18
The next morning, before I was to accompany Captain Taylor, I was interviewed by a reporter from the Saturday Evening Post. With Radimov translating, we spoke over breakfast in the hotel dining room. The reporter was a woman just a few years older than I, a delicate creature with lovely red hair and fine porcelain features. She wore a dark tilt hat with netting over her blue eyes and a polka-dotted chiffon dress. She was quite pretty. She hadn’t done her research, though, and didn’t know much about me. She asked the same familiar questions I’d been asked a dozen times already: did I find killing hard, did I mind getting dirty, did I think women were cut out for being soldiers. She wanted me to tell her the story about my duel with the German sniper.
“Weren’t you afraid?” she asked.
A photographer accompanied her and took several pictures afterward.
When the interview concluded, I found Captain Taylor waiting for me in the lobby. He had a newspaper in his hand.
“Here,” he said, handing it to me. On the front page of the Times was my picture, with a headline that he translated for me: “Soviet Sniper Chides Americans: Don’t Hide Behind My Skirt.”
“Mrs. Roosevelt has already gotten a number of complaints,” he explained. “One was from a general at the Pentagon.”
“I didn’t mean to cause her any problems.”
“Don’t worry about it. She actually thinks it’s funny.”
He glanced over at me, a pensive look shading his eyes. The previous night was obviously on both of our minds—the kiss outside of my room. Yet we both tried to avoid it.
“And how are you this morning?” he asked.
“Fine,” I replied.
He hesitated, seemed about to say one thing, then changed his mind and said, “I thought we’d start by seeing the Statue of Liberty.”
The autumn day was overcast, coolish but pleasant. The city was already teeming with a frenetic activity I was just beginning to get used to. We took a ferry out to see the Statue of Liberty. Up close she was even more impressive than that first time I’d seen her through the mist, her presence more commanding, her visage even more determined. Later we visited St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Rockefeller Center with its Radio City Music Hall, then the long ride up in the elevator of the Empire State Building. From the observation deck of the latter, Captain Taylor pointed out sites below.
“You see that island over there? That’s Staten Island,” he explained, pointing toward the south. “There’s Brooklyn and Queens. North, that’s the Bronx. And do you see that way off in the distance?” he said, pointing toward the northeast, where a small strip of bluish gray ocean was ringed by land on either side.
“Yes?”
“That’s Moscow right over there,” he offered with a smile.
“You have very good eyesight, Captain,” I said. This made me think of what Vasilyev wanted me to ask him. “Did you ever work at the American embassy there?”
“No. Why?”
“Vasilyev thought he remembered the name Taylor.”
“I never made it to Moscow, unfortunately. He must have me confused with another Taylor.”
When we were back down in the street, he asked, “Have you heard of the Yankees?”
“It’s what they call you Americans, is it not?”
“No. I meant the baseball team. You should see at least one game of America’s pastime.”
Instead of a taxi, we descended down into the city’s subterranean world and got on a subway. Once we were in the stadium, he bought me a hot dog and we sat in the crowded and noisy stands and I watched my first baseball game. The grass was greener and lusher than that of the gardens of Livadia Palace, which had been the czar’s summer palace. My father had once taken me to see it when I was a girl.
“Do you see that man out there with the number five on his jersey?” the captain said, pointing to a player running out toward the middle of the green expanse. “That’s Joe DiMaggio.”
“Is he a good player?”
“The best.”
The captain tried, patiently but I must admit unsuccessfully, to explain the game to me. However, the more he tried, the more confused I became. I was used to the simplicity of football, where one had only to kick a ball into a net. Baseball was more confusing than mathematics.
Despite my not understanding the game, I enjoyed myself immensely—the raucous cheering of the crowds, the popcorn and hot dogs, the striking beauty of the fields beneath a gray autumn sky, the way men ran about so carefree and yet with such intensity, chasing the little white ball and sliding along the dirt. I had forgotten that life could offer such innocent pursuits, that everything was not deadly serious. That one could run over a field for no other purpose than the sheer joy of it.
“May I ask you a question about your Mr. Vasilyev?” the captain said.
