Beautiful Assassin

9

On the ride down to Washington, we shared a private compartment. We were all tired and irritable from the long journey, and rode mostly in silence. Once Dmitri fell asleep with his head on the shoulder of the Corpse, who woke and shoved him rudely off. For his part, Vasilyev seemed preoccupied with correspondence and perusing papers he took from his briefcase. Occasionally, though, he would glance over the tops of his spectacles and give me a look that suggested we hadn’t heard the last of this.
I stared out the window as America raced by in the late afternoon sunlight. My last train ride had been a far different affair—a cramped and smelly cattle car hurtling toward the German advance. Now I sat comfortably in a spacious seat gazing out as cities gradually gave way to neat and orderly suburbs and then to long stretches of rural areas, with small towns congregated around a couple of church steeples, followed by farms and rolling fields, then scattered forests and lakes and swampy tidal flats followed by more cities. Used as I was to the Ukraine’s flat, open expanses, there were more trees than I could have imagined, and all was green and lush, even in the summer heat. America too seemed far more crowded than I had pictured it. Every few minutes we passed another town or city, with people scurrying here or there. Save for a few squalid areas in the cities, the extravagant wealth I had witnessed back in New York continued unabated. Everyone, it seemed, had a house and an automobile, everyone had good clothes and shoes on their feet as they walked along. There were restaurants and petrol stations, markets and stores, parks and swimming pools and carefree children riding bicycles. Along the way, I saw the ubiquitous capitalist signs hung everywhere, displaying this or that product—cigarettes or shaving cream, liquor or washing machines, clothes or milk or cereal. All had happy, smiling people in them, presumably made happy by the product they used. I even saw one sign showing a happy dog eating food that came right from a can.
It was late in the evening when our train finally arrived at the station in Washington. A chauffeur in a large black automobile met us and drove us to the Soviet embassy. There we were greeted by two men, one older, stout, with gray hair, a wide affable face, and wire-rim glasses whose side pieces dug sharply into his fleshy temples. The other man was in his forties, brown haired, with sleepy-looking eyes.
“Vasily, you old scoundrel,” said the older man, hugging Vasilyev heartily. He had a booming voice and an accent that was decidedly British. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
“There’s a little more of me,” Vasilyev joked, patting his stomach.
“Nonsense. You look well. How’s Elena and the children?”
“Fine, fine,” he said.
“Brilliant,” the ambassador cried. “I assume you received my telegram?”
“I did, yes,” replied Vasilyev.
“We shall talk about the matter later.” Turning to the rest of us, he said, “Welcome. I am Ambassador Litvinov. This is Secretary Bazykin.”
I had, of course, heard of Maxim Litvinov. He was a well-known figure in Soviet history. We had read about him in school. A close friend of Lenin’s, he had been an early revolutionary and noted Bolshevik, and it was he who was largely responsible for getting Great Britain to become our ally (he’d even married a British woman), as well as for playing a role in the lend-lease program with America. As the ambassador spoke, his gray eyes lit up and his face broke into a broad smile, giving him an avuncular demeanor rather than that of a seasoned diplomat who could more than hold his own with the world powers. He warmly greeted each of us in turn. When he came to me, he glanced at the Gold Star medal on my chest and said, “Lieutenant Levchenko, your reputation precedes you. It is indeed a pleasure to meet you.”
“Thank you, sir,” I replied.
“Secretary Stalin sends you his warmest regards,” he said. “So tell me, how do you like America so far?”
I hesitated, not knowing quite how to answer, and also without alluding to Viktor and my little jaunt in the streets of New York.
“What I have seen of it appears…very wealthy.”
He let out a booming laugh, his substantial belly quivering.
“Yes, our dear American friends are blessed with many resources,” he said in an overly loud voice, as if he were speaking to a large audience. The reason for this would very shortly become apparent. “But they are generous with their resources and wonderful allies in our fight against Hitler. Yet enough of that. Come in.”
He led us down a hallway of the large mansion. We made a couple of turns and found ourselves in the kitchen, where a young, dark-haired girl wearing a maid’s uniform stood at a stove preparing something. I noticed Viktor giving her the eye. The ambassador opened a door and led us out into a small garden area behind the embassy. We followed him over to a shed at the rear of the property, in front of which was a tall stone wall that surrounded the entire backyard. He took out a key and unlocked the door to the shed, then stepped inside and bade us enter. I wondered what we were doing, if perhaps he was planning on showing us something of interest. Once inside the cramped shed, I realized it was a place where various tools were kept. Shovels and rakes and saws hung from the walls, and on the floor rested a curious little contraption with wheels and curved blades that I would later learn was a machine to cut one’s grass. The room smelled of new-mown hay. In one corner, however, there was a chair and desk. Upon the desk sat a telegraph machine with headphones. When we’d all managed to crowd into the confined space, bunched tightly shoulder to shoulder, the ambassador closed the door and turned on a light, a bulb that hung loosely from the ceiling. I found myself shoved against the far wall, perilously close to the tines of a rake, with Gavrilov’s elbow pressed, I thought, needlessly hard against my breasts, his overpowering cologne making me almost nauseated. What on earth was going on? I wondered. In a whisper, Ambassador Litvinov answered my unspoken question.
