The Sniper's Kiss

Chapter Nine

The next morning, Mia ate breakfast alone. Hopkins had made it clear he saw no reason to join her in a freezing orthodox church listening to Old Slavonic chanting and so remained in bed. Ambassador Harriman, on the other hand, thought it was a good way to get to know another side of Russia and agreed to provide the embassy car and driver.

At eight thirty she was at the portal drawing on her coat as a military troop carrier dropped off her “security” for the day.

Ambassador Harriman appeared just as she was preparing to leave. “Enjoy your hour of nostalgia. Robert’s bringing the car around now. He’ll drop you off, and you can tell him when to return.” He patted her gently on her well-insulated back as he opened the door for her. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas to you, sir.”

Alexia stood by the side of the embassy car, as before, in a sheepskin coat and furred ushanka. The ear-flap hat suited her perfectly. Well, everything suited her perfectly. The driver climbed from the car to assist them, but Alexia had already opened the rear door for them both, so he waved and sat back down at the steering wheel.

As the car moved away from the embassy, the tires crunching on the crusted snow, Mia felt a childish joy. It was Christmas morning, the real Christmas, not the American version, and she would celebrate it with the lovely Alexia. Now, if she could just get her to go one step farther.

“Alexia, today it’s just you and me. Kiril’s not here to keep an eye on you. Will you come inside the church with me? No one has to know. Besides, Robert’s going to drop us off and come back later, so you would have to stand outside in the frigid air the whole time.”

Alexia seemed to consider. “You make a good point. Well, maybe I’ll just stand inside the portal, away from the cold.”

Mia smirked. Inside the door was as good as inside the church. “Good. That’s settled.”

In the snowy setting, the Epiphany Cathedral at Yelokhovo, with its central dome, bell tower, and four corner domes, looked like a postcard picture. Its neoclassical exterior was a bit shabby and in need of paint, but considering the war that raged even at that moment, it was a beautiful sight. Hundreds of people, bundled in bulky clothing, formed a line along the street, shuffling toward the wide main entrance.

“I’ll come back in an hour and a half,” Robert said. “Is that enough time?”

“Yes, and I promise we’ll be here so you don’t have to wait,” Mia assured him. “Thank you for taking the time to drive us.”

Mia and Alexia joined the line, polite enough not to crowd in at the front, but rude enough to use Alexia’s military uniform to step in somewhere before the end. Their place guaranteed they’d get through the door but would not be trapped too far inside where they could not leave without disruption.

Fifteen minutes later they were inside, where the sheer density of bodies raised the air temperature twenty degrees. Mia removed her wool hat and loosened her collar. Remembering the correct protocol, she drew a cotton scarf from her pocket and draped it loosely over her head and shoulders.

“Surely you don’t believe in all this.” Alexia glanced toward the ceiling, suggesting the entire ceremony.

“No, I don’t, but before I was Mia Kramer, I was little Demetria Fyodorovna Kaminskaya, and I did believe. I just want to see if it still has the power to move me.”

With Alexia shuffling alongside her, they arrived within sight of the center of the church. They would have to stand throughout their visit, for no one but the elderly and infirm could sit. Mia gazed around the interior, so completely different from the elongated Western cathedrals she’d studied.

The entryway, with its comparatively low ceilings and archways, was more like a crypt. The massive square piers that supported the wide vaults were heavily carved with gold filigree and at their centers held glass-covered icons in black and gold. Icons—somber haloed images of Christ—also hung in filigreed frames from the tops of the pillars. Farther in, the crypt-like entry opened abruptly to a central space that rose up high, but the heavy baroque ornament and iconography continued, filling every bit of space up to the dome far overhead. It seemed as if all the riches of the world were being offered up.

The congregants, with few exceptions, were elderly, though a few held young children in their arms. She swept her gaze across the old women, bent and haggard in their fringed scarves, and the old men, many of whom resembled her father before he shaved his beard upon arriving in America.

