Salt the Snow

by Carrie Callaghan

  “That’s enough.” Rosonov looked tired as he pushed himself back out of his chair and walked over to the filing cabinet. To his right, a portrait of Stalin gazed serenely into the distance. Milly wanted to cross her arms on the desk, rest her head, and go to sleep.

  Down the hall, someone dropped a glass. Rosonov flinched, then returned his attention to the files, where he flicked past dozens while whispering the names written on each tab. Lives overturned.

  “Here,” he said with a brief, victorious smile that made his face wrinkle like crumpled paper. He pulled out a folder and sat with it on his lap, as if he feared Milly would try to read it or snatch it away. She was tempted.

  “Evgeni Ivanovich Konstantinov. His trial was March twentieth, two weeks ago. Convicted of immoral behavior and homosexuality. Sentenced to three years in a work camp.”

  Milly grabbed the edge of the desk and pulled herself forward. “We’ve been married for two years. There’s no immoral behavior.” She had sworn she’d stay calm, but already her voice snapped with contempt.

  Rosonov jabbed his finger at the file, then lifted a paper for Milly to see.

  “That’s his signature. Confessing he had taken part in homosexual evenings in 1933.”

  “Ridiculous. What does that mean? An evening where homosexuals were present? Where they did things?”

  Rosonov straightened his mouth into a firm line and returned the paper to its folder.

  “I think you know,” he said.

  “Did Zhenya commit acts of homosexuality? Did he? Tell me what proof you have.” To her surprise, her throat tightened and her voice wobbled.

  Rosonov said nothing. He stood and replaced the folder. His back stayed hunched, and he massaged one shoulder and winced.

  “When you interview your husband, you may get the details.”

  Milly leapt to her feet.

  “Now?” She wanted to see him now, and yet she did not. She wasn’t sure if she would slap him or embrace him and cry into his firm shoulder. Her sweet, idiotic Zhenya.

  “No. In three days. Come before to get the admission card.”

  More days of waiting. Milly swallowed back her reflexive American “thank you” and stood. She retrieved her documents from the desk and shoved them into her purse.

  “The eleventh of April, then,” she said.

  He nodded.

  Milly turned to go, then paused.

  “What of Victor Pavilovich? And Sorokin?”

  His face clouded, but he quickly resumed a pose of professional indifference.

  “You are not authorized to receive information on those citizens.”

  “Like hell I’m not,” Milly growled in English. Then she took a deep breath and switched back to Russian. “They were released, weren’t they? Or they will be. They, how is it, made a deal.”

  “You may leave now.”

  “Zhenya’s innocent,” she said. “I’ll prove it. I’ll get him out.”

  Rosonov turned his back to her and pushed the drawer closed with a clang. Then he opened another one.

  “You may leave now,” he repeated, without turning around.

  Milly glanced at his desk, then reached over and pushed a stack of papers to the floor. As they wafted down to the tile, she marched out.

  But by the time she reached the street, she was fighting back tears. What a fool she was, to risk ruining Zhenya’s chances simply to satisfy her pique.

  She hoped that tomorrow Borodin would not ask her how the meeting with Rosonov had gone. How could she tell him she had married a man who … who didn’t love her, she thought with a tremor. They had married because he wanted her to save him, and she’d failed. She wasn’t enough for him, though he had wanted her to be. Or maybe only she had wanted to be his everything. No, it was no good to pity herself. In fact, she should go to the newsroom tonight, since they could probably use the extra hands. If Charles were still on the staff, she could ask him about Zhenya, but Charles had skipped out of Moscow a year ago. Fine, she would buck up, show she wasn’t afraid of Borodin and his questions, and maybe work hard enough to justify asking Borodin and Anna Louise to let her spend more of her scheduled workdays coming back here, waiting to help her poor Russian husband.

  Or friend.

  She stopped and stared up at the gray clouds lurking overhead until the tears in her eyes no longer threatened to spill onto her cheeks.

  10

  BEFORE

  FEBRUARY 1932

  RUTH HOLLERED OVER at her from her desk.

