change and heaped on more, this time for sympathy.
‘Me and my son. We’re in the same tank.’
‘The same tank.’
‘Yes. It’s an old tradition, Cossack families go to war together.’
‘That’s splendid.’
And my daughter.’
‘Oh.’ Sonya smiled her best yet. ‘Where is she?’
‘Up there. Somewhere.’ Dimitri pointed into the sky.
Sonya’s face fell.
‘Oh, Dima, no. I’m so sorry. Ay.’ She clucked her tongue. ‘To lose a child.’
No, he thought, you goose, Katya’s not dead! She’s a pilot…
‘How did she… ?’
Dimitri froze for the moment, raising a hand to wave off the incorrect notion. Sonya touched his shoulder.
‘No, no, Dima, it’s alright. You don’t have to talk about her right now. I understand. It must be so hard for you.’
Dimitri lowered his hand. He drooped his eyes to the dirt and sniffed once, faking. He left Katya unexplained. Sonya patted his neck. Katya would understand, he thought.
She pulled her spade out of the facing wall. Dimitri followed suit.
Sonya seemed to want to let some silence hover, to return to work, as though she dug now with a new purpose, for the dead daughter and the brave Cossack hetman who would fight beside his son here along the dangerous Oboyan road.
She bent to her shovel. Dimitri, behind her, gave her buttocks a squeeze.
* * * *
June 31
2130 hours
Dimitri stayed in the trench, digging with the women and old men, the darling of the civilians. When he did not come out of the hole in an hour to return to his tank, Andrei wandered up to the lip to check on him. Below Andrei’s feet, he saw Sonya and barebacked Dimitri with a gaggle of women around him. The dairy farmer doffed his cigarette and his tunic, too, and stumbled down the wall of the trench. He was welcomed, introduced around, and handed a shovel. Within the hour, a dozen more tankers were in the trench, sweating and flinging dirt and flirting like it was a holiday. In the early evening, they shared a meal with the diggers.
The air cooled with the lowering sun and the work slacked after the food. The sound of arriving trucks reached them down in the pit, come to take the laborers back to their camp miles to the east away from the front.
Andrei got a peck on the cheek from the girl he’d worked beside. Some of the other tankers, unsure bumpkins, backed away, muttering, Nice to meet you, and clambered up the slope. Sonya told Dimitri, Thank you, she hadn’t laughed as much in a day for years. Thank you, Dima. He reached both hands into the water bucket and dipped water to splash his face, then grabbed Sonya in a bear hug. Her breasts against his chest stunned him for a moment, it had been all he thought about the whole day hefting the shovel. He wanted to give her something but had nothing in his pockets, so he gave her a truth. My daughter, he said, is not dead. She’s a pilot. Sonya did not take a swing at him for his gambit; instead she said, So, you are still a hetman, you have a clan. Yes, he said, proud the way she put it. Yes.
You’re a good woman, he said. I am, she answered, and lingered in his arms, sea-green eyes flowing over his face. And you need to let me go.
This is when Valentin arrived at the edge of the trench.
‘Let her go, Private.’
‘Your son?’ she asked Dimitri.
‘Yes. The bastard.’
‘Go,’ Sonya said.
‘A kiss first.’
‘No. I don’t know you that well.’
‘I’ve earned a kiss.’
Valentin repeated his command. The sky behind him reddened.
‘Go, Dima. You’ll get in trouble.’
‘See. You do know me well! Kiss me, woman, and I’ll deal with the trouble.’
Sonya bent her head to his and they touched lips; the kiss was softer than Dimitri wanted but, again, he found she was plenty. He let her pull away first and open her eyes.
‘Another time,’ she said.
‘Another time, Just Sonya.’
He grabbed one more handful of her bottom and clambered away before she could consider taking a swipe at him. He flew up the trench slope to stand beside Valentin.
‘You should have gotten here sooner,’ he said to his son, looking down at all the women gathering their tools, washing their bare arms in the last of the water buckets. Then he made a face. ‘No. Perhaps not.’
* * * *
June 31
2215 hours
Two boys sat cross-legged on the ground in front of the General Platov.
They jumped up when Valentin strode into the glow of their lantern.
‘Sergeant!’ they said together.
Dimitri came to stand beside his son, who addressed the two newcomers.
‘Men, this is your driver. Private…’