The deep voices of a male choir rumbled, as if from the very belly of the earth, and the service began. The first to arrive were the regular priests, deacons, if her memory served correctly. All wore brocade gold silk that fell to the floor and covered their feet, and capes that rose high behind their necks, a strange display of opulence in a wretched war-strained city, but she supposed church vestments were a holdover from tsarist times. Carrying tall, narrow tapers in pairs, tied together at the top, they chanted as they entered. The patriarch followed in white brocade silk and a high, bulbous miter. All the men had full beards, though the patriarch’s was longer and whiter than the others, and gave him an unmistakable Father Christmas look. He swung his silver censer, to chase away evil spirits, she supposed, and even from a distance, she could smell the fragrant incense.

She could make no sense of what they chanted in recitation and response, then remembered it was Church Slavonic, not meant to be understood. Still, it was pleasing to hear, a deeply soothing, otherworldly sound.

But their beards, the rich bass of their choir, and the complete absence of women in the celebration reminded her how very male the orthodox church was. God was male, his earthly representatives and celebrants were male, and women were there to simply worship.

Her thoughts returned to Alexia, who stood next to her, in uniform but inconspicuous in the tightly packed crowd. What did she think? What did it mean that she’d been raised by a priest? Was that any different from being raised by the pious and fanatical Fyodor Kaminsky?

One of the priests appeared bearing a tome with an ornate jewel-encrusted cover. He held it up before the patriarch, who kissed it, then opened it to the first page. The choir stopped for a moment, allowing the patriarch to recite the text, then responded in intervals. The story of the nativity, she guessed.

Losing interest in the recitation, she studied the cathedral interior again, the holy opulence that meant to lift the spirits of the congregation into the ethereal. At the same time she felt the pressure of Alexia’s shoulder against her in the crowd and smiled inwardly. The Divine Spirit being summoned by the celebrants would surely disapprove of the forbidden animal pleasure that lifted her heart just then.

She was startled by hot breath on her ear as Alexia leaned near and whispered, “It’s time to go.” Obediently she followed Alexia’s lead as they wormed their way back through the crowd. At the entrance, which was as packed full as the rest of the church, they fastened their coats and drew on scarfs and hats.

Prying open the huge church doors, they stepped out into the icy wind.

The embassy car was not in sight, so they huddled by the church door exhaling columns of steam and clapping their upper arms for warmth.

“What did you think of our orthodox ceremony?” Alexia asked.

“Pure theater, of course, but I have to admit, the child in me loved it. I remembered Easter at the great Church of the Resurrection in St. Petersburg with my parents and my little brother.”

“You don’t believe in the Divine Father?”

“In fact, I get along just fine with no father at all, divine or earthly. Still, I’m sentimental about big holidays.”

“It’s the same for me. I don’t remember my father, and the local priest was the only male presence for me. I loved him, but I began to doubt when I went to school, and by the time I joined the Komsomol, I rejected faith completely. Only the moral part of it remained, and that’s what has held me back from fighting. At least so far.”

“You sound like you’re having doubts about that, too.”

“Yes. I think faith, even that tiny remainder, has caused me to stay a child, if not a coward, when Russia really needs me to be an adult, at the front.”

Just then, the embassy car came into view, and they waved it over. Once they were seated in the warm interior, Mia continued. “Does that mean you’re going into active service?”

“I think so. I have to apply for training. My commandant won’t like it, but he won’t refuse.”

“What do you want to train for?”

“Apparently, I’m a good shot, so I’ll go where I can do the most good. I want to be a rifleman. A sniper.”

In the late afternoon, still warmed by the memory of the morning in church, Mia crunched across the snow toward the Grand Kremlin Palace. Taciturn as always, Hopkins strode alongside her. Kiril and Alexia marched a few steps behind them, still doing their job.

“Ironic, isn’t it, that Stalin the atheist has invited us to dinner on Christmas Day? Do you suppose he harbors a tiny bit of sentimentality?”

Hopkins shook his head. “I doubt it. The communists got rid of all the church ‘fathers,’ but they replaced them with the likes of Stalin and Molotov. Same obedience, just no ceremony.”

She gazed up at the imposing façade of the Grand Palace, a vast block of a building with three ranks of windows, though she knew from reading that the upper floor had a double row of windows and that the palace had only two floors. The upper one held the vast spaces of the five great halls, named after the Russian saints: George, Vladimir, Alexander, Andrew, and Catherine.

