The following morning we reported to Litvinov in his office and handed over the texts of the international student assembly declaration and the ‘Slavic Memorandum’. The ambassador thanked us for our work and said that we had demonstrated a high level of ideological and political training, a capacity for public speaking and an ability to stand up for Communist ideals in debates with bourgeois opponents. He informed us that our American partners had offered to extend the stay of the student delegation and send us on a tour around US cities to give greater publicity to the activities of the countries in the anti-Hitler coalition. The USSR embassy had accepted this proposal.
We were not overjoyed at this decision. Vladimir Pchelintsev and I dreamed of getting home as soon as we could because fierce combat had begun on the Stalingrad front at the end of July. The Germans were storming towards the Volga. At the beginning of August units of Hitler’s 6th Army had drawn near to the outskirts of Stalingrad.
Soviet forces showed determined resistance to the invaders, but, with their numerical superiority, the enemy had closed in on the streets of the city and there were constant skirmishes there. Events were settling into a positional war and consequently it was the best time for snipers to go into action. We had no intention of resting on our laurels: Vladimir had got 154 Fritzes and I had 309, and we both wanted to increase our fighting tally on the firing lines of the city beside the great Russian river.
Litvinov calmly listened to our arguments, reminded us that officers must always carry out the orders of the Red Army’s supreme commander-in-chief and suggested that we get ready for the trip to New York on Sunday, 6 September. This was a national holiday in the USA – Labour Day. We would set off in the early morning on the Washington–New York express train and were required to wear our parade uniform.
At the station in New York the delegation was greeted as usual by journalists. But they were not given the chance to indulge fully in their antics and were kept at a distance. We were seated in a car and, under police escort and to the wail of sirens and the racket of motorbike engines, taken to the main entrance of Central Park. There, a big crowd had gathered. Some burly lads in jackets and caps, but with a military bearing, hoisted us onto their shoulders and carried us up to the stage. The city’s mayor, Fiorello La Guardia, announced through the microphone that the representatives of the heroic Red Army had arrived and voiced his admiration for the titanic struggle of the Russian people against the German Fascists. The crowd in the park responded to the mayor with an enthusiastic roar. This was followed by a performance from the black singer Paul Robson, who sang in Russian the song by the composer Dunayevsky, ‘Broad is my Native Land’.
The meeting concluded with the presentation of a symbolic gift to the Soviet guests – a medallion skilfully carved from sea oak in the shape of a heart, with a silver disc in the middle and the inscription: ‘For active participation in the struggle against Fascism’. I was the one who had to accept the gift. After this, a speech in reply had to be made – brief but intelligible. ‘Dear friends,’ I began, ‘sensing his inevitable destruction, the Fascist beast is making desperate attempts to strike a blow at our united nations before we Allies do it to him. It is a matter of life and death for the freedom-loving peoples of every country to harness all our forces to render assistance to the front. More tanks, more planes, more ordnance, you glorious American toilers!’
Amplified by the microphone, my voice soared over the hushed crowd and its echo resounded along the most distant paths of the park. Of course, the residents of New York did not understand what I had said until the interpreter had spoken, but they caught the intonation. I wanted to convey my fervour to the crowd, to arouse compassion for our people, to evoke a response in their hearts. It appeared to come off. The crowd responded first with a restrained roar and then with a storm of applause and shouts of approval.
This was followed by an official dinner hosted by the consul-general of the USSR, Victor Alexeyevich Fedyushin. There was an evening reception in the premises of the association of fur-dealers, where we were given presents: for me – a floor-length raccoon-fur coat, while the lads received luxurious beaver-skin jackets. The fur-dealers assembled a distinguished table of guests; present were many representatives of business circles, civil servants from the city authorities and figures from the world of art and culture.
It was then that I was introduced to one William Patrick Jonson, owner of a metallurgical company and a millionaire.1 I found nothing out of the ordinary in him. A fairly tall gentleman of about thirty-five, of average build and a pleasant exterior, like everyone else at the reception he lightly brushed my hand with his lips and said a few quite banal words about my looks and my brilliant address at the meeting in Central Park, where, it turned out, he had been present. The only thing out of the ordinary was his insistent invitation to visit his estate on the outskirts of New York, where he had a collection of paintings by Russian avant-garde artists from the beginning of the twentieth century. I had a very vague idea of the avant-garde figures and a good knowledge only of the Peredvizhniki or ‘itinerant’ artists and particularly appreciated the paintings of the war artist Vasily Vereshchagin.
Individual trips and contacts of this kind were forbidden for us. I had to tell Mr Jonson with a smile that, unfortunately, our tight schedule of appearances would not allow me any opportunity to accept his invitation. I regarded our conversation as over and the meeting as our last. But there was more to come.
Inspired by the resounding success of the meeting in New York, the organizers from the International Student Service, the embassy of the Soviet Union and the administration of the US president planned one further publicity trip – on 10 September, to the large city of Baltimore, on the Atlantic coast. There was an excellent motorway there from Washington with many traffic lanes. We set off in the morning in an embassy car and arrived in the middle of the day. Again we were met by a police escort – the wail of sirens and lines of motor-cyclists in white helmets and black jackets. On the way to meet the mayor we saw people standing at the roadside waving to us in welcome and shouting greetings.