  “You’ve got a call, Millichka! It’s the Russian boyfriend.” She gave a wicked grin, and Milly felt the heat rush to her cheeks.

  Milly walked to the secretary’s desk, where Ruth had answered the phone, and lifted the receiver.

  “Milly baby! We must celebrate. It has been a year you have been in Moscow, yes? Let’s go out.”

  It wasn’t exactly a year, but close enough, and she was thrilled her Russian opera performer thought of her. Still, she shouldn’t be getting social calls at work.

  Milly looked up from the phone cord wrapped around her finger, and Axelrod was glaring at her.

  “I’ve got to go. But I can meet you tomorrow night. Restaurant No. 9, the nightclub.”

  He agreed, and she quickly hung up.

  Axelrod coughed, then beckoned to Ruth.

  “What’s this?” He held up a bound blue journal, the American Mercury.

  “Looks like a magazine,” Milly said, her cheeks flushing.

  “Your English getting sloppy, Axelrod?” Ruth usually let Milly do the sharp talking, but when Milly glanced over at her now, her chin was held high.

  His forehead bloomed red, and he jabbed a finger at the front cover. “Right there! Your names! ‘They all come to Moscow,’ it says.”

  “Do they?” Milly tried to relax against her desk, but her palms were sweating and she slipped a little when she leaned back.

  “Why do you think you can laugh at us?”

  “It was just good fun,” Ruth said, and gave a one-shouldered shrug.

  “Saying ‘five dollars for a pound of butter’ here is not fun,” Axelrod growled. He waved the magazine in Ruth’s face.

  “It’s true,” she said, her eyes on the marble tiled floor.

  He flipped to another page. “‘Ah want to have babies. Ah want to have lots of babies, and ah want them all to be born in Soviet Russia!’ What is that?” he yelled.

  Milly snorted. “Could you read that again? I didn’t catch that the first time.”

  Both she and Ruth devolved into giggles.

  Axelrod threw down the magazine, and the slap against the floor silenced the newsroom.

  “You.” He pointed at Ruth. “I know this was your idea. You’re the leader, you make trouble. You are fired.”

  “But you can’t, I am just … And Borodin …”

  Axelrod’s eyes glowed. “I have the last word. You. Are. Fired. And you.” He turned to Milly. “I’m still thinking about what to do with you.”

  He kicked the magazine toward them and turned away. Then, he paused, and spun back toward Ruth.

  “You will lose your visa this week. Prepare yourself to leave.”

  Ruth gasped and turned white. Milly hugged her arms around herself and tried to quell the feeling of nausea, luck, and guilt. She hadn’t been fired, but her friend had; she was grateful she didn’t have to leave, but devastated her friend did. She threw her arms around Ruth.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, and Ruth’s damp cheek pressed against her neck.

  THE NEXT DAY, Jack Chen grabbed Milly by her elbow and pulled her aside before she even had a chance to strip down her outer layers.

  “Axelrod’s out for blood,” he whispered.

  “I don’t know what to do.” She walked back to her desk, and Jack followed.

  “Apologize for the story,” he said. He looked around the room, but all the writers had their eyes fixed on their typewriters or notepads.

  She shook her head. “L
ike hell. It was a harmless story. If we can’t laugh at ourselves, what’s the point?”

  “The point is people’s lives, Milly. They’re trying to make a new world here.”

  “All the more reason to be able to laugh. It’s a gentle way of telling the truth about some tough ideas.” She sat in her desk chair and reached down to tug her sagging stockings up from her ankles.

  Milly looked up. Axelrod was standing by her shoulder, and Jack was retreating behind him.

  “You scared me,” she said as she rotated herself on her chair. Though he wasn’t tall, he still loomed over her as she sat. She would have liked to stand too, but he was so close.

  “If you’re coming to ask me out,” Milly said, “I have to tell you I promised your wife I’d bring you home by midnight.”

  He frowned, and she laughed, nervous but delighted to have confused him.

  “You have to buy the gas mask,” he said in his thick accent.

