10
That evening, Vasilyev and I sat silently in the backseat of the limousine as we returned to the White House. Radimov had taken ill suddenly, presumably because the American food was wreaking havoc with his bowels, so it was just the two of us. The capital swept by in a blaze of golden light, monuments to America’s history illuminated by spotlights in the growing twilight. It seemed odd to be in a city lit up so carelessly, so audaciously, as if there wasn’t the slightest concern about the Luftwaffe. Through my open window, the warm, humid night smelled sweet, of honeysuckle and laurel. In the distance I could see the dark skin of a river, lights from the far side playing off its moving surface. On my lap I balanced a small overnight bag Mrs. Litvinov had lent me for my stay at the White House, since I had only my bulky soldier’s duffel bag.
“Are you sure you left nothing out?” Vasilyev said to me.
“I believe I have everything,” I replied, starting to open up my bag.
“No. I meant with your conversation with the president’s wife.”
“Oh. I told you everything.” We’d already covered my conversation with Mrs. Roosevelt in detail. When we had gotten back to the embassy, he spent half an hour asking me questions.
“You were with her a long time. You must have talked about something.”
“This and that. Nothing of importance.”
“Did she ask about the war?”
“Not really,” I replied.
“What does ‘not really’ mean, Lieutenant?”
“She said her husband was interested in hearing about the fighting in the East. That’s all.”
“Tonight if you speak to him, you’ll be certain to mention the need for a second front.”
“If the occasion presents itself.”
“Yes, yes, of course. You want to be subtle. You don’t want it to sound as if it’s been rehearsed. But try to work it into the conversation.” He removed his silver case, took out a cigarette, and lit it. “Would you like one?” he asked. “Camels. Real tobacco. Not like back home.”
I took one, glanced at the dedication—WITH ALL MY LOVE, O. As he lit my cigarette, I asked, “Is that a present from your wife, Comrade?” Though, of course, I knew already that it couldn’t be from his wife, as I’d remembered her name was Elena.
He looked at me with a blank expression. “What?”
“The cigarette case. Did your wife give you that?”
“No.”
“I thought ‘O’ might have been your wife,” I explained.
“My wife’s name is Elena,” he said, continuing to frown. “What are you talking about, Lieutenant?”
“Who is ‘O’ then? A lady friend, perhaps.”
He turned and gave me a harsh look. “I have been married thirty-two years, Lieutenant. In all that time I have not been unfaithful to my wife. Not once.”
“Congratulations, Comrade,” I said. “You must have a very happy marriage.”
“I like to think ours is,” he explained, his tone both indignant and boastful. “Despite what you might think of me, I am a man of strong morals.”
“I’m sure you are.”
“I am,” he said emphatically.
“Who is ‘O,’ then?”
“Someone I once knew,” was all he said.
“Do you have children?” I asked. I don’t know why I asked him this. It might have been to try to get under the surface, to see him as a person, instead of just another chekist agent, if that’s what he was.
He nodded. “Three daughters and a son.” He paused for a moment. “My son is a captain in the Sixty-second Army.”
“You must be proud of him.”
“Proud, yes. Concerned too. The Sixty-second has recently been moved to Stalingrad for the defense of the city,” he said, his thin mouth puckering. I thought of his answer to the ambassador, that his family was fine. “You see, Lieutenant, we both have loved ones in harm’s way.” He turned to look at me. “Did Mrs. Roosevelt say anything else about her husband?”
“Like what?”
“She didn’t happen to say anything about his plans for the next election? If he intends on running again for office.”
“Why on earth would she tell me that?” I asked. “I just met the woman.”
“Women talk about things. She might have said something inadvertently.”
“She said nothing of the kind to me,” I replied, drawing on my cigarette. The American tobacco tasted slightly sweet, but it was strong, and it made my head swirl. “Besides, what does that have to do with anything?”
“A great deal actually. These Americans are very fickle. They change with the wind. The same is true of their leadership. A promise by this president may be broken by the next. Our people are getting contradictory information about his intentions. If you can, Comrade, casually ask his wife if her husband plans on running again.”
