by CW Hawes
“Glad to, ma’am. Here’s my card.” He pushed his card across the table to me.
“Where are you flying to, Mr. Somers?” Karl asked.
“To Berlin,” the American responded. “The Grahams want to work up a deal with the Stoewer company. And then on to Moscow where I hope to sell cars to the Communists. I’m not a Red myself, but even Reds would look good behind the wheel of a Graham.”
The Prince, with a sneer, said, “Comrade Stalin built automobiles. No one could afford them and their best use was as scrap metal to make something else.”
The American was undaunted. “Which is why my bosses, the Graham brothers, want to sell cars to them. What Commissar could resist being seen in a real car?”
Von Neuradt laughed heartily. “And may I ask, Herr Somers, the nature of the ’deal’ you hope to obtain with Stoewer?”
“Not at all,” Somers replied, “I hope to get them to build Grahams for us to sell to the German and broader European market.”
Captain Turbanev said, “Quite ambitious schemes for an automobile company of which I have not heard.”
Somers nodded and smiled. “You have to think big.” He spread out his arms to emphasize his point. “The Grahams have been careful. This lingering economic malaise continues to hurt business and hurt it bad. The government says the depression is over, but I don’t think they’re fooling anybody. The Grahams hope expanding into new markets will enable them to increase their cash flow and broaden their product line. Who knows? We might be up there yet with the likes of Nash, Hudson, Packard, and Studebaker.”
“I’m sure, Mr. Somers, if everyone at Graham-Paige has your enthusiasm, your company will soon be taking over General Motors,” I said.
“Why, thank you, Ma’am. Mighty kind of you to say so.”
Von Neuradt spoke, “One thing we know for certain is the slow growth of so many of the world’s economies has everyone concerned. Growth is necessary for survival. In Germany we are reaching the limit of what our own people can buy. You are very much correct, Herr Somers, our companies need to expand their markets. But with feeble growth all around us, who can afford to buy?”
“Low wages,” Karl said, “is the problem. Workers are going back to work but their wages are low and they cannot afford to buy.”
One steward came to clear our dishes and another came to serve the fish course, which was a potato and herring bake.
Prince Constantinovich looked at the casserole and said, “I hope we are not having potatoes with every course.”
Von Neuradt asked, “What is bad about the potato?”
“Nothing,” the Prince replied, “but with every course?”
“I suppose you’d prefer buckwheat gruel,” von Neuradt said without any hint of sarcasm.
“I am not a peasant!” the Prince exclaimed.
“Buckwheat pancakes are pretty good, Your Highness,” Somers said.
“Perhaps so, Monsieur Somers,” the Prince said. “My stomach, however, and tongue are not used to such foods.”
“I find the herring and potato bake quite good,” I said. “I may have to write about it in one of my articles.”
Hasenpfeffer was the main course. The Prince was spared more potatoes, for the rabbit and gravy was served with noodles. The meat course was followed by a refreshing cucumber salad. Dessert was Bayrisch Crème.
Plenty of wine flowed. Riesling with the soup and herring. Portugieser with the rabbit. With dessert, coffee and tea were served.
I was finishing my tea when the band started playing. Von Neuradt wasted no time. “Lady Hurley-Drummond, may I have the honor of the first dance?” he asked.
My preference would have been for Captain Turbanev to have taken me in his arms and swept me across the dance floor. But the German asked first and I couldn’t publicly turn him down without causing an international row, so I said, “I’d love to, Herr von Neuradt. And this time you were the one who was quickest.”
Turbanev shrugged. “Lose a battle. Win the war.”
We adjourned to the promenade where the band was playing. A couple of purely instrumental numbers were performed and then the famous Mimi Thoma joined ‘The Templins’. Her first song was “Sommernacht.” The melody was slow and lazy. Mimi’s voice evoked the languidly sensual heat of a starlit summer’s night. I could see why she was so popular. Von Neuradt and I took to the dance floor and soon a few other couples joined us. When the song ended, we applauded, and then ‘The Templins’ started right away on another song which had a bit of a bluesy quality to it: “Ich liebe die Sonne, den Mond, und die Sterne.” Her voice was heat, humidity, and molasses. God, I was in love!