  “The gas mask?” She blinked, then frowned as she remembered the newest idiotic requirement. “There’s no way I’m spending eight whole rubles on a gas mask. You can’t really think the fascists are attacking next week.”

  He gripped the back of her chair and leaned over her.

  “It is the regulation.”

  “Why don’t you just mark me down as having done it already? I don’t have the money. You’ll save everyone the trouble.” Her heart raced, and she watched his face as he narrowed his eyes. She could just give him the money, though it would account for nearly every coin in her purse. But this wasn’t about the gas mask.

  “If you do not buy the mask, we are not … in agreement.”

  “We sure aren’t.”

  “I mean in compliance.” His face reddened.

  “Look, Axelrod.” She lowered her voice. “I’m not buying the mask. It’s nearly all the coins I own, and I’m not going to spend them on something useless. No matter what the newsreels say. Mark me down however you like.” Then she leaned backward. “I’m glad to help, happy to support the cause,” she said more loudly. “What’s my assignment today? Not another soccer match, I hope. I can never make sense of those.”

  He straightened and took a step back. The newsroom ticked with the sound of typewriters and shoes clicking on the marble floors, but still it seemed quiet, and Milly held her breath. He could fire her.

  But at least she would have stood her ground.

  “Borodin likes your work,” he said quietly. “I will let you stay. For now.”

  He looked at the small notebook in his hand, paused, flipped over a page, then looked up. “Soccer championship finals at two o’clock. Interview both teams beforehand. Get two stories out of it.”

  Milly groaned, but she wrote down the details.

  Axelrod still stood there.

  “You are on thin ice,” he said. “We got rid of Ruth. We can get rid of you.” Then he turned and walked away.

  Milly looked down at her notes, which were nearly illegible in her nervous scrawl. She rewrote the address. She should feel victorious, but instead it was as if a dark snake were slithering through her veins, weakening her with doubt. She had stood up for what she wanted, sure, but maybe buying the mask was the way to sacrifice her ego to the building of socialism, or maybe snuffing out her instinct to bristle at authority was the way to get ahead. She took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. Then, she turned to edit the copy that one of the errand boys had left for her.

  A scrawl in her handwriting caught her eye: Restaurant No. 9. She drew a heart around the notation, and her mouth quirked into a half smile. At least she had her evening in the nightclub to look forward to.

  IT WAS A few minutes past ten when she showed up on the street outside the restaurant, where the wind gnashed its teeth at her cheeks. Earlier she had gone home to change and splash some camellia perfume on, so now she smelled like glorious summer, the weather be damned. There was no sign of Zhenya. Milly cuddled into her own embrace and relished the scent of her perfume as her nose buried into the scarf.

  When Zhenya arrived, a few minutes later, he was accompanied by his friend Victor. Milly sighed but soon straightened herself and smiled. Victor was kind, even if his presence meant she wouldn’t get Zhenya on his own.

  They walked into the building and down the stairs to the nightclub, where they settled at a table near the frescoed wall, painted to look like a mosaic. Milly scooted her chair a little closer to Zhenya, who lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. His kiss brushed her skin like a promise, and she shivered.

  “You smell delicious.” He held her gaze for a moment. Milly could have thrown herself on him right then.

  “I once dated a girl because she smelled so good I could eat her,” Victor said with a laugh. His English was nearly as good as Zhenya’s. “A peasant girl, in Moscow.”

  “When was this?” Zhenya rested Milly’s hand on the sticky tabletop.

  “Maybe two years ago. I was so hungry then. Remember how hungry we were? Almost passing out during rehearsal. I met this girl who smelled like roast beef. I dated her for four months, so I could smell her.”

  Zhenya laughed and flicked his fingers against Victor’s shoulder.

  “You’re terrible,” he said.

  “I guess that explains why the shop was sold out of Eau de Boeuf,” Milly said dryly. “Next time.”

  Zhenya wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her tight. The tortoiseshell bracelet at his wrist dug into her skin, but she didn’t mind.

