Natalya got to Sokolov’s office before his secretary, Julia. When Julia arrived, Natalya pleaded to be able to see Sokolov first thing. Julia shrugged and nodded to an empty chair next to Sokolov’s door. It was twenty minutes of nervous tension before Sokolov arrived. He carried a briefcase and had several newspapers tucked under one arm.
Natalya stood.
“Mrs. Bobrova,” Sokolov said. “I’m not surprised to see you.”
No “comrade” this morning, Natalya thought.
Sokolov turned to his secretary. “Another cup for Mrs. Bobrova.”
As Julia went to get Sokolov’s usual morning tea. Sokolov indicated Natalya should precede him into his office.
“Sit,” he said.
She did.
He threw in front of her the same edition of Helsingin Sanomat that she had shown Louise. Saying nothing, he put two additional papers next to it, one sympathetic to the Soviet Union and the other unsympathetic. “I assume you’ve seen these,” he said.
Natalya nodded. “Yes, Comrade, I have.”
“As you must know, part of my job is making sure we keep the press honest.”
“Yes, Comrade.”
“Now, at home honesty is totally assured. Here, however, we must keep the illusion of strict neutrality. While we cannot guarantee honest reporting, as we can at home, we can, shall we say, apply certain incentives to the Finnish government to make sure they keep their newspapers honest.”
Natalya knew they both knew the Soviet definition of honesty meant adherence to presenting correct political thought, not facts. “Yes, Comrade.” What else could she say?
Sokolov studied her. “Your hero husband has done something very foolish.”
“Yes, Comrade.” She looked down at her lap to show contrition.
“When did you know about this?”
Her mind reeled off several answers and the possible consequences. If she told the truth, that she knew the night of the legation party, then he’d want to know why she didn’t tell him. That would mean she was keeping a secret. That could mean Lubyanka. In fact, admitting to knowing about it any time before these news stories could lead to the same fate. On the other hand, if she lied and said she knew nothing about it, and he found out—somehow, they always do—same fate. Still, lying had a better chance than telling the truth. The whole system worked that way.
“The first I heard of it was last night when I saw the article in Helsingin Sanomat.”
“Yes, I know,” he said.
Of course, he knew.
“Mikhail said he was going north to look at, what did he call them, egress and entry routes, something like that.”
Sokolov looked at her with those eyes seemingly carved from glacier ice. “That’s what he told all of us.”
She sighed an inward sigh of relief. At least her story was consistent. Any lie at all could suffice to keep you safe, but a lie that fell apart because of some internal inconsistency could get you killed. Silence was also a good strategy, particularly if you haven’t been asked a question. She felt she must be reliving her own mother’s last days—the fear of the late-night knock on the door.
Sokolov poked at the newspapers, moving them slightly. “How well do you know your husband?” he asked.
“He’s a patriot. He’s dedicated his life to serving the Party.”
Sokolov’s eyes lidded slightly, and a tiny smile appeared.
“Yes. Of course. We are all patriots and dedicated to serving the Party.”
He left that in a long silence. “I am going to ask again only one time. How well do you know your husband?”
How well do any of us, she thought. She gulped. “He can be impetuous,” she said. That couldn’t be construed politically. Could it?
“Yes,” was all Sokolov answered. “I understand,” he said, his whole tone changing to one of comradeship. “This foolish race started as a typical and childish army brotherhood of warriors.” He did not restrain the sarcasm and disdain. He was digging into his briefcase. “Had it not been for this,” he laid a carbon copy of Kaarina’s translation of Louise’s press release on the desk, “it would have remained so.” She couldn’t translate it word for word, but she got a very good sense of it. Even in Finnish, it had Louise’s bubbly optimism all over it.
