Beautiful Assassin

15

That is wonderful news,” exclaimed Ambassador Litvinov at breakfast the next morning.
Secretary Bazykin had just informed everyone at the table that several hundred thousand dollars had been donated in the past twenty-four hours to the Soviet War Relief Fund. In front of him were a number of telegraph cables.
“Here is one from a fraternity at the University of Illinois,” said the secretary. “They have pledged one thousand dollars to our cause. They cite Lieutenant Levchenko’s radio speech yesterday.”
“Bravo,” the ambassador cried, clapping his hands.
There were six of us at breakfast: the ambassador and his wife, Secretary Bazykin, Vasilyev, Gavrilov, and me. I hadn’t yet seen Viktor, who, Vasilyev had told me, was still sleeping it off. My own head was a bit dull from too much drink the previous night. I only managed to pick at my eggs.
“And just this morning,” continued Bazykin, “I received a call from Mr. Hopkins that military recruitment stations across the country have noted dramatically increased activity. Evidently, the Americans are signing up to fight in droves.”
“Well, it’s about time,” Vasilyev said harshly. “These Amerikosy have sat on their fat capitalist asses for far too long.”
The ambassador frowned at him and put his finger to his lips.
“Pardon me,” Vasilyev countered. “Let us praise the Americans for their newfound support.”
As I sat there taking all of this in, my mind drifted back to the previous evening. My conversation with Captain Taylor. The touch of his hand against my face. The personal question he was going to ask me. I wondered what it was.
“Lieutenant. Lieutenant?” a voice called to me.
“Yes, Mr. Secretary,” I replied, coming back from my reverie.
“The ambassador was saying that we owe all of this to your inspiring speech yesterday,” Bazykin explained to me.
“I fear it might be overstating my influence,” I replied with a smile.
“On the contrary, I think you’ve embarrassed these Yanks into fighting,” Vasilyev said.
I thought of what Captain Taylor had said to me, that the Americans weren’t cowards, that they wanted to fight but hadn’t yet been given the opportunity.
“Perhaps,” I offered, “they just needed a little push.”
“Whatever it was, my dear,” said Mrs. Litvinov, who sat next to me, “we are all so very proud of you.”
I glanced across at Gavrilov. He had a sheepish look, as if he was embarrassed by what he had told me the previous night, as well as annoyed at all the attention I was getting.
“I think the lieutenant already has one of the American soldiers under her sway,” offered Vasilyev with a wink to the ambassador.
“What is this?” asked Mrs. Litvinov.
“You know that handsome young officer Mrs. Roosevelt uses for an interpreter,” explained Vasilyev. “I think he has an eye for the lieutenant.”
“Comrade Vasilyev is joking, of course,” I countered.
“I’m not so sure,” Vasilyev said, rolling his eyes at Mrs. Litvinov. “I caught the two of them out on the terrace together. They were quite absorbed.”
The others chuckled.
I felt my face burn with embarrassment. Wanting to divert attention from myself, I said, “Let us not forget Comrade Gavrilov’s fine speech.”
“You’re quite right,” replied the ambassador. To Gavrilov, he said, “It was, Comrade, a model of clarity and persuasive rhetoric. And a wonderful reflection of our fine educational system, wouldn’t you say, Vasily?”
“Indeed,” replied Vasilyev.
While the others were chatting, Mrs. Litvinov leaned toward me and said, “What did you think of Mrs. Roosevelt?”
“I liked her very much.”
“I knew you and she would hit it off.”
Secretary Bazykin said, “We’ve received numerous requests for speaking engagements, Ambassador. New York. Chicago. Los Angeles. Sioux City, Iowa—wherever that is,” he said with a bemused chuckle. “Several universities and trade unions, as well as a number of American veterans groups who have expressed an interest in having her come to speak.”
“Brilliant,” replied Litvinov. “It seems all America is quite taken by you, Lieutenant. You are going to be quite busy.”
Perplexed, I glanced at Litvinov, then at Vasilyev, who stared somewhat guiltily back at me.
“Busy?” I said to the ambassador.
“You have not told her yet, Vasily?” the ambassador asked.
“No, I haven’t had an opportunity, Comrade.”
“Told me what?” I asked.
“We’ve wonderful news,” Litvinov said. “Mrs. Roosevelt has asked that you accompany her on a tour of America.”
So that’s what she had wanted to talk to me about the previous night, I thought, and what the captain had alluded to.
“But, Mr. Ambassador, I was promised that I could return home after the conference.”
“We require your presence here for a while longer, Lieutenant,” replied Litvinov flatly.
“With all due respect, sir, I wish to return to the fighting.”
“Lieutenant,” Vasilyev said sharply. “You are a soldier—” But Ambassador Litvinov raised his hand.
“It’s all right, Vasily,” he said calmly to the other. “The lieutenant is understandably disappointed. As a patriot, she wishes to defend the Motherland in her dire need. We admire your fighting spirit, Lieutenant. Yet your country needs you in a different capacity now.”
“But I can best help our country by killing Germans.”
“We certainly appreciate all that you have accomplished. But now your country is asking you to perform a service that is equally important. One that will demand no less of a commitment. There are many in the highest levels of the Party who are counting on you. Besides, this could mean wonderful things for your own career.”
“I don’t care about my career,” I said.
“Well, you ought to care, Lieutenant,” Vasilyev admonished sternly.
“I won’t force you to do this, Comrade,” Litvinov said.
“But Ambassador—” Vasilyev interjected.
Once more, Litvinov raised his hand to silence Vasilyev.
“I am going to leave it up to you. I want you to take a few days to think about it. Remember, though, we are all counting on you.”
“If I were to accept, what exactly will I be expected to do?”