“We have good reason to believe the Americans have put listening devices throughout the embassy. This,” he said, with a smile, “is the only place we can speak reasonably freely. During your stay here, it is important that you take care. Remember, the Amerikosy can hear everything you say.”
I pictured an enormous ear into which everything we said flowed. I wondered why the Americans would want to know what we talked about. Was I being na?ve to think that Germany was the enemy, not us? But this was just the beginning of what I would come to think of as my “American” education.
“And how are things in Carthage?” Vasilyev asked the ambassador.
“As always, filled with petty intrigues,” Litvinov said with a smile.
Carthage? Though I didn’t know it then, I would soon learn that it was a code word for Washington, just as I would learn a number of other code words that the Soviets had devised in their language of secrecy and deception. The ambassador and Vasilyev spoke for a time, about things of which I had little understanding. Before we headed back into the main house, Ambassdor Litvinov turned to the three of us students.
“Comrades,” he said, “I want to tell you that your dedication and sacrifice on behalf of the Motherland here will be of no less significance to our ultimate victory than that which you made on the field of battle. Much will be asked of you, and you must obey with the same unquestioning loyalty that each of you showed while fighting the Germans. A grateful nation will honor your actions.”
What did all this mean? I wondered.
Before dinner, we were shown to our rooms in order to relax and freshen up. The toilet was down the hall, and as I was heading there, I happened to meet Viktor coming out of his room. He pulled me into his room and shut the door.
“What did I tell you?” he whispered into my ear. “They’re cooking up something.”
“What do you think the ambassador meant by all that?” I asked.
“Who the f*ck knows. But whatever it is, it’s a lot more than we’re being told.”
That evening the three of us students had dinner with the ambassador, his wife, and Secretary Bazykin, while the two chekisty and Radimov took their meal in the kitchen. I was seated next to Mrs. Litvinov, an elegant woman who spoke fluent Russian but with a decidedly British accent.
“It’s such a pleasure to have another woman around,” she offered, patting my wrist with a thin, bejeweled hand. She had a long, sharp face, high cheekbones, and a ready smile, and while not beautiful she had that English charm. “All my husband wants to do is prattle on about the war. This battle, that battle,” she said, arching her thin, penciled eyebrows. “Frankly, I find it all quite boring.”
“My dear,” the ambassador said to his wife, “we have Comrade Levchenko to thank for bringing that boring war just a little closer to its conclusion.”
“Can’t we please just give it a rest for one night, dear?”
“Through our friends here in America we’ve set up something called the Soviet War Relief Fund,” the ambassador explained. “We hope to raise enough money to—”
“Maxim! Enough!” Mrs. Litvinov chided with a smile. “These poor students have come all the way from the front. Let them relax and enjoy themselves for one bloody evening.” The woman was not at all like the dour, plain wives of most of the big-shot Party members, no doubt in part because she was British. Then in a whispered aside to me she said, “My hairdresser is coming tomorrow. I could have her do yours if you’d like.”
“Why, does it not look all right?” I asked, touching my hair self-consciously.
“It’s fine for the front. But you’re going to meet the president and First Lady tomorrow. You will want to look your best.”
“I suppose…if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”
“No trouble at all. It shall be fun, just us girls,” she said, smiling benevolently. Then she reached over and picked up my hand. “And those nails certainly won’t do. We’ll have to get you a manicure too.”
As we sat sipping wine, servants brought out platters of food. The ambassador and his wife proved to be gracious hosts, laughing and chatting easily, drawing each of us into conversation. They talked about the four-day student conference and the sights they wanted to show us around Washington. Vasilyev too was in rare form, swilling down the ambassador’s wine and talking of old times before the revolution.
“This is very good,” Vasilyev said, regarding the wine.
“It’s Chateau Maresque, thirty-six.”
“There is nothing good to be had anymore back home.”
“That’s the trouble with war,” Litvinov lamented. “Hitler gets all the good French wines now.”
At one point the ambassador stood and proposed a toast. “To our brave young men and women who have defended the Motherland in its darkest hour. And with our dear American friends,” he added, rolling his eyes, “we shall have victory over the fascists.”
When it grew late Ambassdor Litvinov told us, “Tomorrow will be a big day. A press conference at noon. Then meeting the president and First Lady at the White House. I imagine you are all quite tired from your trip. You should get some rest.”
Mrs. Litvinov brought me up to my room.
“If you need anything at all, please don’t hesitate to ask. Toiletries. Makeup.” Then smiling confidentially, she added, “Feminine items. Heaven knows, these men wouldn’t think of such things. Do you have a slip to wear for tomorrow, Lieutenant?”
“A slip?” I said. “Why, no.”
“Come with me, dear. They can’t expect you to look your best without a slip.”
She led me down the hall to what must have been her room. She went over to a bureau and removed a slip.
“Here,” she said, handing me the silk undergarment. “I think we are about the same size. You can use this until we have a chance to get you some clothes. I’ll speak to Maxim tomorrow about seeing that we purchase a few necessities for you.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Litvinov. You are very kind.”
“We girls have to watch out for each other,” she said with a laugh.