While dancing, von Neuradt whispered in my ear, “You must be careful with the Russians, my lady.”
“And why is that?” I replied.
“They are desperate and will go to any lengths to overthrow the Communists. Including using a famous journalist in their cause.”
“But aren’t you working with them?”
“The government. They think they can control the Czarists. Politics. But you, my dear Lady, must be careful you do not become a pawn in their civil war.”
“Thank you for your advice, Herr von Neuradt. And your concern.”
“Bitte.”
When the song ended, Captain Turbanev came up and said, “I think your feet are tired Herr von Neuradt. Although a diplomat’s tongue never tires. May I have the next dance, Lady Hurley-Drummond?”
Von Neuradt bowed and said, “See why the Russians get nowhere? They have the finesse of barroom brawlers. Try not to step on her toes, Captain.”
The band launched into “Heart and Soul” and I was surprised Mimi Thoma’s cabaret style adapted so well to the swing number. The Captain spoke nothing of politics. In fact, he spoke hardly at all. He let his hand on my bare back do the talking and it sent shivers up my spine and into my heart.
When the song was done, he simply said, “Tumbled overboard – gladly.”
And I replied, “The way a fool would do.”
He shrugged and smiled. “Heart and soul.”
Not there, in public, with all eyes watching, did he kiss me and yet he did kiss me with his eyes. Ravished me with those dark, mysterious eyes. And right then I knew I as well had tumbled overboard and gladly.
The night was ours. We danced another dance and when it was over I excused myself. “My dear Captain, please excuse me. I must powder my nose.” And then quite softly said, “C-38.” Which was my cabin number.
“Of course, Lady Hurley-Drummond,” was his reply.
I left for the lower deck, evading several attempts to delay me, and finally made it to my room. I opened a drawer, took out a small box, and opened it. Inside was perhaps a modern girl’s best friend, a cervical cap. I slid down my panties and inserted the cap. Underwear backup, I took out another box and removed the sponge and spermicide. Soaked the sponge with the spermicide and kept it at the ready. And none too soon for there was a soft knock on my door.
“Co–,” my voice failed me. I cleared my throat. “Come in.”
The door opened and Captain Mikhail Turbanev entered. He double-checked the corridor and closed the door. My chest was heaving and his eyes, it seemed, smoldered with desire. And then we were in each other’s arms, our lips crushed together. His tongue pushed its way into my mouth and I gladly received it and then mine explored his mouth. His hands kneaded the flesh of my bare back and mine pressed hard through his shirt. And then I reached down to undo his trousers and felt how hard he was.
“La–”
“Dru. Call me Dru.” I touched him and wanted his hard flesh inside me.
“Are you sure, Dru?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He kissed my throat and I let my head roll back. His hands pulled the dress straps down my arms and the bra straps followed. He cupped my breasts and thumbed my hard, aroused nipples. A moan escaped my lips. He pushed up my dress and I held it while he pulled down my panties.
“W
ait.” I reached over to where the sponge sat, picked it up, and inserted it. I then lay back on the lower bed. He positioned himself and I guided his erection to the gateway of Venus. I was so wet, with one push he was in me, and I gasped with his entry. He began to thrust in a slow and steady rhythm and with every thrust a moan escaped my lips.
“Oh, God,” I said and stuffed my fist in my mouth to stifle the cry as the rapidly building pleasure suddenly exploded within me. His thrusting began to quicken and, oh, God, it was building again. The increasing rapidity of his thrusts drove me over the edge and again I shoved my fist into my mouth to stifle my cry as my climax burst. He shoved deep, stopped and groaned, and I felt his release. Then he thrust a few more times before he stopped and kissed me.
He whispered my name and I whispered his.
A moment longer and he said, “I better go before someone starts looking for me.”
I nodded. He kissed me, got himself put back together, and left. I did likewise and returned to the promenade just as the steward announced we’d be landing in an hour and the bar and smoking lounge were now closed. Which was too bad because a post-coital cigarette would’ve tasted good.
