z

Young Writers Society



The Night Witch - Chapter 1: Natalya (May 1931)

by ImaginaryPoet


Chapter 1: Natalya (May 1941)

My mother used to tell me that a bird is known by its flight. She said it was an old proverb that her father had told her, and his father had told him and so on, and everyone had always had their own interpretation of it.

“My Papa thought it meant that others will judge you based on how you judge others,” she had told me when I asked her interpretation. “But I’ve never thought that was the message it was trying to get across.”

“What do you think it means?” I asked her, still not sure I even understood the proverb.

“To me, it means people will remember you first by who you are on the outside. The more you put yourself out there, the more you face the world, the more people will see the real you. But you must remember: when you back down in the face of danger, people will only remember you as the dove that dropped its wings in the face of a tough breeze. Do not forget that, my ptitsa.” My bird. Her nickname for me, fittingly.

I had no idea then that those words would stick with me for the rest of my life. I didn’t agree with them so, keeping with tradition, I made my own interpretation of the proverb. Yet everywhere I went, I found myself thinking about what she had said and letting it help guide my life.

With her words always echoing in my head, backing down was never an option. But those were better times.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

The only time I ever feel truly relaxed is when I’m in the air, surrounded by the roaring engine of my old plane and the howling of icy wind. Although I’m just borrowing it and I know I’m not allowed to take it out very far, the thought of running crosses my mind every time I fly. I had the plane, and there was no way they could track me down - at least that I knew of. One day, maybe, I would bring a pack with some provisions and take off.

Just me, my thoughts, and my freedom.

Finally.

But I always end up pushing the thought away. Someday, I would do it. Someday, I would take off and never look back.

Someday, I would be able to do it.

I’m startled out of my thoughts when the small radio in front of me crackles to life. “Naty, you still with me?” Lydia Smirnova’s voice statics in and out and I smile as I press the button to respond.

“Unfortunately.”

“Well, the club’s about to close, so I’m gonna need you to land,” she says, laughing. The sound warms me against the freezing wind, but I still huff as I turn the plane around and start the journey back towards base. As the greenery underneath me grows sparser, I can see the open runway gliding closer with every passing moment.

“If you insist,” I sigh.

-----------------------------

I land, setting the plane down and roaring the last few yards to a stop. I can never stand the first few minutes after landing when the air feels too heavy around me, the wind too silent.

“Naty! Your head out of the clouds yet?” I look up to see Lydia jogging towards me across the lot, shrugging on a coat and grinning her head off.

“Barely,” I say, and we both laugh.

“Give it a few more hours, maybe?”

“Zamolchí. You’re just jealous because I’m a better pilot than you.”

She snorts and grabs my elbow, pulling me back towards the building. “Hurry up. There’s something I want to show you and the boss said that he’d fire me if I closed late again.”

I follow her through the dark building, almost running to keep up. When we finally get to her office - a small closet tucked between a restroom and the janitor’s room in the back - she heads straight to her desk and pulls a magazine from one of the drawers. A familiar face stares out from the front,

“Isn’t that Marina Raskova?” Just like every other time I’ve seen the extraordinary pilot in the newspaper, I stare for a few seconds in awe before returning my focus to the conversation.

“Well, aren’t you a quick one?” Lydia laughs and I reach forward, snatching the paper from her hand.

“Of course I know who Marina Raskova is,” I say, my eyes darting from the poster to my friend and back again. “Although I’m surprised that you know who she is.”

Lydia’s mouth flies open for a retort, and I grin when she isn’t able to come up with one.

Setting the paper back down on the desk, my brow furrows. “Why are you showing me this? Is she making a trip out here or something?”

“Nyet, better! Marina Raskova is putting together an all-female flying group to help fight Germany! Any girl between 17 and 26 can sign up to join!”

I don’t think I’ve heard her right. “This is the Marina Raskova we’re talking about, da?”

“Da!” Lydia is almost squealing with joy, and her grin has spread so wide that I’m worried it’ll get stuck.

I had read about Raskova in the papers a while ago after she had become the first woman to be awarded the Hero To The Soviet Union. Comrade Stalin himself had gone to congratulate her after she set the distance record from Moscow to Komsomolsk-on-Amur.

“Do you think we could get in?”

“I don’t know. My brother - he’s the one who found this, by the way - said every female pilot in the USSR is going to be trying out, but she’s only taking a few. Still, Naty this could be our chance!”

I can feel my smile begin to slide off my face and struggle to pin it back in place. Taking a step back, I grab my bag from where I had left it when we came in and pull the door open.

“I can’t, Lydia. You know my parents, they’d never let me.”

“Natalya Orlova, you are 19 years old! You can’t let your Papa tell you what to do for your entire life!” Her voice takes a sharp turn toward seriousness as I continue out the door. Running around the desk, Lydia grabs my shoulder to stop me.