I looked over at him. “I suppose.”
“What’s his role here?”
“His role?” I repeated, surprised by the question. “As I told you, to watch over me. To make sure I don’t make mistakes.”
The captain’s hazel eyes bored into me. “Is he with the NKVD?”
Startled by his sudden directness, I didn’t quite know how to answer, in part because I wasn’t sure myself. But also partly because I wasn’t sure what he knew and why he was asking me. Which brought me back to both Viktor’s and Vasilyev’s warnings about the captain.
“Why would you suggest that?”
“From things I’ve heard him say.”
Trying to remain composed, I replied, “I am a mere soldier. That’s beyond my scope.”
“But surely you must have your suspicions.”
“I’ve found it’s safer for one to keep his suspicions to himself.”
After the game was over, we left in the crush of people. The captain grasped my hand, and we rode the surge of humanity exiting the stadium.
“Hold on tight,” Captain Taylor called to me over the clamor. “Your Mr. Vasilyev would have my neck if I lost you.”
We headed down into the subway again and got on and were propelled into the darkness. The subway car was packed, and we stood pressed against each other. It was only then that I realized he was still holding my hand. His hand was warm and moist, the fingertips, for some reason, smooth as a pianist’s. I looked up at him and he released my hand.
“Did you enjoy the game?” he asked, as if to cover his embarrassment.
“Yes. But it’s very complicated.”
“It takes some time to pick up the nuances,” he said.
“Unfortunately, I don’t have much time for nuances,” I replied.
He glanced at me and smiled. “Well, I’ll just have to give you a crash course.”
We ended up back where I had spoken the previous day—Central Park. It was late in the afternoon now, the air turning brisk, the sky growing darker with the promise of rain. We spotted a line of horse-drawn carriages parked on the street.
“Have you ever ridden in a carriage before?” the captain asked.
“What, do you think I am royalty?” I said playfully.
He paid one of the drivers, and we climbed up into the elegant carriage. As we rode through the park I thought of those old grainy photos my father had shown me of the czar and czarina riding in a gilded coach to some royal function. We saw couples strolling arm in arm, mothers pushing their prams, people walking dogs, men in suitclothes with their ties loosened, smoking cigarettes after a day’s work in one of the city’s gleaming skyscapers. It seemed a perfect bucolic setting, like something out of a painting by Constable. As we rode deeper into the park, however, here and there I began noticing these disheveled-looking figures sprawled under bushes or beneath overpasses. Some were riffling through garbage cans looking for food. One fellow in a filthy coat pulled a small wagon filled with what appeared to be rags. They reminded me of those Sevastopolians eking out an existence during the German siege.
“Who are all those people?” I asked.
“The homeless. Those who can’t find work,” he replied.
“But you are such a wealthy country.”
He shrugged. “Yes, it’s unfortunate. One of the side effects of capitalism.”
“Side effects,” I scoffed, thinking of our argument that night back in Washington. “There are those in my country who would point to this as proof that your society is decadent. That capitalism is doomed.”
“Things were even worse just a few years back during the Depression. Men who’d lost everything were jumping from the windows down in Wall Street. We had Hoovervilles all over the country.”
“Hoovervilles?”
“Ramshackle settlements where the poor lived,” the captain explained. “Every city and town had soup lines. People standing on corners looking for a handout. Sleeping under bridges. Many thought capitalism was finished. When President Roosevelt came in he started to put people back to work. Created programs for farmers and young people. Of course, there were those who thought his New Deal just another form of socialism.”
“The rest of the world looks at you Americans with great envy,” I said. “They don’t see this side of your society.”
“We have our problems, all right.”
“As do we. When I was a a girl, a terrible famine swept across my native Ukraine. People starved to death by the hundreds of thousands. We would see bodies lying in the street. The government tried to blame it on bad weather or on the greed of the kulaks, who they said sold their grain on the black market. Yet the truth is, the leaders were to blame. They secretly wanted to break the spirit of us Ukrainians because we have always been fiercely independent. More than a million died.”
“That’s awful,” the captain said.
