Louise’s high hopes for getting money out of the meeting on Monday with the Soviet envoy were dashed.
First, she’d overestimated her ability to pitch ideas when there was no shared language, which also prevented her from turning on her usual charm. Louise had to rely on Natalya to do all the talking, while she sat there smiling like an idiot with no idea whether Natalya was making a good pitch or not. Second, she never for a moment thought that Oleg Sokolov would be there. When Natalya told her that they had a meeting with Envoy Abramov, Louise assumed they’d been invited to talk with the top man. Indeed, they did do all their talking with Abramov while Sokolov sat quietly, occasionally smiling and nodding but saying nothing. However, watching Abramov’s body language and his occasional glances at Sokolov for approval, Louise realized she’d been naïve about who really held the power. It was the secret police.
Envoy and Minister Plenipotentiary Abramov only took ten minutes to say he did not have any authority to be involved in a foreign private charity.
When Natalya relayed this answer to Louise, her first response was, “Well, there are some things our legations have in common.” She immediately followed with, “Tell him that he’s missing the point. We want to make it an official joint Soviet-US project. It’s not private charity. It’s …” She searched for a word. “It’s like foreign relations. It would be good publicity for both countries.”
“I think it best not to tell the envoy he’s missing the point,” Natalya said quickly. She turned, smiling, to Sokolov and Abramov. Louise couldn’t understand her words, but the meaning was clear: we are so grateful you spent time with us.
Natalya gave Louise a look that said, “I’m sorry,” and then she rose from her chair. Sokolov and Abramov rose as well. The two men gave a quick nod and Natalya smiled and bobbed her head down. She looked at Louise as she turned toward the door. Louise couldn’t remember the protocol lessons, so she shook hands and did a very shallow knee bend, then felt foolish. She should have asked Arnie before the meeting. Damn. It was so much easier in Oklahoma.
Giving the two men her best and brightest Delta Gamma smile, she said, “Bol’shoye spasibo vam,” as she’d learned from Arnie the night before. She turned to follow Natalya.
Then Sokolov said in English, “Please, one moment.”
She’d forgotten that he’d spoken English at the New Year’s Eve party. She smiled at him. “Mr. Sokolov?”
“Perhaps you ladies would like lunch?”
He turned to Natalya and presumably asked the same thing in Russian. Louise was certain only that she caught the briefest flicker of fear on Natalya’s face before she broke into a beautiful smile. As if she’d just been made Queen for a Day, Louise thought a little darkly.
“He wants to take us to lunch in the legation dining room,” Natalya said to her quietly in French. “Only the big bonnets eat there.” She said the latter phrase almost deferentially.
Louise stopped herself from a quip about the classless society. Instead, she turned on “you’re doing fine Oklahoma” in her head and, beaming at Sokolov, said, “We’d love to.”
If it was awkward in Abramov’s office, it was more so at lunch. Sokolov knew he was charming. Louise felt charmed and flattered. At the same time, however, she knew that Sokolov knew he was charming her. So, it felt somewhat like being in a play. She wondered if all diplomatic conversations were like this. It also occurred to her that maybe all the talk about Sokolov just wasn’t true. It didn’t jibe with this rather charming man talking to her over a perfectly nice lunch. Maybe it was all rumor. He could even encourage it, because it would make people afraid of him, a common strategy for gaining power.
She would normally have looked to Natalya for some insight on how to read this man. She needed her interpretation not just of the language but of the meaning behind the words. The problem was, because only Sokolov spoke Russian and English, he controlled the conversation, talking to Natalya in Russian and to her in English, isolating Louise from comparing notes with Natalya in French, which would have looked disrespectful at best, but, remembering Arnie’s reaction to her note to Natalya in French, suspicious, perhaps even dangerous for Natalya.
For Natalya, lunch was like sharing food with a rattlesnake. The food was of course excellent. The bosses ate well—and drank better. There were items on the menu that Natalya had only heard of but never seen, and Sokolov generously urged her and Louise to order anything they wanted. She hesitated, feeling a little guilty. Mikhail, who had access to such information, had told her several weeks earlier that tens of thousands, including children, were at this moment dying from starvation in the Ukraine. Mikhail explained it as a necessary cost of establishing Communist governments in Eastern Europe. Large quantities of grain were being sent from the Ukraine to keep Eastern Europeans from starving, lest they turn to the capitalists for help. A revolt in one of the recently occupied European countries would put a large hole in the buffer zone Comrade Stalin was building to protect Russia from the Western capitalist imperialists. So, Ukrainians starved. Comrade Stalin was cruel—she knew that—but he was no fool. Better some Ukrainian kulaks lose a little weight than lose another twenty million Russians to invasion from the West. Cruel times require cruel leaders. She pushed down a niggling thought that perhaps cruel leaders create cruel times.
