The Sniper's Kiss

Chapter Twenty-eight

Throughout March 1945, the war news from Europe was largely good. Finland had declared war on Germany, while the Allies had crossed the Rhine at Remagen and plowed through Cologne and then Mainz. The Germans were evacuating Danzig before the imminent attack by the Red Army and were clearly in the throes of defeat. However, for reasons known only to the president and General Eisenhower, the Western Allies had deliberately slowed their advance to allow the Red Army to take Berlin. Mia thought it might have been a final concession to the Soviets, who had demonstrably done most of the fighting and dying in the European war.

Lend-Lease continued, and Mia carried on with the drudgery of her job. Then, at the beginning of April, a call came from Security that she had a visitor. A woman. She had few female friends in Washington so was filled with dread. It could be only one person.

“Grushenka,” she said coldly, as she caught sight of the visitor waiting at the ground-floor guard station. She marched another ten paces toward her. “I thought we’d gotten rid of you.”

“Don’t be like that,” Grushenka said mournfully, linking her arm with Mia’s. “Shall we go to your room, or is there someplace nearby where we can talk?”

With no intention of letting this blackmailing harridan into her private quarters, Mia led her toward a ground-floor storage room. She motioned toward two folding chairs, and they sat down facing one another.

In spite of her bitterness, Mia had to admit Grushenka was still a beauty, at least in a superficial sense. But she looked worn out. She wondered if Alexia looked the same way now, after months at hard labor. No, she decided. Grushenka was not battle-and-labor hardened, but sullen and tight-faced, like a gambler who’d finally lost too much. Mia was certain Alexia would never be broken like that.

The brief thought of Alexia made her impatient. “Why have you come? You know I won’t give you a cent.” She crossed her arms, creating yet another barrier between them.

“I don’t want money,” Grushenka said. “I want your forgiveness.”

“For turning my home into a sewer?”

Grushenka looked pained at the vulgar remark, and Mia regretted making it. “You know,” she said. “I’m not even interested anymore. I’ve faced so much bigger tragedy since you were here. So… yes. Because I don’t care, I forgive you.”

Grushenka clasped her hands in front of her lips as if praying. “I’m glad, because I’m not the same person any longer. I’ve left Pavel, and I’m much happier on my own. I came because I wanted to clear the air between us.”

“Well, it’s cleared. So you can go now.” Mia stood up. She did not want to hear about Grushenka’s fanatical husband or her relationship with him.

Grushenka remained seated. “Please, don’t be so brutal, although I suppose I deserve it. Give me a few more moments. I have things to tell you. About your father.”

“My father? That’s a subject best left untouched, don’t you think?”

“It’s about his death.” The prayer-hands became fists, as if they held something valuable.

Mia turned to leave. “It was suicide. Period.”

Grushenka grasped her wrist and drew her back down onto her chair. “Listen to me. Please. Yes, Fyodor went to his death by his own choice, but Pavel drove him to it.”

Mia pulled her hand away. “What do you mean, ‘drove him to it’?”

Finally holding Mia’s attention, Grushenka leaned back in her chair. “What I’m trying to say is that my husband was the villain here. You know, your father was a pious man.”

“Pious? I thought of him more as sanctimonious. And only on his sober days.”

“Well, it started out as piety. Surely you remember. But when your mother died, he thought it was a punishment of some sort. He began drinking and wavered between doubt and outrage. Sometimes he doubted that God existed, and sometimes he was simply outraged that the God he still believed in, needed to believe in, would punish him in such a way.”

“I already know that about him. But millions of people lose loved ones and don’t fall apart.”

“Yes, but the punishment continued. He chased women, as you know, but more and more, he became impotent.”

Mia covered her ears. “Grushenka! I do not want to know about that.”

“You have to know the whole story. It didn’t happen at first, but when it did, he just prayed harder. It didn’t help. I broke off our relationship and made the mistake of confessing to Pavel—my own sort of contrition, I suppose. But Pavel used the information as a weapon and humiliated Fyodor further. He told him he could never satisfy a woman, not even his wife. And to pour salt into the wound, he even lied and said he’d slept with your mother, many years ago.”

“My mother? A ridiculous, disgusting lie.”

“Of course it was. But Fyodor was in such a state, he believed it, and it was the last humiliation. It broke him to think he couldn’t satisfy his wife or his lover, that he’d disappointed you, and, ultimately, God. So he jumped.”

Mia stared into space for a moment. “Well, Pavel Smerdjakov’s lies were only the first blows. I added to them, so in the end, we both are guilty.”

Grushenka took Mia’s hand in both of hers. “You see, it was a sewer we all made for ourselves. But now, just like you, I want to be clean of it. The first step was to leave my husband, and the second one was to confess to you.”

She stood up. “And now, I’ll leave you in peace.” She took a step, then halted. Her voice became gentle. “How foolish of me. I haven’t even asked how you are these days. You look exhausted. Are you happy? I truly hope I didn’t ruin everything for you.”