“Just be your charming self. Give a few interviews, make some speeches about the war in Europe. In short, promote the war effort.”
“That’s it?” I said. “That’s all I have to do?” I thought of the exchange of letters I had made with that man at the White House, the incessant grilling Vasilyev put me through each time I spoke with Mrs. Roosevelt. How they were, I sensed, using me for some clandestine purpose, to find out American secrets. I felt uneasy about all this, felt once again I was being lied to, manipulated. That whatever “service” I was being asked to perform for the Motherland, it was not just about promoting the war, getting the Americans to open up a second front. I thought of all the things that Vasilyev had coached me on, the precautions he’d given me. At the same time, I knew full well that Litvinov’s offer that I was free to decline was only an illusion. I had about as much freedom as a caged bird staring out through its bars. I was aware of the consequences were I to decline. Once back home I would be denounced as someone with “individualistic tendencies.” If lucky, I would be stripped of my officer’s rank, my medals. I’d be hidden away in some boring desk job for the remainder of the war, disgraced; in time, forgotten about. And if I weren’t quite so lucky, I would be shipped off to someplace like Kolyma in Siberia to be reeducated, or even, if those in the “highest levels of the Party” watching me were powerful enough, might be tried for treason. I had thought my status as a Soviet hero had protected me, but now I knew better.
The ambassador and Vasilyev exchanged glances.
“Think of it as much-deserved R & R, Lieutenant,” he said. “My wife will take you shopping to buy some things you will need. I want you to enjoy your stay here, Lieutenant.”
“If I decided to do it, how long would I be gone?” I asked.
“Not long. A few weeks. A month perhaps.”
“And then I can return to the front?”
“Of course. You have my word on that.”
His word, I thought. It was worth about as much as Vasilyev’s.
After breakfast, I headed upstairs to my room. As I passed Viktor’s room, I heard him coughing in there and decided to knock. I waited, then knocked again. He called out, “Go away.”
“Viktor, it’s me, Tat’yana.”
“I told you, go away.”
“I want to talk. Please, let me in.”
When he didn’t answer, I tried the door and found it to be open.
He was lying on the bed, curled on his side, facing the wall. I sat on the side of the bed.
“How are you feeling?” I asked.
He snorted. “Just great. Couldn’t be better.”
“I think you were right, Viktor,” I said.
“About what?”
“About our not coming here just to promote the war. I think they’re planning on using us in another fashion.”
“Do you indeed?” he said, with a sarcastic laugh. “For a bright girl, you can be pretty dumb.” He turned slowly toward me, wincing as he moved. Then he let out a deep groan. “Jesus,” he cursed.
I was shocked to see him. His face was haggard-looking, etched with pain, his forehead damp with sweat.
“Viktor, what’s the matter?” I cried. “What happened to you?”
“Huh! Didn’t your pal Vasilyev tell you? I thought he tells his little darling everything.”
“I’m not his little darling,” I snapped at him, surprised that he would accuse me of such a thing. I thought he knew me better than that. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. What happened to you, Viktor?”
“I’m supposed to say I slipped after having too much to drink.”
“What really happened?”
“That f*cking suka did this.”
“Who?”
“The Corpse. He and the other son of a bitch. The filthy whores worked me over good.”
“Where do you hurt, Viktor?” I asked, placing my hand on his shoulder.
“Everywhere.” He touched his left side gingerly. “I think they broke some ribs,” he said, grimacing.
I carefully lifted his shirt. His side was covered with nasty red welts, some already turning black and blue. The skin, though, wasn’t broken.
“The Corpse used a lead pipe covered with rubber. Bastard made sure nothing showed through. He’s well versed in this sort of thing.”
“They did this just because you wandered off?”
“What?”
“They said you wandered off and got drunk.”
He laughed again, bitterly this time. “The lying bastards,” he hissed. He began coughing. Soon he was hacking pretty hard, spitting up blood. I hurried over to the bureau where there was a washbasin and got him a towel.
“Here,” I said, handing it to him. I rubbed his back as he spat blood into the towel. After a while he managed finally to stop, to get his breathing under control. I wiped his mouth, put my hand to his forehead, which was very hot.
“You feel like you have a fever.”
He pushed my hand away. “The truth is, they wanted me to spy for them.”
“Spy for them!” I cried.
“Vasilyev had wanted me to carry documents back and forth from our agents in the States.”
“Why you?” I asked.
“He said the American government was watching the Soviet agents too closely. That they wouldn’t suspect me.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him to go f*ck himself. I told him I was a soldier, I wasn’t one of his chekist pigs.”
His head dropped on the pillow, and he stared at the ceiling. I went back over to the bureau, wet a facecloth, and returned and sat on the bed and began to clean him up.
“I’m so sorry, Viktor,” I said as I washed his face. “But you have to believe me. I didn’t know anything about this. I swear.”
He looked up at me, searching my face. “I believe you, Lieutenant. I shouldn’t have said what I did.”
“Are you going to do what they asked, Viktor?”
He shook his head.
“That could be dangerous.”
“What more can they do to me?”
“They could do a lot more, Viktor. You know that.”
“F*ck ’em. I’m not afraid of them.”
“Don’t be foolish.”
“If they try any more shit with me, I’ll defect.”
“Ssh,” I told him. Whispering, I said, “You heard how they said the Americans had the embassy bugged.” Then I considered the possibility that our own side had it bugged as well.
He said softly, “I will. I don’t care anymore. They’re as bad as the f*cking krauts. At least if we kick the Germans out, we’re done with them. These swine, they’re here for good.”
“Don’t do anything you’ll regret.”
He snickered at that. “Don’t worry, I won’t. And what of you, Lieutenant? What plans do they have for you?”
“They want me to tour with Mrs. Roosevelt. To talk about the war.”
