The Sniper's Kiss

Chapter Ten

Washington, DC, Winter 1944

Mia continued to plow through the documentation of deliveries via the Arctic and the Persian routes, trying to determine where the losses were occurring. Nothing stood out enough to account for the Russian complaint. Nonetheless, at Hopkins’s behest, she sent out orders for duplicate shipments of the small arms, clothing, fuel, and foodstuffs that had mysteriously disappeared.

A month passed, then another, rainy blustery days and nights in Washington, DC, and she tried to keep track of where the front line in the East was. The last news on the radio was that the Leningrad siege was lifted, which removed the vague guilt of knowing she had relatives there whom she could not help. A great battle still raged at Narva, in what was once Estonia, but that was far from Moscow, which Hitler’s troops would never see again.

And Alexia Vassilievna Mazarova? Was she still standing statuesque guard at the Kremlin? Or had she in fact transferred and was slogging through the snow and mud of the Eastern Front?

The Washington winter made Mia lethargic, and even the comings and goings of high-ranking military in the White House halls did nothing to excite her. Until one morning at the beginning of March, a light, ladylike rap came from the First Lady’s study. Mia called out “Come in!” and Mrs. Roosevelt entered. She wore a wool business suit and hat, and held small leather gloves in one hand.

“How have you been, dear?” she asked. “I’ve been on the lecture trail for the president and never seem to have any time these days. I’m afraid I’ve neglected you. I thought I’d catch you before I went out again.”

“How kind of you to say that, but I haven’t felt at all neglected.”

“I’m glad. But I confess, I’m here because I have a little request.”

“Anything you wish, Mrs. Roosevelt?” Mia said, pushing her papers aside.

The First Lady drew on one of the gloves. “You see, the president and I have invited someone to the White House, both as a good-will gesture and to increase public support for our entry into Europe.”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“But we need someone who speaks Russian, and the president is loath to use his official interpreter.”

“I’ll be happy to help, but who is the guest?” Mia imagined one of the pasty men she’d met in Moscow and wondered if this one too would travel with a sausage and a pistol.

“Major Lyudmila Pavlichenko. A female sniper who has just received the Hero of the Soviet Union medal and whom the Kremlin is quite keen for the West to meet.”

“Oh, that sounds intriguing. When does she arrive?”

The First Lady clasped her hands, her gesture of satisfaction. “Tomorrow afternoon. I shall ask Mr. Hopkins to give you the day off to join the welcoming committee.”

According to the printed biography forwarded by the Soviet Press Department, Lyudmila Pavlichenko was twenty-five years old and already a major. A photo that had come with the press material showed a dark-haired woman with a simple, open face and slightly heavy brows, in a three-quarter pose. She held a rifle across her chest, of which only the scope and the bolt handle were visible. What stood out was her atrociously cut hair, for a large, straight tuft of it jutted out from under her field cap as if it had been blunt cut in a hurry with a bayonet.

When she arrived at the White House, President and Mrs. Roosevelt met her at the entrance while Mia acted as interpreter. After certain pleasantries, the Roosevelts invited their guest to luncheon along with the Russian ambassador and his wife, and while the group ate chicken à la king, Mia had a chance to study her.

She looked older than her years, though at certain angles she was attractive in a matronly sort of way. When she removed her enormous officer’s cap, she revealed a slightly tidier though still uninspired haircut, but her eyes seemed kind, and the fact that she had no feminine vanity was in its way appealing. Most importantly, she spoke intelligently, a welcome but unnecessary skill for a sniper. She was also adept at concealing what surely must have been shock at seeing the president of the United States in a wheelchair.

“You must be glad to get away from the battlefield,” Eleanor said, cutting her chicken into tiny pieces that needed only a few nibbles before they could be swallowed.

Pavlichenko ingested the big chunks with no reservation and wiped her mouth. “I hate to leave my colleagues in the struggle, but my visit here was also a military duty.”

“Where were you engaged for the most part?” Roosevelt asked.

“In the Crimea, defending Sebastopol,” she said with obvious pride.

The president frowned slightly with paternal concern. “Where you ever wounded? It seems so much more terrible for a young woman.”

Pavlichenko straightened slightly. “Twice, in fact. Shrapnel wounds from shells exploding close by. Sometimes the Fritzes would put up so much noise blasting away at me, it was a real concert. Bullets whistling over me and hitting all around me.” She swept her fork in imaginary trajectories past her head. “Wounded or not, all I could do was stay down and not move for three hours.”

“How dreadful for you,” Eleanor exclaimed, with polite horror.

The luncheon conversation continued in such fashion for an hour, and at its conclusion, the president announced, “Miss Kramer will take you on a brief tour around the White House. After that, the press will arrive for some photographs, and then at four, we’ll have a reception. Miss Kramer, would you also be so kind as to escort Major Pavlichenko to her hotel after the reception?”

