The Sniper's Kiss

Chapter Four

The White House, October 1943

Her sparse belongings unpacked and stored, Mia descended again to the main floor and Harry Hopkins’s office.

Hopkins sat at his cluttered desk, cigarette in one hand. A slight haze of smoke surrounded him, and the odor of ashtray permeated the air.

“Sit down,” he said, pointing with the cigarette toward a chair at his left. “Are you settled in now?”

“Yes, sir. Raring to go.” She took a seat and tried to hold his gaze yet not seem to be staring. Up close, his face shocked her a bit. Hollow-cheeked and myopic, and with thinning hair, he reminded her of the pitchfork-holding farmer in the painting American Gothic.

“Is this where the Lend-Lease program began?” she asked.

“Yes, in fact. But soon enough the accounting became so complex, we needed other offices, like the one you were working in, to deal with Britain, China, Free France, and the two dozen smaller allies. Right now, my problem is the Soviets. Not just supply issues, but also diplomatic ones. For that I need someone to read and translate correspondence between this office and the Kremlin.”

The Kremlin. The word, like a sudden dramatic chord, stirred a mix of fear, fascination, distaste. She had grown up in an immigrant family with a hatred of Bolshevism, and the Kremlin was where the neo-Bolsheviks—who now called themselves Communists—were headquartered.

“We’ve achieved a certain rapport,” she heard, and she realized she’d lost the thread.

“Rapport?” She repeated, feeling a bit stupid.

“Yes. Stalin is a dictator and a hard pill to swallow diplomatically. But he has a huge nation to hold together and defend, and is losing thousands of men every day. I respect his position and sympathize with it a great deal. Stalin knows this and trusts me for it. Our president trusts me, too, so I’ve been acting as his de facto secretary of state, though we don’t say that around Mr. Hull, who actually holds the office. As a result, I need a Russian-speaking person at my side to negotiate the… turbulent waters.” He took a final puff and crushed the stub amidst a dozen others in his ashtray.

“Has the president already met with the Russians?”

“That’s what I—”

Someone knocked at the door, and he called out, “Come in!”

For the briefest moment, Mia stared, puzzled, at the slowly opening door, waiting for a head to appear. Only when she dropped her glance did she perceive feet, then knees, and finally a man rolling into the room in a wheelchair. She stood up.

“Mr. President,” Hopkins said, though he remained sitting.

“Good morning, Harry. Just thought I’d stop by and see what you’re hatching.”

Franklin Roosevelt looked tired, in spite of his good cheer. His long, oval face and prominent chin had always appeared amiable and paternal. But now his cheeks were sunken, his hair thin and receding. His gray-blue eyes were puffy, and he seemed to squint through his rimless glasses. It was strange to be in the presence of two men with such political power who appeared so physically feeble.

But FDR’s vigorous tenor voice belied his appearance. “Oh, please sit down, Miss Kramer. No need for formalities.” He maneuvered himself into place next to her. “So, you are to be our plenipotentiary to the Kremlin.”

“I’ll serve the White House in whatever way I can, Mr. President, but I’m still only a lowly assistant.”

“Don’t worry, my dear. We won’t overtax you. Mr. Hopkins tells me you have the best possible skills, though I suppose you are not fond of Mr. Stalin.”

She winced, not knowing what to reply, but he laid a soft hand on her forearm and leaned toward her as if confiding. “Mr. Churchill is not fond of him either, but he’s on our side in this war, so we have to keep him happy.”

“Thank you for your confidence, Mr. President. I’ll do everything I can to live up to it.”

“Good to hear you say it, my dear. Now, would you like to see our command center?”

“Command center? Really? Isn’t that top secret?”

The president chuckled. “I’m not going to show you our military strategies, only our wonderful setup. Very futuristic. Hopkins, would you be so kind as to wheel me there? Saves wear and tear on my hands.”

Hopkins leapt from his seat and took hold of the handlebars at the back of the wheelchair. They proceeded down the corridor to the elevator, and she strode alongside the president’s chair as he explained. “It used to be a simple map room, but now it’s staffed twenty-four hours a day and fitted out with… well, you’ll see.”