“Is that all?”
I paused for a moment, not sure I wanted to tell him. Finally I whispered, “Vasilyev did have me carrying a message to someone.”
“To whom?”
“Someone in the White House.”
“The White House. Jesus! So they got you doing their dirty work too.”
“I don’t think it was anything like that,” I said.
“Don’t fool yourself, Lieutenant. You’re in this up to your eyeballs.”
“What else can I do?”
“You can tell them to go f*ck themselves, Lieutenant.”
After I left Viktor, I went in search of Vasilyev. I was fuming. I wasn’t sure what I was going to say, whether or not I should tell him I knew the truth about Viktor’s injuries. Perhaps that might only get Viktor in more trouble. But I definitely wanted to tell him Viktor needed to see a doctor. I found Vasilyev in a small office at the back of the embassy. The door was half open and he was on the phone when I knocked. He waved me in, had me sit.
“Yes, Comrade,” he said into the phone, his tone the fawning one used with superiors. “Yes, of course. I am well aware of the significance of it. No, Comrade. Rest assured I shall deal with it straightaway.”
As he placed the receiver in its cradle, he glanced up at me and said, “What can I do for you, Lieutenant? I am at the moment rather busy.”
“I’ve come to talk about Viktor,” I said.
“Ah, yes. Very unfortunate. He’s lucky he didn’t break his fool neck.”
We held each other’s gaze for a moment, I knowing that he was lying, he knowing that I knew.
“He needs medical attention,” I said.
“So now you’re a doctor as well as a sharpshooter.”
Vasilyev put his fingers together and tapped his lips.
“Comrade Semarenko’s health will improve as soon as he learns to follow orders,” he offered. “I told you there would be consequences. He’s under the mistaken impression that this is some sort of game. Now if you’ll excuse me, Lieutenant.”


The conference ran for three more days. I found the speeches by statesmen and politicians and bureaucrats, those in charge of running the war, quite boring. But I did find inspiring those by young soldiers and students, brave men and even a handful of women from around the world who were fighting the Axis powers—members of the Polish Home Army, the Yugoslav partisans, the Free French Forces and the Maquis, the Italian CLN, the Greek resistance, the Norwegian Milorg, the Filipino Hukbalahap. It was moving to hear so many young people devoted to the cause, who knew intimately what it was like to lose a limb or a friend or a loved one.
Each day after the conference, Mrs. Roosevelt had arranged for our Soviet delegation to see various sights around Washington. She’d taken me under her wing, treating me almost like a daughter. A limousine would stop by the embassy, often followed by a small caravan transporting an entourage of reporters, secret service agents, and aides, and pick up Vasilyev, Gavrilov, Radimov, and me. (Vasilyev apologized for Comrade Semarenko’s absence, saying that he was indisposed.) We toured the memorials to dead presidents, the zoo, the Smithsonian museums, the Library of Congress, the Capitol, and the National Gallery of Art. At each place the press would take pictures—of us standing in front of the Washington or Lincoln memorials, at Arlington National Cemetery. As we drove about, Mrs. Roosevelt proved a gregarious host, chatting animatedly, pointing out highlights of the capital and providing us with small insights into its history.
“That building there,” she said, pointing out the window, “used to be a theater called Ford’s. It’s where our President Lincoln was shot.”
“The assassin was a man named Booth, was it not, Mrs. President?” offered Gavrilov like a diligent student.
“Very good, Mr. Gavrilov,” she said.


Plans were made for us to spend a day seeing some of the countryside outside of the city. Shortly before Mrs. Roosevelt was to arrive at the embassy, Vasilyev came to my room and asked me to take a walk with him. We left the embassy and walked down the street to a small park, where we took a seat on a bench. Children were playing on swings, and young mothers were standing about talking.
“The First Lady has asked if you might go with her alone today,” he said.
“Alone?” I asked.
“Yes, without the rest of us. She wants a chance to get to know you better. I am going to permit it.”
I stared at him, perplexed at this sudden change of heart. Vasilyev, I had come to realize, did nothing without a purpose. Like a chess player, he had an ulterior motive with his every move.
“I thought you didn’t want me to be alone with the Americans,” I said.
“I have confidence in your discretion. Besides, I think the First Lady would feel more comfortable if it was just you.”
He was, I suspected, hoping Mrs. Roosevelt would let her guard down if I was alone with her. The more we became friends, the more likely she’d be to confide in me, to let slip something he considered of importance. It was the beginning of a change in his tactics. From this point on, he was to permit me more and more private access to the First Lady.
“Pay close attention to her,” he instructed. “Listen carefully to what she says. I want you to report back to me anything she confides to you.”
“Such as what?”
“About her husband. His activities. His upcoming plans. Of course, don’t seem to pay it any mind. You don’t want your interest to be obvious.”
“No, of course not,” I said sarcastically, which Vasilyev either didn’t catch or decided to overlook.
“And if the opportunity presents itself, make inquiries of this Captain Taylor regarding Mrs. Roosevelt. Her personal life.”
“What do you mean, her ‘personal life’?”
“For instance, find out about her relationship with this Miss Hickok.”
“I don’t understand what you are asking me to do.”
“Just keep your goddamned eyes and ears open,” he said, growing suddenly irritated. “Do I make myself clear?”
I recoiled at what he was asking me to do—betray my growing friendship with Mrs. Roosevelt. I thought of Viktor’s warning, that I should just say to hell with them. And yet I was a soldier, and soldiers followed orders, even if those orders went against personal feelings. More and more I felt trapped: mezhdu dvukh ogney. Caught between the hammer and the anvil.
“Quite clear,” I replied.
“Make sure you stay clear in your mind, Lieutenant. Otherwise, things could get difficult for all of us.”