After breakfast the next morning, Mrs. Litvinov showed me upstairs to a small sitting room off her bedroom. There an American woman dressed in a blue uniform arrived to do our hair. She brought her own suitcase filled with scissors and brushes and various other paraphernalia of her trade, and she began with the ambassador’s wife. While I waited, the woman gave me a magazine to peruse, on the cover of which was a pretty, well-dressed woman holding a small white dog. “That’s what they call a fashion magazine,” Mrs. Litvinov told me in Russian. “You might get some ideas for your hair looking through that.” I thumbed through the magazine, gazing at pictures of beautiful women sunning themselves beside pools or riding in large automobiles or seated at some elegant dinner table. It seemed that American women inhabited lives of mindless ease, unconcerned about the stark necessities of life. Like princesses in fairy tales, they never touched a shovel or lifted a single brick.
When it was my turn, I sat in the chair, and the American woman draped a cloth over my uniform. She said something in English, which Mrs. Litvinov translated. “She wants to know how you would like your hair done, my dear.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know,” I said.
Mrs. Litvinov gave the woman instructions, using her hands to demonstrate how she wanted my hair to be cut.
“I told her to take a little off and put some curls in it. You have such lovely hair, a little curl will look good on you.”
The ambassador’s wife stood there looking on, occasionally giving instructions in English to the woman. We chatted while the hairdresser worked, as dark clumps of my hair fell about my shoulders like ashes in the war.
“Are you married, Lieutenant?” the ambassador’s wife asked me.
I hesitated for moment, recalling Vasilyev’s warning. But then I thought he had meant that only for the Americans. “Yes,” I replied.
“Where is your husband?”
“He is at Leningrad.” I paused before adding, “He’s been reported missing.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said, her face wrinkling with empathy. “I’m sure he’ll be found safely.”
“Please don’t tell anyone I’m married, though. Comrade Vasilyev didn’t want—” but then I lowered my voice, thinking how the Americans might be listening to us. “He didn’t want the Americans to know.”
“Why not?”
“He wants them to think, well…that I am unattached,” I replied.
“What!”
Whispering, I explained to her what Vasilyev had said to me.
“That’s absurd. Who does he think he is?” Then, shaking her head, she added, “I’ll speak to my husband.”
“No, please,” I said. “I’d rather you not.”
“Well, if you insist. But watch yourself around Comrade Vasilyev. Beneath the smiles and bonhomie, he’s rather an unpleasant sort of fellow.”
Mrs. Litvinov didn’t ask any more about my personal life, for which I was grateful. She spent the rest of the time telling me about life in Washington, the parties and dinners she’d recently been to, the best places to dine, where to buy clothes.
“Do you know Mrs. Roosevelt?” I asked.
“Of course. Ellie and I are good friends.”
“What is she like?”
“She’s something of an acquired taste,” Mrs. Litvinov offered with a smile.
“What do you mean?”
“She marches to her own drummer. The woman wears the most dreadful outfits, especially for the wife of the president. Doesn’t care a fig about her personal appearance. She goes out in public looking like a peasant.” She laughed at her own joke. “But she’s also the most sincere woman I’ve ever known. And completely fearless. Not afraid to speak her mind. Even with her husband. I fancy you and she will hit it off nicely.”
When the hairdresser was finished, the woman held up a mirror for me to see her handiwork. I stared at myself, surprised but pleasantly so, to see the change my new hairstyle made in me. My hair was shorter and swept back in soft waves, framing and highlighting my face. It actually made me look younger, even pretty, like one of the women in the magazine.
“What do you think?” Mrs. Litvinov asked.
“I like it very much.”
“It’s quite flattering on you, my dear. Believe me, you will turn some heads at the White House tonight.”
Later that morning, Vasilyev met me in the hall outside a large room on the first floor of the embassy where the press conference was going to be held.
“What on earth did you do with your hair?” he said, looking me over critically.
“Mrs. Litvinov suggested I have it cut. Why, don’t you like it?”
He leaned in and whispered, “You look…too American.”
“What does that mean?”
“They are expecting a soldier from the Soviet Union. Not Lana Turner.”
I had no idea who Lana Turner was. “It is you, Comrade, who is always harping on the importance of my looking presentable.”
“But I want you to look like a simple country girl. You should have cleared it with me first.”
“I didn’t know I would need your permission to have my hair cut,” I replied crossly.
“Here,” he insisted, taking my cap out of my hands and setting it on my head. He adjusted it, stuffing my hair up under the sweatband. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was listening, then said, “They are broadcasting the press conference on the radio. Millions of Americans will be listening. This will be their first real contact with a Soviet citizen. Be sure to tell them how pleased you are to be in America. How much you are looking forward to meeting the First Lady. Also, try to work into your responses the importance of America opening a second front.”
We then entered the room, which was crowded with reporters talking and holding cameras and little notepads. We headed up to the front and sat behind a table set up with a bevy of microphones.
“Good morning, Lieutenant,” said Viktor, who was already seated next to Gavrilov. “Are you ready for the show?”
Gavrilov leaned across and said, “You look quite nice this morning, Comrade Levchenko. Have you done something different with your hair?”
“I had it cut.”
“You look radiant.”