“How can I casually ask her that?”
“If it comes up in conversation. Did she happen to say anything about his health?”
“We’ve already been over this,” I said.
“Listen carefully, Lieutenant. No matter how seemingly trivial or unimportant anything she tells you, anything you overhear—and I mean anything—I want to know about it. Do you understand?”
I sighed and looked out the window.
“She seems fond of you.”
“I like her very much too. She’s quite nice.”
“It is good she has befriended you,” said Vasilyev.
I hesitated for a moment, then said, “Ambassador Litvinov said Mrs. Roosevelt could be useful to our plans. What are our plans besides getting the Americans more involved in the war effort?”
He turned toward me, holding my gaze for a moment. In the darkness, his eyes gleamed but without the least illumination in them. No light or feeling seemed to leave them. They were glossy and polished, hard as opals. There was about Vasilyev always a certain inexplicability, something fundamentally elusive, unknowable, perhaps like the Soviet government itself. Sometimes I thought it had to do with the demands of his job, the secrecy entailed in working for the Ideological Department or NKVD or whatever it was he worked for. But other times, I thought that it was only him, his character. Even when he occasionally let his guard down, as he had with his wife and family, he quickly put up his walls again.
Instead of answering my question, he asked, “What did you think of her interpreter?”
“The captain?” I replied with a shrug. “I don’t know. He seemed pleasant enough.”
“He speaks Russian quite well. I wonder where he learned it. Perhaps he has Russian ancestors.”
I took another drag of my cigarette and stared out the window.
“He seemed interested in you,” Vasilyev offered.
I glanced over at him. “What are you talking about?”
“The way he looked at you.”
“That’s his job, to look at me. To read the nuances of what I say.”
He nodded. “Remember, Radimov will not be with you tonight, so choose your words with care.”
“Poets always choose their words with care,” I said, somewhat flippantly.
By then we had arrived at the White House.
“I will pick you up tomorrow morning,” Vasilyev explained. “Prepare a few words to say at the conference.”
As I started to get out, he laid a hand on my wrist.
“Here, Lieutenant,” he said, giving me an envelope. “Put that in your pocket.”
“What is it?”
“Its contents don’t concern you. Someone will contact you tonight. You are to deliver it to him. He will give you something in return. Of course, you are to let no one see it.”
“How will I know who it is?”
“He will say the word yurist. It’s his code name.”
Lawyer, I thought. And I thought again of what the ambassador had said, that “they” had contacts in the White House.
I was met and escorted into the White House by Miss Thompson. When Mrs. Roosevelt saw me, she came right up and hugged me, as if we were old acquaintances.
“I’m so glad you could come, my dear,” she said, the captain translating for her. She wore a long white dress with a corsage of flowers at her shoulder, and her hair was done up. She looked actually young and pretty, vivacious as a schoolgirl.
“Thank you for inviting me,” I replied.
“Come. Everyone’s just dying to meet you, Tat’yana,” she said.
She escorted me into an elegant dining room where a couple of dozen people were milling about. Except for Captain Taylor and myself, everyone else was dressed formally, the men in suits, the women wearing long evening gowns and jewelry. Servants in white jackets carried trays of hors d’oeuvres. Mostly the men congregated in small groups, smoking cigars and laughing loudly while the women stood off talking among themselves. I didn’t see the president yet. Mrs. Roosevelt, however, was eager to show me around, while the captain shadowed us, translating.
Mrs. Roosevelt brought me over to introduce me to three men standing near a fireplace, over which hung a large painting of a white-wigged man on a horse, waving his tricornered cap and seeming to address his troops before battle.
“I’d like you to met Mr. Stimson, Mr. Hopkins, and this cagey little fellow here with his pockets full of money is Mr. White, of the Treasury Department.”
The others laughed heartily at Mrs. Roosevelt’s little joke.