She looked at the enticing menu items before her. Obviously, the food was already here. It couldn’t go to the Ukraine anyway. So, bosses ate better than the bossed. So what? She didn’t want to think on it any further. She’d always been told that the Party was there to make sure that everything was shared equally. Well, certainly it was true in Russia. But she’d never been to a boss’s lunchroom in Russia.
She ordered as many unfamiliar menu items as she could without making herself look ridiculous.
Natalya could see that Louise was getting more giggly than usual, laughing at Sokolov’s quips. Natalya was uncertain which of the two women he was playing to more. Probably both. Louise, bless her Oklahoma heart, was as wholesome, lovely, and innocent as Cosette in Les Misérables. She had long known that such innocence attracted men of power like Sokolov, who were far from innocent and seldom dealt with innocent people. She was also painfully aware of another difference between her and Louise. If she were to somehow anger or alienate Sokolov by rejecting him, for example, which she certainly would, he could seriously hurt her husband. If Sokolov made a play for her, it would only be an exercise in power, something that he probably did frequently and presented no challenge. Louise was under no such threat. If, however, he managed to seduce Louise, he’d brag about it for years.
The food was wonderful and eating it a rare opportunity, but Natalya felt a whisper of fear, as if she were hearing the quiet warning rattle of a pit viper. If she reached for a kotlety would the snake strike her hand?
Between the main course and dessert, Natalya managed to find some private time in the ladies’ room with Louise, who immediately asked her, “Why do you think he invited us lunch?”
“He’s just being polite,” she answered, annoyed at Louise’s impulsiveness. She rolled her eyes up at the ceiling. Louise looked puzzled for just a moment, then caught on.
Louise had been taught by both her mother and father to never accept a low-level no. By that they meant if some bureaucrat turned you down, you somehow got an appointment with the next bureaucratic level up and asked for the same favor. She’d further learned from Arnie that the indirect approach usually yielded more satisfactory battlefield results and with lower casualties than a direct assault. Having just before lunch perceived who really called the shots at the Russian legation in Helsinki, she’d decided to take up the cause of the orphanage with Sokolov directly. At lunch, she’d spent most of the time, up to now, softening him up. Now, however, over tea and dessert, it was time for the request.
She studied Sokolov as he studied the breasts of the young woman pouring the tea. His thick, dark hair was combed straight back, giving him a bohemian air. He had classic Slavic high cheekbones. On Natalya, they made her exotically beautiful. On Sokolov, they seemed to set his eyes back behind them, giving the impression that he was looking at you secretly.
The young woman finished serving the tea. Sokolov turned his attention back to Louise, without acknowledging the server at all. Louise felt that excitement of mutual attraction mixed with a little danger.
Careful, Louise, she thought to herself. She’d spent most of the war years with lonely women, all of whom are vulnerable to what she was feeling now, the titillation of being desired, even though she knew that she’d never cheat on Arnie. Even more pleasing, however, was being more desired than Natalya. Back then, it was just other lonely wives. Here, it was Natalya, more beautiful and sophisticated and probably more intelligent than any of them, including her.
She saw Natalya take a sip of her tea and look at her over the top of her cup. Louise could tell that Natalya knew what was going on.
She took a sip of her own tea and lowered it just enough for Sokolov to see her smile. “I haven’t had such good tea since, well”—she laughed—“I’ve never had such good tea.”
“Yes. Russia is known for it.”
“We Americans always think of the English.”
“They do have good tea. I was there in 1936.”
“So, that’s why your English is so good,” Louise gushed.
Sokolov smiled. Bingo.
“Mr. Sokolov—” Louise began.
“Please. Olezka.”
“Olezka,” she said, putting just the right amount of warmth into it. “I am not a diplomat.”
He nodded—of course. He waited to see where she was going.
“I come from a place called Oklahoma, where we speak plainly.”
“That sounds like a very nice sort of place.”
“It is.”
“You wish to speak plainly?”