The elevator opened on the ground floor, and they turned right. The guard who stood before one of the rooms snapped to attention, then stepped in front of them to open the door.

What had been a low buzz now became a cacophony of orders, conversations, and ringing telephones. Mia felt her jaw drop slightly, and she closed it again.

The otherwise drab walls were papered with gigantic maps—of Europe, Africa, Asia, all the theaters of the war. Uniformed staff, both army and navy, stood before them, some on the floor and some on ladders, moving little markers here and there, though she was too far away to discern any patterns or identifications.

“Those markers show the progress of the armies?” she asked.

“Oh, much more than that. The staff tracks the movements of all the belligerents. The land armies, the convoys, ships’ day-to-day positions, sea battles and losses. It marks the whereabouts of certain people, too. You can’t see from here, but Mr. Churchill is a cigar, my marker is a cigarette holder, and Mr. Stalin is a pipe. Good thing we all smoke, eh?”

Mia let her glance sweep over the walls and the military personnel moving between them. “And that’s where the information comes from?” She nodded toward a long table where a row of men and women wearing headphones sat in front of typewriters.

“Yes. That’s our communication staff—smart, loyal people who can be trusted. They also transcribe and file all messages that pass between myself, Chiang Kai-shek, Churchill, and Stalin. They work in alternating teams, twenty-four hours a day, and I come in periodically with the war secretary to check on our progress.”

“So this is where strategy is formulated,” she murmured.

“Only to a certain degree. In fact, conferences in person are much more important. We have to coordinate with our allies.”

Hopkins spoke for the first time. “Which is why we’ve finally arranged a meeting with Stalin.”

“We’d have done it earlier, but the sonofabitch is hard to pin down,” Roosevelt grumbled, then glanced up at Hopkins. “Have you told her yet about Tehran?”

“No, sir. Not yet. I was about to when you arrived.”

“Well, then, let’s talk about it now. If you wouldn’t mind, Harry?” He tilted his head back toward the corridor.

“Oh, yes. Of course.” Hopkins drew the wheelchair back from the open doorway, and the guard closed the double door.

“Tehran? That’s in Iran, isn’t it?” Mia asked as she hurried alongside the rolling wheelchair. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand Iran’s position in the war.”

The president chuckled as they entered the elevator. “Neither do we, and even my advisors have trouble keeping track of who’s in control there. They just inform me that Iran has oil fields that the whole world covets, but since the double invasion—of the Soviets from the north and the British from the west—the Allies now occupy them. So now we can move millions of tons of war materials across Iranian territory to the Russians. Since they’re close to Russia, Stalin decided it was a good place to meet.”

The elevator carried them back up to the second floor, and a moment later, they stood before the president’s office in the Yellow Oval Room. The door opened from behind as they reached it, Mia followed the wheelchair inside, discreetly perusing the office.

The president’s dark wooden desk stood at the center of three tall windows, all hung with velvet drapery and square valances bordered in gold. The American flag and the presidential flag flanked the desk and chair, America’s stately but unglamorous version of a throne.

“This is Mr. Watson, my personal secretary,” the president said, as a broad-shouldered man in a gray suit wheeled him around behind his desk. Once in place, Roosevelt took a plastic holder from his desk drawer and inserted a cigarette into it. Leaning over his shoulder, Watson lit it for him. “Please, take a seat, Miss Kramer.” The president motioned to the cushioned chairs in front of his desk.

“As I was saying, we’ve planned a conference in Tehran next month, with Mr. Churchill and Stalin. Mr. Hopkins, as always, will assist me with some of the policy statements, and you, in turn, will assist him.”

“Uh, yes, certainly. A great honor,” Mia stammered. “When will the conference take place?”

Roosevelt puffed on his cigarette holder through clenched teeth. “Date’s not certain, and it’s a matter of security to not announce it beforehand anyhow. But you should be prepared to be out of the country late in November. If you need a passport, the State Department will see to it.”