“You’ve certainly given those krauts what-for, young lady,” said Stimson, who vigorously shook my hand. He was in his seventies, but lean and athletic-looking, with a long, narrow face, a stubby mustache.
“Mr. Stimson is our secretary of war,” Mrs. Roosevelt explained to me. “He thinks we should attack Germany right now. Isn’t that right, Mr. Stimson?”
“Indeed I do, madam. And the sooner, the better. We can’t just sit back and let the Germans run roughshod over Europe.” Then he turned toward me. “What do you think, Lieutenant?”
Smiling, I said, “I…I am just a soldier.”
“But you’ve been in the thick of things. Who better to know what’s going on over there than you?”
As Vasilyev had warned, I chose my words with utmost care. “We would certainly appreciate any additional help from our American friends,” I said.
“See, Harry. That’s exactly what I’ve been telling you,” said the man standing to his left.
“Mr. Hopkins,” explained Mrs. Roosevelt, “is one of my husband’s closest advisers.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” said Hopkins, shaking my hand. He was thin, with a sallow complexion. I had seen this Hopkins before, in Izvestiya. He had met with Stalin and Molotov, beginning right after the German invasion. Back home he was viewed as a friend, more favorably even than Roosevelt, who many felt was only a reluctant ally. It was this Hopkins who’d pushed for the lend-lease policy for the Soviet Union. In person, he was a rather sickly looking fellow with tubercular eyes.
“If it wasn’t for Harry here,” offered Stimson, “your Red Army would be running on its tire rims.”
“Then I should thank you,” I said.
“Well, we want to give the Soviet fighting man—”
At this Mrs. Roosevelt interrupted him. “And woman, Harry,” she said, smiling. “And woman.”
“I stand corrected, Mrs. President,” he replied affably, nodding his head in apology. “We want to make sure that every fighting man—and woman—has everything they need to beat those Germans.”
The man named White was about to say something when someone formally announced the president’s arrival. Everyone stopped in mid-sentence and all eyes turned toward one door, through which the president came in his wheelchair, propelling himself into the dining room. In his mouth was a cigarette in a long holder. He was smiling broadly and waving.
Mrs. Roosevelt led me over to him.
“There you are, young lady,” he said, shaking my hand. “Just the person I wanted to see. Tell me, how many Germans did you kill again, Lieutenant?”
“Three hundred,” I replied, then added, “and fifteen.”
“My goodness.” Turning to Secretary Stimson, he said, “Henry, we don’t need more planes and tanks. What we need is a few more women like this young lady. We could whip those Germans in no time at all.”
Everyone laughed at this.
“I don’t think the Republicans will agree to let us draft women, Mr. President,” replied Stimson.
“Then we ought to see that they’re voted out of office,” he said, winking at me. I could see that the president, despite his sad-looking eyes, was in good spirits and that he had a playful side to him.
Mr. Roosevelt then said something to his wife, who in turn spoke to the captain.
“The president wishes a word with you in private,” Captain Taylor informed me.
I followed the president and the captain into a small pantry off the dining room. The room was narrow, and the president had a little difficulty negotiating his wheelchair. I felt nervous, wondering what he could possibly want to talk to me about in private.
“Let me begin by saying just how much I admire you, Lieutenant,” the president said, with the captain translating. “Your courage is a shining example for us Americans in this terrible struggle we face.”
“Thank you, sir,” I replied in English.
The president smiled at my attempt to speak his language.
“No, it is I who should thank you for all of your sacrifices. But tell me about the situation on the Eastern Front,” he said. “And I want you to be completely honest with me. Don’t mince words.”
“It has been difficult, sir. Nonetheless, the tide of victory is slowly starting to turn,” I heard Vasilyev say through me, as if indeed I were his puppet.
“Our reports suggest otherwise,” the president said soberly. “That the Germans have been routing the Red Army on all fronts.”
“Indeed, we’ve suffered a few setbacks.”
The president waved a dismissive hand in front of his face. “I’d call them more than a few setbacks, Lieutenant. I’m told you’ve just come from Sevastopol. What was it like there? What is the morale of the troops?”
