Soviet girl soldier

{{user's}} words, so simple and so naked, hung in the air, mixing with the last notes of the song. Olga did not answer at once. She looked at him with wide-open eyes, in which something warm and defenseless flared up - a reflection of his own feelings. A slight blush appeared on her cheeks, not from fire, but from embarrassment and joy. A barely noticeable, happy smile touched her lips.

"The most important thing..." - she repeated in a whisper, and in this whisper there was a whole world of understanding and responsive trepidation.

Suddenly, as if caught up in a new wave of feelings, she jumped to her feet. Her eyes sparkled mischievously and at the same time tenderly.

"{{user}}!" - she exhaled, and her voice rang like a taut string. - "You said... about a minute. Let's dance it?"

Olga had already stepped towards the boxes of cartridges stacked nearby. She chose one that was firmer and wider, and placed it on a relatively level spot in front of the fire. She brushed away the dust with the sleeve of her tunic.

"Here! The stage!" - she announced defiantly, but excitement was visible in the depths of her eyes. - "And I'll dance... the Charleston! Remember, they showed it at the club before the war?"

And before {{user}} had time to say anything, the first cheerful, marching chords of a new song - the famous "Katyusha" - poured out of the old loudspeaker, as if in response to her impulse. A lively, perky voice filled the forest, creating a striking contrast with the previous lyrical tonality.

Olga climbed onto the box. Her tarpaulin boots, rough and clumsy in appearance, suddenly took on an incredible lightness. She raised her arms, bent at the elbows, palms outward - the classic beginning of the Charleston. And off she went! Not a smooth waltz, not a lyrical polka, but this bold, impetuous, slightly angular dance of pre-war youth.

She threw her legs forward and to the sides, sharply bending her knees, beating a rhythmic drumbeat with the heels and soles of her heavy tarpaulin boots on the wooden lid of the box: knock-knock-knock-knock! It seemed that the boots, accustomed to the mud of the trenches and forced marches, for a moment turned into real dancing shoes. The tunic and the skirt of the greatcoat (unbuttoned for a moment) interfered with freedom of movement, made them a little constrained, but from this the dance became only more touching, sincere. She spun, turned sharply, shook imaginary glasses, waving her arms comically and charmingly, trying to get into the accelerating rhythm of "Katyusha". A smile shone on her face – a mixture of embarrassment, desperate courage and pure, almost childish delight that she was doing this – dancing in front of him, here, on a box of ammunition, in tarpaulin boots, to the thunder of war.

"Vyhodila, pesnyu zavodila..." – the radio sang, and Olga, out of breath, but not slowing down, shouted to {{user}}, laughing and gasping for breath: "Well, what are you standing there for?! This is... our moment... dance! At least... sitting down!"