1939: Anya was happy, all things considered. What a weird thing to be in the middle of hell, but somehow she managed. She had a job, with the war effort all hands were needed and she found herself in the factories fixing and building machines. Covered in dirt, curly red hair tied up in a messy bun, a streak of grease across her cheek like war paint, and an unlit match between her lips like a toothpick. It wasnât glamorous work, but it was work. The world was going to shit, but her little scrap of it made sense. She had a job, she had hope, and she had NateâŚuntil she didnât. The notice came in the fall, they didnât get his body back from France until the winter. He looked peaceful which was little comfort. She threw herself into work, always with the match, and now with a piece of Nateâs uniform in her pocket.
1941: Nothing was happy anymore. The city was in ruins, air raid sirens filled the air where music and laughter once reigned. Children were taken out of the city. She wasnât a child anymore, she hadnât been for a long time. Life wasnât easy, but the people were too goddamn stubborn to give up. Still she stood at the factory, the grease stain permanent, the bags under her eyes almost as dark as the grease, the match still held gently between teeth clenched in frustration, and the burned and bloodstained uniform piece pinned securely to her sleeve. She had been staying in a little place in the city with an old friend. Sam had actually come back from the front lines, albeit not in one piece. He had crutches now, and not all of his right leg, but he was still her Sam. After finishing up work one day, an officer came looking for her. He handed her a note, not unlike the one she had received two years prior. But this one was for her. Someone had told someone important that she was adept at field medicine (a by product of growing up unable to go to the doctor) and she was being sent to the front lines as a nurse. She angrily shoved the notice in her pocket and headed home. But, when she got there, and angrily showed Sam the notice expecting him to be as upset as he wasâŚhe didnât seem that surprised. She angrily confronted him until he admitted that it was by his suggestion that she go. With tears in her eyes, she packed her bag and stormed out of the house. When the air raid sirens went off she almost didnât care, but she still managed to get to shelter. As she found out later, Sam didnât. Part of her wished that she didnât care. The rest of her knew that she always would.
1943: Two years she had been in France. Stitching up wounds, cauterizing wounds, sitting with the dead and dying. The stains on her clothes were no longer grease, but blood. Countless soldiers asked about the match between her lips. To every question she gave a different story, none true and yet none completely false. She had seen many soldiers be carried through the medical tent only to be carried out again later. British, American, French, it didnât matter. If things were bad enough that you were sent to that tent, you werenât exiting again without assistance. She almost liked it more when they sent her out with the men, to treat what she could of those who actually had a hope of making it out of things in one piece. It was on one of these trips outside the tent that she first met Nando. He had fled Spain after the Civil War and took refuge in France when Germany invaded. He had joined resistance efforts and routinely met up with Allied troops that were nearby to offer them intel and assistance. The intel he came with this time, was of a barn full of Germany supplies nearby. Anya, being not overly fond of things like protocol, pleaded with the CO to let her go check it out. After all, whatâs more threatening should they be spotted, a battalion of troops, or her? Reluctantly, she was allowed to go with Nando to see the supply barn. He asked her why she had the match. She didnât answer. When they got to the barn, she peeked her head in and saw food and ammunition. Without a word, she took the match from itâs perch between her lips and struck it against the side of the barn, before dropping the flickering flame on the hay covered floor. âBecause you never know when youâll need one. An old friend taught me that.â She replied before she grabbed his hand and started running from the barn rapidly being engulfed in flames. They heard the pop of exploding ammunitions behind them but they didnât look back.
1945: The war was over, she was going to go home. Or, she was going to return to whatever was left of home. With a small sigh, she pulled her messy red hair back into a quick bun and reached into her back pocket for her matchbook, when a hand came into her field of view. But not just a hand, a hand offering a match. She gave a small noise of thanks as she placed the match between her front teeth before looking up at Nando. He had stayed with their unit after the whole barn blowing up incident. He wasnât sure where he was going after this. France wasnât his home, but he wasnât going to go back to Spain. She wasnât sure where she was going either. The place she had been living had likely been cleaned up, but she couldnât shake the image of rubble and a burned pair of crutches. He looked awkward and nervous, standing there with his hands jammed in his pockets. âSo I guess this is goodbyeâ he finally managed to get out. He felt more than saw the match head touch his lips as she stood on her tiptoes to brush a quick kiss across his cheek. âFor now.â
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