Another meeting in the city square, another speech from me, again the roar of the crowd and banners in Russian and English reading ‘Long live the Red Army!’, ‘Welcome to the fighters against Fascism’ and ‘We support the opening of a second front’. This was followed by an official reception at the mayoralty involving distinguished Baltimore citizens. And here again William Patrick Jonson – true, in a different suit this time with grey stripes – came up to me and said that he was very glad to see me once more, that in Baltimore he had a cousin who owned a huge department store, which included an outstanding section of ready-made clothing, and would Mrs Pavlichenko not like to visit it, because it had recently taken delivery of the latest fashions from London. When he had finished speaking, a middle-aged woman dripping in diamonds came up to us; this was, of course, Mr Jonson’s cousin. She informed me with a smile that the costumes for my figure were simply incredibly nice and suggested that I immediately go for a fitting. Jonson added that he would like to make me a present of any dress that took my fancy.
This was much more serious and the persistent millionaire needed to be given a rebuff, but in a mild, courteous and diplomatic way. I explained that I liked good clothes, but I was under orders from Comrade Stalin. Both local property owners were surprised: what orders could there be for a beautiful young woman if she wished to renew her wardrobe? I asked them if President Roosevelt gave them orders or if they acted only from their own economic compulsion. While the two relatives were collecting their thoughts, Nikolai Krasavchenko appeared beside me; he had a special knack of doing this at the right moment. I took his arm and quickly walked away to the opposite end of the room.
The following day, 11 September, our delegation returned to Washington. Some pleasant news awaited us at the embassy. The US president and his wife had invited the Soviet students to spend a week at their family estate, Hyde Park, 80km from New York on the Hudson River. Also invited, in addition to the Russians, were other participants in the international student assembly: Richard Miles and Dave Scott from Britain, Johann Walter from Holland and Yoon Wang from China. We would go by train and the First Lady would meet us at the station.
The Roosevelt estate was vast, beautiful, and well-endowed with modern facilities. It would not be possible to cover the whole area in a day. A park with straight paths, flowerbeds, lawns, gazebos and wooden benches merged inconspicuously with thick forest which occupied an area of at least 3km2. Not far from the centre of the estate, with its two-storey stone house, lay a large lake. One shore was overgrown with reeds and had quite a wild look, while the other was well tended. There was a bathing shed, and coloured piers stretched into the clean, clear water. Next to them boats moored to posts swayed in the light breeze.
After breakfast I set off for a stroll. My interest was drawn by a strange narrow craft, seemingly covered in leather, with a small seat in the middle and short oars in rowlocks. At one time, back home in Belaya Tserkov, my sister Valentina and I enjoyed taking a flat-bottomed boat called the Cossack Oak out on the river Ros. Without pondering for long, I jumped into the American ‘Indian’ canoe (which was what it was called, it later turned out), pushed off from the jetty and plied the oars.
The boat sped forward as easily as a bird, but it had quite a shallow draught. One sharp turn and I ended up in the cold water, as the canoe had capsized.
My attempt to retrieve my felt hat was not crowned with success. It quickly sank. I was also unable to restore the boat to its former position; my hands slipped on its sheer wet sides, which really were made of leather. All I could do was swim to the shore, towing the boat after me. Standing there were two witnesses to the event: Richard Miles and Dave Scott.
The noble English gentlemen stood there, shifting from one foot to the other, not knowing what to do: whether to rescue the maiden and the boat, which would have meant taking their clothes off and entering the water, or to call the servants for help, which would have required running to the central part of the estate, although that was not far away. They just stood anxiously by the water’s edge, loudly discussing the situation. They were soon presented with an unusual sight: an officer of the Red Army emerging from the water in wet clothes which dramatically revealed the shape of her body.
When I saw their serious faces, I could not stop myself laughing. To be honest, it was hilarious to be doing such stupid things in a foreign country. To set off in an unfamiliar watercraft for the other end of the lake, to splash around in the water, diving for my hat, and emerge onto the shore before the eyes of two young idiots, who goggled at me as if they had just seen a Martian invasion.
Still laughing, I made my way to my guest cottage, situated quite a long way from the lake, behind the two-storeyed house. The wet collar of my knitted jacket was clinging to my neck. The flaps of my semi-woollen dress had become heavy and made it difficult to walk. The water sloshed around repulsively in my shoes. But I could not undress right there! And it would be cold with no clothes on.
There was a brisk September wind, not warm at all, and the air temperature was no more than 16 degrees. ‘Lyudmila!’ The alarmed voice of the First Lady suddenly rang out as she opened a window on the ground floor of the hosts’ house. ‘What happened?’
‘I was swimming in the lake without a bathing costume.’
‘But the weather’s not at all suitable for bathing. You need to change your clothes quickly. Come over here.’
Mrs Roosevelt met me in the vestibule and took me to her study and bedroom, which was connected to a bathroom and toilet. On the way and still smiling, I jokingly told her about the boat’s insidious behaviour, the felt hat sinking like a stone and the sons of Albion who were mortally afraid of the water and had probably not seen women en déshabillée.
Eleanor brought a big napped towel and held it out to me. In wet shoes, I was afraid to step on the luxurious Persian carpet on her study floor. ‘Undress in the bathroom,’ she said. ‘I’ll be right back.’