I thought of all those we’d lost, all those the high command had abandoned to the Germans. But then I lied and said, “Our morale remains strong.”
The president and Captain Taylor spoke for a moment, with the captain seeming not quite to understand what the president was telling him.
Finally the captain turned to me and said, “The president wishes to know if you personally believe that?”
“Pardon me?” I said.
The captain repeated it: “He wishes to know if you really believe that or if that’s just the ‘party line.’”
I looked down at the president in his wheelchair. His weary eyes probed mine. I didn’t know how to answer. Here I was, speaking to one of the most powerful men in the world, and he was asking me if I were lying. Should I pretend to take offense? Should I continue to lie?
“What choice do we have, sir?” I asked. “We must continue to fight the Germans. To the last man or woman if need be.”
“What can we do to help you, Lieutenant?” the president asked. “What do you most need?”
“Everything—ammunition, artillery, medical supplies, petrol. But most of all, we need…” Here I paused, wondering if I should tell him what I was thinking.
“Please feel free to speak candidly, Lieutenant. Don’t be afraid of being blunt. You won’t hurt my feelings.”
“Well, Mr. President,” I said, “more than anything we need for you to fight alongside of us.”
“Rest assured, we are your strongest allies in this struggle,” he said.
“With all due respect, sir, we need more than words. More even than the supplies you send us, for which we are greatly appreciative. We need for you to spill your blood on the battlefield. For you to fight and die with us.”
“Is that what the troops in the field think of Americans, Lieutenant?”
I hesitated. “They think Americans are afraid to fight.” I glanced at the captain as I said this. He sucked in his mouth, as if he’d taken personal offense at what I’d just said.
“Do they now?”
“Yes, sir. My comrades think that you Americans are spoiled and soft from living so well.”
The president shook his head. “I can assure you, Lieutenant, our boys are just itching to jump into the thick of it. And believe you me, I’d like nothing better than for us to open up that second front your Secretary Stalin has been asking me for.”
“Then why don’t you, sir?”
“I’m afraid it’s very complicated.”
“What is complicated is that each day that you delay, tens of thousands more of my comrades die.”
“I am not unsympathetic to your situation, Lieutenant. But my advisers tell me we’re not ready yet. That we need more time to build planes and ships and tanks.”
“Do you think we were ready when the Germans attacked? I am just a woman, but I took up a rifle and killed over three hundred fascists. If we are true allies, Mr. President, then we should share the sacrifice equally. It shouldn’t be just Soviet blood that is being spilled to save the world from the Nazis.”
The president nodded pensively. “I wish that you could speak to our Congress, young lady. Perhaps they would listen to you. But I give you my solemn word,” he said, extending his hand to me, “I shall open up that second front just as soon as it’s humanly possible. Not a moment later.”
We shook hands.
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
“I bet you’re hungry.”
“A little, sir.”
“I can just imagine you didn’t eat all that well at the front. You look a little thin, Lieutenant. Let’s go in and eat, shall we?”
At dinner I sat between Mrs. Roosevelt and Captain Taylor, so that he could translate for us, and for those nearby. To the right of the captain was a chatty blond woman, wife of one of the President’s advisers, while to the left of Mrs. Roosevelt was a heavyset woman named Lorena Hickok. Through the captain, she introduced herself as a friend of the First Lady’s.
“It’s such a pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant,” she said. “I hear that you’re staying with us tonight.”
“With us?” I asked.
“At the White House, I mean. I live here,” she explained, pointing a finger toward the ceiling. “I’m a reporter. I cover the First Lady, so I stay here.”
The conversation at the table swirled about me. Someone would say something and the captain would translate as best he could amid all the racket. I found myself nodding and smiling idiotically, trying to keep in mind all of Vasilyev’s many warnings so that I didn’t say the wrong thing. How did I like America? What surprised me most about it? Did I get a chance to see a motion picture yet? Was I planning to resume my sniper duties when I returned home? I also thought about the envelope that sat in my pocket, wondering what it was about and who would take delivery from me. This lawyer fellow, whoever that was. I repeated to myself what Vasilyev had said to me, that whatever it was about it didn’t concern me. I was just doing what I was told.
