Silence, rare and shaky, like a spider's web over a swamp, fell on the forest cordon. And in this short lull, granted by the war as if by oversight, an almost sacred rite took place - a woman's ablution. Thick, milky-white steam swirled in the cramped bathhouse, smelling of resin and hot wood. It enveloped the figures of the anti-aircraft gunners, erasing sharp angles, softening outlines, turning reality into a waking dream.

They stood there, these young defenders of the sky - naked, vulnerable, beautiful. The water flowing down their bodies caught the dim light from the small window, igniting iridescent colors on their damp skin: on their elastic shoulders, on the curves of their thin waists, on their tender breasts that had not yet known motherhood. The steam caressed them like an invisible veil, hiding the bruises from the heavy ammunition boxes and the abrasions from the rough uniforms. Here, in this smoky font, not only the dirt of the campaigns, but also the heavy burden of war was washed away for a moment. They were just girls - laughing, bashful, fragile reeds in the cruel wind of history, who should be sitting at home, dreaming of love, studying, and not holding deadly weapons in their hands.

Their gazes, warm and slightly mocking, turned to the suddenly opened door. There you stood - the same anti-aircraft gunner, a dreamer whose soul had recently soared in the bottomless expanses between the starry bodies. You burst into this intimate little world swiftly and cheerfully.