The Dining Hall of Catherine the Great where they ended up dazzled with gold. She stared, stupefied, at the ceiling. Apparently noticing her awe, Hopkins leaned toward her and whispered, “It was Catherine the Great’s throne room.”

The hall had a vaulted ceiling, like the church she’d just been in, though this one was supported by massive pylons with bronze capitals and malachite mosaics, and the carved doors held an elaborate coat of arms. The chandelier hanging over the center of the room astonished her, given the German bombing. But there it was, in all its tsarist splendor.

Dinner was served in a semicircular reception hall adjacent to the Great Hall, but it, too, was staggeringly ornate, with floral paintings and walls upholstered in gold-green brocade, matching that of the chairs.

The table was set for eight, though the guests milled about until Stalin himself arrived and all were seated. As the only woman at the table, Mia was thoroughly intimidated and was glad that her function would largely be as Hopkins’s interpreter. Stalin’s other guests were former foreign minister Litvinov, acting as interpreter, then Molotov, Beria, Voroshilov, armaments minister Ustinov still looking splendid in his uniform, and finally Nicolai Vlasik, head of the Kremlin Guard.

The right side of the table held Harriman, Hopkins, herself, and Ustinov’s placid assistant, Leonid Nazarov.

The food offered was plentiful and varied: wild birds, fish dishes, borscht, potato dumplings, pirozhki, red and black caviar. Dinner began, as always, with a series of vodka toasts.

To her surprise, the conversation touched only very lightly, almost flippantly, on the issues addressed at Tehran and soon migrated to generalities. Stalin continued toasting and urging his guests to empty their entire glasses. Mia realized it was his way of loosening men’s tongues and getting his opponents to reveal themselves.

She was confident that such a primitive ruse could not trap Hopkins. He had nothing to hide, was at the core guileless, and had no agenda other than to keep Stalin happy without being servile to him. Moreover, alcohol appeared to make him even more amiable than sobriety.

But by the second hour, he was clearly not holding up. His persistent stomach problems obviously could not cope with the heavily salted fish, the cream, and the river of vodka. He excused himself momentarily to use the facilities, and when he rose from the table, his face became splotchy and discolored. Harriman stood up quickly and guided him from the dining room.

The dinner conversation continued, with Stalin recounting a tale of his early Bolshevik days. It soon took a bawdy turn, and he began to use Moscow slang, which escaped her. Everyone laughed.

Eventually Harriman returned, alone. “Please excuse us, Marshal Stalin. With thanks for your great hospitality, Mr. Hopkins has unfortunately taken sick, and I must escort him back to the embassy.”

Stalin stood up. “I am sorry to learn that we have overtaxed Mr. Hopkins’s digestion. Would you like some assistance to help him to the car?”

Harriman raised a hand. “No, thank you. We can find our way out and do not want to disrupt your dinner. Miss Kramer, would you…?”

Nazarov also got up from his seat. “Oh, please. Do not deprive us of the one pretty face at the table.”

Ustinov added, “Yes, if Miss Kramer finds our Kremlin diet tolerable, we would love to continue our visit with her. I am sure she has tales to tell about the White House.”

Stalin extended a meaty hand in her direction. “What do you think, Miss Kramer? Will you do us the honor?”

Mia stared at Harriman, pleading with her eyes to be rescued. But the ambassador had only Hopkins on his mind and effectively abandoned her. “It’s quite all right with us. We’ll send the car back in two hours,” he said, and with a final wave to the table, he left the dining room.

She went slightly limp. She was stuck with a table full of Kremlin big shots and way out of her depth. Was it better, or worse, that all of them were intoxicated?

As it turned out, it was better. Stalin signaled for dessert to be served with wine, which he pointed out was Georgian, so if anyone complained about it, he’d be shot. He chuckled, and everyone at the table chuckled nervously with him. But following Stalin’s lead, Ustinov talked of bagging elk and bear in the snow, Molotov of escaping Siberian exile during the tsarist regime, and after each tale, the table drank to the teller, or the bears, or Bolshevik heroism.

“So, Miss Kramer.” Stalin slammed his empty glass down on the table. “It’s your turn. Tell us something about life in the White House.”