The president’s wife returned in about fifteen minutes. She was carrying some pyjamas of her own, scissors and a box containing needles and thread. I waited for her, wrapped up in the towel. I left my wet clothes, underclothes, stockings and shoes in the bathroom and stood barefoot on the carpet, highly embarrassed at what had occurred. In the big mirror on the dressing table I saw my own reflection: damp tangled hair, and bare shoulders, arms and legs because the towel, although 1.5 metres wide, did not cover my entire figure.
Eleanor gave me a passing glance, smiled and called the maid. She explained to her what to do with the things in the bathroom: to wash them if they were spattered, then dry, iron and bring them back. The rather stout, black, middle-aged maid wearing a white cap over her wavy black hair and a white apron with a lace border, nodded in agreement while giving me an occasional glance. The president’s guests had probably never appeared in front of the servants in such a risqué state of dress. The maid left and Eleanor turned to me: ‘You need to change into my pyjamas.’
‘But we are not the same height.’
‘Never mind! I’ll shorten the sleeves and the legs.’
‘By yourself?’ I was surprised beyond measure.
‘Yes, my friend. Or do you think that women from the Roosevelt family are ladies of leisure? I assure you, all American woman really know how to work . . .’
To start with, she laid the pyjamas on the wide bed. Completely new, and made from thick pink satin with violets embroidered on the collar, cuffs and pockets, they were plainly not a cheap garment. But Eleanor enthusiastically snipped along them with the scissors and then took a long tape measure out of the box. After all, prior to cutting, one should take measurements precisely and not just do it by eye.
Deftly employing this tailor’s implement, the First Lady swiftly determined the length of my arms, after which she went behind me to measure the width of my shoulders. The towel reached only to my armpits and Mrs Roosevelt caught sight of the long, reddish, forked scar stretching diagonally from my right shoulder blade to my spine. It shocked her; she took a step back and exclaimed: ‘Good Lord! What is that, Lyudmila?’
‘The result of a piece of metal,’ I answered, as at that time I did not know the English words ‘scar’, ‘splinter’ and ‘shell’, and thus resorted to substitutes.
‘But how did the metal get in?’ Eleanor cautiously touched the scar with her finger.
‘In December last year, at Sevastopol.’
‘Fighting the Germans?’
‘Yes,’ I affirmed.
‘My poor girl!’ Mrs Roosevelt impulsively hugged me and brushed my forehead with her lips. ‘What dreadful ordeals you’ve had to endure.’
The president’s wife spoke with genuine compassion, even pain. I believed her, even though our first meeting at breakfast at the White House had not boded well for mutual understanding. Perhaps she now recalled the words of hers that I had found offensive. There had been something she did not like in my behaviour at the time and, being experienced in public debate, she had decided to inflict a light blow with her lance against the armour – as she saw it – of the strange ‘Sevastopol Amazon’. But she had received a response that was blunt and to the point. Possibly, after this, Eleanor began to wonder if there was something mysterious in Russian people that was impenetrable to Anglo-Saxons. She wanted to get to the bottom of this mystery.
When Franklin Delano Roosevelt, who was wondering at our absence from the dining room with dinner approaching, arrived in his wheelchair in the half of the house occupied by his wife, he came across us in the bedroom. We were sitting on the wide bed, absorbed in sewing. The task of remodelling the pyjamas was in progress and coming to an end. Bright pieces of cloth lay around us, as well as scissors, cotton threads and needles stuck into shreds of satin. We were having a lively discussion about present-day fashions: the best dress cut for each of us, the most beautiful colours, finishing touches and suitable jewellery accessories. I had already put the pyjama top on; however, on seeing the US president, I leapt to my feet in surprise and, holding the towel around my hips, blurted out: ‘I beg your pardon, Mr Roosevelt!’
He burst out laughing. In his view, it was a very amusing scene. Here were two women widely different in age, upbringing, education and social position, not to mention the language barrier, but nothing hindered them from chatting enthusiastically about absolute trivialities. Having discovered a complete coincidence of views on various aspects of life, they were looking at each other in delight and enjoying a frivolous conversation about nothing. It was not providing them with any new information, did not pretend to any serious conclusions and inferences, but nevertheless it was already into its second hour.
In the evening a strong wind blew up on the Hudson, the sky clouded over, and rain started, soon turning into a downpour. The fire was lit in the dining room, which was very timely, because in the spacious room where dinner was served the glass panes in the window frames were shuddering from the stormy gusts. The dismal autumn weather, it seemed, had penetrated the walls of the big stone house and filled it with the damp rising from the Hudson.
Harry Hopkins, the presidential adviser already familiar to us, arrived at Hyde Park for supper. He had brought some papers from Washington and proved pleasant company at the table. Hopkins did not drink alcohol or eat salty, spicy or fried food because of a stomach operation the previous year on account of a cancerous tumour. But this did not have the slightest effect on his mood and he amused the company with witty commentaries on recent events. I noticed that Eleanor was particularly pleased at his arrival. She forewarned the adviser that she wished to discuss a particular problem with him.
The seven days on the Roosevelt estate soon flew by. We returned to Washington and paid another visit to our ambassador, Maxim Litvinov. He conveyed to us the decision taken in Moscow with regard to the further activities of the student delegation. To our great surprise, we learned that the delegation would be split into two. Krasavchenko and Pchelintsev would set off on a tour around the cities in the north-east of the USA: Cleveland, Buffalo, Albany, Pittsburgh, Richmond and others – to meet with students in colleges and universities. I would go to the West and Midwest: Chicago, Minneapolis, Denver, Seattle, San Francisco, Fresno and Los Angeles. The two lads and I bade one another an amicable farewell on 24 September. I knew that during the tour I would often be accompanied by Mrs Roosevelt. The presence of the First Lady determined the level of the meetings with Americans: receptions with the governors of various states or at mayoralties, business lunches, suppers for business circles, press conferences for local newspapers and radio stations.
