“What do you mean, ‘stay’?”
“I mean, not go back. I could find myself a pretty little American devchonka, buy a big convertible automobile, and become a fat capitalist,” he said, smiling.
I stared at him for a moment, trying to gauge whether he was kidding or not. He kidded around so much it was sometimes hard to tell.
“Joking like that could get you into hot water, Viktor.”
His expression, though, turned suddenly serious. “Who’s joking?” he replied. “My father was a good Party member until he crossed somebody, and they shipped him off to the camps. We’ve not heard from him since. I had a brother who fell at Smolensk. What do I owe those fucking bastards?”
“But you’re a patriot,” I said.
He laughed out loud. “I wouldn’t expect such Party bullshit from you of all people. You fought at the front. You know what it was like. How we got fucked by those lying gutless bastards.”
“All the more reason we have to remain loyal to our cause,” I replied. “We’re fighting for our country’s survival.”
“Listen, Lieutenant. Like you, I fought for my country. As did the soldiers I served with. You and I know the truth. Not the made-up bullshit those lying pricks like Vasilyev and Gavrilov write about. We were sent to fight and we were slaughtered like sheep. And for what? So that the big shots can dress in fancy suits and eat caviar, have their dachas in the country.”
“But—” I began.
Casting a glance over my shoulder, Viktor quickly brought a finger to his lips.
“Speak of the devil,” he whispered to me.
When I turned I saw Anatoly Gavrilov approaching us along the deck.
“Good morning, Comrades,” he said. “I see you are taking the air, such as it is.”
“Did you and Vasilyev decide on how you were going to win this war?” Viktor said, his sarcasm hardly contained.
Gavrilov glanced at the much taller man and drew his thin lips sharply together, as if he’d just bit into a lemon. He was short, with a dark, pointed face made all the more sharp by the Vandyke he trimmed to a fine point. Though he wore pince-nez to read, he didn’t have them on now, and his eyes appeared startled, as if he’d just come from perusing a book with small print. On his head he wore a brimmed leather cap, of the type Lenin once wore. It was part of his image, the goatee, the pince-nez.
Ignoring Viktor, he offered, “The captain said if we make good time, we should arrive in New York in four days.”
“If the U-boats don’t get us first,” Viktor said.
“Why such negative thoughts, Comrade?” Gavrilov replied.
Glancing at me, Viktor said, “I’m going to get something to eat.” Then he turned and walked brusquely away.
After he was gone, Gavrilov asked, “What’s the matter with him?”
I shrugged.
“I fear he drinks too much. That it’s the cause of his pessimism.”
“He served his country bravely,” I said.
“I don’t question his bravery. It’s his attitude. Comrade Vasilyev would not approve if he knew of the questionable things he says.”
“It isn’t your place to tell him.”
“Of course I would never tell on him,” he said, suddenly indignant. “And how are you feeling, Lieutenant?”
“Better,” I replied.
“I am glad to hear it. Let us hope you are fully recovered by the time we get to New York. It will demand much of us all.”
“How so?”
He stroked his beard. “We must show the capitalists our resolve. Our iron will to defeat the fascists. As you have done with such bravery, Lieutenant. I personally am proud to know you.” He stared at me then, smiling so hard that his gums showed. I thought of what Viktor had told me, that he was interested in me, and it turned my stomach.
“Good-bye, Comrade,” I said, leaving him to the storm.
Two days later, the weather finally broke. I took the opportunity to walk along the deck, glad to be basking in sunlight for a change. The skies were a clear, flawless blue, the sea stretching out like a dark, polished tabletop. The sun felt good on my skin, warm and bracing, seeming to melt away the chill of the past week. I saw flying fish leap out of the water, their scales glistening like diamonds in the bright light. In the distance, a large convoy of vessels traveled eastward, a fleet of merchant ships being escorted by the United States Navy. On the third morning, off to the northwest at the horizon, I could make out a thin, uneven gray band that was neither sea nor sky, which I would later learn was the coast of Nova Scotia.