Mia was caught off guard by the sincerity, and she shrugged vaguely. “Happy enough. I like it here. Well, who wouldn’t like living in the White House? And my job is meaningful.”

Then the words seemed to slip out. “But I met someone in Russia. You wouldn’t believe it. A soldier. She looked a bit like you.”

Grushenka sat down again and bent toward her. “Really? What a compliment. I’m touched. So what happened? Was she killed in battle?”

“No. It’s a long story, but she got into trouble because of me, and she’s in a labor camp now. I haven’t given up hope that I can get her out once the war’s over.”

“Oh, I hope so, for your sake. You deserve it. You’ve always had such noble purposes.” She brushed a strand of hair out of Mia’s face in a gesture full of warmth and devoid of flirtation.

“I certainly don’t qualify as noble, but my boss, Harry Hopkins, certainly is, and his boss, the president, is one of the noblest men around. He raises all of us.”

“Lucky you. That’s a rare thing. They should make a monument to a man like that.”

“They are. Well, not a monument. A painting, in fact. I’ve asked to visit the sitting, and the president agreed. He’s been very frail since he got back from Yalta, and for that matter, so has Mr. Hopkins.”

“Well, I’ll let you go and do that.” Grushenka brushed the back of her fingers across Mia’s cheek. “I’m really glad I came today. I needed to have this conversation.”

“I’m glad, too. Take care of yourself.” Mia walked her back to the guard station, gave her a quick embrace, and watched, bemused, as Grushenka disappeared behind the closing door.

The visit had, in fact, lifted her spirits. The mystery of her father’s death had been solved, and the bitterness she’d felt toward him had evaporated.

It was good to talk openly to someone about Alexia, she thought. And then the irony struck. Grushenka’s blackmail had been the cause of her final trip to Moscow and the whole misadventure that followed: Molotov’s attempt on her life, her involvement with the snipers, her dragging Alexia into the political mire, Alexia’s condemnation. The solace she’d felt talking to Grushenka did nothing to alleviate Alexia’s misery. Only the end of the war could do that… maybe.

And when would the war end? She craved it like a swimmer seeing the thinnest line of shore in the distance. The tension was wearing them all down. Hopkins was in the hospital again trying to absorb food with half a stomach, and the president, too, was ghostlike. His portrait painter would have to add color that he no longer had in his face.

She hurried upstairs to the Private Meeting Room, where the sitting had already gone on for half an hour, and slipped in just ahead of Thomas, who was about to serve him lunch. Roosevelt’s assistant, Edwin Watson, stood inconspicuously in the background. The artist Elizabeth Shoumatoff had already sketched an excellent though slightly idealized representation of the president’s face, leaving out the frighteningly dark circles under his eyes and his sunken cheeks.

Roosevelt glanced up as Mia entered and smiled. “Hello, Miss Kramer. Nice to see you.”

“Please don’t let me disturb you, Mr. President.” Mia hurried to take a seat.

“It’s no disturbance at all. By the way, I’ve been meaning to thank you for your service in Russia. You must feel a certain futility since we were not able to act on your information.”

“Not at all, sir. I understand that state matters must take precedence over individual ones.”

“Sometimes I wonder,” Roosevelt mused. “States are as transitory as we are. They only change more slowly. With individuals, you bring your ethics, your understanding of things to the conversation, and the result is immediate. Not so with states. Even those of us at the helm can only move them so far and so fast, and we have no way of knowing the ramifications of each decision, a year, a decade, a century later. It’s exhausting to think of it.”

“Yes, sir. It must be.”

“Do you believe in God, my dear?”

Mia hesitated. “Uh… no sir. Not in the usual way. I see the absolute only in the movement of the stars. Not astrology, of course. I mean in the galaxy and beyond. But I don’t think any benevolent divinity is looking after us.”

“The stars, eh? A nice thought. Beautiful, over our heads through all the centuries, but indifferent. Leaving us to make all the decisions, take all the responsibility.”

“Yes sir, but I find that somewhat comforting. No matter what we do, they go on.”

“Perhaps so. Anyhow, I’ve been wanting to tell you that I did my best for you, but unfortunately…” Suddenly he grimaced. “Oh, I’ve got a terrific pain in the back of my head,” he said through clenched teeth. He went rigid for a moment, then slumped, his head lolling to one side.

Both Thomas and Watson rushed to him, catching him as he toppled from his chair, and together they carried him into the adjoining bedroom.

Mia snatched up the office phone and told Security to locate Howard Bruenn, the president’s doctor-in-residence. Within moments, he arrived and rushed into the bedroom.

Mia stood at first helplessly with the artist, wondering what was the appropriate thing to do. Watson would inform the First Lady, but then Mia remembered that one other very important person needed to know.

She took up the phone again and asked the switchboard to connect her with the hospital. While she waited for Harry Hopkins to come to the phone, Dr. Bruenn emerged from the bedroom and closed the door behind him.

“I’m sorry to tell you. The president is dead.”