Louise launched. “You were in the meeting with Envoy Abramov.” She smiled ruefully. “You know that it sort of flopped.”
“What is flopped?”
“Like a person flopped back on a bed.” She mimed it throwing her arms back. “Collapsed.”
“Yes. It flopped.” He paused just a bit and Louise tilted her head, encouraging him to continue. “He cannot find a way to give you money.” Then he stopped.
Louise knew he was waiting for her to move. So, she did.
“Natalya and I, as we explained, think a joint American-Soviet effort to help the orphans would look very good in these tense times.”
“Look good where?”
“With a little push, we could have it in newspapers and radio all over the world. Right now, the news is about nothing but tensions. Maybe it’s time for some positive publicity.”
“Publicity. Is that an American word for propaganda?”
Was he being serious or making a joke? “Let’s just say it means doing a good job and letting people know about it.”
Sokolov shrugged and made as if thinking it over. “It would, of course, have to be reviewed.”
“Of course. Of course. We’d do nothing like that without you having a look at it.” She leaned across the table toward him. “Can you help us? Just a little seed money. We can do the rest.”
He smiled. “Perhaps.” He shrugged again. “But, money is difficult.”
“I know that. But surely, it is a cause that the Soviet legation would love to be part of. It would help people understand just how generous and kind the Soviet Union really is.” She knew someone as sophisticated as Sokolov knew that they both knew the Soviet Union was neither generous nor kind, but publicity countering that fact was a good thing. “And Natalya would really like to help,” she continued. “You know she is an orphan.”
Hearing her name mentioned, Natalya turned toward Louise. “Natalya, tell him how you lost your parents.”
“No need,” she said. “He knows already. It’s what he does.”
“Oh.”
“It is usual.”
Sokolov was sipping his tea. He put down the cup and spoke to Natalya in Russian.
Natalya turned to Louise and said in French, “Whatever you said, he says he’s not opposed in principle. He, however, wants to know if we have a specific number in mind. Do we?”
Louise turned to Sokolov. She had worked this out before the meeting with Abramov, but they’d been dismissed before she could say it. She gave him the number.
There was no reaction at all. He simply blinked. Then he said, in English, “You understand, of course, that a joint effort would require joint funding.” He let that hang in the air.
Louise blanched inwardly but kept her positive face on. Did Sokolov somehow know that Hamilton had already turned her down? Could she make some headway with Hamilton if he knew—or more precisely if his masters back in Washington knew—that the funds would be matched by the Soviet legation?
“Of course,” she replied. “Max Hamilton has already assured us of his support.” She remembered arguing with her mother when she was in high school that all lies were bad. How could society function, she’d asked, if no one knew who was telling the truth and when? Her mother had actually taken her hand—something she rarely did—and looking into her eyes said, “You’re too young to understand white lies. They can be used honorably, but only by mature people.” She hoped the current lie and her level of maturity were the case. As soon as she told Sokolov that she had Hamilton’s support, implying that the money was guaranteed, she’d felt that same feeling she got climbing the back side of Suicide Rock at Wolfarth Lake, emerging from the cottonwoods out onto the open space next to the cliff’s edge to look down at her friends, all looking up at her and all wondering—including her—whether she would have the courage to jump.
Sokolov looked at her. He seemed to be studying her eyes. She felt like she was falling down the face of the cliff. It was too late now. The money would have to be found.
Sokolov said, “OK. I will see what can be done.”
Victory.
Sokolov spoke rapidly to Natalya, who nodded and smiled. “I have told Natalya there is no problem,” he said to Louise.
“I am so grateful.”
“So, that is behind us.” He smiled. “I understand your search for housing is not going well.”
“How do you know that?”
“Please, Mrs. Koski, shall we say I heard it … how do you say it … through the grapevine.” He smiled, but it was like someone knowing a secret.
She felt a chill. “Well, the grapevine has it right. I’m going crazy in that hotel of ours. We’ve been there over a month.”
“Finding suitable accommodations is always difficult,” he said evenly.
Louise nodded, smiling, wishing he were a little more sympathetic.
“And now”—Sokolov looked at his watch—“I am so sorry, but I have a meeting to attend in just a few minutes. It has been a pleasure meeting you.” He turned to Natalya. “Both of you.” He turned back to Louise. “Perhaps we could meet again, to let me know how your search is going.”