That day Mrs. Roosevelt surprised everyone by showing up behind the wheel of a sporty-looking roadster, a convertible that had its top down. She wore a straw hat held in place by a white scarf tied over her head, and she waved excitedly as she screeched to a halt at the curb in front of the embassy. Sitting beside her was Miss Hickok, wearing a fedora pulled down low on her head, while in the backseat, bareheaded, was a rosy-cheeked Captain Taylor.
Through the latter, Mrs. Roosevelt said, “Hop in, Tat’yana.”
I got in back next to the captain. On the seat between us was a wicker basket filled with food.
“I’m going to show you a little of the countryside,” Mrs. Roosevelt called from the front seat.
“You’d better hold on to your hat, Lieutenant,” joked Miss Hickok. “Ellie has a lead foot.”
We took off with a start. The First Lady proved to be a surprisingly skillful if somewhat daring driver. She expertly negotiated the streets of Washington, shifting the gears and steering like an old hand, though I must say I had to agree with Miss Hickok. Mrs. Roosevelt drove too fast, so that I felt my stomach drop out of me each time she took off from a stoplight or rounded a corner, tires squealing. We sped along the roads, passing cars which, when their occupants recognized our famous driver, honked their horns or waved or called out to us. She would smile and wave back, laughing unabashedly, occasionally even honking the horn in reply. At first I found it a little disconcerting that the wife of the president of the United States would behave in such an undignified fashion. But then I recalled what Mrs. Litvinov had said of her, that she marched to her own drummer. What was more, she seemed to enjoy herself so thoroughly, to revel so completely in riding along the open road, the wind in her face. And viewed in this way, it made me respect and like her all the more. Here was a woman of character and of spirit, a woman very much of the people, a far cry from the dour, anonymous wives of the Soviet leaders.
“Where are her guards?” I asked of the captain.
“She ordered them to stay behind,” he explained.
“She can do that?”
“She’s the wife of the president. She can do anything she wants.”
“Aren’t you afraid to be without security, Mrs. Roosevelt?” I called over the noise.
“Oh, I’m not worried,” she replied. “I don’t think the Nazis would be all that keen on capturing me. Besides, I have the deadliest shot in the entire Red Army in the backseat,” she joked.
The morning was bright and crisp, with only a few clouds in the sky to give the vast blue some perspective. The sun felt wonderfully invigorating on my face. In the air I detected the faintest autumnal note, the sweetness of dried leaves and newly cut hay, of things swollen with ripeness. We drove west into gently rolling hills, passing woods and fields burgeoning with wheat and corn and pumpkins, and meadows dotted with cattle and horses grazing, everything so peaceful and serene, unlike the cratered and scorched landscape back home. It felt good to be out of the city, away from reporters and crowds, away from Vasilyev and his claustrophobic control. Perhaps, as Mrs. Roosevelt did, I found it a rare chance to relax and laugh, not be in the spotlight, not have to worry about what I did or said. For well over a year, I had been a target of sorts, first in the crosshairs of German snipers, then in the equally dangerous eye of the Soviet higher-ups or the NKVD, and now with reporters or politicians, all wanting something of me—to smile or say something clever, to project a certain image, to impart wisdom, to be something they wanted me to be rather than simply myself. But with the wind in my face and the landscape sweeping by, I had that exhilarating sense of freedom that comes from being removed from the tedious constraints of others’ expectations.
Now and then out of the corner of my eye, I’d catch the captain staring at me. When I looked at him directly, he’d smile somewhat guiltily. I didn’t know if he recalled the night on the terrace, how he’d touched my face and was about to ask me something of a personal nature.
Miss Hickok took out a cigar and lit it, and passed it along to Mrs. Roosevelt. The two of them took turns smoking it, like a couple of schoolgirls doing something illicit. They laughed and chatted easily between themselves, occasionally raising an eyebrow or shaking their head at some private joke. The intimacy I had noted between the two before was even more pronounced away from the public eye. I could see that Mrs. Roosevelt was a different person out here—carefree, jovial, a bit of a joker even. The captain didn’t even attempt translating what they talked about.
“The president,” I said to Captain Taylor, “he does not mind that his wife behaves…in such a fashion?”
He looked at me and smiled. “Even if he did, I doubt that he could stop her. She’s pretty much her own boss.”
“In my country, our leader is not so accommodating with his women,” I said.
“I wouldn’t imagine your Stalin being accommodating,” he said, laughing. “May I share a secret with you? But only if you promise not to tell anyone, or I could get in trouble.”
“I promise I won’t.”
“She doesn’t like your Mr. Stalin’s mustache.”
“His mustache?” I cried. “Why not?”
“She thinks it makes him look sneaky.”
“Well, do you want to hear another secret? But you must promise not to tell anyone either.”
“You have my word,” he said, holding up his right hand.
“I saw him once up very close. And I thought his mustache resembles very much a rat.”
“A krysa!” he said, chuckling.
At this, I started to laugh too.
“So what’s so funny back there?” Mrs. Roosevelt called out to us.
We stopped finally way out in the country, along a deserted stretch of road beside which ran a small river. We got out and headed down toward a grassy spot not far from the water. Captain Taylor carried the basket of food and a blanket he’d gotten from the trunk. He spread the blanket under the shade of a tree, and we all sat down.
“Isn’t this just lovely?” said Mrs. Roosevelt, untying the scarf and removing her hat. Handing Captain Taylor a bottle of white wine, she said, “Would you do the honors, Captain?”
While he opened the bottle of wine, Mrs. Roosevelt started serving everyone. She’d brought roast duck and potato salad, green beans and corn bread.
“Try the duck, Tat’yana,” Miss Hickok said. “It’s fabulous.”