After a while, three Americans—two civilians and a soldier who had the insignia of an officer—entered the room and proceeded up to the table. One of the civilians, a gray-haired man with a stern, deeply lined face, greeted Ambassador Litvinov, and the two conversed amiably in English, as if they were old friends. Litvinov, who spoke English fluently, then introduced us to the Americans. The gray-haired man was someone named Charles Bowen, an assistant to President Roosevelt. The other civilian, a slight, mustachioed man in a white linen suit, was Robert Swall, a reporter from CBS Radio, who would act as moderator. The soldier was a Captain Taylor. He was tall and fair, with short, receding hair. The most obvious thing about him, though, was that the left sleeve of his tunic was empty and pinned to the shoulder. He smiled as he shook our hands and welcomed each of us with “Dobro pozhalovat’ v Ameriku.” He spoke Russian fluently.
Mr. Bowen said something to us, and the captain translated for him. “On behalf of the president, Mr. Bowen extends his warmest greetings. The president is very appreciative of your bravery on the field of battle and looks forward to meeting you all.”
After this, the press conference got under way. The ambassador stood and in English briefly introduced the three of us students to those in the room. I watched as the reporters scribbled in their pads. Then Mr. Swall, with Radimov translating for us, explained how the journalists would go up to a microphone they had stationed at one side of the room, state what newspaper they worked for, and then ask their questions, which Radimov would translate for us. We would then make our replies into the microphones in front of us, after which the American captain, who sat on the other side of Vasilyev, would translate for both those in the room and those listening on the radio. It seemed needlessly complicated, and I didn’t quite understand the need for two interpreters, but evidently each side wanted to make sure that they weren’t misquoted.
At first the reporters put questions of a general nature to all of us. About what we thought of America, the upcoming peace conference, the prospect of meeting Mrs. Roosevelt, the war in the East. Gavrilov did most of the talking to start with, making it appear that he’d been in the thick of things. As he spoke, Viktor shot me a sardonic look. Viktor was asked a few questions—where he’d fought, how he’d gotten the scar on his face. I sat back, content to quietly observe the proceedings. After a while, though, I slowly became the focus of their questions. I was, no doubt, a curiosity to them, a woman soldier, a sniper, an oddity as interesting as a bearded lady in a carnival.
“Miss Levchenko,” one reporter said, “can you tell us why you fight?”
The question, of course, struck me as patently absurd, but I did my best to answer it.
“As you Americans do, I fight because of a love for one’s country. And because of my hatred for the enemy.”
“Is it true that you’ve recorded three hundred and fifteen confirmed kills? The most of any Soviet sniper.”
I glanced over at Vasilyev before answering. “I cannot say for certain if that is the most. But that’s what I have been told.”
One man went up to the microphone and asked if it was hard to pull the trigger.
“The key,” I replied, “is to calm your breath and gently kiss the trigger, not pull it.”
“What I mean is, is it hard to kill a man?”
I shrugged. “They are the enemy. It is my duty to kill them. One’s skill at killing is merely a matter of controlling one’s breath. Making the heart go still.”
At this I heard a collective groan, as if I’d said something that offended them.
“But you are a woman,” the reporter persisted.
With a masklike smile, I said, “I am glad you noticed, sir.” This evoked laughter from the crowd. “No one takes pleasure in killing, not even Germans. But I do take pride in my job. In defending my country.”
Another man said, “Some newspapers have called you the Beautiful Assassin. Do you mind being called that?”
“What woman would mind being called ‘beautiful’?” I replied. Before translating my words, the American captain glanced over at me, and I could see that his mouth held a hint of a smile. The reply elicited more scattered laughter from those in the room.
One reporter asked me if I wore makeup or nylons into battle. When he asked this I noticed some of the men looking at my legs beneath the table. I replied, with as much politeness and decorum as I could muster, that such frivolous things did not concern a soldier when he or she was fighting, that all of one’s attention had to be focused on the task at hand, otherwise one could be killed. Another wanted to know if the men in my unit watched their language in front of us women.
“No. We women are not such fragile things as you may think.”
“But doesn’t such coarse language offend the sensibilities of Soviet womanhood?”
“We can hold our own as far as cursing,” I offered with a smile.
More laughter, this time loud and raucous. I could see that they considered me “interesting,” a novelty that might help them sell their newspapers.
“Miss Levchenko, has the war made you any less feminine?” asked another.
“It has certainly toughened me, if that is what you mean. But beneath my uniform, I am still a woman.”
“America doesn’t permit women to participate as combatants,” began one reporter. “What do you think about the Red Army allowing women to fight?”
“It is not a question of allowing us to fight. We must fight. Every available body is needed to defeat the Nazis.”
“But do you think women are cut out for battle?”
“No one is cut out for battle,” I replied. “It is something one has to learn. Both men and women. But I do think women have more patience than men.”
This last comment brought a couple of whistles from the men. Another reporter wanted to know if I was married.
“No,” I replied, again looking at Vasilyev, who gave me an imperceptible nod.
They asked many other questions, many of which were quite foolish. At one point the moderator asked of the three of us students, “What would you like to say to the American people?”
When it was my turn I said, “I would like to thank the Americans for their support. We soldiers in the field greatly appreciate it. But we desperately need more help. Not just guns and trucks. We sometimes feel we are fighting the Germans alone. We need you to open a second front. Not in a year or two. But now.”
When the press conference was over, the captain approached me and offered his hand in greeting. In Russian he said, “I just want you to know how proud America’s fighting men are of your bravery. You are really an inspiration for us.”