Gathering speed, the presidential limousine with bullet-proof windows sped along the empty highway, with a security car in front of us and another one behind. The houses and streets of Dearborn, a suburb of Detroit, one of the oldest cities in the American Midwest, faded into the distance. We had only just finished our visit to the headquarters of the Ford Motor Company, the biggest in the USA and famous throughout the world.
It had begun with a visit to the aircraft works, where the twin-engine bombers known to Americans as the ‘Tin Goose’ were manufactured.2 We were shown the entire assembly process, from the welding of the frame out of metal tubes and the stamping of the Duralumin wings in a huge mechanical press right through to the main conveyor belt where the war machine acquired its menacing appearance. An explanation was provided by a Mr Lawrence [TN: or Laurence?], the director of the enterprise.
In the factory management building the guests were met by the ‘automobile king’ himself, the members of his family and staff from the company’s top management. Henry Ford, a cheerful, lean old man, was eager to meet me, presented me with a ‘Ford Motor Company’ gold badge and asked permission to have a photograph taken with me and Eleanor Roosevelt, who had also come on this trip. The reporters immediately rushed forward, clicked their cameras with their bright flashlights, and began to ask questions about the factory, the bombers and American military power.
The representatives of the press were not invited to lunch. A modest repast of sandwiches, doughnuts and Coca-Cola was set out for a small group of us. The founder and owner of the company made a brief patriotic speech, the mayor of Dearborn spoke and then the floor was given to me. The reception lasted exactly thirty minutes. There was no getting away from it: in the empire of Henry Ford, as nowhere else, ‘time was money’.
I was very surprised by the behaviour of the workers. They were assembled in some sort of warehouse, probably about 300 of them, no more. They were gloomy, unsmiling and somehow preoccupied men wearing dark-blue company overalls. I was asked to speak briefly and to avoid Communist slogans or invocations. And I did so; I passed on greetings to the proletarians of America from the working people of the Soviet Union who were waiting for help in their struggle against German Fascism. In response there was none of the usual applause, questions or good wishes. As I left, they rose in silence from their seats.
‘An enemy of the working people!’ I said sarcastically, gloomily looking through the car windows at the trees along the roadside which had been touched by autumnal wilting and were losing their leaves.
‘You’re wrong, my dear,’ replied Eleanor with a smile.
‘But how does he treat his workers? They’re worse than dumb cattle hassled by guard dogs. Why did they remain silent?’
‘They are the working aristocracy. Ford pays well. They have something to lose. Yes, he keeps an eye on them: go to church, don’t drink whisky, don’t gamble, support your family, don’t join a trade union, don’t go on strike . . . They were afraid to talk to you. You’re from Communist Russia.’
‘Fine!’ I thumped my knee with my fist. ‘Next time I’ll have something to tell the Americans!’
The driver and the security agent sitting beside him, separated from the passengers by a glass partition, could not hear our conversation. The gentle hum of the engine was no hindrance to it. The car travelled at the constant speed set down for presidential corteges on intercity routes. From Detroit we travelled to Chicago, a distance of a little over 450km, and the journey took over five and a half hours.
The flat expanses of the state of Michigan spread out on either side of the road. Evidently, Eleanor had specially chosen this route in order to show me the Midwest of her native land with its small, homely cities – Ann Arbor, Albion, Kalamazoo, Benton Harbor. Then the highway turned towards the shores of the huge Lake Michigan, which was like a sea. Here the landscape changed. The mirror surface of the water was occasionally hidden by hills and small woods. Numerous small islands were visible close to the shore. The further south we went, the more we encountered beautiful sand dunes, which were quite high.
The First Lady gave a detailed, witty and entertaining commentary. She loved the USA and had a superb knowledge of it; she had traversed the length and breadth of it while helping her husband in his election campaigns and carrying out various commissions for the president. She wanted me to get to know America better. Of course, the heart of a junior lieutenant belonged wholly and completely to the great country of Russia, she joked, but it was useful for anyone to see other countries and understand the life of other peoples.
Mrs Roosevelt tried hard to speak English slowly and simply, using only the simple present tense. However, given my lack of experience in communicating in a foreign language, even speech composed of short sentences demanded intense concentration and, over the five hours of the trip, pretty well exhausted me. Apart from that, I was not used to travelling by car, even in one as comfortable as the presidential Cadillac.
In fact, I did not get to see the splendid suburbs of Chicago Cicero and Oak Park because I had fallen asleep with my head on the First Lady’s shoulder. I was hugely embarrassed when I awoke when the car stopped. Eleanor smiled as if nothing was the matter.
‘Please, wake up, my darling. We are in Chicago.’