“I’ll be happy to,” Mia replied, pleased to be away from her cubicle for a couple of hours.

While President and Mrs. Roosevelt returned to their duties, Mia guided the guest through the main staterooms, explaining what little she knew about their functions. As they strolled, Mia noted that Pavlichenko was slightly plump, as a woman would be who simply did not care about her appearance. Her indifference to style was also evident in the way she wore her uniform. The man’s tunic, amply decorated with medals, was cinched with a Sam Browne belt high over her rounded hips and directly under her breasts. She wore a skirt that hung in a formless column to mid-calf over leather boots.

“I understand you were in Moscow,” Pavlichenko said as they left the last of the staterooms.

“Yes, in January. Bitter cold, of course, but I got to see the Grand Kremlin Palace. I was tremendously impressed, as you can imagine.”

“Yes, it is impressive. But the tsars built their palaces on the blood and toil of the people.”

Their arrival at the press conference removed the need for Mia to reply to such cynicism. A butler stepped in front of them and opened the door to a room full of reporters. Camera bulbs flashed and shutters clicked as they entered and took seats behind a lectern.

Eleanor Roosevelt spoke first, lauding the courage and forbearance of the female Russian soldiers and the importance of the alliance between the United States and the Soviet Union in fighting for freedom.

“We have American women in all branches of our military service, I am pleased to say. WACs, WAVEs, air force service pilots called WASPs, and women serve even in the marines and coast guard. We can be proud of these, our sisters, wives, and daughters, but we cannot say, and I dearly hope we never have to say, that our women give their lives in the trenches.”

Polite applause followed the mention of patriotic women.

“However, it has been the fate of the Soviet Union to be invaded by a ruthless foreign force, and thus it has mobilized all its citizenry, its women, too, even on the front lines. I am honored to present one of their bravest…” She paused dramatically. “And most deadly. Major Lyudmila Pavlichenko, you have the floor.”

Mia repeated the First Lady’s introduction in Russian, for the major’s benefit, and during the renewed applause, Pavlichenko strode to the podium.

Obviously unaccustomed to public speaking, she unfolded a piece of paper and addressed the room of reporters haltingly. After a few remarks about the kindness of the Americans to receive her, and her hopes that the Americans would soon join the European struggle, she simply asked for questions.

“How many men have you killed?” some young reporter shouted from the rear.

Pavlichenko seemed unfazed by the crudeness of the question. “Over three hundred.”

“Did you miss shampoo and pretty dresses and makeup on the front?” another called out.

“Some of my comrades do. Perhaps the way you would miss your shiny shoes and neckties and clean white shirts.”

“Do romances happen on the battlefield?” A few reporters snickered.

Pavlichenko exhaled in obvious exasperation. “In blood and filth and snow, with comrades dying or mutilated every day under fire and bombardment? Rarely.”

The questions continued in the same trivial vein until Pavlichenko lost patience. She leaned forward with her elbows on the podium and seemed to stare at those in the back row. “Gentlemen, millions… millions… of Soviets have died defending their homeland, while only a few thousand Americans have fallen in North Africa, Italy, and the Pacific. No one has come to our aid on the Eastern Front. I am twenty-five years old, and I have already killed 309 invaders. Do you not think, gentlemen, that you have been hiding behind my back for too long?”

After a moment of stunned silence, the reporters applauded.

The reception was both pleasant and tedious. It was another occasion to eat festive food a cut above what the White House cafeteria usually served, but tedious because the people that came along the reception line to greet the guest asked the same dreary questions again and again. How did she like the United States? How did she like American food? How did she like American clothes, cars, jazz, and all things American? Pavlichenko’s answers became briefer and briefer.

When the last person passed them, Lyudmila broke away to chat a bit with Eleanor Roosevelt and Harriman, who spoke enough Russian to act as interpreter. Mia relaxed where she stood, sipping her fruit juice.

A reporter sidled up next to her. “I wonder if they all look like that,” he muttered.

“What do you mean?” Mia was sure she knew but wanted him to say it.

“Well, frankly, she’s a little frumpy, don’t you think? Not like our women.”

Mia felt her cheeks redden. Without facing him, she asked with forced neutrality, “You think so?”

“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? I mean, what kind of fellow would want to romance someone who shot people and looked like that?” She could hear now the slight slur in his words that suggested he’d drunk too much White House wine.

He went on with his theory of femininity. “They make a good pair, don’t they, the sharpshooter and the president’s wife. Two homely women who found another way to advance themselves in a man’s world.”

Mia turned slowly toward him and hoped her contempt was as obvious on her face as in her words.