“Passport, yes, sir.” She could think of nothing to add.

A butler stepped in from a side door. “Mr. President, Secretary Stimson is here.”

Obviously it was the signal to leave. Hopkins was already standing, and Mia leapt up to join him.

Mia’s head was spinning. Her first day on the new job and she was about to be sent into the cauldron of diplomatic negotiations with Churchill and Stalin.

Tehran. Iran. The words barely held meaning for her. And the two men she was supposed to assist were physical wrecks. She felt herself bend slightly with the weight of responsibility.

As they arrived back at Hopkins’s office, Mia expected to learn some of the details of the upcoming conference, but he only handed her a folder of papers and asked her to translate them. Then the phone rang.

She nodded, although he already gave his full attention to the telephone call, and she passed quietly from his office into her own.

At least she finally had a task. Under the light of her gooseneck lamp, she opened the folder. The papers were dispatches from the People’s Commissariat of Arms requesting specific items, others complaining about items that had not been delivered. Midway through the pile she came upon a telegram that seemed to leap out at her. From Molotov, the Russian foreign minister.

She found herself smiling. The political name Molotov meant “hammer” and, like Stalin, was obviously chosen to be intimidating. His language was brusque as he complained about an agreement for a certain amount of foodstuffs that had been promised and that had not arrived. Since the Red Army was sacrificing its blood daily nearly alone among nations, in defense of Europe, he pointed out, a replacement shipment needed to be sent as soon as possible. She translated the letter immediately, careful to express the right amount of anger and disdain.

The sound of tapping surprised her, and Mia glanced up, confused. Only on the second rap did she realize it came from the door to the First Lady’s office. She stood up and rushed to open it.

Eleanor Roosevelt stood in the doorway, hands clasped at her waist, her severe gray skirt and high-collar blouse adding to the schoolteacher image.

“Hello,” the First Lady said. “Mr. Allen said you were installed in your new office. The maid has just brought in a pot of tea, and I thought it gave us a chance to chat. Or are you working on something critical?”

“Oh, no. Nothing like that.”

Eleanor stepped back, and Mia entered the room hesitantly. The First Lady’s office was more domestic than official. A hinged “secretary” desk provided the only writing surface. It was open at the moment and revealed stationery and a tiny vase of roses. A small round table to her right was set for three, and the porcelain teapot at its center gave off a pleasant aroma.

“I was just translating a message from Molotov, but I’m sure it can wait.”

“Molotov!” Eleanor threw back her head and laughed. “That old Bolshevik can certainly wait for his answer.” She gestured toward the table and Mia took a seat.

“He’s a real scoundrel, that one. I take pains to keep out of my husband’s business with the Soviets, but I do read the newspapers. It was Molotov who negotiated the non-aggression pact with Hitler so the Soviets could annex half of Eastern Europe. Worse, he surely had a hand in the famine in the Ukraine that killed millions of peasants.” She sighed. “And now he’s our ally. Would you like cream and sugar?” She poured the steaming tea into both cups.

“Both, please, if you don’t mind.”

Eleanor passed the cream pitcher and sugar bowl to her, and they both sipped delicately.

“He’s a peasant, and it amazes me that he’s survived so long in Stalin’s government. He was here last year for meetings with the president and the State Department, and we all had a good laugh behind his back. Oh, he puts on a good façade, but you learn a lot about a person when you unpack their bags.”

Mia set down her cup, puzzled, and Eleanor raised her hand to cover her bright, ladylike snicker. “Oh, I didn’t unpack his bags, but Mr. Allen did, while Molotov was out shaking hands. It’s standard practice for White House guests. Believe it or not, Allen found a sausage, a loaf of black bread, and a loaded pistol.”

“A loaded pistol! In the White House? And I wonder if he thought our food might poison him.”

“Who knows what the man thought? Mr. Allen placed all three objects in the same drawer as his shirts but had the good sense to remove the bullets. If Molotov was upset at that, he apparently decided not to make an issue of it.”