That afternoon the younger of the two secret police approached me as I stood looking out to sea. Viktor had found out that this one’s name was Dmitri, with whom he played cards, while the older man was called Shabanov, though Viktor had taken to calling him trup, the Corpse, because he was so gaunt and deathly pale, and silent all the time. They didn’t take their meals with the three of us students and Vasilyev in the captain’s quarters. They seemed to flit about like shadows, standing in the periphery, watching us, spying on us, I felt. Once, returning to my cabin after dinner, I thought that my journal, which I kept beneath my pillow, had been moved ever so slightly, as if someone had handled it.
“I hear that we are almost there,” the one named Dmitri offered.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Are you looking forward to America?”
“I suppose I’m a bit curious about it.”
I was surprised that he was trying to engage me in conversation. Up close, I realized he wasn’t quite so young as I’d first taken him to be. Late thirties. He had the drowsy gaze of someone who’d habitually gotten too little sleep.
“By the way, the Boss wishes a word with you, Lieutenant.”
I headed belowdecks to Vasilyev’s stateroom. As I approached along the narrow passageway, I heard voices within his cabin. One voice actually, Vasilyev’s. I glanced over my shoulder to make sure Dmitri hadn’t followed me, then I leaned in toward the door. I couldn’t make out much; it all sounded garbled to me. But I did catch a few scattered words. One word that Vasilyev repeated several times was rezidentura. Residencies? But what residencies? I wondered.
The room fell quiet, and I quickly stepped back a few feet, and made as if I were just walking toward Vasilyev’s cabin. The door suddenly opened, and the Corpse emerged. He glanced at me, his large, wet-looking eyes beneath the thick glasses appearing chastened.
“He wants to see you,” he said gruffly.
When I entered, Vasilyev was seated at a small table writing something. On the table were a bottle of cognac, some papers, an unlit cigar in an ashtray. Beside his chair was an expensive leather briefcase. He wore his wire-rim spectacles, and his hair was uncombed, a grayish stubble shading his cheeks. It appeared as if he hadn’t slept well.
“Come in, Lieutenant.” Without looking up, he motioned for me to enter. “Shut the door. Please, have a seat.”
The only place to sit was the unmade bed, so I sat there. His bulky shape was still imprinted on the sheets. Vasilyev continued writing. The room smelled stuffy, of smoke and stale whiskey.
“I just finished writing up a press release for your visit, Comrade. Here,” he said, handing it to me.
The first line read: “Senior Lieutenant Tat’yana Levchenko, the Soviet Union’s ‘Beautiful Assassin,’ who has courageously destroyed 315 of the fascists, is the leading sniper in the entire Red Army.”
“What is this?” I exclaimed. “I didn’t kill three hundred and fifteen.”
He waved the thought away, as if it were of little consequence. “Unfortunately, we’ve just learned that there’s another sniper who has reportedly killed three hundred and ten. Some fool journalist already wrote a story about it.”
“Then he should be acknowledged as the leading sniper. Not I.”
“But you are here. And this other fellow is not nearly as pretty as you.”
“First or second. What difference does it make?”
&
nbsp; “You ran track. No one remembers who comes in second,” he said. “Things will go much more smoothly if you just say you recorded three hundred and fifteen kills.”
I thought how to men like Vasilyev facts were only a minor inconvenience, things to be manipulated to serve their purpose. As I was, a mere fact to be used. If I had not been considered pretty or a woman I’d probably still be fighting at the front. Or expendable, like those left behind in Sevastopol. But for now, at least, I was useful to them.
Beneath his spectacles, Vasilyev’s eyes were puffy and unfocused, with a look in them I had not seen before—a harried look, of one who had much on his mind.
“Would you care for a drink?” he asked.
“No, thank you.”