At one point, the blond woman to the right of Captain Taylor leaned across him and introduced herself to me.
“Dolores Montgomery,” she said, smiling and offering me a hand that felt no more substantial than a rabbit’s paw. She smelled a bit boozy. “But everyone calls me Dee.”
She smiled to show a row of straight, startlingly white teeth. In her fifties but trying hard to appear much younger, she was thin and attractive in a severe sort of way, with a stony mouth and eyebrows that had been plucked and etched in with pencil. She wore a beautiful evening dress, cut low to show a wrinkly bosom beneath an expensive string of pearls. Her nails were painted red, her bleached blond hair done up perfectly, each strand in place. For the first time since I’d been in America, I felt a bit awkward in my drab military uniform, the cloddish boots, the Sam Browne belt across my chest.
“She wants to know how the women in the Red Army bathe,” the captain translated for her.
“Bathe?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said, that playful look coming to his eyes. “She wants to know how you bathe at the front.”
“Tell her, as all soldiers do. That is, if we are lucky enough to bathe at all. Sometimes in a stream or pond. Other times out of water we fill our helmet with.”
“Cold water?” she asked.
“Mostly, yes.”
On hearing this, the woman raised her penciled-in eyebrows and said something else, which the captain turned toward me and translated. “She wants to know if women are afforded any special considerations for…” Here the captain actually gave in to a light chuckle. “Privacy.”
“There is no privacy in war,” I said.
“You mean to say…,” the woman began, pausing, her red mouth curled in an expression of unutterable disgust. “They expect you to…right in front of the men?”
“Sometimes it is unavoidable.”
“What about—” But then she paused, glanced at the captain and said, “You know. Our womanly concerns.”
Dragged unwillingly into this absurd conversation, the captain blushed. His pale skin turned pinkish, and the large freckles on his face seemed to darken. Seeing him this way, vulnerable and awkward, I couldn’t help but smile with empathy. Then he rolled his eyes, without letting the woman see him.
“We take care of our womanly needs as best we can,” I replied to the woman.
When the captain had translated this, she once more raised her eyebrows and exclaimed, “Oh dear. No wonder we couldn’t ever get women in this country to fight. We wouldn’t put up with such barbaric conditions.”
Annoyed by what she said, I replied without thinking, “We Soviet women are not so petty as you American women.”
The captain hesitated. “Sure you want me to tell her this? Her husband is an important adviser to the president.”
I paused, then said, “No. I suppose not. Thank you, Captain.”
He shaped his soft mouth into a frown and cast his eyes back over his shoulder toward the woman behind him. “I apologize for her. She’s a fool. But we Americans are not all like her,” he said.
“I know.”
“Many of us appreciate the sacrifices that you and your troops have made. We Americans are not afraid to fight.”
“Perhaps, Captain, it is I who owe you an apology,” I offered. “For having said what I did about your country not wanting to fight.”
“I know that your comrades are dying while we’re still sitting on our hands. But we’re not cowards. We’re not. We want to fight. We really do. When you go back to the front, please tell your comrades that.”
“Of course,” I said, feeling bad that I’d obviously hurt his feelings. “How did you lose the arm, Captain?”
He glanced at the empty sleeve. “It wasn’t anything heroic. When the Germans invaded Russia, I was in Leningrad. I wanted to fly to England and sign up to fight against Germany. Our plane was hit by Luftwaffe fighters. Everyone else died except for me. I was lucky, I guess. When I got back Stateside, since I couldn’t fight, at least I could help in this way, so I enlisted.”
“What were you doing in the Soviet Union?”
“Studying Russian.”
“Is that how you ended up as an interpreter?”