“You may be judging all women by what you feel in your groin, but not all women care about your sexual approval. One of those ‘frumpy’ women has published more than you and has influence on the domestic policy of your country. The other one, in case you hadn’t heard, has personally felled, with a single shot, over three hundred better men than you. So I think this would be a good time to shut your pie hole.”

She turned her back on him and wandered over to where Pavlichenko was in conversation with the president and Harriman.

“Thank you for agreeing to this tour, Miss Pavlichenko,” the president said, looking up at her from his wheelchair. “Unlike in your own country, a good many Americans are unwilling to fight for Europe. Even the attack on Pearl Harbor has not convinced them that this is a global war. I am hoping your courage will set an example.”

“I hope so, too, Mr. President, for you are well aware how urgent it is that you open up a western front and draw off some of the German force from our cities.”

Roosevelt reached up as if to take her hand, then apparently changed his mind, and the hand dropped awkwardly back onto the armrest of his wheelchair. “I assure you, we are doing everything in our power to prepare a spring invasion, as I promised Marshal Stalin. It will be soon. Very soon.”

Pavlichenko nodded, and if she was disappointed, she did not show it. What showed was fatigue. The president had the sensitivity to notice.

“I think we’ve worn you down enough, Miss Pavlichenko. Miss Kramer, will you escort the major back to her hotel? Mr. Watson will call a car around for you.”

As they made their way from the White House to the Mayflower Hotel in the car, Major Pavlichenko suddenly turned to Mia. “You know, you are the only woman in this country I have been able to talk to without an interpreter, and it’s been a very long day. Why don’t you join me in the hotel bar for a… for whatever it is Americans drink?”

Mia remembered the Russian propensity to celebrate all things with vodka, even the end of a day of diplomacy. “This American drinks a little wine now and then, after a long day, and I’ll be happy to join you.”

The Mayflower bar was typical of its genre. On one side, a half dozen two-person tables stood along the wall, and on the other, a faux mahogany bar with a double row of glasses hanging upside down on an overhead rack. They took seats at one of the tables, and Pavlichenko removed her enormous officer’s cap, releasing once again her formless hair.

“A glass of your house red wine,” Mia said to the waiter.

“Please tell him I’ll have the same as you,” Pavlichenko said.

“No vodka?” Mia asked.

“No sense in reinforcing a stereotype.”

When the drinks arrived, they toasted, took the ceremonial swallow, and Pavlichenko unbuttoned the top button of her tunic. “I don’t know why they make the collars on these things so high.”

Mia smiled at the fact that the major had just acted out two clichés, letting down her hair and unbuttoning her collar. “I have to tell you, frankly, that I’m happy Russia has sent us a woman sniper and not a man. The American public is barely aware of the Red Army, let alone that women fight in it. Can you tell me how many there are?”

Pavlichenko took another large swallow. “In the military in general? Several hundred thousand. As for snipers, that number grows monthly, and the schools are graduating them even now. I would say maybe two thousand.”

“Do snipers generally know about each other?”

“They do if they come from the same schools, and some become known if they attain high scores.”

“I have a friend,” Mia said, conceding inwardly that molestation might not constitute friendship. “Someone I met while I was in Moscow named Alexia Vassilievna, but her friends called her Alyosha. Anyhow, she’s currently in an honor regiment but wants to become a sniper, and I wonder how she would do that.”

“If your friend is a party member and has superior visual ability, she could qualify, and if she does, she’d probably go to the Central Women’s Sniper Training School near Podolsk.”

“I guess I don’t really know what a sniper does. How is it different from the shooting by ordinary soldiers?”

Pavlichenko leaned forward onto her elbows, her eyes bloodshot. “Well, sometimes they send you off to knock out communication lines or machine-gun nests, and then you’re just a soldier with a good aim.” She paused, formulating the rest of her answer, turning her wineglass on the table.

“But often you have to hunt a particular officer, or even an enemy sniper, one of your professional colleagues, so to speak. Then it’s personal, and the act of shooting is a moment of intimacy that leaves a mark on you.”

“Intimacy? Shooting someone from a long distance? How can that be?”

“Yes, because the target’s not anonymous anymore. You track him or watch him, sometimes for hours, and when you finally get him in your scope, you fixate on him, on his uniform. You can even see his rank on his cap or collar, his medals. While you’re waiting for the perfect shot, you see the details of his face, whether he shaved that morning or has a dueling scar. Maybe he’s handsome or looks like a man you know. You wait for him to turn just the right way, and when you lay your crosshairs over his face you find yourself looking into his eyes. He’s perhaps five hundred meters away, but he could be in your embrace, and he’s yours completely.”

Mia simply nodded, not wanting to interrupt the narrative.

“You feel a surge of power but also sadness because you know this man is in the last moments of his life, but he has no idea. How many more breaths will you allow him to take? You’re tempted to let him take another and another, because by now you’re half in love with him. But then you remember your duty, and finally you fire. Your shot, your touch, is always to his head, usually to his face. When it is, we have a name for it.”