For the meeting the Chicago authorities had selected Grant Park, a historic area set out in the French style on the shores of Lake Michigan. It was a vast and highly developed space with lawns, flowerbeds, bike tracks, the Buckingham fountain and a statue of Abraham Lincoln, as well as a concert stage. This stage was decked out with the flags of the countries in the anti-Hitler coalition, the USA, Great Britain, the USSR and China, and portraits of their leaders: Roosevelt, Churchill, Stalin and Chiang Kai-shek. News of the meeting and an invitation to attend it had been published in the city newspaper, the Chicago Tribune.
Among the honoured guests at the meeting were Eleanor Roosevelt and Fred Myers, director of the charitable community organization Russian War Relief, which was set up in July 1941 by US Communists and liberal sympathizers, mainly drawn from the creative intelligentsia (for instance, actor Charlie Chaplin, film director Orson Welles and artist Rockwell Kent). The meeting was also to be attended by a representative of the US army, Colonel Stephen Douglas, who had come from the Fort Knox military base in the state of Kentucky, adjacent to Illinois. To me fell the honour of representing the Red Army.
As usual, the meeting was opened by the city mayor. After a brief account of the anti-Hitler coalition and the USA’s participation in it, he yielded the floor to me. I stepped forward to the microphone. Quite a crowd had assembled before me. I could clearly discern the faces of the people in the front rows – mainly men aged between thirty and forty. They were looking at me quite affably and smiling. I began with a few sentences about the war now raging in far-off Russia, then paused and sharply raised my voice: ‘Gentlemen! I am twenty-five years old. At the front I have already wiped out 309 Fascist soldiers and officers. Don’t you think, gentlemen, that you have been hiding for too long behind my back?’
Looking round at me in amazement, the interpreter translated the sentences, trying to preserve my intonation. For a few seconds the crowd was silent. Then a real storm broke out over the old park. The people yelled, chanted, something, whistled, stamped their feet, and applauded. Journalists rushed towards the stage. Also heading there, and pushing the reporters out of the way, were those who wanted to make a donation to the fund for assisting the USSR, which the Chicago mayor had requested when he opened the meeting and for which special Russian War Relief collection boxes had been set up in front of the stage. There were also some enthusiasts who wished to give their donation immediately and just to me. Large security guards quickly formed a line in front of the stage and prevented them from causing disorder.
I was still standing by the microphone with my arms lowered and my fingers clasped. The outburst of public emotion seemed too strong and I had not reckoned on anything like this when I composed my speech. It was just that, after the setback at the Ford works, I wanted to think of something that would immediately get through to them, to the fortunate, relaxed and extraordinarily calculating residents of the continent discovered by Columbus.
As I was informed later, an account of the meeting in Chicago and my address there were published on the front pages of many American newspapers. Reuters spread it round the whole world and accompanied it with a positive commentary. They wrote that I had vividly and accurately expressed the essence of the position now taken by the Anglo-Americans with regard to Russia’s bloody struggle against the German invaders.
At a reception in the evening, arranged by the Chicago mayor, I was formally presented with a beautifully printed certificate and a golden badge reading ‘Honorary Citizen of the USA’,3 an award established in this city. It was a select company in the hall: ladies in evening gowns and gentlemen in dinner jackets. My khaki tunic adorned only with the Order of Lenin, the medal ‘For Military Service’ and my ‘Guard’ and ‘Sniper’ badges in glittering red and white enamel probably looked ostentatiously modest in this setting. But that was the wish of the organizers and I fulfilled it. Many people spoke to me about Soviet–American cooperation in the war and the necessity of opening a second front in Europe. It would be good to back these words up with deeds, I thought. There were many and various pleasant words said about me. I knew how to respond: with a smile, calmly and imperturbably, but without arrogance.
However, it turned out to be difficult to maintain this imperturbability to the end. William Patrick Jonson appeared – suddenly, it could be said – at the end of this smart function. I did not immediately recognize him among the other gentlemen: the same dinner jacket, white shirt, bow-tie, dark hair with a parting, the standard American expression (‘Everything’s fine with me, I’m happy’), and a genteel smile.
‘How did you get in here?’ was all I could say in response to his flowery welcome.
‘Oh, quite simply, Mrs Pavlichenko,’ he replied sadly. ‘I followed you in my car from Detroit. Unfortunately, they would not let me in to the Henry Ford headquarters. He has very strict security.’
‘Isn’t it strict here?’
‘Here it’s a different matter. There’s a metal works in East Chicago. About 30 per cent of its shares belong to me. It wasn’t difficult to talk to the manager, and here . . .’
‘Listen, William,’ I interrupted this strange man, who, judging by everything that was happening, was pursuing me quite deliberately. ‘Do you have so much free time?’
‘I have no time.’ Jonson sighed. ‘You see, I’m a widower. My wife, a beautiful young woman, died a year and a half ago from a brain tumour. I read in the paper that your husband also lost his life in combat at Sevastopol.’
‘Yes, he did.’
‘Therefore, I wish to make you a proposal of marriage.’
‘You’re out of your mind!’ I replied bluntly, although I tried to retain the same affable expression on my face.
‘Mrs Pavlichenko, I loved you from the moment I saw you at the meeting in Central Park in New York. You are an extraordinary woman and impossible to resist. My heart tells me that you are my only choice.’
‘This is not the place for conversations like this.’
‘Of course, it’s not.’ The metallurgical company owner looked happy. ‘Tell me where we can meet.’