“The best interpretation of this, for your husband’s sake, is that it was akin to a schoolboy stunt, although this might prove difficult given that your husband has been out of school over fifteen years and has been a commanding officer in combat, someone people looked up to for leadership and sound judgment.” Natalya was nodding. “However,” Sokolov went on, “there is a second interpretation.” He made her wait to hear what that was. “We have reason to believe it was all engineered. Lieutenant Colonel Koski entices your husband to race, saying it is just between warriors,” again, the unveiled sarcasm, “when in reality Koski has won national championships.” She could only keep nodding, going along with his theory. “All the while, his ‘wife,’” he made sure she heard the quotation marks, “very likely an intelligence agent like him, turns this ‘innocent’ and private race into a Western publicity stunt to undermine the reputation of the Red Army and the Soviet way of life. Do you really believe that ‘Louise Koski,’” again the quotation marks, “is as naïve as she lets on? Do you believe that she cares about a Finnish orphanage, an orphanage in a country that fought for the Fascists? Do you think a true friend would do this?” He held the press release up to her eyes. “Callously disregarding how it would impact her ‘friends,’ like you and your husband?” He leaned back slightly. “What kind of friend is that? Hmmm?”
She knew better than to answer the rhetorical question.
“This whole innocent, corn-fed girl-of-the-prairies persona,” Sokolov went on, “was the perfect cover to suck you and Colonel Bobrov in. I believe this whole orphanage money-raising effort was simply a setup. We are looking into this ‘relative’ of Colonel Koski, Kaarina Varila. We know she lost sons and a husband in the war. We have had an eye on her youngest son, Pietari. He is known for his anti-Party talk and hatred. That and a few American dollars would be quite sufficient motive for both of them to cooperate in this, I must admit, rather clever operation.”
Natalya’s mind was in turmoil. She felt simultaneously betrayed, vulnerable, and foolish. Could she have been so blind as not to see that Louise had been playing her just as Louise’s husband had been playing Misha? Were Arnie and Louise even married? Their “marriage” could just be a cover. To think that Louise was a fabrication, that she was someone else entirely, felt like being stabbed as someone was knocking her legs out from beneath her. No, she thought, forcibly blocking her doubts. What Sokolov was saying just couldn’t be true. She had to trust what she saw and felt, not what she was told by people like Sokolov. But the intrusive thought remained. What if she had been a total fool?
She struggled to keep her composure. She knew well that she lived in a world where “facts” could be true or untrue, where the interpretation of “facts” could be as changeable as political leadership. “Facts” being true or untrue depending on the needs of those in power didn’t just impact politics; it undermined the bedrock of civilization: love, relation, family, and friends.
“Why would the Americans want to even do such a thing?” she asked.
“I am sure you are aware that the Soviet Union is in a not-so-subtle battle to show that our way of life is superior in every way to that of the capitalist West.” He’d taken the tone of an adult lecturing a child.
“I am, Comrade,” Natalya said.
“I am sure that you are also aware that any shift in public attitude of our Eastern European neighbors toward the Western way of thinking is a danger to the revolution and could damage our goal of securing our borders with nations that are friendly to the revolution. That’s why.”
It was clear that Sokolov wasn’t through lecturing but was just waiting for her to take in his lecture up to this point. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair.
“So, explanation one”—he held up a single finger—“it was a school-boy folly. Explanation two”—a second finger joined the first—“your husband was duped by a very clever intelligence operation.” His hand lowered. His lidded eyes had the look of a cobra. “I’m sure you can figure out explanation three.”
Natalya gulped down cold fear. Explanation three: Misha was a traitor.
Sokolov saw that she understood. “Yes. It would not be a stretch to believe your hero husband has colluded in all of this.”
“No, Comrade. I swear. He loves Russia. And the Party. We knew nothing about this. On the lives of my children,” she pleaded.
Sokolov’s eyes were dead. He let her squirm a moment, leaving the “lives of my children” hanging in the air like a noose.
“And Louise Koski is really an innocent flower of the prairies?” He raised his eyebrows, clearly indicating what he himself believed—or wanted her to believe he believed. It was Russian dolls again.
Natalya’s mind was racing, creating and rejecting answers and possible explanations. If Misha wasn’t being duped by a clever American operation, then those unseen judges, the state, the Party, weighing his life—and hers—had to conclude he was either a reckless fool or a traitor. It was highly unlikely they’d select the reckless explanation. That would mean a Hero of the Soviet Union was irresponsible and dangerous and that those who selected him as a military attaché were themselves careless. She could only eliminate the accusation of treason against her and Misha by denouncing Louise as a spy. Nothing, however, indicated that she was. What evidence could she come up with that would convince Sokolov and his superiors that Louise, Coca-Cola personified, was an American Mata Hari? None. But she had to say something. Sokolov was sitting there like a spider watching his web.