“Yes, it was. And we could not even speak about it for fear of being arrested,” I explained. “That is one advantage you Americans have over us, that you are free to speak out when you think something is wrong. What did Mrs. Roosevelt call the law that protects your right to speak?”
“The First Amendment. It’s part of our Constitution.”
“That is a very wise law. To be able to say and write what is in your hearts.”
“Somehow I can’t imagine you not speaking your mind,” he said, a wry smile parting his lips.
“I’m not as fearless as you make me out,” I said. “I haven’t always spoken up, even when I knew something was wrong.”
I paused then, worried that I had already said too much. I thought of all the warnings I’d been given about the Amerikosy. How they weren’t to be trusted. How they and the British were working behind our backs. How they were dangerous and would eventually betray us. How in time they, and not the Germans, would be our mortal enemies.
“Mrs. Roosevelt said that you should do one thing every day that scares you.”
“That is a very wise idea,” I replied. “And what is it that scares you, Captain?”
He smiled at me. “Growing old.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I never want to grow old.”
“The alternative isn’t so good either,” I offered, to which he laughed.
“I suppose not. And what of you, Tat’yana? What scares you?”
“Many things.”
“I don’t believe that for a moment,” the captain said.
I thought then of what Vasilyev had wanted me to do—get him to talk about Mrs. Roosevelt. “Why have some called the president’s wife a Communist?”
“I guess because of all the work she’s done for the poor. She helped workers unionize. Pressured companies for better working conditions. She’s been a member of the International Ladies’ Garment Workers Union for more than twenty years.”
“But she’s not a Communist, no?”
“Of course she isn’t. She’s as loyal an American as there is. She’s dedicated her life to helping people.”
“Then why are they allowed to say such lies about her?”
“Our freedom of speech works both ways,” he said with a bitter laugh. “They’ve said some pretty nasty things about her.”
“Being such a sensitive person, these lies must hurt her feelings.”
“She doesn’t let on. She’s a very private person really. But underneath I think what they say and write about her takes a toll.”
“Is she very different in private?”
“A little. She has a temper sometimes. Especially when she thinks something isn’t fair.”
“But how does she manage to keep her…her private affairs private?”
“It’s hard sometimes,” he said. “As you can imagine she has to be very discreet.”
“In your position, you must also have to be very discreet.”
The captain turned to look at me directly. He had a partial smile on his face, but his stare was probing, one that made me uncomfortable. “Is that what your Vasilyev wanted you to ask me?”
I stared at him for a moment, speechless.
“What do you mean?”
“I think you know.”
He smiled knowingly at me. I tried to overcome my surprise that he had caught me out in a lie. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“No?”
We rode in an awkward silence for a time.
Who was this man? I wondered. And what did he know about me? About Vasilyev and the others?
After a while he said, “You’re a very brave woman, Tat’yana. What I don’t understand is how you can let that man manipulate you like he does.”
It reminded me of what Viktor had said to me.
“I am a soldier. I follow orders.”
“That’s an excuse. Not a reason.”
A light mist started to drift down from the gray sky. It smelled of metal and of smoke, but it left a pleasantly cool sensation on the skin. I could recall in the hot days of fighting, being trapped in a sniper cell for hours, when a rain would suddenly begin. How I loved the cooling touch of rain on my face. The driver stopped the carriage and got down, came around and pulled up the top to keep us from getting wet. Then we started up again.
I sensed the captain’s gaze on me.
“Is something the matter?” I asked.
“I wasn’t sure I should share this with you or not,” he offered, his tone guarded. “But your comrade told me something rather disturbing.”
“What did Vasilyev tell you?” I nervously asked him.
“No, not him. Viktor.”
“Viktor?” I replied.
He nodded. “If I tell you, though, you must keep this in strictest confidence, Tat’yana. I wouldn’t want to get him in trouble.”
“Of course. Viktor’s my friend.” I worried that he had told the captain about his plan to defect. If he had, I knew there would be no turning back for him. “What did he tell you?”