The reception was coming to a close, and the guests had begun to leave the hall. They were bidding farewell, exchanging some courtesies, and few paid attention to my conversation with William Jonson. Only Eleanor kept her eyes on me. She instantly guessed that I needed help. Looking over the crowd, the First Lady decisively made her way towards us. The millionaire was not pleased at the arrival of the president’s wife. He immediately stepped back, bowed and left, without looking back.
Somewhat unnerved, I explained to Mrs Roosevelt what had happened. She promised to make enquiries about Jonson. Other than that, she hastened to introduce me to Colonel Stephen Douglas from the Fort Knox military base and to the chairman of the Chicago Sharpshooters’ Association, a Mr MacCormick. They invited me to meet with members of the association at their shooting club the following day. I agreed.
Over the course of our Young Communist League youth delegation’s stay in the United States some local journalists had attempted a number of times to verify their hypothesis that the insidious Bolsheviks had sent over not snipers but specially trained propagandists and agitators who had never been at the front. With this in mind, they imposed on the delegates’ visits to military units and officers’ clubs which kept manual firearms, as well as their visit to a firing range, which involved some target shooting. Therefore I was not in the slightest surprised when I saw an eager young man with a notepad at the Chicago Shooting Association premises and two solidly built gentlemen with cameras.
On the other hand, for me personally it was interesting to view American snipers’ weapons, and I was given such an opportunity. First I picked up a Garand M1 self-loading rifle and then a manually operated Springfield M1903. Both were equipped with Weaver telescope sights. As usual I ran my fingers along the breech, barrel and muzzle, and examined the trigger mechanism and the magazine. The Garand was very reminiscent of the SVT-40, operated by diverting propellant gas through a special port in the bore to unlock the breech. The Springfield, with its sliding bolt, was like the Mosin Three Line. Apart from that, the non-automatic safety catch made it similar to the German army Mauser Zf. Kar. 98k, which I also knew well.
The Americans kept a constant watch on what I was doing. The image of a beauty who had just seen a rifle for the first time apparently fell away immediately and they began to smile. With the aid of an interpreter, I explained to the Allies how their weapons resembled or differed from Soviet models. In essence I had to give a short lecture – as if they were new soldiers in my platoon who had arrived at Sevastopol from unoccupied territory. The members of the shooting association listened to me very attentively, and the reporter with the pad quickly lost interest in the meeting because no unmasking or other sensational event occurred.
From the armoury we next set off for the firing range. I will not deny that I was nervous. I had not held a sniper rifle in my hands for a month and a half, whereas a true professional ought to practise at least twice a week. Nor did I have too much faith in the American weapons. But they turned out to be of quite good quality and the firing range was superbly equipped. I enjoyed the target shooting as usual and almost all my bullets hit the bull’s eye.
From the firing range the marksmen proceeded in a harmonious, merry band to a hall where refreshments were served for them. On the table were strong alcoholic beverages like gin, whisky and brandy. The association was mainly made up of former soldiers and officers of the US army, many of whom had taken part in the First World War and actually served as snipers. But they did not drink much. A single measure amounted to 40ml. I agreed to drink two toasts with them: to military cooperation and to the opening of a second front. After this, relations became more open and direct. The veterans eagerly shared their memories and I heard some interesting stories about their weapons, camouflage methods, duels with the enemy, and so on.
At the end of the visit a pleasant surprise awaited me. To the sound of loud applause, the chairman of the Chicago association, Mr McCormick, presented me with a gift – a Colt M1911A1 in a mahogany box, which contained various accessories plus two magazines with cartridges. On the lid was a silver disc with an inscription to mark the occasion. Without holding back, I immediately picked up the weapon. The powerful .45-calibre pistol really appealed to me. The inventor of this item was that world-renowned arms engineer of genius, John Moses Browning. The Colt firm had simply concluded a contract with him. The pistol had been adopted by the US army in 1911. It was purchased for Russia by way of Britain during the First World War (and also by a number of other European countries), but I had never seen a Colt in the hands of our own military servicemen.4
On returning to the hotel, I dismantled the gift into its component parts in order to become better acquainted with its mechanism. I was distracted from this by Eleanor. The pistol had to be reassembled and put away in its box. In the meantime the First Lady ordered dinner by room service because, like my appearance at the local Grant Park, restaurant visits usually turned into a marathon of autograph signing, which really irritated me.
The dinner was delivered, and Mrs Roosevelt and I sat at the table. She looked at me with a smile. ‘I have good news for you, my dear.’
‘What is it?’
‘William Patrick Jonson really does own a metallurgical company. He really did become a widower a month and a half ago [TN: sic.]. A severe illness suddenly took away his charming young wife.’
‘Why is that good for me?’
‘You could consider his proposal.’
‘Are you serious, Eleanor?’
‘Why not, my dear?’ The First Lady reached for the salad dish. ‘You would be marrying a gentleman of means who is madly in love with you and would guarantee you a happy life to the end of your days. You would remain in our country and we would be able to meet. I am appreciative of this unlikely chance presented to us by the whims of fate.’
‘I don’t like Mr Jonson.’
‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed the president’s wife. ‘You have only seen him three times. You could be mistaken. He is a very nice, pleasant, well-bred man.’