“I’d studied languages in college. My specialty was Russian. After graduate school, I did some postgrad work in the Soviet Union. After I joined the army, they sent me for further training at a language school out in California. I translate some correspondence and serve as an interpreter as needed. I’ve gone with Mr. Hopkins to meet with your Secretary Stalin and with Molotov. I’m afraid my Russian isn’t very good compared to someone like you.”
“No, you speak it very well, Captain Taylor,” I said to him.
We chatted for a while, with the captain occasionally smiling modestly at me.
After a while, someone began to clink his silverware against a glass and soon several joined in. I turned and noticed that the president was being helped to his feet. He held up his wineglass.
“I would like to propose a toast to our brave and gallant guest, Lieutenant Levchenko, who has come to us straight from the bloody battlefields on the Eastern Front,” he said, the captain whispering a translation in my ear. “We are grateful for her courage and for that of all of her Red Army comrades.” Then, smiling at me he added, “I’ve looked this young lady in the eye and I can tell you, I wouldn’t want to be one of those Germans in her sights.” Everyone laughed at that and the president sat down. Soon they all began clapping and looking toward me, and some called out my name. Confused, I turned toward Captain Taylor.
“They want you to say something,” he explained.
I stood up, feeling uncomfortable speaking to such an august group. I glanced at the captain.
“It’s all right,” he said supportively. “Just talk and I will help you if you need it.”
“I want to thank Mrs. Roosevelt for graciously inviting me here tonight. It is a great honor for me and for my country. I wish also to thank America for its support of us in the war.” My gaze then happened to fall on the president, sitting at the end of the table. “And I know that one day soon, Mr. President, your country and mine will be fighting shoulder to shoulder against the Hitlerites. I eagerly look forward to that day.”
I sat down and once more they applauded.
Then it was Mrs. Roosevelt’s turn to stand up. “I also wish to make a toast. Here’s to the student conference, which begins tomorrow afternoon. Let us hope that such international cooperation will lead us into a future without conflict.”
After dinner, I asked directions to the toilet, which proved to be just down the hall. When I came out, the man I’d met before, Mr. White, whose pockets were supposedly filled with money, was standing there smoking a cigarette. He was a small, bookish-looking man with glasses, a soft, round face, and a stubby mustache like that worn by Hitler. He nodded at me, and I nodded back, and I was about to return to the dining room when he spoke up.
“Yurist,” he said.
I turned toward him. In English, I said, “Please to excuse me,” and gestured with my hands, as if to say I didn’t quite catch what he said, even though I had. He glanced over his shoulder before saying it again: “Yurist.”
So this was the contact to whom I was to give the envelope? I reached into the inside pocket of my tunic and removed it. I felt suddenly a cool sensation run down between my shoulder blades, causing me to shiver. Here I was in the home of the most powerful American, our supposed ally, and despite my attempt at ignorance, I knew very well I was doing something fundamentally wrong, as well as fundamentally very dangerous. The man took the envelope and quickly handed me another. “Vsya vlast sovyetam,” he whispered to me. A Lenin slogan I had heard growing up from my father: All power to the Soviets. Without another word, he turned and left me standing there. I slid the second envelope into my pocket and hurried back to the dining room.
At the end of the dinner Mrs. Roosevelt said to me through the captain, “It will be a busy day for you tomorrow. Perhaps you should get some rest.”
As we got up to leave, Captain Taylor started to accompany us, but Mrs. Roosevelt said something to him, and he nodded and glanced toward me.
“Mrs. Roosevelt is going to escort you to your room. I enjoyed getting to chat with you tonight, Lieutenant,” he said, extending his hand.
“The pleasure was all mine, Captain.”