One did not refuse the dictator of all the Russians, so Mia searched her memory for a story that would not compromise anyone. Roosevelt himself was forbidden territory, and so was Hopkins. Who could she expose to Kremlin judgment? She could think of only one thing.

“I will tell you about a great prize the White House has. That is the wife of the president, Eleanor Roosevelt. A great lady. I think you would like her, Marshal Stalin, as much as you like our president.”

“Oh, would I?” Stalin took a pipe from one pocket and an envelope of tobacco from another. What makes you think so?” He tapped a quantity of tobacco into the bowl and pressed it down with his thumb.

“Because she’s a friend of American workers and of the American people of all colors.”

“How many colors do you have?” Molotov snickered, leaning toward Stalin to light his pipe for him.

Stalin puffed until the tobacco glowed bright orange and he sucked in smoke. “Don’t be rude, Vyacheslav Mikhailovich. Let the woman talk.” He blew out smoke in a thin stream. “So, tell us the story of Yeleanor Roosevelt,” he commanded.

“It concerns another great woman, a Negro opera singer named Marian Anderson. Miss Anderson wished to sing a concert in a hall owned by a patriotic group called the Daughters of the American Revolution.”

“Hmm. Revolution. That’s a good thing.”

“Not in this case, sir. These women refused to allow it because, although Miss Anderson is a magnificent opera singer, she is a Negro.”

“And Yeleanor Roosevelt’s role in this?”

“Mrs. Roosevelt arranged for her to sing outdoors in front of the Lincoln Memorial and at the same time for it to be broadcast on the radio. So in the end, Miss Anderson sang not for three hundred people in a hall, but many thousands in Washington and millions across the nation.”

Stalin nodded. “Excellent story. And that deserves a toast, too. To Yeleanor Roosevelt and opera singer Median Enderson.” Everyone at the table stood up and emptied their vodka glasses, and with Stalin’s eyes on her, Mia could not avoid downing another dose of the brain-scalding liquid.

She dropped down onto her chair and breathed deeply, wondering how much longer she could last. Could she keep her wits about her? She was confident of not saying anything improper to her hosts, but would she be able to find her way through the Kremlin Palace back out to the embassy car in… She peered at her watch until her eyes focused on the tiny numbers. In half an hour.

The stories continued around the table, and as the men became drunker, they became more vulgar. When she was no longer the center of attention, she faked drinking each toast to keep from losing consciousness.

Finally the hour of her liberation came and she stood up, massaged her mouth to prepare the muscles for speech, and said, “Marshal Stalin, I wish to thank you for your great hospitality, which only increases my admiration for the Russian people. Unfortunately, I have obligations to my own government and have to return to my embassy now, with great regret.”

Did all that come out all right? She thought so. As she turned around, she was struck by a wave of dizziness and found walking difficult. Fortunately, a butler came and led her outside the Great Hall, where, to her enormous relief, Alexia waited.

Without comment, Alexia helped her into her coat and guided her to the palace courtyard. The ice-cold air hitting her face sobered her a little, but not enough to dampen her high spirits. She’d been tipsy before, but never quite as drunk as this, and was enjoying it. Plus, she realized, it was still Christmas. The thought made her philosophical and affectionate.

She halted and took Alexia’s arm. “Look how clear the sky is.” She swayed slightly as she tilted her head. “You can see millions of stars. Millions and millions and millions.” She found the idea thrilling.

Alexia scanned the sky, blowing little clouds of steam, perhaps humoring her. “The priest who raised me always said the stars were proof of God’s existence.”

Mia chuckled. “Funny, scientists would say the stars are proof God doesn’t exist. In any case, when you see this many, you can’t help but feel connected. Even the ancients gave them identities. Right up there is Orion, for example.” She pointed upward more or less in the right direction, gripping Alexia’s shoulder to keep her balance.

“You can identify the constellations?”

“Na, just showing off. Orion’s easy because of the three stars that make his belt. Then you can look for the stars that make his shoulders and feet.”

Alexia held her collar up under her chin. “I don’t see a man in the sky. I see—I don’t know—some great force, unfathomably vast and wholly indifferent, that has no face. There’s a majesty in that.”

