Another in-setting fiction piece from the player behind Magda (and Betsy), in which Magda shares a decision.
Magda’s sling lies on a table in the hostel’s common room, discarded in favor of mobility.
Her left arm is wrapped in bandages from her wrist to her elbow, but she can still hold an apple steady and work the knife with the other hand. Or hold a slice steady while she pierces it with the blunt needle and pulls the twine through.
She drapes the string of slices across a pan, picks up the knife again, and reaches for another apple.
Under the bandages, her arm twinges oddly. Part pain, part electricity, part heat. She drops the apple on the cutting board with a muttered “kurwa mać.”
From behind her, Red’s voice says, “You know, the point of the sling is to keep that from happening.”
“These apples aren’t going to dry themselves,” she says as he comes over to sit on the bench opposite her. “And everyone else is out in the fields.”
“And you don’t know how to rest,” he chides gently. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine. It only hurts if I move it a lot. Mostly, it itches.”
“That’s a good sign.” He watches her for a moment. “Do you want help with that? I could slice while you string.”
She pauses, thinks about it, then sets the knife down on the cutting board to slide it across the table. “Thanks.”
“It’s entirely selfish. I’ll be enjoying the literal fruits of my labors this winter.”
She smiles and picks up the string of apple slices.
They work in companionable silence for a while. Magda measures her string by eye, ties it off, and picks up the next length of twine. She runs it through her fingers a few times, slowly, before poking it at the large eye of the needle.
“I’ve been meaning to come talk to you,” she says.
“Oh?” Red positions an apple half on the board. “What about?”
Both needle and twine are shaking slightly. She stops and rests her hands on the table. “If it won’t cause too much difficulty for you and the others…I’d like to stop going out in the field. Scouting. Exploring. Fighting.”
The knife pauses, resting on the cutting board. Red studies her face. “Is it the last one that’s bothering you?” he asks gently.
“Yes and no.” She gives a small, crooked smile. “When I joined Strzelec, it was because everyone I knew was joining. I loved my homeland. I wanted to protect it. But that country doesn’t exist anymore. We all know that.
“When I joined you and Leks and Minka, I thought fighting was all I had to offer. I was trained. I was young. It was my contribution to the group.”
She rolls the large needle between her fingertips, watching the dull surface reflect the orange glow of the lantern light.
“If I’m honest…I didn’t care very much whether I lived or died. I thought of myself as a body. Warm or cold, it didn’t matter.”
Red’s jaw tightens, but he says nothing.
“But now…” She glances toward the door at the back of the room. “Antonina and Kazimiera can cook, yes. Tamara is learning. But they can’t run the kitchen as well as I can. I know how much flour we have left. I can turn meat scraps and old potatoes into good soup. I know who needs an extra ladle and won’t ask.”
She meets his eyes. “If I die fighting strange things on a hilltop, Ponikla loses more than a rifle. It loses broth, and bread, and apple cake at Christmas.”
Red takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, and nods. “I thought about that,” he says quietly. “The half-dozen times I nearly lost you. I’d rather not do that again.”
He looks down at the cutting board and absently repositions the waiting half apple.
“Scouting isn’t a higher rank than keeping people fed. It’s just louder.” A faint, tired smile touches his face. “If you stay, I’ll sleep better knowing someone who can bullseye a BTR gunner is here to defend the place.”
He meets her gaze again, steady and warm.
“We need you. However you choose to serve.”