Mrs. Roosevelt took me up to my quarters. She led me into a grand room with elegant furniture, a canopied bed, and old paintings on the walls. I could feel the history of the room, as if the old ghosts of America’s past still haunted the place. She tried to tell me something about a particular painting, another man with a white wig and knee breeches, but without Captain Taylor I could not understand her. We had to communicate with clumsy gestures and nods, and with the little English I possessed. “Yes, yes,” I kept saying, though I didn’t understand most of what she was trying to tell me. Someone had already brought my things up and had turned down the bed for me. The room was stuffy in the summer heat, and Mrs. Roosevelt fanned herself, as if to ask me if I thought it was too hot. I nodded, and she went over to the window and opened it up. The night was loud with the sound of crickets, while the sweet odor of roses wafted into the room. She then headed over to the nightstand and picked up a book and handed it to me. She said something in English and then my name and I knew it was a gift she was giving me. It was a small volume in Russian, a book of poetry by Pushkin. There was also a pen and sheaf of paper. Mrs. Roosevelt smiled at me and made a gesture, as if she were writing something on the palm of her hand. I deduced she was telling me that she had seen to this in case I wanted to write.
“Thank you,” I said in my awkward English.
Instead of leaving, though, she sat down on the side of the bed and patted the spot next to her, inviting me to come and sit. So I did. She reached out and grasped my hands in both of hers and smiled benevolently at me. There was something about her, a gentleness that put me completely at ease. Then she said something, which of course I didn’t understand. She said it again, but I still didn’t get what she was trying to tell me. Suddenly she held up a finger, got up, and walked over to the mantel above the fireplace and picked up a framed picture. Returning to the bed, she showed it to me—a photograph of her and the president with a number of children gathered around them. She pointed at each of the children and then touched her chest possessively.
“Vashi deti?” I said. “Yours?”
She smiled and nodded, pleased that I had got her meaning. Then she cradled her arms together and rocked an imaginary infant, and pointed at me.
I understood what she was asking, I just didn’t know how to respond. How does one explain something as complicated as the death of a child when one didn’t share the other’s language? I thought perhaps I ought just to shake my head and leave it at that. But Mrs. Roosevelt gave me such a kindly expression, I wanted to invite her into my world, to share my heart’s truth with her. I wanted to share my loss with another mother who would understand.
“Dochka,” I finally said.
She gave me a puzzled expression, so I removed the small leather case and took out the picture of my daughter and Kolya. I pointed at Masha, said her name, and then touched my chest as she had done. “Moya dochka.”
Mrs. Roosevelt smiled and said something else, waiting for me to tell her more.
“Umerla,” I said, the word for died. Then I put my hands together and lay my head against them and closed my eyes, the universal sign for sleep. “Umerla,” I repeated.
Mrs. Roosevelt only frowned.
So I walked over and picked up the paper and pen from the nightstand. Unlike Kolya, I was never much good at drawing things. Words had always been my strength. Still, I tried my hand at sketching a plane sweeping low over the ground. Unfortunately it looked more like a bird than a plane. From beneath its wings I made dots for bullets, which trickled like rain to the earth. The rain-bullets dropped onto a long-haired stick-figure child lying on the ground. I pointed at the child in my crude drawing, then at the picture of my daughter. “Masha,” I said, touching my chest as she had done. Then I lay my head on my hands again, to show that she slept. Finally I pointed heavenward. I watched as Mrs. Roosevelt slowly grasped what I was trying to tell her. She stared at me with such a depth of compassion, her awkward mouth furrowed with sympathy. A tear slid down her cheek, rested at the corner of her mouth before she wiped it away. She said something, which I took to mean that she was offering me her sympathy, and I nodded and thanked her. Then she reached out and put her arm around my shoulder and drew me slowly to her, as if I were a child needing comfort. As if I were one of her own children in the picture she had shown me. She stroked my hair and uttered something soothing to me. Though the moment was all quite bizarre, I nonetheless gave myself over completely to her kindness. I had for so long denied myself any feeling, had maintained such a hard shell around me. But it felt good to be in another’s arms, to be comforted as my mother had once comforted me. Her gentle touch reminded me, in fact, of my mother’s, how she used to hold me when I was frightened or sick. We sat like this for a long time. We needed no words to explain what we felt. I was no longer a Soviet soldier, and she was no longer the wife of the president. We were just two women comforting each other.
After a while, she squeezed my hand and bid me good night.