“Thank you, Captain,” I replied in English.
Smiling at me, he said, “So you speak English?”
“Just a bit.”
He was about to say something when the ambassador interrupted us then to gather the students together for photographs.


After the press conference, the ambassador led Vasilyev, Radimov, and the three of us students out to a waiting limousine, where we headed off for the White House.
“You handled yourself quite well, Lieutenant,” the ambassador said to me. I sat across from him, between Viktor and Gavrilov.
“Thank you, sir.”
The day was sunny and clear, the city shining brightly. The foliage and flowers were in full bloom—a far cry from our own capital, with its dirt and concrete fortifications, its tanks and trenches and gun emplacements, the rubble left in the wake of bombs. Just as in New York, people were busily going about their business as if there wasn’t so much as a rumor of war. As we wound our way through the city, I stared out the window at the various sights of the capital, its massive stone buildings, its broad, tree-lined avenues, its monuments and statues.
“The First Lady is a woman of the people,” said Ambassador Litvinov. “She has championed the rights of workers, the poor, Negroes. She is someone we hope will be supportive of our aims.”
“If I may ask, Ambassador Litvinov,” I inquired, glancing across at Viktor, “what exactly are our aims in regards to Mrs. Roosevelt?”
The ambassador looked at Vasilyev before answering.
“The First Lady is very influential. Millions of Americans read her columns in the newspapers. She is a beloved figure. Besides which, she has the president’s ear. She has been quite supportive of our struggle against the Nazis. That’s where you come in, Lieutenant.”
“Me, sir.”
“From our sources in the White House, we know that she is quite taken with your accomplishments, Comrade. In fact, in her newspaper column just yesterday she said that you were an inspiration for all women.”
“I am flattered,” I replied. “But I still don’t quite know what all this has to do with me.”
Litvinov smiled condescendingly.
“For now, it’s enough to know that Mrs. Roosevelt might be quite useful to our plans. Go out of your way to befriend her.”
As we drove along I pondered what that meant, befriending the president’s wife. I also thought about how the ambassador had said our government had “sources” in the White House. Of course, I should have known that the NKVD, which spied so extensively and pervasively on its own citizens, would be spying on the United States. Still, it came as something of a surprise to know they could be so close to the seat of American power.
At the White House we were warmly greeted by a short woman named Miss Thompson, who turned out to be Mrs. Roosevelt’s personal assistant. She led us inside, past several guards, and into a large round room that had blue wallpaper and a massive chandelier hanging from the ceiling. She had us sit around a low table set up for tea.
“Mrs. Roosevelt will be with you presently,” she said through Radimov.
Soon a tall, ungainly woman of middle age strode briskly into the room. She wore a dark shapeless dress with a white collar and clumsy black shoes that made her feet look enormous on her too-thin legs. Her reddish brown hair had streaks of gray in it and was held unceremoniously back with a white headband, the sort a factory worker back in Kiev might have worn. I recalled what Mrs. Litvinov had told me about her. Though she obviously didn’t care much about fashion, there was about her a confident air as she made her way across the room, her shoulders thrown back, a barely withheld smile on her face. She was accompanied by her assistant and behind them the American soldier I’d met earlier at the Soviet embassy.
In well-rehearsed if somewhat mechanical Russian, she said, “Ya rada, chto vy priekhali.” She was pleased we had come. Then in English, which the American captain translated for her, she said, “Welcome to the White House.”
After translating her words, the captain, smiling awkwardly, quickly slipped in: “Hello, again. She’s been practicing that all week,” he confessed. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you I work here as an interpreter.”
Following the introductions, Mrs. Roosevelt served us tea, chatting amiably with each of us in turn. Several times, Vasilyev jumped in to answer questions the First Lady had directed toward one of us. For instance, when she asked Viktor if he was eager to return to the fighting, Vasilyev replied by saying that as Soviet patriots we were all eager to return to the defense of the Motherland. After serving me, she reached out and rested her hand on my wrist. Her hands were plain and unremarkable, those of a common woman, save for one thing—a beautiful sapphire ring. “I’ve so been looking forward to meeting you, Lieutenant,” she said, smiling. She had narrow, slanting eyes, a weak chin, and buckteeth that protruded from her small, eager mouth. Yet she was pleasant-looking, and when she smiled her entire face beamed with unbridled joy.
“It is a pleasure to meet you…,” I said, pausing, unsure of how I should address her. The captain, who was translating what I said, came to my aid. “She prefers Mrs. Roosevelt,” he said.
“Thank you, Captain,” I said to him.
“I had no idea you were so young,” the First Lady exclaimed.
“Not so young. I am twenty-five, Mrs. Roosevelt.”
“I find that hard to believe,” she said with a mock frown. “You don’t look a day over seventeen.”
“I don’t feel seventeen,” I replied, forcing a smile. “In fact, I feel quite old.”
“It’s no wonder, after all you’ve been through. I must say, you’ve been an inspiration to all of us.”
“Thank you.”
“You’ve done more for the cause of women’s equality in one year than I’ve managed to do in my entire life.” Giving me what I would come to know as her characteristic grin, Mrs. Roosevelt then said something which the captain hesitated to translate. He stared at me, the merest hint of a smile on his own lips. For a moment I thought it was a joke between them, about which I was the object.