The band stopped playing for the night just as I came back to the promenade and so the Prince had captured Mikhail, whilst Karl, von Neuradt, and Somers captured me. But I didn’t care. I’d just made love to Mikhail Turbanev and I was on top of the world. He caught my eye and winked. I smiled. Shortly after, he and the Prince joined us and we chatted until the Deutschland was connecting to her mooring mast.
Passengers began leaving the zeppelin. Mikhail pulled me aside and said to me, “I must depart for I cannot fly into Moscow. I have to cross the border where it is remote and little guarded. But I will meet you in Moscow soon. Where are you staying?”
“The Hotel Moskva.”
“Bugged. Be careful what you say.”
“Thank you, Mikhail. Be safe and come to me.”
“I will. There is much I must show you so you understand the truth about Communism. Goodbye, my Dru.”
“Goodbye, Mikhail.”
He left and I found myself wondering if I’d ever see him again.
TWO
Arrival in Moscow
At eight a.m. on the morning of the tenth of March, 1953, the enormous zeppelin Deutschland took off from Berlin. Rising majestically into the air to a height of two hundred feet before the propellers were engaged and the ship began her journey east to the Russian capital of Moscow, where my adventure would truly begin.
The twelve and a half hour flight meant we would probably not get to our hotel rooms until after midnight. And so I resolved to take a nap after lunch. The first five hours of flight were over the New Germany, which resulted from the German and Russian partition of Poland in 1939. Upon leaving Germany, we flew over Lithuania, and then crossed into Soviet territory. We floated serenely over Belarus and Russia herself before landing in Moscow.
In Berlin, Prince Constantinovich, Captain Turbanev, Herr von Neuradt, and Mr. Somers departed the airship leaving just Karl and I of our little party flying on to the Russian capital. There were at most twenty passengers bound for the Soviet Union. One of the stewards said freight shipments paid for the flight.
Karl’s been distant and has barely spoken two words to me since the dance. I think he knows Mikhail and I met. A feeling of loneliness has descended upon me. Things are too quiet on board the ship. The countryside below is flat and open. Mostly farmland. Dotted with small towns and villages. Nothing to captivate my attention and my mind keeps drifting back to Mikhail and our lovemaking and how thrilling it was. I had not experienced a double orgasm in a very long time and the intensity was, well, I haven’t felt such deep, exquisite release in ages. Maybe what they say about an occasional fling to re-kindle the fire or make things interesting is true.
But from the mountaintop one descends into the valley. Without Mikhail’s presence and with Karl turning cold, I’m not only in the valley but in the Slough of Despond. And so I sat at a window and brooded, looking at but not seeing the countryside below.
When dinner was served shortly after noon, Karl and I dined at the same table. The conversation was mostly about work or things inconsequential. However, at one point, Karl suddenly let his guard down.
“Dru, we’ve been on numerous assignments together. Both important and mundane. And, well, I think we work together well. A team. I’d hate to lose that. I’d hate to lose you for my partner.”
I knew what Karl was driving at. What he was trying to say without saying it.
“Thank you, Karl. Yes, we do work well together. I think Mr. Hall agrees. I can’t see why he shouldn’t continue to send us out together on assignment.”
Karl nodded, said, “Yes,” and the conversation meandered on.
Perhaps you think me cruel. And perhaps I am. Soulmate or not, the question before me still needed an answer: did I want to go on being Karl’s “other woman?” I love him. I love him dearly. But each morning, to wake up alone. To open the door of my apartment when I come home and find it, as I do, empty. At thirty-four, I’d like something more. Perhaps you're thinking I should get a dog. Others have told me the same. Or a cat. The very small problem a dog or a cat presents is I can’t take the animal with me on assignment. And who would take care of the poor thing when I’m gone. A lovely idea but not a practical one. No, I want a man to come home to. Quite bluntly, I want Karl. And equally bluntly, I no longer wish to share him.
However, Karl has made the situation between us abundantly clear. I’m the other woman. It’s as simple as that. And as long as Ilene is alive, I will remain the other woman. Equally as simple, I do not wish to be the other woman any longer. I have no idea if Mikhail and I will have anything more than what we experienced this past night. I hope so. I hope he is the one who will marry me.
