by C. S. Taylor
Chapter Thirty-Two
For the next minute or two, all I can do is keep still and pray the Romanians don’t come back to inspect Rademacher’s handiwork. My shoulder burns, and my chest feels wet and sticky. Slowly, I look down and find the bloody hole in my jacket under my left collarbone. It’s messy, but I figure I won’t bleed out, at least, not soon.
I start to shiver in the snow and dare to glance around. Neither Rademacher nor the Romanians can be seen, and Klara is on her back in the middle of crimson snow.
I dash to her side, tripping over my feet as I come to her. Her eyes vacantly stare at the sky. Blood tinges her lips. Her chest rises and falls, but I don’t think it will last. She needs a surgeon and a half-dozen miracles. I don’t have either. But I do have hands, and I take hers in mine.
She tilts her head toward me, but she’s looking far away. “Nadya?”
“I’m right here,” I say, squeezing her hand.
“You know what?”
“What?”
“I’m sorry for doubting you,” she says as her body eases into the ground. “And I’m sorry I got you shot.”
“I’d go through all that and more if I could bring you home,” I say, settling next to her. She whimpers as I pull her close and brush her hair from her face before kissing the top of her forehead. “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” she says. She sighs with content. “What did you sing for Alexandra?”
“A lullaby,” I reply.
“I bet it was nice,” she says. Her voice barely makes it to my ears. “Sing it for me?”
I grit my teeth. “No.”
“I suppose I deserve that.”
“I mean I don’t think I’m able.”
“Oh.” Her body trembles, and I fear her last breath is almost upon us as she speaks. “You don’t have to stay. More will come. Go while you can.”
“If I do, I’ll never be able to come back to you,” I reply.
A smile forms on her face. “According to your god, I’m going to Hell. You’ll never come to me there.”
“Then He’ll be in for a rude surprise.”
I shut my eyes as her hand tightens. I wonder how long it would take to get back to friendly lines and what people would say when I returned not only as an ace, but with Rademacher’s ID tags. I’d get commendations and medals. Maybe even a promotion. But I’ll be damned if I’m leaving Klara, no matter how weak we become.
My head grows light, and all of creation feels distant, alien. I’m a stranger in it, and stranger still, I’m glad. It takes a few seconds to understand why: My time in this broken world is coming to an end, and I’m certain that’s just the beginning of something new, something more wondrous and amazing, and maybe I’ll finally get some answers. Most of all, I realize I’m happy because I feel my teeth are finally brushed.
“Klara?” I say, hoping she’ll rouse one more time.
“Yes?”
“We’re going home.”
Acknowledgements
The list of people who helped shaped this to what it is today is enormous. Each and every reader that managed to get through draft after draft and provide invaluable and honest feedback will have my eternal gratitude, especially all those that helped nail down the intricacies of the time period, culture, and the Red Army Air.
I owe special thanks to both Therin Knite and Crystal Watanabe, two amazing editors who helped transform the text through various stages.
And most of all, I always owe the most to my wife, Mary Beth, who’s read through more material than I can dream of and is still as supportive as ever.
About the Author
C.S. Taylor is a former Marine and avid fencer (saber for the most part, foil and epee are tolerable). He enjoys all things WWII, especially perfecting his dogfighting skills inside virtual cockpits, and will gladly accept any P-38 Lightnings anyone might wish to bestow upon him. He’s also been known to run a kayak through whitewater now and again, as well give people a run for their money in trap and skeet.
About the Publisher
Tiny Fox Press LLC
5020 Kingsley Road
North Port, FL 34287
www.tinyfoxpress.com