“What’s that?”

“We call that the sniper’s kiss.” She emptied her glass and wiped her mouth with her fist.

Mia chuckled softly. “Rather the opposite of the Jesus kiss,” she muttered.

“Jesus kiss? I don’t understand.”

“Oh, sorry. It just reminded me of something a pastor said at the White House Christmas party. He quoted Dostoyevsky, whose Grand Inquisitor challenges Jesus, and all Jesus does in reply is kiss him. A sort of ‘love is the answer’ answer.”

Pavlichenko snorted. “Dostoyevsky! A nineteenth-century intellectual who wallowed in personal soul-searching. He has nothing to say to a people struggling against an invader.” With a swallow of wine, she changed the subject.

“By the way, Miss Kramer. I got a letter from Georgetown University inviting me to teach as a guest lecturer in the Russian language and history. Perhaps they did not realize I was here only for a short visit. When I return home, I will thank them formally, of course, but would you be so kind as to let them know immediately that my travel schedule is very tight, and I will not be able to do anything that is not on the scheduled tour?”

“I’ll be happy to do so, though that would be a real coup, wouldn’t it?”

“A coup for your university or for Russia?”

“I suppose for both. The best sort of international relations.” Mia finished her wine. “Would you like another? Courtesy of the White House.”

Pavlichenko shook her head. “Thank you, no. I’m really ready for bed now.” She rose from the table, set her officer’s cap on, and tugged on her tunic that had ridden up over her hips.

Mia left an adequate number of bills on the table and escorted the guest as far as the elevator. “I believe someone will arrive tomorrow morning to escort you to the train for Chicago. I think it’s wonderful what you’re doing, and I wish you good luck on your tour.”

“Thank you for your service and your companionship, Miss Kramer. And who knows? If this war can bring me to the White House, perhaps it will lead you again to the Kremlin.” After a light hug, Pavlichenko stepped into the elevator.

With a curious feeling of solidarity with the cynical sharpshooter, Mia strode toward the hotel exit and the White House car.

At the White House, one of the security men met her at the door. “Miss Kramer, you have a visitor. Says she knows you. She’s waiting in the visitors’ foyer.”

Searching her memory for who might be visiting her, she hurried down the corridor and opened the door. It was the last person she wanted to see.

The woman was wearing her fox-fur coat, which Mia had once thought elegant but now found as vulgar as the too-large earrings, the too-high heeled shoes, and the too-red lipstick.

“Grushenka. What the hell are you doing here?”

“Well, there you are, finally, my dear Demetria. You’ve kept me waiting, but I’ll forgive you.” Grushenka gave her a peck on the cheek. “You’re looking well. Working at the White House has done you good.”

“Answer my question.”

“Aren’t you going to ask how I am? I’ll tell you how I am. Not very well. Pavel found one of your letters, and like the fool that he is, he took it to the police. I suppose he wanted to implicate you. You know how much he hates you now. But the police said it was not strong enough evidence to arrest you.”

“Well, that’s good news. The whole disaster happened over a year ago, and I’d like to forget about it, and you too, for that matter. What do you want?”

They were still standing in the middle of the room, but Mia had no intention of offering her a seat for a cozy chat.

“You want to forget me? How can you be so cruel? We were so good together.”

Mia felt her lips harden. “You took advantage of me, though I still can’t figure out why. Was it boredom? It certainly wasn’t passion, because a month later, you were doing it with my father.” She looked away. “It makes me sick to think about it.”

“It wasn’t like that. I really did care for you. But one evening, after I’d drunk too much, Fyodor caught me off guard and… well… nature just took over. You know how stormy Russian men can be. It didn’t last very long.”

“You came all the way to Washington to tell me this crap? I don’t want to hear it.”

“Well, no. You see, Pavel has had a few problems in the business. Frankly, we’re broke. So I thought in the meantime, with your White House salary and all, you could help us out. Just… say… two thousand dollars, and I’ll disappear completely and never speak a word to anyone here of what happened.”

Mia stared at her, stunned. “You’ve come here to blackmail me. Is that it? If I don’t pay you two thousand dollars, you’ll get me fired.”

“Actually, I was thinking more of the president than of you. Mr. Roosevelt is campaigning for reelection. This kind of slander about his staff whispered to the conservative newspapers would be very embarrassing.”

Mia was paralyzed with outrage. Bad enough to have her own career ruined, but to compromise President Roosevelt… She suddenly felt nauseous.

“You have to give me time,” she said, beaten. “I simply don’t have two thousand dollars. I’ll need a few days to figure out how to get it.”

“You have lots of rich friends here in your new life, so I’m sure you can borrow it. I’ll give you until Saturday. After that, I’m going to The New York Times.”