“Mary, our cook, makes it for Franklin,” offered Mrs. Roosevelt.
The duck did prove to be delicious, as did the sauterne we had for a wine. We ate and chatted and had a delightful time. At one point, Miss Hickok took off her shoes and rolled up her trousers and walked down into the river up to her thick knees.
“Ooh. It’s freezing,” she called to us.
Mrs. Roosevelt turned to me. “I hate to mix business with pleasure, Tat’yana. But I must ask you. Has your Mr. Vasilyev spoken to you about my idea of touring America to promote the war in Europe?”
I glanced at the captain, remembering his comment that night on the terrace. “Yes, he has,” I replied.
“What do you think?”
I paused for a moment to choose my words with care. “It is a great honor, Mrs. Roosevelt, that you want me to travel with you.”
She stared at me, and those piercing eyes of hers must have seen my reluctance. “But you don’t seem particularly thrilled by the idea.”
“It’s not that. It’s just that I would rather be at the front fighting with my comrades.”
“Of course, that’s perfectly understandable for someone like yourself. But you see, many here still feel the war in Europe isn’t our affair and that we shouldn’t get involved. People like Lindbergh and his bunch of Nazi sympathizers. We need something to get us motivated. To get us to fight Hitler with the same tenacity with which we’ve begun to fight the Japanese. I think that something is you, Tat’yana.”
“I am just one soldier, madam,” I said.
“But America needs for you to bring the war into our homes and hearts. To give it a face.”
“I doubt I could have such an influence.”
She reached out and grasped my hand. “I know your warrior’s heart lies with your comrades in arms. But you and I must do what we can to get the Americans to open their eyes. Are you with me, Lieutenant?”
Up to this point, I still hadn’t made up my mind. But Mrs. Roosevelt was able to make such a persuasive case that I decided then and there that I wanted to do it.
“Yes,” I said at last. “I will go with you.”
“Splendid,” she replied, clapping her hands.
After a while, Mrs. Roosevelt said something to the captain, to which he nodded. He got up and headed down to the stream, where he took off his shoes, rolled up his pant legs, and put his feet into the water.
Mrs. Roosevelt turned toward me and, smiling coyly, said in an undertone, “Kak.” Then she looked off toward Captain Taylor to make sure I had gotten her point. She had said the word handsome.
Up until that point, I don’t believe that I had thought of the captain as handsome. Pleasant-looking perhaps. But now, watching him down at the stream, his back to me, the lean curve of his shoulders, I thought, I suppose he was a handsome man.
I smiled shyly to Mrs. Roosevelt. “Yes,” I said.
“Simpatichny,” she replied. Meaning nice.


Instead of heading back to the city, Mrs. Roosevelt drove us to a parklike cemetery on the outskirts of the city—Rock Creek Cemetery, the captain explained to me.
“I want to show you a place that’s very special to me,” Mrs. Roosevelt said as we parked and got out. We made our way to a secluded, leafy grove. We sat on stone benches, Miss Hickok on one end, I on the other with Mrs. Roosevelt and Captain Taylor in the middle. Opposite us was a granite slab atop which sat a large statue of what appeared to be a woman. She was shrouded in a long cape, her eyes closed, in sleep or death, I couldn’t tell. Even so, her expression conveyed a profound sadness.
“I come here when I want to be alone,” Mrs. Roosevelt told me. “I find it very peaceful.”
“The place gives me the willies,” said Miss Hickok, only half in jest.
Mrs. Roosevelt told me that the statue was called Grief. That it was commissioned by Henry Adams, a famous American writer, she explained, and grandson and great-grandson of presidents, for his wife, Clover, after her death.
“The poor woman killed herself when she learned that her husband was in love with another woman,” Mrs. Roosevelt said to me.
“That’s so sad,” I replied.
“Indeed,” said the First Lady, her mouth crinkling into a frown.
“You ask me, I think she was a dumb Dora,” Miss Hickok offered blithely.
“But, Hick, she was in love, and her heart was broken,” countered Mrs. Roosevelt.
“To kill yourself for some two-timing bastard?” Miss Hickok replied. “No matter how much he broke my heart, I wouldn’t kill myself. I might kill him, though,” she added with a hoarse laugh.
“You’re not a romantic, Hick,” the First Lady said with a wistful smile.
Miss Hickok gave the First Lady a critical look. “And you’re too much of one, Ellie.”
As they spoke, I almost got the sense that they were having a private conversation, one that wasn’t about the statue or the Adamses, nor was it one meant for the captain and myself.
After a while, Mrs. Roosevelt said, “There was a poem written about the statue. Let’s see if I can remember it.
“O steadfast, deep, inexorable eyes
Set look inscrutable, nor smile nor frown!
O tranquil eyes that look so calmly down
Upon a world of passion and lies!
“Don’t you think that’s true, Tat’yana?” Mrs. Roosevelt asked me. “That we live in a world of passion and lies.”
“I’m not sure, Mrs. Roosevelt,” I said. “I think the world is filled with many who lie. But passion is something that springs from the heart.”
Mrs. Roosevelt stared across at the statue. Her normally cheerful demeanor turned suddenly despondent, her countenance as sad and forlorn as if mirroring the face of Grief. Her eyes watered, and I thought for a moment she might actually begin to cry. I felt so sad for this kind and strong woman, a woman who’d momentarily let her guard down. Miss Hickok reached out and took one of her hands, the one that had the sapphire ring. Then she uttered something, something that was, I assumed, meant to comfort. When I glanced at the captain for his translation, he gave a faint shake of his head, as if to say this was something not meant for our ears. I sensed at that moment what should have been obvious all along regarding the First Lady and Miss Hickok—that they were much more than friends.