Finally the captain enlightened me. “Mrs. R thinks you’re very lovely.” When talking to me he would sometimes shorten her name to our “R.” I wasn’t sure if it was an expedient given the needs of translating or if he was on familiar terms with her. But as he said this about me, I felt my face redden. Not so much because of her compliment but because of the way the captain looked at me as he said this. His gaze lingered on me, as if he wanted to say something more.
“Tell her she’s being too kind.”
“No, not at all,” Captain Taylor interjected. “In fact, I agree with her completely.”
I happened to glance over at Vasilyev. He was staring curiously at the American soldier.
The First Lady chatted cordially with us for a while, asking about our trip and if we’d found America to our liking, and hoping that the oppressive summer heat wasn’t too hard on us. “It’s always so dreadfully hot here in August,” she said. The captain translated for her while Radimov did the same whenever one of us spoke, except for the ambassador, who, as I’ve said, spoke English fluently.
“How is Moscow this time of year?” she inquired.
With a smile, Ambassador Litvinov replied, “Still standing, madam.”
“Indeed,” concurred Mrs. Roosevelt. “In London, I saw firsthand some of the devastation caused by the war. Let me tell you, it gives one an entirely new appreciation for what you soldiers have gone through.”
“We merely fight for our homeland,” replied Gavrilov.
Mrs. Roosevelt then shared an amusing story about Foreign Minister Molotov’s visit to the White House.
“Your Mr. Molotov showed up with a loaf of black bread and a pistol in his suitcase,” the First Lady said with a high, fluttering laugh. “I guess he thought we might not have food and that Germans were prowling the streets of Washington.”
We all chuckled at this.
Soon Mrs. Roosevelt stood. “The president is about to give his radio address and would like to invite you all to attend.”
She led us down a corridor, pointing out portraits and other things of interest as she went. She then escorted us into what she called the Oval Office, where the president would be giving his address. The room was filled with people.
“I would introduce you to Franklin,” Mrs. Roosevelt said in an undertone to us, “but he doesn’t like to be disturbed before he goes on the air.”
We were given headphones so that the president’s address could be translated for us. Mr. Roosevelt sat behind a large desk and spoke into a microphone, his head jerking this way and that for emphasis. He talked about the war effort and the strong unity that existed among America’s allies. How together we would defeat the fascists and the Japanese Imperialists. And then he spoke of something he referred to as the “four freedoms”—freedom of speech, freedom of religion, freedom from want, and freedom from fear. Things that our enemies did not grant to their citizens. As I listened to him, I wondered how my own country was any different from those we were fighting against. I remembered my teacher Madame Rudneva, telling me that our government filled people’s heads with lies and that they used fear to stifle anyone who disagreed, and I felt even more strongly now just how right she’d been. Then I thought about Vasilyev’s comment, how the Americans were our allies now, with its dark implication for a future in which we might actually be enemies. Would the alliance between our two countries turn out as the one between Germany and my own country had? As I pondered these things, I thought how it was easier being a soldier, with your enemy so obvious, the dangers so clear-cut.
When the president was finished, Mrs. Roosevelt brought us up to meet him. From behind the desk one couldn’t see the wheelchair he sat in. But now, seeing him in it, it took me a little by surprise, the fact that this powerful man was paralyzed, with stick-thin legs and a haggard look to him. Here was the great Roosevelt, Stalin’s counterpart, whom I’d once seen in a Soviet newspaper sitting in the back of a convertible automobile, wearing a top hat and smoking a cigarette in a long cigarette holder, looking very much the epitome of capitalist success. Yet this man looked rather ghostlike, his face gaunt, his rather sad-looking eyes sunken with dark circles beneath them. He appeared almost a wasted caricature of himself. When he stood to greet us, he had to have support from two men on either side of him to help him out of the chair. Below his pant cuffs, I noticed the leg braces.
“Franklin, I’d like you to meet some brave soldiers,” his wife said, introducing each of us. When he came to me, he took my hand and said, “It is a pleasure to meet you, young lady.” His grip, however, was not that of an invalid but rather that of a man in robust health. He smiled at me, his features suddenly becoming animated. I could see the handsome young man he had once been. “Not only a deadly shot but the very picture of loveliness. Tell me, how did you like my speech?”
“I liked it very much indeed, Mr. President,” I replied.
“Excellent! I’m delighted to hear that. Sadly, it is your generation that has inherited the problems of mine, and it’s a pity that we ask for such terrible sacrifices from young people like yourself. I’m told you’ve just come from the Russian front.”
“Yes, sir. We all have,” I replied.
“Are things as grim as we’ve been hearing?”
I shot a quick glance at Vasilyev. He gave me the sort of circumspect look a music teacher might give to his prize student before some important competition, as if to remind him to hit certain notes correctly.
Right then, however, someone standing next to the president whispered something into his ear.
“Unfortunately, young lady, I’m told I have a meeting with your ambassador,” Mr. Roosevelt said. “But my wife tells me you’ll be joining us for dinner tonight. I’d love to continue our conversation. Cheers.”