“Of course.” He then said something in Russian to Natalya, who bobbed a quick nod of her head. “Mrs. Koski,” he said as a farewell. He raised his hand with one finger in the air. A young man appeared from somewhere, clearly there to escort the two women out.
After the two women left, Sokolov put his elbows on the desk back in his office and cradled his face in his hands, overcome with longing. He could have wept for the feeling of loss, watching these two women during lunch, but he’d gone beyond weeping years ago. Last time he’d wept was for the death of his wife and two young daughters. He had been stationed on the Polish border when the German onslaught came. His wife and family had been at her parents’ house in Ukraine. He had not heard from them since. He’d searched for them for a year, but by June of 1942 there was still no trace of them, and he knew there never would be.
On that June day, he’d wept. Since then, he pursued his job of keeping his country and the Party safe from threats with grim determination. He’d tortured German prisoners and any German or German sympathizer he thought might have information that would help them destroy their German enemy. He’d tortured fellow Russians to make sure they weren’t enemies. He sent them all to their deaths, to make sure others would not become enemies if they were thinking about it. But that suspicion, that some might be thinking about betraying the Party, was shared by many—and that became an additional and frightening motivation all its own. The closer they got to Berlin and the end of the war, the more the motivation of uncovering the Party’s enemies faded and the motive of uncovering those who might be thinking about becoming the Party’s enemies grew—and became primary. He had to constantly prove his loyalty. So, he grimly set himself a goal of a certain number of arrests and convictions each month. It was the only way to assure that some other NKVD officer wouldn’t accuse him of being an enemy. If some innocent suffered from torture or was wrongly executed—well, many innocents suffered from combat, from wounds, lost their lives—all in defense of the ideal that kept him from suicide, the preservation of the revolution, the Party, and deepest of all, Mother Russia.
He’d lived through years of brutal war, witnessing atrocities and the results of atrocities committed by both sides. He’d seen the pathetic scraps of the barely human survivors of three German concentration camps. He’d watched weeping Russian prisoners, liberated at last from their slave labor in prisoner of war camps, men whom he had to torture to be sure they were still loyal, most of whom were sent to the gulag just to be sure. For Sokolov, the systematic raping of German women and the brutal employment of German prisoners as slave labor was a just—and lenient—punishment for being Fascist supporters of the regime that had killed over twenty million of his people and his own family. He’d lived all of this since that last day of tears in June 1942 and it had put Sokolov far beyond weeping.
Yet, these two women, eager to do good, the one as striking and exotic as any heroine that Modest Mussorgsky could have dreamed into existence, the other, the kind of woman in whose lap you’d like to place your head, staring up at a clear summer sky after sharing a picnic, filled him with longing so terrible he wasn’t sure he could ever raise his head from his hands and look at his world. That longing was of course tinged with the excitement of sex, but he knew the longing was for something to fill the dark hole of despair that lay beneath the thin ice upon which he skated. Both women were married to blind, self-righteous soldiers who didn’t deserve them. People like him did the hard, dirty work that kept the state safe, only to have people like Bobrov look down on them. As if the army didn’t do more raping than the NKVD, as if killing an enemy of the state when you are both in uniform is somehow morally superior to killing an enemy of the state when neither of you is in uniform.
And the two women gave themselves to them and not to him.
He nearly hurled himself up from his desk, tearing himself from the emptiness and, yes, self-pity. He laughed at himself, derisively and out loud. He went to stand before the window, staring into the gloom. He imagined the land beyond the buildings, much like the land of his home south of Moscow, gently undulating to outright flat, the altitude never varying by much more than a hundred meters. There were lots of lakes outside Helsinki. He remembered the lake just south of the village. He and his friends used to swim in it on hot summer days. They skated on it in winter. When he last saw it, three burned tanks, one German and two Russian, littered the shore.
He looked back at his desktop. It had the usual files, compilations of activities that could be seen as detrimental to the state. He’d have to uncover some threat soon, or he’d come under suspicion. It was the constant pressure of the job. It occurred to him that he should start documenting visits between Natalya Bobrova and Louise Koski. They could easily be made to look suspicious. He didn’t like the idea. He liked both of them and both seemed to be decent, albeit the American seemed somewhat innocent. Then, he thought, maybe the innocence was a cover. He sighed, knowing he’d have to document visits, just in case one or both of the women came under suspicion. If he didn’t show that he had suspected them, then he would himself come under suspicion.
He slumped back down in his chair and picked a file at random. He didn’t open it.