“Would you look at me now,” said Mrs. Roosevelt, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief that the captain had handed her. “Acting like a damn fool over a silly statue I’ve seen a hundred times. I suppose you’re right, Hick, I’m too much of a romantic.” She stood then, extended a hand to Miss Hickok, and said, “Let’s take a walk, shall we? Captain, would you keep Miss Levchenko amused?”
When they were gone, the captain and I were silent for a while, uncomfortable with our having just been a witness to this scene. Even the afternoon had turned melancholy. What had started out as a beautiful autumn day had now become overcast. Dark clouds were gathering, mushrooming into one another like smoke from a bomb, and the air had gotten cooler.
“Looks like we’re going to get some rain,” he said, looking toward the sky. It was something to fill the awkward silence.
“Mrs. Roosevelt seems rather sad to me,” I offered.
“Sometimes. Usually she manages to put up a good front. She was brought up with that British stiff upper lip.”
“It must be hard being the wife of the president.”
“Yes,” he said.
I hesitated for a moment, thinking of what Vasilyev had asked me to do. Then I went ahead and inquired, “Do people know?”
He glanced over at me. “Know what?” he replied, either not getting my point or at least pretending not to.
“About them. Mrs. Roosevelt and her friend.”
He sighed. “A few, I suppose. Of course, if it got out it would ruin her. Probably the president too. All she ever wanted to do is help people. That’s her whole life, helping people.”
“Yes, I can see that. Does her husband know?”
“I’m not sure. But it’s no secret that he’s had other women. I can only imagine it’s been very hard for her. Keeping up her public front as his wife.”
“She is a woman who feels things deeply,” I said. “And yet, I assume she and her husband are not happily married then?”
“It’s what we call a marriage of convenience,” he said.
“In my country many get married for such a reason.”
“She thinks the world of you, you know,” he said.
“And I am very fond of her as well.”
He stared at me very strangely then, deep into my eyes in a way I don’t think I’d ever been looked at before.
“If her secret got out it would ruin her,” he repeated, his stare implying something whose import wasn’t quite clear to me.
“What do you mean, Captain?”
“Only that I wouldn’t want to see her hurt.”
He turned and looked off in the direction of the statue, pursing his full lips. I wasn’t sure what he was getting at. Did he worry that I might say something about Mrs. Roosevelt and her friend? I had the strangest sense that he somehow knew about what Vasilyev had asked me to do. I don’t know why, but I did. As I stared at his profile, I thought of what Mrs. Roosevelt had said about him. That he was handsome. He was, I thought, and I felt a sudden clutching feeling in my chest, as if a chill wind had blown across my heart. I shivered.
I followed his stare toward the shrouded and mysterious figure Grief. Despite the undeniable sadness that the place exuded, I could suddenly understand why Mrs. Roosevelt liked to come here. There was something profoundly calming about it. Though I wasn’t particularly religious, I felt a deep spiritual connection to the place. I thought of my daughter, buried in an unknown field half a world away, alone, without so much as a marker to note the spot. Instead of feeling, as I usually did, a sense of panic and guilt and helplessness, I felt oddly at peace right then. I couldn’t say whether she was in heaven or not. Didn’t even know whether I believed in heaven. I only knew that she was at peace, and because of that, so was I.
“May I ask you something, Captain?” I began.
“Please, call me Jack. We don’t need to be so formal. At least when no one’s around.”
“If you prefer. And you may call me Tat’yana. The other night, when we were talking out on the terrace, you were going to ask me something.”
He frowned; then his expression changed as he remembered what it was.
“Oh. I was going to ask you about your husband.”
“My husband?”
“Yes. I never hear you speak of him.”
“There is nothing to say. He was my husband.”
“What was he like?”
“He was a good man. A wonderful father to our daughter.”
“You must have loved him very much.”
I paused, looked over at him. I recalled the time in the trenches that Zoya said the same thing to me.
“Why do you say that, Captain?”
“Jack,” he corrected.
“Sorry, Jack.”
“I don’t know. I guess because I see you as someone of great passion.”
“But you hardly know me,” I said
“I’m a pretty good judge of character. You still haven’t answered my question.”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Just curious,” he said.
“We Soviets don’t always talk about our feelings like you Americans. We don’t wear our emotions on our shirtsleeve, as you put it.”
“I didn’t mean to pry,” he said.
“In my country, things are very different. Life is harder there, and people marry for different reasons besides love.”
Even as I said these empty platitudes, I could hear my parents’ voices telling me why I should have married Kolya.
The captain smiled condescendingly.
“What?” I said. “You think that is foolish?”
“It just seems wrong to me.”
“It has nothing to do with right and wrong,” I snapped at him. “It’s simply the way things are. Love is a bourgeois Western concept.”
“Do you really believe that, Tat’yana?”
“Of course I do,” I replied. “Marx said that religion was the opiate of the people. Perhaps in the West, your opiate is love. You sell the notion of love in all of your advertisements so that people buy more automobiles and perfume and pretty clothes. Love is the capitalist engine that drives your economy.”
He smiled, shook his head. “I think that’s very sad. I feel sorry for you.”
“I don’t want your pity, Captain,” I explained, my pretense of anger trying to hide my insincerity of belief. “Just because one faces the truth doesn’t mean one deserves to be pitied. Your fiancée, this Becky, did she want to marry you for love? Or was it simply because she wanted a nice bourgeois life with a big house and fancy things, a washing machine and a vacuum cleaner, and thought you could provide those for her?”
“She loved me,” he blurted out, his tone bordering on childish petulance. My question, I could see, stung him, and I immediately regretted having said it.
“Forgive me. I had no right to say that,” I offered. “Did you love her?”
“Yes, very much.”
“Then you should consider yourself very fortunate.”
“Why?”