The First Lady led us back to the room where we’d had tea. She turned to me and, through Captain Taylor, said, “I’ve arranged for a private luncheon where you and I can have a chance to get to know each other better, Lieutenant Levchenko. Woman to woman.” Then turning to Vasilyev she said, “Nothing that would be of much interest to you men.”
Vasilyev paused for a moment, then said, “Of course, madam. I will send along our interpreter.”
“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Vasilyev,” Mrs. Roosevelt said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Captain Taylor will accompany us. Besides, you’ll need your interpreter. Tommy,” she said to her assistant, “see that the gentlemen are fed. They must be hungry. We shan’t be gone long.”
Then Mrs. Roosevelt linked her arm in mine and led me out of the room, with Captain Taylor following close behind. We headed upstairs to what turned out to be her sitting room. We sat facing each other on elegant wing chairs, with the captain seated to my right. On the low coffee table between us there was an assortment of foods, including several Ukrainian dishes—kolach, mlyntsi, vareniky, and salo. I hadn’t eaten much for breakfast and found myself suddenly ravenous.
“I had the cooks prepare a few things from your country. Please, help yourself.”
I took a plate and tried one of the mlyntsi, with sour cream on top. I hadn’t had any potato pancakes in a very long time.
“I hope it’s to your liking.”
“It’s delicious,” I said. “My mother used to make them.”
“Wonderful. I wanted to make you feel right at home. This place can be rather intimidating,” she said, glancing around the room. “May I call you Tat’yana?”
“Of course, Mrs. Roosevelt.”
“I would like us to be friends.” She poured me some tea. “And eat some more. Heavens, you are so far too thin, Tat’yana.”
Then she indicated for the captain to help himself to the food as well.
“There now. This is much better. Just us girls,” said Mrs. Roosevelt, winking at the captain. He smiled sheepishly as he said the words to me.
“When I first read about you,” Mrs. Roosevelt explained, “I told Franklin, now there’s a woman I want to meet. Ready to get in there and mix it up with the boys. I think I would be just scared to death if someone were shooting at me. Aren’t you afraid?”
“I must confess, madam, that many times I am afraid too.”
“It’s not the absence of fear that makes one truly brave,” Mrs. Roosevelt advised as she sipped her tea. “It’s confronting one’s fears. You are just the sort of woman this world is going to need not only to win this war but in remaking the world afterward. I know Franklin is very much looking forward to talking to you.”
“He is?”
“Yes. He wants to know all about what it was like at the front. A firsthand account. But I shall leave that to him. I’d rather know a little about you, Tat’yana.”
“What is it would you like to know?”
“What are your interests? That is, when you’re not shooting Germans,” she said, with that same light, tremulous laugh I’d heard before. “What did you do before the war?”
As she spoke I thought she reminded me of someone, though I couldn’t put my finger on who it could be. I told her how I had been a student, that I liked hiking in the mountains, skiing, running track.
“Sounds like you were a regular…”
Captain Taylor fumbled for a moment trying to find a Russian equivalent for what she’d said. “Mrs. R. says you are a tomboy.”
“What is tomboy?” I asked.
“A girl who behaves like a boy.”
I frowned, not sure I liked being called that. “You mean lesbiyanka?”
“No, no,” he said, with a chuckle. “In our country a tomboy is a girl who is tough, unafraid to do what boys do.”
“Where did you pick up a love for shooting, Tat’yana?” Mrs. Roosevelt asked.
“From my father. He taught me to shoot a gun when I was a little girl. He thought all Soviet girls should be able to protect our country from its enemies.”
Mrs. Roosevelt tilted her head at an angle. “He sounds like a man ahead of his time. What are your other interests, my dear?”
“Poetry,” I offered.
“Really? Who are your favorite poets?”
I hesitated, wondering if I should tell her that my favorites—Tsvetaeva and Yesenin, and of course my beloved Akhmatova—had fallen out of official favor. That was probably something Vasilyev would frown on. So instead, I replied with, “I’ve read a little of your own Emily Dickinson.”
“You don’t say. I just adore her work,” replied Mrs. Roosevelt. “Let’s see. It’s been a while. ‘Because I could not stop for Death/He kindly stopped for me.’”
“‘The carriage held but just ourselves/And Immortality,’” I replied in English.
Mrs. Roosevelt laughed that high fluttering laugh of hers and clapped her hands gleefully. “Bravo.”
“My English not so good,” I said.
“No, you recited it perfectly. Didn’t she, Captain?”
Captain Taylor glanced over at me and said in Russian, “You must have had a good teacher.”
It was then, of course, that I knew of whom Mrs. Roosevelt reminded me. While she looked nothing like her, the First Lady had the same sort of vitality and charm, the same disarming candor, as Madame Rudneva, my old friend.
“I’m told that you write some verse yourself,” Mrs. Roosevelt said.
I stared cautiously at her, wondering how she’d found that out, if, as with Vasilyev and the chekisty, the Americans knew all sorts of things about me, too.
“I dabble a bit,” I replied.
“Good heavens. In addition to all your other accomplishments, you’re a poet too. I must say, you’re a very accomplished young lady. Well, I hardly consider myself a poet, but I manage to scribble a few words. I write a daily newspaper column. What I’d like to do is to have you write a piece about your war experiences.”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“I think it would open the eyes of many Americans. We don’t know much about your country or the war on the Eastern Front. They need to know how bad things are. To hear it firsthand. Besides, it would do wonders for our women to see what you’ve managed to do. What a woman is capable of when she’s given the opportunity. Don’t you agree?”