He picked up the bottle and poured some in a glass, downed the cognac in one swallow. Then he leaned forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees. He put his fingers together, as if in prayer, and tapped them against his lips, as I had seen him do before. “We should be arriving in New York some time tomorrow,” he explained. “I wanted a word with you beforehand. To remind you that you will be representing the Soviet people, Lieutenant.”
“Did you think I would forget that, Comrade?”
“It’s just that we all have to be, well, extra vigilant.”
“Vigilant?”
“Yes. About what we say and how we say it. The image we project. You see, America is a very undisciplined society. They are not very good at keeping secrets.”
“What do you mean?” I said.
“Anything you say could find its way into the newspapers and have unintended consequences. Regarding the war, for instance. Berlin has only to read the American newspapers or listen to their radio to find out what these fools are planning next. The Amerikosy are not to be trusted,” Vasilyev said with such uncharacteristic venom that it startled me. “They are like spoiled children. They are pampered with self-indulgence. A debauched nation that will collapse under its own corruption.”
“I thought they are our allies.”
“For the time being,” he said almost glibly.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“As they say, ‘war makes for strange bedfellows.’ I don’t want you speaking to any of the Americans without Radimov or my being present.”
“That would be rather hard, wouldn’t it, Comrade, since I hardly speak the language?”
“Be that as it may, you are not to talk about the Soviet government, or say anything negative regarding the handling of the war.”
“Certainly they will ask about my experience at the front.”
“That is fine. You can tell them about all the fascists you killed. But you are to say nothing of a defeatist nature.”
“Such as the hundred thousand troops we lost at Sevastopol?” I replied.
My sarcasm elicited from him a disapproving stare.
“You are an intelligent woman. Perhaps too intelligent for her own good. A simple view of things is oftentimes preferable. Or at least, safer,” he said archly, with a glance in my direction. “Our job, Lieutenant, is to help persuade our reluctant American allies that ultimate victory is as much in their vital interests as ours. That this is not just some European conflict in which they have little at stake. We need them. At least we need their tanks and bombs and deep pockets. Anything we can do to further our mission is imperative. And anything that interferes with that mission would be frowned on at the highest levels.”
“The highest levels?” I said.
“Yes, the very highest,” he emphasized. “Do I make myself clear, Lieutenant?”
Vasilyev removed his glasses, put one hand to the bridge of his nose, and squeezed. “I am on your side, Lieutenant.”
“My side?”
“Yes. In fact, I am your biggest advocate. I much admire you. There are others who would not be so understanding as I.”
I thought of what Viktor had said about our reason for going to the States. I hesitated before asking, “Is there something else I should know?”
“Such as?”
“About this ‘mission’ of ours,” I said.
He looked at me and said, “This is all you need to know for the time being.”
“And after the conference, I can return home?”
“Of course. I’m sure there shall still be plenty of Germans for you to shoot,” he said with a chuckle.
I sensed, even then, that whatever our “mission” was, that Viktor was correct—it wasn’t just about some peace conference or sticking our hands deeper into the Americans’ deep pockets. Perhaps it wasn’t even just about getting them to open that second front. I sensed Vasilyev had something else up his sleeve, though it would take a while for that to become apparent. Everything about him was gleaming surface, smiles and subterfuges, wit and urbanity, with only hints now and then of something darker that lay beneath. I began to view Vasilyev as this very skilled puppeteer, working behind the scenes, pulling the strings, controlling all of us, including myself.
“Comrade Semarenko,” Vasilyev said, “may present a problem for us.”
“How so?”
“He’s a loose cannon. He speaks too freely. Some of his comments I find troubling.”
“He likes to joke.”
“Still, I’m beginning to think we erred in bringing him.”
I tried to protect my friend. “Viktor’s a good soldier.”
“His soldiering is not in question. It’s his judgment I’m worried about.”
“He’ll be fine.”
“Perhaps it might be good for you to speak to him.”
“Me?”
