“I’m glad I performed to your expectations,” I said sarcastically.
“What did you and the general secretary talk about?”
“He wanted to know if he could trust me. And he said I would get them to fight. Get whom to fight?”
“Why, the Americans, of course.”
“What are you talking about?”
We had by now reached my hotel. Vasilyev reached over and patted my hand. “It’s late. You’ve had a long evening. We shall talk about this matter later. Get some sleep.”
Over the next several days, Vasilyev would pick me up and show me about the city as if it were his own private amusement park. During the day we visited museums and art galleries and historical sites, while in the evening we attended elegant dinners or went to the theater or to the Bolshoi, where there were always crowds eager to see me. Before one ballet performance, I was asked to come onstage, where I received a bouquet of flowers from a ballerina in a tutu. Beside her, I felt clumsy and unfeminine in my uniform and heavy boots. Nonetheless, I received a standing ovation from the crowd. Wherever we went, Vasilyev paraded me around, often introducing me by some clever pet name—the Ukrainian Lion or the Queen of Fire. But his favorite was Krasavitsa Ubiytsa, which translated roughly to “Beautiful Assassin,” a title that he was quite proud of having coined and one that I wouldn’t be able to shake. One time, we showed up where a large group of people had gathered in the street. It was below Vorobyovy Gory. A small military band composed of old men was playing some martial theme. It turned out they were naming a street after me—ulitsa Levchenko. I toured hospitals, where I shook hands with wounded vets, and old people’s homes and spoke to groups of schoolchildren. They had me go on the radio and tell of my experiences, though not before Vasilyev had coached me to “sound positive,” to put our war effort in a good light.
Another time, accompanied by a man with a camera, we drove south of the city. We stopped at a farm and got out. From the trunk Vasilyev took out a camouflage poncho and a rifle, then we started walking across a field toward a grove of trees.
“What are we doing?” I asked.
“We’re going to take your picture,” Vasilyev said gaily. When we reached the trees, he said to the other man with the camera, “The light’s good here, no?” The man nodded. Then Vasilyev turned to me. “Here,” he said, handing me the rifle. “Get up in that tree,” he said, pointing to a spindly looking birch tree.
“What for?”
“We are going to photograph your duel with the German.”
“I would never try to hide in such a tree,” I said.
“Poetic license,” he said with a shrug. “But first put a little lipstick on.”
Though I thought the entire episode utterly ridiculous, as I would so many that would come up in the next several months, I did as I was told. I shimmied up the tree to a small branch that felt far too thin to hold my weight. From below, Vasilyev called instructions, as if he were directing a film. “Now take aim and make believe you’ve got a kraut in your sights.”
“But I didn’t shoot him from the tree.”
“Who’s going to know?” he said. “Now turn this way more. Don’t frown so much. And fix your hair. A strand has come undone. There we go. Perfect,” he added.
Each time I’d bring up the question about what I had to do with getting the Americans to fight, he would somehow manage to elude the subject. Once, as we were driving to the Kremlin, I turned to him and said, “Now that I’m feeling well enough, when can I return to the front?”
Instead of answering, he had the driver stop the car. He jumped out and hurried with that odd nimbleness of his over to a nearby kiosk and purchased a paper. When he returned he showed me a copy of Izvestiya with my picture on the front page. “Female Hero Kills 300 Fascists” the headline read.
“There,” he said, his fat forefinger stabbing the page for emphasis. “That’s how you can best fight the krauts.”
“That’s not fighting. That’s just show.”
“But you are mistaken, Lieutenant. You are a student of history. You ought to know that bullets and bombs and tanks don’t win wars. Wars are won here,” he said, tapping his temple. “Do you know what you have done for the morale of our soldiers, for our people? They read what you have accomplished and you give them hope. What is more, you will buy us time for the West to get involved too.”
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“Trust me, you will,” he said, bringing his fingertips together to form a small globe in front of his face. That phrase—trust me—was one he would often use, and the more he did, the less I felt ready to trust him. “I understand why you want to kill them so badly.”
Glancing over at him, I said, “Yes. They are the enemy.”
“No. For you, it’s quite personal.” He reached across the seat and patted my hand. “You see, I know about your daughter.”
I stared at him in surprise. How had he known that? Save for Zoya and those few people who were there when it had happened, I hadn’t told anyone. Of course, that was not counting the letters I’d written to Kolya. Had they opened them up and read them?
“You have suffered greatly and you want your pound of flesh. But by helping us, you will have many more pounds of flesh than you could have your way. Besides, you will be thought a great patriot. You will go down in history as someone who helped the Motherland in a time of her greatest need.”
After I was in Moscow for about a week, Vasilyev told me I was to meet a group from the West that evening. It was to be held at the Spaso House, the residence of the American ambassador.
“There will be important Amerikosy there,” Vasilyev had told me. I noticed how he had used the demeaning word for Americans.
“What do they want with me?”
“They very much wish to meet you. Lieutenant, you are famous not just in our country, but all over the world now. The Yanks are fascinated by you. They can’t get enough of you.” Here he paused for a moment, brought his knuckle to his mouth in thought. “I must ask you one question, though. Are you a Jew?”