“Of course,” I replied. “But I would first have to get Comrade Vasilyev’s approval.”
“Oh,” Mrs. Roosevelt said, pursing her lips. “I see he keeps a rather tight rein on all of you.”
I smiled uneasily. “I think he worries that we will say something…inappropriate.”
“Inappropriate?” the First Lady repeated.
I took a sip of tea, hoping to give myself time to choose my words with care. Though I’d taken an immediate liking to this woman and felt instinctively that I could trust her, I still needed to be cautious. After all, what did I really know about her, or about Americans? Vasilyev had warned me to be wary around them, that they couldn’t be trusted. Even at this point, I felt myself treading water that was much deeper, with far more dangerous undercurrents, than I could ever have imagined. I happened to glance up and catch a look pass between Mrs. Roosevelt and the captain. Their eyes met for the briefest of moments before they looked away, but I sensed in that moment something, a familiarity, the sort that passes between those who share a secret.
I put my cup of tea down.
“Comrade Vasilyev doesn’t want us to say or do anything that might offend our hosts,” I explained.
“I have little fear of your doing that, Tat’yana,” the First Lady said.
Captain Taylor stared at me after he had translated this. “What are you so afraid of saying?” he asked cryptically. “You’re among friends.” Yet he had a look in his eyes that belied the smile. I wasn’t sure if he was making fun of me or asking a question whose meaning I could not quite glean.
“I mean only that we are in a different country, with different customs,” I explained. “I would not want to say anything that could be misconstrued in any way.”
“That’s understandable,” Mrs. Roosevelt said. “And what of your personal life, Tat’yana? Are you married?”
“I…was,” I replied stumblingly, feeling a sudden and terrible rush of disloyalty toward Kolya. “My husband was killed at Leningrad.”
“I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Roosevelt offered, reaching across and patting my hand. “And your family?”
“They are all gone, too, I’m afraid. They were lost in the bombing of Kiev.” I thought of telling them about my daughter, but for some reason I hesitated. I wasn’t sure if it was to keep them from feeling overwhelmed by my loss or to keep myself from it.
“You poor, poor dear,” offered Mrs. Roosevelt. “And yet you’ve managed to carry on so gallantly.”
“It was not a matter of choice,” I said. “It had more to do with my hatred for the Germans.”
Mrs. Roosevelt made a hmm sound. “It is, indeed, a vicious world we live in, Tat’yana. What gives me a little peace, however, is that I keep a prayer close at hand. It provides me with great comfort in times of need. Would you care to hear it?”
“Indeed.”
Dear Lord, lest I continue in my complacent ways, help me to remember that somewhere someone died for me today and help me to remember to ask, Am I worth dying for?
“It is quite a beautiful prayer, Mrs. Roosevelt.”
“Yes, I think so too. If this terrible war has taught us anything, it’s that we owe so many for our own lives. But enough of the war for now. I’d love to see some of your poetry sometime, Tat’yana.”
“Perhaps,” I replied vaguely.
We talked for a while more. Mrs. Roosevelt was an affable woman whose agreeable demeanor and ready smile put people immediately at ease. Several times she tossed her head back and laughed out loud, girlishly and without the least self-consciousness. I noticed too how she’d often rub the sapphire ring on her finger, almost unaware she was doing it.
“That is a very lovely ring you have, Mrs. Roosevelt,” I told her. “Did the president give it to you?”
She glanced down at it pensively. “No. A very dear friend gave it to me.”
At the end of our meeting, she said, “Franklin and I are having a few people over tonight for dinner. He would very much like for them to meet you, my dear.”
When I hesitated, she said, “Don’t worry, we’ve already worked it out with Ambassador Litvinov. You’re to come to dinner tonight and then stay over as our guest.”
“I am to stay at the White House?” I said.
“Yes. Franklin and I would be delighted to have you.”
“It is indeed a great honor.”
As we were heading back downstairs to join the others, Mrs. Roosevelt was met by a balding man with glasses. She excused herself for a moment and went off to talk to this man.
Captain Taylor said to me, “I am deeply sorry about your losses.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“It’s hard to imagine losing my entire family. You are very brave.”
“Not so brave really. We all do what we must, no?”
He seemed as if he would say something more, but instead he nodded and smiled sadly. He was tall, well over six feet, with narrow, slumping shoulders and a lean frame that his crisp uniform hung loosely on, as on a scarecrow in a field. His slender face was boyish-looking with light freckles sprinkled over his cheeks like cinnamon. He had pensive, hazel-colored eyes, and a mouth that was almost too full for his slender nose, so that his lower lip bunched itself together and drooped just a bit, giving him a slightly pouty expression.
“Hopefully you’ll have a chance to have some fun while you are here,” he offered. “I could show you around a little.”
“I doubt I shall have any time for fun, as you put it.”
“That’s a shame. If I can do anything for you, anything at all, please let me know,” he said, smiling, but with a lingering look I couldn’t quite read. Perhaps, I thought, it was just that I was unused to Americans’ ways.
“Thank you, Captain,” I said.