“Yes. You and he have struck up a friendship, I understand. He might listen to you. Emphasize the importance of this trip to our war effort. That he is not to say or do anything that can reflect badly on our country. See that he doesn’t drink too much. The liquor tends to loosen his tongue, so that he doesn’t know when he oversteps himself.”
“I am not going to be his nursemaid,” I said.
“But perhaps you could save his neck,” Vasilyev offered point-blank, smiling at me, though his eyes retained their sober look.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I offered. “Is that all?”
“Yes,” he said. I got up and started for the door.
“Oh,” he suddenly remembered. “I had a telegram.”
For a moment I thought it might be something regarding Kolya. My heart leapt up at the possibility that he’d been located, that he was alive. I wasn’t sure what the fact his being alive would mean for us, our marriage, but now I very much wished that, at least as my friend, he was all right.
“It’s from Mrs. Roosevelt,” Vasilyev replied. “She looks forward to meeting you with ‘great anticipation.’ Those were her very words.”
The next day I was in my cabin when Viktor showed up.
“Come,” he said urgently.
“What is it?”
“Hurry up.”
I quickly followed him topside, thinking perhaps that the entire German Navy was waiting for us. We walked along the starboard side of the ship, heading toward the bow. The morning was cool and shrouded with mist, and in the distance I could hear the muffled blasts of fog-horns. For a while we could see nothing but fog, occasionally darker shapes looming in the distance.
“Viktor,” I said, “Vasilyev asked me to speak to you.”
“About what?”
“He asked me to warn you. To watch your tongue. Not to cause trouble.”
“Fuck him.”
“You’d better be careful. He’s not someone to mess with.” I started to say something else, but he was no longer listening. He was staring over my shoulder.
“Mother of God,” he said. “Look!”
He pointed westward, and I followed where he indicated. At first I couldn’t see anything because of the fog. But then, slowly emerging out of the mist like a photograph developing in a darkroom, I saw something gigantic gradually come into focus. Its greenish gray skin seemed
to catch the light and radiate an eerie, incandescent glow. As we approached, I made out that it was the huge figure of a woman standing in the middle of the harbor, a spiked crown around her head, in one hand a torch held aloft.
“Now there’s a woman,” Viktor said, smiling lewdly.
8
America, I thought, as I stared out at the grand lady in the middle of the harbor. At first glance, her sharp features and aloof bearing made me think of some heartless Aryan valkyrie, cold and unapproachable. But the more I watched her, the more I realized it wasn’t coldness at all that the artist wanted to convey but fortitude, an iron will. That arm of hers holding the torch had to be strong. She reminded me of the women I’d fought with, tough, determined, fierce. Exactly the sort of a woman this terrible age would need if the world were to survive. Gazing out at this strange new land, with its gigantic female symbol, with New York’s massive skyscrapers in the hazy distance, I had an equally strange premonition that my life would never be the same.
Before we docked, Vasilyev called us to his cabin and gave us a last-minute lecture on how we were to conduct ourselves in America. We were to make sure we spit-shined our boots and that our uniforms were clean and well pressed, our medals polished and gleaming. We needed to pay close attention to our personal hygiene, as the Americans, he explained, were a people who did not like the smell of their own bodies. We should avoid any sort of profanity or coarse language, and especially when speaking to the press, to be certain that we smiled and were polite and courteous (as he said this, he stared at Viktor). He spoke to us as if he were the father of children he fully expected would embarrass him publicly. Instead of using the word retreat in reference to any battle in which we’d been forced to pull back, we were to call it strategic redeployment. Instead of defeat, we were to use the word setback. Instead of saying capitalists, we were to say our American friends.
As we were leaving the cabin, Vasilyev said to me, “A word, Lieutenant.”
When we were alone, he approached and stood right in front of me. He inspected my uniform closely—adjusting the medals on my jacket, straightening my dress cap, checking to make sure my hair was in place, that I’d put on sufficient makeup and lipstick but not too much.
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