“On the train one night, I bumped into him going between cars. He was bent over, coughing as if he were sick. I asked him what was the matter and he pretended it was nothing. But then he started coughing up blood, holding his side. I offered to go get a doctor, but he got very nervous. Said he didn’t need one. When I asked him what had happened, he told me he had gotten into a fight, that he thought one of his ribs was broken. He wouldn’t tell me who did it, though. In fact, he seemed very concerned about me telling anyone that we’d talked. Do you know anything about this, Tat’yana?”
I hesitated, wondering if I dare tell him all that I knew. Finally I said, “Those two men who follow us about.”
“You mean the two NKVD?”
He seemed to know much more about us than I had imagined.
“Why, yes. They did this to Viktor. They beat him up.”
“Why?”
“Because he disobeyed an order.”
“What sort of order?”
“I don’t know,” I lied.
“You don’t know? Or you don’t want to tell me?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“If Mrs. Roosevelt knew, she wouldn’t stand for such behavior.”
“No, you mustn’t!” I said urgently.
“But this is America. We have laws here,” he said with that sort of impetuous na?veté that was both so annoying and so appealing. What struck me then wasn’t so much that Americans thought they lived by a different set of rules from the rest of the world. It was that they were so confident, like little children playing a game, that there were rules at all, that the world was governed by logic, that it was organized around their optimistic wishes. It seemed completely alien to their thinking that there were dark forces beyond their control, chaotic forces that didn’t adhere to their sense of fair play.
“We may be in America, but we still are under our government’s control,” I explained.
Though I wanted to trust the captain, I knew, of course, I couldn’t tell him everything—about the spying, about what they wanted to do with Mrs. Roosevelt, about what they wanted me to do—not without it all blowing up in my face, without bringing down the terrible wrath of the entire Soviet system on my head. I knew if I confided in the captain all that I knew, I would be setting in motion something I would be unable to stop. It was partly fear. But it had much more to do with the fact that I wanted to do my duty, to be a loyal soldier, to do everything I could for my comrades back home fighting. I was still under the illusion that I could act as they wanted me to without serious consequences, that I could straddle the wobbly fence between what I considered my duty and what were the demands of my own conscience, and that I could return home in a few weeks’ time to the moral clarity of the war.
“Tat’yana, if I can help in any way, any way at all, you’ll let me know, all right?”
I stared at him, his eyes probing deeply into mine. Then I looked away, out over the park.
When the carriage ride was over, we got off and started walking along the street.
“Are you tired?” he asked.
“A little.”
“I thought maybe you might like to go out and listen to some music?”
“Perhaps I should get some rest. It will be a long day tomorrow.”
The next day we were scheduled to board a train in the afternoon on our cross-country tour. We were to make a series of whistle-stops and longer stays on our way across country.
“Of course,” he said, his mouth turning downward in disappointment. He flagged a taxi and we got in.
As we drove along, I felt this knot of anxiety in my stomach. I thought of our conversation about Viktor, about the captain’s asking me if Vasilyev was NKVD. Then I thought of Viktor’s warning me about the American. I wondered, too, if I were doing the right thing in lying to the captain about what Viktor and I had been asked to do? Would Viktor really defect? And would they hunt him down as they had so many others who tried to escape from their iron grasp? Then I thought of how when I returned to my room, Vasilyev would probably be lurking there, eager to pump me with questions about what I had gleaned from my time with the captain.
“On second thought, Jack,” I said, “perhaps I would like to hear some music.”
The captain turned toward me, surprised, a smile lighting up his face.
“Great. I know this nightclub down in the Village.”
Even before we entered the place, you could hear the music throbbing upward from the concrete, rumbling through the soles of your feet like distance bombing. Once inside, the noise seemed to grab hold of your spine—this rhythmic pounding of drums and the lusty blare of horns, accompanied by the wild hammering of piano keys. I had never before heard such music. Save for the dance floor in front of the stage, the room was half-lit, with darkened corners where couples sat close, lingering over drinks. A thick cloud of cigarette smoke hung over the room, as well as a pungent mélange of alcohol and perfume and hair pomade. A band dressed in white coats performed on a stage at one side of the room, while people out on the dance floor writhed and twisted, throwing their arms and heads about, the men twirling their partners around before catching them in their arms. The women threw their hips wildly about and laughed boisterously. There were a number of servicemen in uniforms.