“I think it is more important to love than be loved. More painful perhaps, but more life-affirming.”
“But I thought you just said that love was just a bourgeois concept.”
“Even we Communists must have our illusions,” I said, smiling.


When I returned to the embassy that day, Vasilyev brought me out into the shed behind the building and “interrogated” me as he had on other occasions regarding my meetings with Mrs. Roosevelt. He wanted to know in the minutest detail what we had talked about: did she say anything about her husband’s attitudes regarding the war, did she happen to bring up anything about the president’s health, his election plans, whether or not he was planning on traveling overseas. If she mentioned Mr. Churchill at all.
“No. She didn’t talk about any of that,” I replied.
“Did she say anything whatsoever about her husband?” Vasilyev wanted to know.
“She said he liked duck.”
“Duck,” Vasilyev said, frowning.
“To eat,” I explained.
“What of her and Miss Hickok? What did they talk about?”
“Nothing.”
“Surely they talked about something?”
“Nothing you would consider important, Comrade.”
“I’ll decide if it’s important or not,” he said.
“Miss Hickok thinks Mrs. Roosevelt is a romantic.”
“Romantic in what manner?” Vasilyev said, his interest piqued.
“In her views of love.”
“And the captain. Did you get a chance to talk to him?”
“A bit,” I replied.
“Did he tell you anything about Mrs. Roosevelt?”
I hesitated, with Vasilyev staring at me, waiting. I knew that whatever choice I made, whether I told him the truth or whether I lied, I would be heading down a path from which I could not return. Yet I didn’t feel I could betray Mrs. Roosevelt’s trust in me.
“He avoided talking about Mrs. Roosevelt.”
“Did you ask about her?”
“Yes. But he either didn’t know anything or didn’t want to share it with me.”
“I see,” Vasilyev said. “We will have to find a way.”
“A way?” I asked.
“To get him to talk.”
That evening we had dinner at the embassy, Ambassdor Litvinov and his wife, as well as Vasilyev, Gavrilov, and myself. We talked about the upcoming tour. It was to take six weeks and cover some forty cities across America. They’d obviously been planning it out for some time, all without my knowledge. It was an event, said the ambassador, that would change the course of the war. Afterward, as we were drinking our brandies, Litvinov turned to his wife and said, “My dear, why don’t you take Comrade Gavrilov and show him our library? I think he would find it of interest.” It was a polite way of getting rid of Gavrilov. When they were gone, Litvinov said to Vasilyev and me, “Come.”
We headed down the hall, through the kitchen and outside into the cool autumn night. We marched over to the shed and entered it. The ambassador put a finger to his lips to tell us we were to be quiet. Once we were inside, he shut the door and fumbled for a moment, trying to find the light switch. Waiting in the darkness, I distinctly felt the presence of a fourth person, of someone besides Ambassador Litvinov and Vasilyev and myself. I don’t know if it was his body heat or a vaguely metallic smell that reminded me of iodine, but I knew that we weren’t alone. Finally the light came on.
“Hello, Ambassador,” came another voice from directly behind me in the shed. The voice was raspy, and I jerked at the sound. With the sudden illumination, it took a moment for my eyes to adjust.
“How are you, Comrade Zarubin,” Litvinov said. “I’d like you to meet Senior Lieutenant Levchenko.”
Still squinting, I turned to see a stocky man of medium height, his reddish brown hair plastered down with oil. His nose was blunt and broad, his mouth sullen-looking. He had gray pupils that were dull and lusterless, so that looking into them was like looking into a fog. There was about him something familiar, although I couldn’t place him at first.
“I am pleased to make the acquaintance of a true hero of the Motherland,” he said, shaking my hand and giving me a little bow. His voice was coarse, his manner both unctuous and brusque at the same time. “I’ve heard much about you, Lieutenant.”
“How do you do, sir?” I replied.
“So, Comrade Zarubin,” Litvinov said to the man, “how are things in Tyre?”
Tyre, I thought, realizing he couldn’t be referring to the ancient city in Phoenicia.
“They are fine, Ambassador. We are quite busy, of course.”
“Is the new man…what are we calling him again?”
Zarubin glanced at me, his sharp eyes cutting into mine like an auger. It was then that I realized where I’d recognized him from. He was the man I’d seen Vasilyev with outside the hotel.
“It’s all right,” the ambassador reassured him. “We have complete confidence in the lieutenant.”
My credibility having been vouchsafed, he replied, “Liberal.”
“Is this Liberal working out to our satisfaction?”
“Yes, Ambassador,” Zarubin explained. “He has good information and is well connected to others that share his sentiments. Feklisov has scheduled a meeting with him next week to continue his training.”
“Very good. But proceed with caution. You’ve heard that the Americans have turned one of ours.”
This Zarubin nodded.
Then, glancing toward me, the ambassador asked, “Do you know why we’ve brought you here to America, Lieutenant?”
I felt like a student taking an exam for which I’d studied but now was wondering if I knew the correct answers. “I think so,” I replied somewhat hesitantly, glancing at Vasilyev. “To persuade the Americans to help us more in the war effort. To push for that second front.”
He nodded. “Yes, that is certainly one of the reasons you are here. We very much want you to continue those efforts. But there are other, more long-term reasons as well.”
The ambassador turned to Vasilyev and used an odd term: kapitansha—the Captain’s Wife. “Did the Captain’s Wife say anything else about her husband?”
“Who?” I asked.
“Have you not briefed her on the significance of the Captain’s Wife to our mission?”
Vasilyev glanced at me, then replied, “I have told her only what she needed to know regarding that.”