The tale allowed Mia to relax in the First Lady’s presence, and she spoke candidly. “Well, he’s making an issue of some of the Lend-Lease deliveries, and it will be my job to sort it out in the accounting. But I’m delighted to hear about the sausage and bread. I’ll be a little less intimidated now.”

“Oh, you must not let anybody intimidate you, my dear.”

“Who is intimidating whom?” a rich contralto voice said, and Mia glanced up, startled.

A woman in her fifties entered uninvited. She was portly, plain-faced, and wore a mannish jacket over a long skirt. She dragged a chair over to the table and sat down by the third teacup.

“So you’re Harry’s new assistant. Is Eleanor giving you the pep talk?”

Eleanor glanced up through her eyebrows. “Hicks, do try to behave.”

“What? I’m just here to meet the new recruit.” She held out her hand. “Lorena Hickok at your service.”

Mia took it, found it meaty, warm, her grip firm. “I’m… uh… pleased to meet you.” Who was this drab, avuncular woman who could enter the First Lady’s office without knocking?

As if hearing her thoughts, Eleanor explained. “Lorena is head of the women’s division of the Democratic National Committee. In fact, she has rooms upstairs not far from you.”

“I see.” Mia smiled, though she didn’t see. Hickok’s job title explained little about either her residency at the White House or her familiarity.

Lorena reached past her and poured herself a cup of tea. “So, what’s this I hear about intimidation?”

“Miss Kramer was just saying that she was a bit alarmed by Molotov’s tone in his telegraphs. You know what he’s like.”

Hickok snorted. “He’s a bully. They all are.” She leaned toward Mia. “Don’t ever let them cow you. If I’d let big-shot politicos, domestic or foreign, browbeat me, I’d never have made it as a journalist. And Eleanor would never have stood up to the Daughters of the American Revolution.” She glanced toward Mia. “You must know what she did for Marian Anderson when the DAR refused to let her sing in Constitution Hall.”

“I know that she arranged an outdoor concert for her at the Lincoln Memorial. I heard it on the radio.”

Eleanor was more conciliatory. “The Daughters of the American Revolution has always been an all-white patriotic association. And then, of course, Washington was still very segregated in 1939. I’d hoped that Anderson’s fame—and pressure from the press, other artists, and politicians—would create an exception for her, but the DAR stood fast in their refusal.”

“But you did create a scandal, didn’t you?” Lorena beamed with wicked pleasure over the top of her cup.

“You mean by resigning? Yes, I suppose I did. But my real ally was the Secretary of the Interior, who helped me arrange the concert at the Lincoln Memorial. On Easter Sunday, no less. And the park estimated that seventy-five thousand people showed up.”

“I remember being thrilled by it, for her, for you, and for a government that had crossed the color line. And it has to cross that line. We can’t claim to be the bastion of freedom when we discriminate against our own citizens.”

Hickok tilted her head admiringly. “Oh, looks like we have a live wire here, Eleanor. We’re going to have to keep an eye on this one.” She bumped elbows with Mia.

Mia smiled weakly at the compliment. She would never have used the term “live wire” for herself.

The teapot was empty now and Eleanor was folding her napkin, a polite but unmistakable gesture. “It was lovely chatting with you, my dear,” Eleanor said.

Mia pushed back her chair. “A pleasure for me, too, and now I have Russian complaints to translate. Thank you so much for the tea, Mrs. Roosevelt.”

She edged toward the door leading to her own tiny space.

“Quite all right. Do let us know if the boys make too many demands on you.”

Mia smiled at the word “boys” and stepped through into her cubicle.

She sat down at her desk, no larger than that of the First Lady, and stared at the dispatches. Two realities seemed to run in parallel at the White House, the political and the personal. The men were dealing with armaments, international diplomatic confrontations, posturing, and the clash of armies, while the women worked with polite letters and pots of tea for democracy at home. Two forms of politics, the global and the intimate.

This was going to be interesting.