The captain led me through the crowded room to a table in the corner. When a waitress appeared, over the din he called to me, “What would you like to drink?”
“I don’t know. What are you going to have?”
He ordered something for both of us.
“So, what do you think?” he asked me, glancing around the room.
“It’s quite loud,” I replied. “What is this sort of music called?”
“Swing. Boogie-woogie. Do you like it?”
“I think so, yes,” I replied. “It makes one’s heart beat faster.”
He laughed at that. When our drinks came, the captain picked up his glass and said, “Za zdorov’ye.”
“Za zdorov’ye,” I replied, taking a sip of my drink. It was very strong, burning my throat. But once it landed, I soon felt this delicious warmth fanning out throughout my chest. “What is this called?” I asked, indicating the drink.
“A manhattan,” he replied, smiling.
After a while an attractive blond woman in a long blue gown joined the band onstage and began to sing. Her voice was honey smooth yet crackling like a green wood fire. Slowly the music and the drink began to loosen that tightness in my stomach. By the time I’d finished my second drink, the knot had all but disappeared. With my third manhattan, I felt positively wonderful.
“Would you like to dance?” the captain asked.
“I’m afraid I don’t know how.”
“You never danced back home?”
“Nothing like this,” I said, glancing out at the dance floor, where bodies were hurtling around. I had, of course, danced at my own wedding, but it was the traditional vesilni pisni, the Ukrainian folk music that my mother had taught me.
“I’m not much of a dancer either,” he explained, “but I’ll teach you what I know.”
“Well, I guess I’m game,” I finally conceded.
He grasped my hand and pulled me out to the dance floor. The captain, I found, was being modest about his abilities. He was in fact quite a good dancer, at least compared to me. He moved gracefully, with a practiced step and a natural rhythm that belied his tall and awkward body. Even with his one arm, he expertly spun me about. For my part, I felt clumsy, ungainly as a fish out of water. But he was patient with me, slowly showing me how to turn and what to do as he led me. As I started to get the hang of it, he increased our speed, so that soon he was spinning me around and around. I thought of that time after school when Madame Rudneva had tried to teach me American dancing.
When that song ended we danced another, and then another after that. Despite my earlier reservations, I began to get over my self-consciousness, and the more I danced the more I enjoyed it. It felt good being in motion, the only physical activity I’d had in months.
“Why did you say you weren’t a good dancer?” I shouted over the noise.
“Becky said I had two left feet.”
“I think she was mistaken.”
“She was…,” he started to say.
“What?”
“Never mind.”
Onstage the blond woman, accompanied by a lilting saxophone, began a slow song, her sultry voice filled with emotion I could sense despite the unfamiliar words.
I could tell that the captain was a little drunk, the way his eyes were slightly unfocused, heavy-lidded, his full mouth partially open. I myself felt a bit tipsy too, my head spinning as he swirled me around the dance floor.
“‘I’m in the mood for love,’” he sang, a little off-key.
I stared up into his eyes.
“That’s the words to the song she’s singing.”
The captain wrapped his one arm around my waist and drew me gently to him. I felt a little uncomfortable at first, our bodies pressed against each other’s. I didn’t quite know where to put my right hand so as to avoid the stump of his left arm. Besides, I had not been in a man’s arms in such a very long time, it seemed almost unnatural. War had taught me to shun the touch of a man as something filled with threat. Yet as the captain and I danced, my head spinning not unpleasantly from the drinks, the comforting warmth of his hand against the small of my back, I found myself relaxing, easing into him. He moved me across the floor with such effortless grace, with such confidence, I felt something else too, something I had not experienced since the war began. Safe. I felt safe in his embrace. With my head against his shoulder, the music sinking down into my very soul like a balm, the drinks warming my insides, I felt the jagged edges of the world retreat very far away. I inhaled his cologne, the smoke and alcohol scent on his breath, the sour-sweet tang of his body. I must admit too that beyond feeling safe, I experienced another and even more peculiar sensation—the faintest whisper of desire, a language I thought I had all but forgotten. No, I told myself. Don’t. But instead of heeding my warning, I actually gave myself over to the sensation. It spoke to me of the fact that despite everything—all that I had lost, the numbing brutality of the war, the deadening of every nerve ending save those for survival—I could still feel like a woman. I held the captain tighter, pressing my body into his all the more firmly, even desperately. I sensed that he too felt as I did, for he started to rub my back in small circles.