“Well, perhaps it is time.” Turning to me, Ambassador Litvinov said, “Lieutenant, what we are going to ask of you over the next several weeks will have a significant impact not only on our war effort but also on our position in the postwar world. You see, after the war the world will be a vastly different place. Our adversaries will change. We need to be prepared.”
“Yet we are fighting Germany now, sir. Shouldn’t we be working with America to defeat our common enemy?”
“Of course,” Litvinov said with a nod. “But two years ago, Germany was our ally. The world changes. We must look beyond the war, to the future. We cannot afford to fall behind the West.”
“Fall behind?” I asked.
“Militarily. America is a very wealthy and powerful country. Until now it has used its great wealth for self-indulgent purposes. Automobiles and phonographs. Now, though, the war has awakened it to the realities of the world. They have embarked on a path that will sooner or later bring us into direct conflict with them.”
“But they are helping us now to fight the Nazis,” I offered.
“The Amerikosy are throwing us table scraps,” Zarubin interjected. “Enough to keep the Germans occupied, but not enough to win.”
“I still don’t see what all this has to do with me,” I said.
“We feel that the Captain’s Wife could be very useful to us,” explained the ambassador.
“Captain’s Wife?” I asked.
“Explain to her, Comrade,” Litvinov said, turning to Zarubin.
“Our code name for the president is the Captain,” explained Zarubin. “So his wife is the Captain’s Wife. She has been very sympathetic to our side,” Zarubin continued. “She is an advocate of the proletariat. She has strong connections to the left in America, to trade unions and such. We know, for instance, that her own government has been spying on her for quite some time. Their Mr. Hoover has been keeping an extensive dossier on her activities connected to organizations of the left. He believes her to be a Communist. Even her willingness to sponsor your visit here shows her strong support of the Soviet Union. We feel she might be sympathetic to our side.”
“In what way?”
“She has, after all, the president’s ear. And he may confide in her certain things. Information that might prove invaluable to us.”
“Do you think she is just going to share with us what her husband tells her? State secrets?”
“It might take some persuasion.”
“Persuasion?” I asked.
“My dear Tat’yana,” the ambassador interceded in a fatherly tone, “we are merely saying that if we were in possession of certain knowledge about her, things she would not want made public, perhaps we could convince her to help.”
“What sort of knowledge? What are you talking about?”
“Her friend, Miss Hickok, what do you know of her?” asked Zarubin.
I shrugged. “Not much. She’s a journalist. She covers Mrs. Roosevelt. They have long been friends.”
“And what is the nature of this friendship?”
“What do you mean?” I said.
“What sort of friendship is it?”
“I don’t know. They’re friends,” I said, a little too quickly.
Zarubin smiled rigidly so that his lips were drawn back over his yellow teeth, baring them like the fangs of a dog about to attack. “Are they intimate?”
“What!”
“Are they lovers?”
“How would I know?” I asked.
“There have been rumors that the two have been involved for some time,” Zarubin continued. “Have you seen anything that would lead you to believe this?”
I thought of the quiet familiarity they had around each other, the intimacy with which they had gazed into each other’s eyes. I thought too of what Captain Taylor had said to me, how if such a thing got out it would ruin her.
“No,” I replied.
“You’ve seen nothing at all. Not the slightest gesture that would lead you to that conclusion?”
“No. Nothing. Even if they were, I don’t see why it should be my business—or anyone’s for that matter.”
“Comrade,” said Zarubin, “if we were in possession of such knowledge, it would give us tremendous leverage with her.”
“You’re talking about blackmailing her,” I said. “The wife of the president of the United States. This is absurd.”
“Watch your tongue, Lieutenant,” Zarubin said. He glanced at Litvinov, then brought his hand up and rubbed his angular jaw. “We prefer to call it persuasion.”
I stared dumbfounded at the three of them. My gaze lingered particularly on Vasilyev, hoping to find at least in him some recognition that he realized how preposterous all this was, but he merely pursed his thin lips in an attitude of complacency. It was all so absolutely, so incredibly insane that I didn’t know what to say. They were actually considering blackmailing the wife of the president. Threatening her by revealing that she and Miss Hickok were lovers. Had they all gone stark raving mad? I wondered. The entire moment would have been comical if not for the fact that it was so deadly serious.
“So what is it you expect me to do?” I asked.
“I understand she has befriended you,” Zarubin said.
“She has been very kind to me, yes,” I replied.
“It is important that you continue to gain her confidence. We need someone who is close to her. In her intimate circle. We want you to report back to us anything she says.”
“You wish me to spy on her is what you’re saying.”
“We expect you merely to do your duty, Comrade,” replied Zarubin sharply.
“Duty!” I snapped at him. “This,” I said, holding up the Gold Star medal on my chest, “proves I’ve done my duty. What have you done to prove yours, Comrade?”
Litvinov, ever the ambassador, placed his hand on my shoulder. “Lieutenant,” he said. “No one is questioning your patriotism. The Soviet Union is deeply appreciative of all that you have done for it. We merely want you to help in a different way now. To learn whatever you can from the president’s wife. To continue to befriend her.”
“Not befriend her,” I replied. “Betray her, you mean.”
“Like you, Comrade,” said the ambassador, “we are only interested in protecting the Motherland.”
“Tell me how spying on her, someone who is trying to help us, is protecting our country.”
“There are certain subtleties involved of which you are not aware, Lieutenant,” replied Ambassador Litvinov. “For now, it is enough that you watch her closely.”
I looked at Vasilyev and asked, “Am I being ordered to do this?”
It was Zarubin who answered. “Yes, Lieutenant. Failure to comply will result in consequences of the most severe nature. Do I make myself clear?”
I paused for a moment, glancing from Zarubin to Vasilyev. Finally, reluctantly, I replied, “Yes, Comrade. Very clear.”
From that moment, I was no longer a soldier. I was a spy.