  “Maybe the secret to winning Zhenya’s heart is to win both of you,” Milly said, glancing between them. Her pulse raced at her daring, but the confrontation with Axelrod had breached her floodgates, and now her thoughts tumbled out. “We’ll all three live together in a little dacha somewhere.”

  Victor’s face burned bright red. But Zhenya threw his head back and laughed, his golden hair shaking like a lion’s mane.

  “You want all the men to yourself, is that it, Milly baby? But how can I share you?”

  “Share and share alike,” she said. “I’ve got practice, anyhow—I can teach you.”

  “Our Milly had a married love,” Zhenya whispered in a stage voice to Victor, who was finishing his vodka. “Bourgeois marriages do not dissolve as easily as communist marriages, so the idiot chose to stay with his wife.”

  “I think so,” Milly said. “I got a letter from him yesterday.” It wasn’t true; the letter had been from a different former beau. But she wanted to see how Zhenya would react. She raised an eyebrow and pulled the letter from her purse. “See?”

  “Show it here.” Zhenya grew serious. He unwrapped his arm from her shoulders and held out an open palm.

  “Private,” Milly said with a wink, then she whisked the folded paper back into her purse.

  “You are trying to make me jealous,” Zhenya said.

  Milly kissed his cheek. “Is it working?”

  He lifted her fingertips to his lips and held them there until she laughed and pulled them away.

  “I told Axelrod I wouldn’t buy a gas mask,” she said. “It would have been nearly my last fistful of rubles for the month. What should we do instead? Buy all the flowers we can get and hand them out to babushkas? Give all my coins to the first newsboy we see?”

  “But how will you eat?” Victor asked, frowning.

  “Axelrod didn’t care about that, why should I?” Her words came out singed with anger.

  Zhenya tapped his fingers against his chin.

  “Won’t you get in trouble?” Zhenya looked back and forth between them. “For not buying the mask, I mean.”

  Milly sighed. “Maybe. But he’s being a fool. If I’m going to be foolish too, I’d rather it be in the service of a good cause. Here.” She took what she had in her purse and pushed it across the table. “Do something good with this.”

  Zhenya looked at her, appraising, then pushed two of the bills back toward her.

  “For your eating. The rest I will give to the famil
y at the end of the hall,” he said, referring to a widowed mother and her four children whose drawn faces cringed and turned to the ground whenever the other building’s residents passed.

  He cupped his hand over hers and a jolt of pleasure raced up her arm as he stroked his thumb against her skin.

  “You are like no other woman, Milly baby,” he said softly.

  And for once her in her life, she believed it.

  11

  NOW

  APRIL 10, 1934

  ANOTHER COLD DAY, another line.

  Today, Milly needed the admission card so she could come back tomorrow to stand in line again to actually see her husband. She kicked a rock down the sidewalk, and it skittered over the pavement until sailing off the curb. She wondered if Olga would go with her if she got the appointment.

  Olga had grown strangely sanguine about Zhenya’s imprisonment lately. Maybe since she had read about the homosexuality law. Milly couldn’t bring herself to talk about Zhenya’s complex desires to his mother, but since the news about the law had come out, Olga’s jaw had hardened whenever Milly said Zhenya’s name.

  “The work will do him good,” Olga had said when Milly relayed what she had heard from the senior prosecutor. “That boy lives in his imagination.”

  Strange criticism from a woman hoarding a box of ancient currency. But Milly held her tongue and silently accepted a glass of tea. Zhenya deserved peace between the women in his life.

  When she reached the front of the line, a man in uniform directed her to a desk, where she told a woman in a faded black sweater what the senior prosecutor had told her to do. The woman wrote it all down silently, her lip bitten between her teeth. Then she handed Milly a card.

  “Tomorrow, at the address here. You are number twenty-three in line. Next!”

  Milly clutched the card to her chest, then placed it into her purse, in the small side pocket that held her spare rubles. She was almost there.

  12

  BEFORE

  JUNE 1932

  MILLY WAS DIGGING through the pantry at Anna Louise’s apartment hoping to find two pans of the same size when then phone rang. Milly scrambled to reach it in time.