‘No, I’m not mistaken!’ I got up from the table, took a fresh copy of the city newspaper Chicago Tribune and handed it to Eleanor. ‘Look at this! “Mrs Pavlichenko is in raptures over American food. At breakfast today she ate five helpings.” Blatant lies! Where did they get it from? Did they question the waiters? Or examine the restaurant bill? Why are they obsessed with such nonsense? In your country I feel like the butt of jokes, the object of idle curiosity, something like a circus act. Like a bearded woman. But I’m an officer of the Red Army. I have fought and will go on fighting for the freedom and independence of my country.’
The beginning of my speech was, of course, too emotional, even angry. In my quest for the right words I crossed from English into Russian, and then, realizing, went back to English. I thought Mrs Roosevelt would take offence. But, having put her knife and fork aside, she was observing me with a tender smile. This was probably the way adults treat the antics of hooligan adolescents whom they nevertheless love. Eleanor did not interrupt me and merely nodded her head in agreement. I finished by saying that I was here exclusively on the orders of Comrade Stalin. It was within his power alone to prolong the stay of Junior Lieutenant Pavlichenko in the USA, or return her to the front, to a military unit fighting the German Fascist invaders.
‘Everything is OK, my darling.’ The wise Eleanor finally managed to insert a phrase in the middle of my disorderly outburst. ‘Please, in the meanwhile, forget about Mr Jonson. Tomorrow we will fly to Los Angeles.’
Like all southern cities, Los Angeles, the ‘City of Angels’, in the state of California, was heavily populated, noisy and diverse. It stood on the shores of the Pacific Ocean, in a valley shielded by mountains on one side. Autumn, which had already come in the US Midwest, was barely noticeable here. In the morning the sun bathed its streets with bright light and by midday it became unbearably hot. In the evening the cool descended on the blocks of skyscrapers and small houses on the outskirts, and all the residents of the City of Angels enjoyed the amazing sight of the sun setting over the boundless ocean.
Of the multitude of obligatory meetings and addresses, I would not single out one that was truly memorable and interesting, except for the trip to the Los Angeles suburb of Beverly Hills. There stood the mansions of successful Hollywood personalities: actors, directors, cinematographers and producers. With no prior warning, the staff of the Soviet consulate took me straight to the home of Charles Spencer Chaplin, and thus I became acquainted with this genius, humanist and great friend of the Soviet Union.
Chaplin opened the door himself and took me into the sitting room, where his friends and colleagues had gathered. I recognized the actor Douglas Fairbanks, who had played the main role in my favourite film, The Mark of Zorro, and the slightly aged but still attractive actress Mary Pickford. The remaining guests, apparently no less renowned, looked at me with the same off-hand curiosity characteristic of ordinary mortals.
Offering me a seat on a sofa, Chaplin performed a circus trick: he stood on his hands and made his way over to a basket of winebottles and came back holding a bottle of champagne – in his teeth. The bottle was uncorked, the glasses filled, and, lowering himself to the floor by my feet, the great artist proposed a toast to the speedy opening of a second front in Europe.
The artistic company then moved from the sitting room to a small cinema. Chaplin showed everyone his new film The Great Dictator, in which he amusingly parodied Hitler. The screening was followed by supper. Seating me beside him, the great artist and director began to ask me for my views on the film. I said that I liked the film, but nevertheless Fascism at the moment was more fearsome than funny. It was just that the people in Europe and America did not yet know about all the bestial crimes committed by the Nazis.
Charlie Chaplin played a big role in the activity of the charitable society Russian War Relief and helped to collect significant sums for the population of our country, to provide the Red Army with equipment and armaments. Conversation with him was absorbing. He was up to date with events on the Soviet–German front and asked me to give him a detailed account of the defence of Odessa and Sevastopol and also about serving as a sniper. My meeting with him ended in a very unexpected way. Getting down on one knee, Chaplin said that he was ready to kiss every finger on my hand for those 309 Fritzes who remained lying in Russian soil. To my extreme embarrassment, he immediately carried out his intention. Naturally the correspondents were terribly pleased and began clicking their cameras. A photograph appeared in American newspapers with the caption: Charlie Chaplin kneeling before a Russian woman officer and kissing her hand.
On 19 October 1942, the members of the student delegation assembled again within the walls of the USSR embassy in Washington. Litvinov listened to the reports of our travel around the country. He made jokes, smiled and paid compliments. In his words, we had achieved the almost impossible. Public opinion in the USA had gradually shifted in favour of the Soviet Union. The wild inventions of the ‘free press’ about Soviet people and life in the USSR had collapsed under the impact of meetings with these brave, happy young people, and particularly with the appealing girl clad in a simple tunic.
We sat before the ambassador and listened in silence to his extensive speech. We were waiting for the main news: when and how we would be dispatched back to Moscow. But Litvinov avoided this topic, although he realized, of course, that the delegates to the international student assembly were fed up to the back teeth of life in the public glare. We had had more than enough of American hospitality, American cuisine – which had absolutely nothing in common with traditional food in Russia – and the endless and persistent American interrogations about things that were understood by any teenager in our own country.
Finally, Maxim Maximovich informed us of the latest directive sent to him from the Kremlin: we were to continue the trip, visit Canada and then fly to Great Britain. The mission to Washington was being smoothly converted into a mission to London. We rose and headed for the door in the gloomiest spirits. However, the ambassador had a private question for me, and he asked me to stay behind in his office.
‘Did the trip with Eleanor Roosevelt go well?’ Litvinov asked.
‘Yes, very well.’
‘What do you have to say about William Patrick Jonson?’