“What?”
“I heard that rumor.”
“Why on earth does it matter if I’m a Jew?”
“It would just be better if you weren’t. The Americans can be quite touchy about such things. But if you are, we can work around that.”
“You mean, change it?”
“You could be a ravishing Georgian. Or a lovely Armenian.”
I was struck by how fluid reality was for Vasilyev. I would find that nothing was so fixed, so permanent and unchangeable that he couldn’t alter to his purpose with a nice turn of phrase, with a catchy line. Even the war—especially the war—was something he could manipulate. He had only to change a headline, reword a few sentences, take a couple of publicity photos, and voilà, the war was swung in our favor, the Germans close to being vanquished.
“I’m not a Jew,” I said.
“Well, that simplifies things.”
That evening when I got in the car, seated up front near the driver was another man I’d not seen before. He was smoking a cigarette.
“This is Radimov,” Vasilyev said, indicating the man in the front seat. “He will act as your interpreter.” The man in front looked over his shoulder and smiled at me, his lips drawing back to show teeth stained from smoking. He was thin, with a ruddy complexion. “I’ve read much about you, Comrade,” Radimov said.
“Hello,” I said, in English.
“So you speak English?”
“A little. Not very much, I’m afraid,” I replied.
The ambassador’s residence was in Spasopeskovskaya Square, not far from the Kremlin. As we pulled up in front of the impressive mansion, Vasilyev put his hand on my wrist and said, “Lieutenant, be mindful of what you say to the reporters. We don’t want to alienate them. They are invaluable to us. Above all, be sure to tell them that we are winning the war. After all, they wouldn’t want to bet on a losing horse.”
In
side the embassy, I was greeted by the ambassador, a tall, gray-haired man named Standley. He wore wire-rim glasses and had about him a slightly distracted, professorial demeanor.
“I’m so pleased you could come, Lieutenant Levchenko,” he told me through the interpreter Radimov. He shook my hand vigorously. “I’ve heard so much about you. I can certainly see why they call you the Beautiful Assassin.”
“I am honored to meet you as well, sir,” I replied.
“They tell me you can shoot the wings off a fly at a hundred meters.”
“I think they exaggerate.”
“And I think you’re just being modest. Three hundred krauts! That’s some shooting, young lady.”
I was led into a palatial hall with a high, domed ceiling from which hung a huge chandelier. The ceiling was painted a pale blue, so that it reminded me of the sky on a clear spring day over the Crimea, before the war and all the smoke. When they spotted me, a small group of journalists, some holding cameras, rushed over, pushing and shoving to get close. Unlike the Soviet reporters, the Americans had little sense of decorum. Like unruly children, all at once they began yelling things out at me in English and waving and trying to catch my attention.
Vasilyev attempted to quiet them. “Gentlemen, please,” he said through the interpreter. “Lieutenant Levchenko will be happy to answer your questions. But one at a time.”
Their hands leapt in the air.
“You,” Vasilyev said, pointing at one reporter.
He stared at my legs, then said something in English.
“He wants to know if you wear stockings while fighting,” the interpreter explained to me.
The reporters guffawed as a group, much like a bunch of raucous boys at a football match. I glanced over at Vasilyev, who offered a smile that was meant to placate me.
“No, I don’t wear stockings to fight,” I replied.
“Is it difficult to sleep in a foxhole beside men?” asked another.
“It is difficult to sleep in war period,” I replied. “There is much noise.”
They asked many questions in a similar vein. If the men flirted with me. If my fellow soldiers treated me like a girl or like a soldier. How did I change in front of the men? What did I think of the sight of blood? At least the Soviet reporters had treated me with the dignity due a soldier. These Americans were fools, I thought to myself.
“We are at war,” I explained. “We don’t think of such things. We think only of defeating the enemy.”
“Let’s get some pictures, sweetheart,” one American called out. He was dark featured, good-looking, with fine white teeth and hair heavily pomaded. He spoke rapidly, the words spilling from his mouth in the self-assured way I thought all Americans spoke, like gangsters in the movies. “Pretend she’s aiming her gun.”
“Smile,” added another.
“Tell him I don’t smile when I shoot my gun,” I replied.
The interpreter, however, looked over to Vasilyev, who gave me a frown, then instructed me simply to go ahead and smile for the picture. Which I did, albeit stiffly.
“Atta girl,” one journalist called out. “By next week, your face will be in every paper in the States.”
“The boys back home are gonna eat you up, sweetheart,” said another.
I felt like saying I didn’t care in the least what those overfed and pampered capitalists who sat back and let my countrymen die while they went to their picture shows and drove their fancy automobiles thought of me.
“What would you like to tell the American people?” one called out.
I paused, then said, “I would encourage your soldiers to fight like men.”
The interpreter again looked to Vasilyev, who sighed, then, turning toward the Americans, replied for me. “Comrade Levchenko said she is delighted to have the full cooperation of all our valued American friends. She desires only complete victory over our mutual enemies, and is sure that with your continued assistance we shall soon defeat the fascists.”