He leaned forward. “We both know that your husband is not a fool.”
But he is, she wanted to scream. No, not a fool, but a soldier whose actions could look foolish to people who weren’t soldiers. That is the explanation. He and Arnie Koski were racing for the honor of their services and to test their hearts. How could any politician or bureaucrat like Sokolov ever understand this? She realized that Sokolov had stopped short of saying Mikhail was a traitor. Had he spoken it aloud, there would be no possibility of proving Mikhail’s innocence once the judgment had been rendered. Just being suspected of being a traitor in the Soviet system was a crime punishable by death.
She could feel her heart in her throat. She fought to calmly say, “Perhaps we have been played.”
“Ah,” Sokolov said. “Perhaps you have.” Then, changing his whole demeanor, he said quietly, “Comrade Bobrova, I know you must feel frightened for your husband’s welfare. Are you frightened?”
“Yes, Comrade.”
“You should be.” He sighed, then silently began organizing the newspapers. When he’d finished, he placed the press releases on top of the neat pile and looked up at her. His expression changed from one of condemnation to one of fake genial support, the standard we’re-all-comrades-together-here of the Soviet bureaucrat. “I don’t want anything bad to happen to your husband. He is, after all, a Hero of the Soviet Union.” The way he said hero made her think of someone holding their nose over a dead fish.
“For now, we will try to keep the story local,” he said. “If we can keep it out of the major Western newspapers, the damage to Socialism will be contained. It is unlikely then, that we will have to take measures to ensure the story remains out of the newspapers of our Eastern European neighbors. I, of course, will have to report this to my immediate superior in Moscow. However, if it remains purely local, then it need go no further up the line from there.” He held his hand up, as in heaven forbid. “I will do my best.”
“Thank you, Comrade Sokolov.”
“You had better pray your husband wins.”
“But if he doesn’t, Comrade Sokolov—” Just speaking the possibility aloud stopped her. “You must believe me. He would never intentionally undertake any activity detrimental to the Soviet state.”
“Comrade Bobrova,” he said softly. “We will of course investigate and get to the bottom of this. But you must realize, our findings about your husband’s intentions are of little consequence.” He paused, then added, “Other than the form of punishment.” Natalya bit her lower lip. Sokolov leaned toward her. “Losing this race, now that Soviet prestige is at stake, is of enormous consequence.”
“Comrade, you are an important person.” Natalya leaned toward him, reaching one hand across the desk in front of her in supplication. “You, surely, can do something so Mikhail won’t be unjustly punished for, as you yourself put it, a schoolboy stunt.” She forced a smile, feeling slightly sick, knowing that her gesture of supplication would most certainly be interpreted as an offer. “What can I do to prove his … our innocence?”
He smiled, looking down at her hand on the desk. She saw the spider coming down the threads of the web. “I’m sure something can be done, Comrade,” Sokolov said. “And who knows? He could win. I hear he’s a good skier.”
“Comrade Sokolov. I am sure he’ll beat the American. It is the Americans who will be publicly embarrassed, shown to be pampered and effete. It will be a publicity success.”
Sokolov smiled. “If you are so sure, why are you here?”
Natalya gave him a wan smile. “Because you asked to see me, Comrade Sokolov.” She pulled her hand back into her lap and clutched it with her other.
Sokolov nodded, with a self-satisfied smile. If the spider had a hand at the end of one of its eight legs, it would have been patting her condescendingly on her head. Sokolov looked at his watch. “We need to discuss this further, perhaps make some plans. I’m very busy this morning. In fact, the rest of the day.” She watched his eyes flicker just briefly down from her face to her lap, then back up again. “Perhaps we can get together later. Work something out.”
Despite a sinking sick feeling in her entire body, Natalya didn’t hesitate. She was a Russian woman. She could look at the clock and tell the time. The same set of skills that so pleased the man she loved could also be used as currency to pay for protection. She tilted her head and smiled warmly at Sokolov, making her eyes brim with gratitude. “Of course, Comrade Sokolov. I would be most grateful for any time you can make for this.”
Courage takes many forms.