After lunch, I took my nap. For an hour. Sufficient to give me a boost until I could get a proper night’s sleep. I sat by the window and looked out over the Soviet countryside. Villages and farms dotted the landscape. I suppose there is beauty in such, but I was not in the mood to see it and after a time retired to the bar and smoking lounge where I smoked cigarettes and nursed a martini until tea time.
I sat at a table alone, drinking my tea, and eating orange scones. I took out my notebook and fountain pen and jotted notes of my impressions of the landscape that was formerly Poland and that of the Soviet Union. When my mind would give no more, I looked over the fifteen other passengers taking tea.
A hawk-nosed man, dressed in a dark blue suit, thinning hair, I’d guess in his fifties, was talking with a woman around his age, dressed in a long ankle-length skirt of narrow forest green stripes on white with a white blouse and forest green belted jacket. She wore a forest green hat, shaped something like a fedora, with a green ribbon, just above the brim, tied in a bow in front. White gloves completed her outfit. I mention the couple because he looked familiar. I was positive I’d met him before, but I could not put my finger on where
I walked to their table. “Excuse me, but you look terribly familiar and yet I can’t remember your name. I’m Lady Hurley-Drummond.”
He stood. “I’m Shlomo Abramowicz and this is my wife Aliza.”
“Are you Professor Abramowicz from Columbia University?”
“I am.”
“I attended a speech you gave a couple of years ago and spoke briefly with you afterwards.”
“Ah, you are the journalist.”
“I am.”
“Come. Sit.”
I sat and he resumed his seat.
“What speech did you hear?” he asked.
“It was entitled, ‘The Soviet System and a Living Wage.’”
“Ah, yes. I drew some criticism on that speech. The claim was my statistics were inconsistent with the Soviet situation at the time.” He shrugged and spread his hands. “Statistics are merely numbers someone arranges to tell the story they want told.”
Aliza Abramowicz added,
“So we are going to Moscow to document Shlomo was not a liar. That the Soviet system, Communism, is the best way.”
“You really think so?” I asked.
“Of course, my dear. Tell her, Shlomo.”
“Now, Aliza, I’m sure Lady Hurley-Drummond didn’t come here to get a lecture.”
“Oh, but I’d like very much to hear what you have to say. You see, I’m on assignment to cover the death of Joseph Stalin and who will take his place. I’d like to have a frame of reference for what I see when I’m in Russia.”
“In that case, if I’m not imposing…”
I shook my head and Professor Abramowicz spoke at length on the virtues of the Communist system and its benefits for the working class or proletariat. Somewhere in his explanation and justification of Communism, I saw Karl enter the Dining Lounge. He looked at me and with whom I was sitting. The table he chose was as far away as he could get and the chair in which he sat positioned his back to me. Poor Karl. First his suspicion of my dalliance with Mikhail, then my rebuff of his letting me know he loves me, and now me being deep in conversation with Professor Abramowitz – for I had no doubt Karl knew who he was. I’m going to have to make sure I patch things up or this will be a miserable assignment.
The professor spoke on and on. For how long I didn’t know. I didn’t want to look at my watch and be seen as rude. Mrs. Abramowicz interrupted, “Shlomo, we need to pack. I tell you, he’d be here till Hannukah if I didn’t say something. I’m sure you don’t want to be here till Hannukah.”
“Of course, my dear,” the professor said in reply to his wife. To me he said, “Well, young lady, I hope what I’ve said you found of benefit. Perhaps we’ll see each other in Moscow.”
“Your explanation was very helpful, Professor. Thank you.” I extended my hand and we shook hands. I shook hands with Mrs. Abramowicz as well. They departed. Karl too had departed. Once again, I was alone.
We arrived over Moscow fifteen minutes ahead of schedule due to a tailwind. The Deutschland was secured to her mooring mast by 11:34 p.m., Moscow time. Karl and I descended the gangway and walked to the terminal. The air was cold. Once inside, Karl began searching for someone and then spotted him. We walked towards the man and Karl called out, “Denby McAleer!” Karl raised his hand and Denby McAleer waved.