My arm shrieks in pain and I pull away, rubbing the bruise with my free hand. Lydia takes a step back, narrowing her eyes.

“Naty -”

“Lydia, I can explain -”

“Who did that?” She glances at my arm, and as I follow her gaze, I pull down my sleeve to cover the large bruise back up.

“Lydia -”

“He did that, didn’t he?”

I pause, startled by the anger in her voice. I don’t want to answer, but I know that she will see through any lie I try to feed her.

“Da,” I whisper, then bite my lip before anything else can slip out.

We’re both quiet for a moment before Lydia speaks again.

“You told me that he never went after you.”

“Well, I was wrong. I guess my mother wasn’t enough for him.” I can’t stop the sarcasm dripping from my voice. Although I know that it’s not Lydia’s fault, I can’t help but feel mad at her for prying.

“Naty, this needs to stop.”

“It was one night, Lydia. My mother wasn’t home, and he swears he won’t do it again! Anyway, you know he took Lev’s death pretty hard.”

“We all took it hard. He was your brother, after all! Still, that doesn’t give him an excuse to… You need to get away. I’m getting you away!”

“It’s not your choice to make, Lydia. I know you’re trying to help, but running off would only make things worse. I have my mother to think about as well!”

We both stand there, staring at each other, a crease forming in my friend’s forehead.

“Meet me here tonight, 11. Bring your Mama if you can.” She turns around and adjusts a stack of papers on her desk.

“Lydia -”

“Just be there!” Dropping the papers, she pushes past me on the way to the door but stops for a moment. Our eyes meet and she looks as though she’s about to ask me something, but all she does is mutter, “pack a bag,” as she walks by.

“What are you planning?” I call after her. Thinking back on Lydia’s history of making spontaneous and crazy decisions, I’m more than a little wary of following her.

“We’re meeting Marina Raskova,” she says, grinning, and turns out of sight.

----------------------------------------------------------

I leave the building a few minutes after her, making sure to lock up behind me. The last thing I want is for Lydia to lose her job over a mistake I make, no matter how frustrated I am with her now.

I make my way down the street, taking my time and pausing to look into shop windows. I stop by the bakery to buy a tiny slice of Pastila and savor the flavor as I pass by a jewelry shop, a shoe store, and a few clothing stores. A walk that should take ten minutes turns into double, and then triple, until I know I can stall no longer.

The house sits on the corner of two busy little streets, a small cottage with flower pots out front and a swing hanging in the backyard. It’s a leftover from my childhood years; a dusty, rotted dream of when my Papa actually spent time with me.

Reluctantly, I finish the rest of my pastry, wipe the crumbs off on my pants, and tip-toe through the door. I go to the kitchen first and can hear my mother humming to herself as she stirs something in a bowl. I relax as I recognize the soft lullaby and realize she must be alone.

“No Papa tonight?”

She jumps as I enter the room, dropping the spoon, and turning towards me. “Oh,” she laughs, picking up the spoon and wiping it off with a towel before dipping it back into the pot. “Natalya, ptitsa, you startled me!” Pausing, she frowns at me in my dirty clothes and mussed-up hair. “He’s out with… with friends. It’s just the two of us tonight.”

Sighing, I give Mama a quick peck on the cheek before going to my room to clean up for dinner.

-----------------------------

“So, ptitsa, how was your day?”

The table is silent as always, and my Mama’s voice shakes slightly as she makes a feeble effort at small talk. I humor her, if only to get my mind off of Lydia’s proposal.

“It was fine, Mama. How was yours?”

“It was fine. Your Papa’s been out all day so I did a little bit of cleaning.”

We both fall quiet for a minute and it quickly becomes uncomfortable. Desperate to break the silence, I blurt out the first thing that comes to me. It's a question that's bothered me for longer than I can remember, though I regret it even as the words leave my lips.

“Why did you do it, Mama?”

“Well, I was bored, I suppose, and the house was dirty so -”

“No, not why did you clean. Why did you marry him?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I mean… well, from what you’ve told me, Papa has always been like - like this. Why would you want to spend the rest of your life with a… with a…”

“With a mu’dak?”

I have to stop myself from laughing at the name, and just nod my head. Sighing, my mother takes a sip of her soup, giving herself time to consider an answer.

“I loved him, Natalya. When - when I married him, I mean,” she says tentatively. Slowly exhaling a breath, she sets down her spoon and leans back in her chair. “And I still loved him when we had your… your brother, and then even later when we had you. Even now, I do still love him a little, or, at least, I love the man that he used to be. But love can fade over time, and your Papa’s love for me just happened to have faded much more than mine has for him.” She reaches across the table and puts her hand over mine. “That’s how life works, ptitsa. We’re here to take care of our men and to give them children to be proud of. We’re not here to control their lives. They will do as they please, even if it means, such as in your father’s case, that we don’t get to see them all that often.”