“I know what you mean. It has no interest in comforting us, yet we are comforted. As by the sunrise.” Mia smiled, pleased to have produced such poetry from an alcohol-soaked brain.

The embassy car pulled up in front of them, and she tumbled into it. Once inside, she rambled on about the mysteries of the universe and the beauty of the human spirit. Alexia agreed in each case, seemingly amused.

When they reached the embassy, Mia realized that her Russian Christmas was over and in just a few minutes she would be alone.

“Will you guard me all the way to my room?” She snickered. “You know, so that I don’t do something anti-Soviet on the way.”

Alexia laughed softly. “All right, I’ll go, to protect the motherland from you until the very last moment.” The embassy guard admitted them both, and, gripping Mia’s arm, Alexia strode beside her up the stairs and along the corridor.

Mia fumbled for her key and opened the door to her room, then drew Alexia by the arm in with her, delaying separation. “A shame I have to leave tomorrow. A shame there’s a war. A shame you’ll be on the battlefield soon and I’ll never see you again. Here we’ve just met, and now… poof! Gone to fight for the motherland.”

“I’ll think of you while I’m fighting.” Alexia laughed and brushed Mia’s hair out of her face, her first intimate touch. “And if I survive the war, and you return to Russia, perhaps you can find me. I am Alexia Vassilievna Mazarova. My grandmother lives in Arkhangelsk, and the priest Father Zosima will know how to find her, if he, too, is still alive.”

“Those are a lot of ‘ifs,’ my dear Alexia. I don’t think I will ever be able to remember enough to follow that trail. But I will always remember this.”

She grasped Alexia’s head with both hands, and pausing just long enough to look into the startled gray eyes, she pressed her lips hard against Alexia’s mouth.

Alexia stood rigid in her grip but did not pull away, and the awkward kiss lasted scarcely more than a few seconds. Then Mia herself stepped back, realizing the magnitude of what she had done. Surely it was an offense: against diplomatic protocol, against the decorum of the United States Embassy, and against the innocent person of the guard herself.

It was the worst mistake she’d made since arriving in the Soviet Union.

“I… I’m sorry. It was the vodka and… well…”

Alexia’s face showed no expression at all. “Good night, Demetria Fyodorovna Kaminskaya,” she said, and let herself out.

The next morning Mia was awakened by a firm rap on the door. Struggling up to full consciousness, she called out, “What is it?”

A man’s voice sounded through the closed door. “Mr. Harriman requests your presence at breakfast.”

“Yes, yes, of course. I’ll be down right away,” she stammered, noting that it was already ten o’clock. God, what a headache she had.

She dressed quickly, brushed her teeth to lose the foul taste in her mouth, combed her hair, and rushed down to the breakfast room. Harriman and Hopkins both sat over coffee cups, though only the ambassador looked alert. Hopkins slouched in his chair, his skin an odd gray color.

“How are you feeling, sir?” she asked, in spite of her own malaise. Someone from the kitchen set down a cup of coffee in front of her, and she warmed her hands on it before taking the first comforting swallow.

“Better, thank you,” Hopkins said, “but I don’t think I’ll be doing many more of Mr. Stalin’s dinners. What about you?”

“I held up pretty well, in spite of half a dozen more toasts. However, they forced me to tell a White House story.”

A shadow passed over his face, and Harriman set down his cup. “Good heavens, what?”

“I told them about the First Lady and the Marian Anderson concert at the Lincoln Memorial. I thought since several million Americans knew the story, it wouldn’t hurt if the Kremlin did, too. Did I overstep?”

Hopkins waved feebly. “No, not if that’s all you said. As long as you didn’t make Mr. Roosevelt seem weak.”

“Oh, I’d never do that.” She noticed a few triangles of cold toast on a rack near her cup and helped herself to one. “I’m aware of the delicate position we’re in. Which brings up the question, do we have all the documents we need for the investigation of the lost goods?”

“Yes, they’re packed, and I’ve given all the parties our assurances. I believe we’ve left them with a good impression. Don’t you think, Miss Kramer?”

Mia recalled her awkward molestation of a Kremlin guard.

“Uh, yes. I think so.”