“What does she think of Mrs. Roosevelt’s invitation?” one reporter called out.
When the question was translated, I frowned, then turned to Vasilyev.
“Later,” he whispered to me. Then to the group he replied through the interpreter. “Lieutenant Levchenko is deeply honored by Mrs. Roosevelt’s invitation. She feels that the International Student Conference is a wonderful opportunity for our two countries to create an open dialogue that will ensure a lasting world peace after the hostilities are concluded.” He then turned toward me and smiled, before saying, “She eagerly awaits meeting the First Lady in person.”
As soon as we got into the car to head back to my room, I turned to Vasilyev and asked, “What do you mean, ‘meet the First Lady’?”
“You are going to America,” he replied bluntly.
“America?” I exclaimed. “I cannot go to America. My place is here.”
Before he replied, he told the driver to stop the car.
“Gentlemen,” he said to the two in front. “May I have a moment alone with the lieutenant.”
We happened to have stopped beside the river. The others got out and walked down toward it, where I could see them light up cigarettes in the dark.
“Mrs. Roosevelt,” Vasilyev began, “has heard about you and desires to meet you in person. She is organizing an international student conference convening in Washington and has graciously extended an invitation for you to come as her personal guest. The theme of the conference is peace among nations in the postwar world. You will attend as one of our country’s representatives.”
“But I want to return to fighting.”
“You will do far more good for your country there than at the front.”
“I am a soldier, not a diplomat.”
“We feel it is important for the Americans to see you.”
“Why?”
“You will present the new face of the Soviet Union,” he said. “One that is intelligent, educated, brave.” Smiling, he added, “And attractive too. It is our hope that your presence will inspire the Americans to get off their fat capitalist asses and open that second front they keep promising.”
I suddenly recalled my conversation with Stalin, how he said I would get them to fight. Only now did I understand. They had all known about it. Everyone but me.
“So this isn’t really about my going to a peace conference, is it?” I asked.
“That too. But we are at war now. Winning takes precedence.”
“So let me go back to fighting.”
“This is the best way for you to serve your country right now. You will go to the conference, and then when it’s over, you can return home and go back to shooting Germans to your heart’s delight.”
“What if I refuse to go to America?”
He wagged his head so that his jowls quivered. “I’m afraid you can’t, Lieutenant. This comes from the very top. You will do your duty.”
“My duty is here.”
“Your duty is whatever we say it is, Comrade Levchenko,” he said, his dark eyes flashing with impatience and the muscles in his soft face tensing. It was the first time I’d seen him on the verge of losing his control. Yet in the next instance his face relaxed, and he assumed his usual congenial demeanor. “You will go and enjoy yourself. And as soon as the conference is over, I promise that you can go back to the front lines then. And your country will be deeply grateful for your service.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” I asked.
“Certain details had to be worked out.”
“When do I leave?” I said finally.
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow!”
“Yes. Think of it as a little R & R. A much deserved one.”
“How long is the conference?”
“A few days.”
“And then I can return when it’s over?”
“You have my word,” he said.
We drove back to my hotel in silence. I was a loyal soldier and only wanted to do
my duty, to do all that I could to defeat the Germans. I loved my country and would gladly have given my life for it. If I could best help in this way, I was determined to do it, despite my own personal disappointment in not returning to the front.
As I was about to get out, Vasilyev placed his big paw on my arm. “Lieutenant,” he said. When I turned to look back at him, I saw that he was holding something in his hand. An envelope.
“Here,” he said, his tone hinting at something ominous. I hesitated taking it, sensing that something was wrong and that by accepting it I’d be authenticating whatever the bad news was that it contained. I glanced down at what he held, then back up at him. “It’s about my husband, isn’t it?”
He nodded.
Reluctantly, I accepted the letter but continued to stare at it for a moment. I thought how until I opened it, Kolya was still alive, still very much in the world with me. He seemed so real, so palpable to me then. I could picture his hands, the color of his eyes, hear his voice. He had been a good man, I thought. A doting father to Masha. Someone who had not only loved me but had done so unconditionally, even though he knew it wasn’t returned. With the deaths of Masha and my parents, he was all that I had left, the only slender thread connecting me to my former life. I thought of what I had secretly wished for when we’d parted at the train station over a year before. Did I really want that?
As soon as I opened it and saw the military letterhead, I knew immediately that it was a pokhoronka letter, one of those formal missives informing next of kin of a death. As I read it, I learned that Kolya had been reported missing in action in the fighting at Leningrad. Not dead, but missing. Still, I knew what that implied. If he wasn’t dead, he was a prisoner, which was just as good as dead. As I stared at the words on the page, tears sprung to my eyes and slid down my cheeks. I hadn’t wanted to cry in front of Vasilyev, but I was helpless to stop. I had never felt so completely alone in the world, so utterly vulnerable. Kolya, I realized as never before, had been there for me, protected me, insulated me from the world. Now I was alone.
Vasilyev reached out and put his hand on my back and rubbed it in small circles. “My deepest sympathies, Comrade,” he said. “Would you prefer company?”
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