Beautiful Assassin (34 page)

“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.