“And maybe,” I say, not even bothering to keep the sarcasm from my voice, “sometimes it’s alright if we don’t see them all that often.”

“Natalya, don’t say that,” she scolds, her eyes flicking to the door. “We love your father and he… well, he loves us too, in his own way.”

Her hands grip mine and we’re both silent for a moment. I’m about to say something to break the silence when her arm shifts and I notice a large red print on the inside of her wrist.

“Mama -”

Pulling her hand away, she shoves the edge of her sleeve back over the mark.

“I burned it. I’m fine.”

“Mama -”

“You look tired, ptitsa. Why don’t you go to bed early tonight? I’ll clean up in here.” It isn’t a suggestion. By the time my throat unclenches enough for me to protest, she’s already pushed away from the table, collected my half-finished bowl, and is heading to the kitchen.

I can feel hot tears forming behind my eyes and, getting up, I try to think of something to say. But not a single word makes it past my lips and eventually I give up, turning and leaving the room.


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83 Reviews


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Sat Jul 25, 2020 6:55 pm
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WaterSpout wrote a review...



Hello, Ghost_Pianist. I saw your work in the green room and thought I'd go check it out. Let me tell you, this amazed me. I like the setting, the current situation in the story, and how the characters interact. Except for one instance, but I'll might as well start.

I gasp as my father raises the hand with the bottle still in it, and smashes it into the side of my mother’s head. She reels backwards in shock, clutching her face and screaming. I turn back into my room and start grabbing everything and anything I can, stuffing it into a small backpack that I took with me on flights, in case of emergency.

Wasn't that a little too early? I mean, I've never been in that situation, but to just start preparing to leave, even though violence has already been seen in the house? Hey, maybe I'm judging to much.
There are those who would refuse to open their wings to leave the ground, and there are those who would fight the wind so they could get to where they wanted to faster.

Maybe shorten that to just Some would
But everytime I turn the plane around and land a few minutes later, an eagle with it’s wings chained, forced to walk among humans.

Everytime isn't a word, so just put a space in between. And also, change it's to just its because it is wings would not make sense. That's a trick you can use to know when to use its and it's
I’m startled out of my thoughts when the small radio infront of me crackles to life.

Infront is also not a word, so just put a space in between.
My house sits on the corner of two busy little streets, a small cottage with flower pots out front and a swing in the backyard, leftover from the my childhood years that my father never got around to taking out

The is not needed.
During dinner, I sit and sip the still hot soup, thinking.

Add a hyphen
I always wondered how my mother managed to keep her voice so calm while taking to him.

Obviously a typo, just add an l
Most conversation between us ended in screams, tears, and blood.

That needs an s
Marina Raskova’s making an all-female flying group to fight Germany and it's allies, and I want in.”

Again, just take out the apostrophe.
Overall, this is a really good story, keep it up. I might review them.
With caution,

WaterSpout




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Sat Jul 25, 2020 9:25 am
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brotherGeo wrote a review...



Hello Comrade!
Another great chapter and introducing a new character too, its nice to hear from the soviets.

There may be a bit of nitpicking in this, so sorry in advance.

Every time I’m in the air, surrounded by the soft clunking of my old U-2, the howling of the wind, and sometimes the cawing of birds.

Excellent description of flying in the air creates a good image. however i must note, and this is fully personal and has little relevance at all, but i have being in and flown small prop(propeller) aircraft and unless the engines are off and your gliding, you cant hear anything but the engine. especially in older planes, they are so loud. like i said i just wanted to point this out it doesn't actually matter.

“Yes, I -”“You ate without me?”

I see what you're trying to do here. try:
"Yes, I -"
"You ate without me?" he cut her off.

I turn back into my room and start grabbing everything and anything I can, stuffing it into a small backpack that I took with me on flights, in case of emergency. I pack clothes, a hairbrush, an extra pair of shoes, and a handful of rubles.

Domestic violence is awful, but this is one hell of a quick decision, Natalya just up and left immediately, while her mother was being assaulted, its fine just a little fast paced.

“No, on one of those Hollywood movies they show in the cinema!”

I really doubt that the people of the USSR in the 1940's had access to movies let alone Hollywood, which would've been branded capitalist propaganda or something.

Overall a well written second chapter, the flow is good and your descriptions are excellent. once again a little fast paced but it still works. I am starting to get the general idea of the plot and i'm excited to see what happens next.
Keep writing!
-brotherGeo





You cannot have an opponent if you keep saying yes.
— Richard Siken