‘How do you know about him?’ I could not conceal my amazement.
‘Read this.’ The ambassador took a thick sheet of paper from his desk and held it out to me. Without doubt this application from Mr Jonson to the embassy of the Soviet Union in the USA looked impressive. Written on embossed paper, witnessed by a notary and registered in his office under a three-digit number, it proclaimed that the owner of the metallurgical company ‘Jonson and Sons’, a half-million-dollar account in the Bank of America, and other shares in both moveable and fixed assets in the states of Illinois and New York, widower William Patrick Jonson requested the government of the Soviet Union to give permission for his marriage to citizen of the USSR Lyudmila Mikhailovna Pavlichenko and to register this marriage in accordance with the laws operative in the USSR at the present time.
I do not think that Jonson realized what consequences this application to the embassy could have for me. I also presume that somebody (quite probably Eleanor Roosevelt herself) had advised him to apply directly to the government of the Soviet Union. All this merely testified to the naivety of Americans, their boundless self-confidence and their absurd ideas about the world that lay beyond the bounds of their continent.
I put the application and the Russian translation attached to it on the ambassador’s desk and calmly declared: ‘Well, he’s out of his mind.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Litvinov sternly.
‘Of course.’
‘Then write a reply.’
‘What sort? To whom?’ I asked in surprise.
‘Mr Jonson’s letter arrived by post and was registered by the embassy chancellery. We must not only report back on this to the People’s Commissariat for Foreign Affairs, but also make an official response to the petitioner, again on an embassy form, and then dispatch it to the address on the envelope. Compose your letter in Russian and our interpreter will translate it.’
‘It’s hard to think of something straight away. It’s all very unexpected.’
‘The simplest way –’ Litvinov looked at me with great sympathy – ‘is to say you have a fiancé, that you have a love of your own awaiting you in Russia.’
In the meantime, the departure of the Soviet delegation for Great Britain kept being deferred. As great fans of bureaucratic casuistry, the English fussed around, whether determining the status of the visit (diplomatic, military or public) or agreeing on the aircraft (a passenger plane or a bomber?) or waiting for suitable weather, which, by the end of October, was becoming changeable.
Mrs Roosevelt was up to date with these preparations. When a date was agreed upon (1 November 1942) she invited us for a last supper at the White House. There, the First Lady presented gifts to each of us. First and foremost was a large photograph of herself in a black evening dress with the president’s portrait in the background and a dedication inscribed in the top right corner. Apart from the photograph, we received colourful albums containing pictures of Washington and New York, books and boxes of souvenirs of various kinds and sizes. I was given one additional box. Eleanor said with a smile that some American gentlemen, charmed by my looks, had decided to give me a set of jewellery. It did not occur to anyone to open the boxes right at the table laid for supper. The servants packed them in paper bags and took them out to the car.
It was only when I was back in my room that I looked at the gifts and, out of curiosity, I first opened the box covered with coloured fabric. Inside were diamond items set in gold, quite luxurious things: a necklace, two bracelets, a brooch and a ring. Appended was a docket for $8,000 from a jewellery shop, for all sorts of questions could arise during the customs inspection. Under the necklace I found a small photograph of William Jonson. On the back of it he had written: ‘My darling, we will meet again. To Luidmila with great love from W.P. Jonson’.
But I saw no more of Mr Jonson. I took his remarkable gift back to Moscow and put it away. In our capital and in other cities of the world I subsequently had occasion to attend formal receptions and wear beautiful evening dresses, for which these diamond adornments would have been quite suitable. However, I never wore them, nor did I show them to anyone. They remained in my home as a memento of the trip to the USA, of the American gentleman who had cherished a strange, inexplicable feeling in his heart.
My relations with Eleanor Roosevelt developed quite differently. We saw each other again in November 1942, in England. She had flown in for the first international youth congress, where our student delegation was also present. Little time elapsed after the final victory over Fascist Germany before the ‘Cold War’ began – thanks to that vicious enemy of the Soviet Union, United Kingdom Prime Minister Winston Leonard Spencer-Churchill. Neither US President Franklin Delano Roosevelt, who died in April 1945, nor his wife were complicit in this. Eleanor lost her previous, extremely significant, influence on policy, but, being a person of democratic convictions, continued her wide-ranging public and charity work.
We corresponded, passing on our family news to each other, exchanging views on interesting literary items and discussing trips to international congresses dedicated to the struggle for peace. At my invitation, Mrs Roosevelt visited our country twice: in 1957 and 1958. We spent a lot of time in Moscow and travelled together to Leningrad, where we went to theatres and visited the Hermitage and Russian Museum, Peterhof, Gatchina and Tsarskoye Selo. Eleanor coordinated arrangements for a return visit by me to the USA, but the State Department (evidently recalling my fiery speeches at meetings in 1942) did not give permission. Here is one of Mrs Roosevelt’s letters:
4 November 1957.
My dear Luidmila,
I was very glad to get your letter and I want to thank you warmly for the photographs. It was good of you to send me the photographs and I am happy to have them as a souvenir of our most pleasant reunion in Moscow.
Since my return I have spoken often of your warm welcome and the kindness you showed me. Trude and Joey Lash5 were delighted to hear we had met and they join me in sending you many warm messages.
I hope you will be able to visit us here soon again.
With deep appreciation and my good wishes.
Very cordially yours, Eleanor Roosevelt.6