“See,” he said, his lips against my ear, warm and moist.
“See what?”
“I told you it was easy, didn’t I?”
“Well, you are a good teacher,” I offered. “What were you going to tell me about your fiancée, Jack?”
He made an exasperated snort through his nose, then he pulled back so he could look at me. “You know I told you she left me because I enlisted? That’s not quite true.”
“Why did she leave then?”
“The truth is she left me for someone else. He was all ready to settle down and start a family. Could give her the sort of life she wanted.”
“Why did you not tell me the truth?”
“I guess I felt like a fool. The funny thing is I think you were right about her. How you said she probably was only interested in the life I could provide for her. And when she found something better she grabbed it.”
“It’s hard to see into people’s hearts. Perhaps she did love you after all.”
“I think I fooled myself into believing that.”
“Well, it was her loss then,” I said. “And you were right as well.”
“About what?”
“About love. I don’t think it is a bourgeois concept. It’s just that I never really experienced it.”
“Certainly with your husband,” he said.
I shook my head. “No. It was, as you have said, a marriage of convenience.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I am too,” I said, looking up into his face. In the overhead light of the dance floor, his face looked older, more mature, sadder too. The lines around his mouth suggested that this woman had broken his heart more than he admitted even to himself.
The woman singer began another song, and we danced slowly to it, my head naturally settling into the warm crook of his neck. I savored his smell and the touch of his skin, and I wished for the music never to end.
But it did end, of course. When we finally left the club, it was raining hard, the evening air cold and unforgiving. By the time he managed to get a taxi we were soaked. I shivered in the backseat. Jack took my hand in his and rubbed it.
“You’re freezing,” he said. He brought my hand up to his mouth and blew on it.
At the hotel, we got out, and he escorted me up to the door so that we were under the awning, out of the rain. A uniformed doorman held the door for us, but the captain pulled me over into a corner to one side of the door.
“Thank you for a wonderful day, Jack,” I said.
“You’re very welcome. I had a swell time too.”
Then he reached out and touched my face with his fingertips, five warm points of contact burning my cheek.
“You’re beautiful, Tat’yana,” he said.
I felt myself blush, my head swirling from the alcohol and from the music still pulsating in my blood.
With a modest smile, I said, “Perhaps you should not say such a thing.”
“But why? It’s true.”
“We’re soldiers. Our fates are not our own.”
He stared at me in the same peculiar way he had the previous night, an expression that was at once serious and yet with a hint of the mischievous. When I held his gaze, he must have taken that as an invitation, for he suddenly leaned toward me, cupped his hand under my jaw, and kissed me on the mouth. He pulled back a little, staring at me, as if awaiting my response. What I did next surprised me even more than it must have him. I placed my arms around his neck and drew his head down, kissed him back, hard, on the mouth. Dura, the thought ran through my head even as I kissed him. Yes, I was a fool, flirting with danger. Nonetheless, I clung to him for a moment, hungrily pressing into him for dear life, as if he were that very same tree I had taken refuge in against the German sniper. All of the previous months of war seemed to overcome me right then and there, and I gave myself over to it. Finally, though, when the moment had passed, embarrassed, I pulled away. Avoiding his eyes I said, “I’m sorry, Jack. We should not have done that.”
“Why not?”
“My husband is not dead.”
“What?” he cried.
I explained to him how I had received a letter saying he was missing in action. Not dead.
“Then why did you say he was?”
“It’s complicated. But I wish not to be unfaithful to him as long as there’s a chance that he might return.”
“You said you didn’t love him, though.”
“Yes. But I owe him that much. My heart is not mine to do with what I would.”
He seemed about to try to talk me out of it, but then said only, “I’m sorry.”
“I am too.”
I turned and hurried into the hotel.