Mikhail, used to drinking heavily like most Russian men, recovered quickly. Still, Natalya had to help him out of his uniform. It wasn’t the first time. She enjoyed it, jerking his clothes in mock severity. He flopped back on their bed, and she jerked his trousers off.
“You and the American?” she asked, reaching behind to unzip her dress. She kicked her shoes off.
Mikhail held up the arm with the wristwatch.
“He’s the one who gave you the watch?”
Mikhail dropped his arm back down and nodded. “Good comrade,” he mumbled.
Natalya stood still, the top of the dress around her hips, showing the lacey bodice of her one good slip. She looked meaningfully at the bedroom wall that separated their bedroom from Fanya’s. The legation had put the nyanya in the room adjoining their bedroom. Natalya had found a stethoscope hidden in the girl’s clothing. She said a bit louder, “You know you don’t mean that. He’s a spy, pretending to be your comrade to get into your confidence. The Americans are trying to stop us from securing safety for our borders.” She dropped to a whisper, pleading, “Misha.” She glanced at the wall again.
Mikhail grunted, with his own glance at the wall, acknowledging her. “I meant during the war,” he said at normal volume. “When I met him, the Americans were helping us defeat the Fascists.” Now he looked up at the ceiling, rolling his eyes. “But you’re right. Now, we must be on our guard. Fascism was a common enemy, but the next enemy of the revolution is capitalism, as it was before the Great Patriotic War.”
“It was so clever of you, getting that American drunk to get information,” Natalya chimed in.
“He spilled a lot, too. One great American weakness is they don’t hold their liquor like men. I’ll put it in a report tomorrow.”
Natalya was wriggling out of the dress, nodding approval. She put her finger to her lips and walked closer to him. She seductively started removing her slip. Mikhail sat up on his elbows. She’d been raised as a good Russian woman. She knew how to please a man. And that pleased her.
Afterward, both smoking cigarettes in the dark, she turned her head to whisper in his ear. “So, what did you and the American really talk about?”
“We’re going to have a race,” Mikhail whispered. “He’s apparently an exceptionally good skier. One hundred percent Finnish stock. Fought the Fascists in the Italian mountains.”
“A race? Why?”
“For fun.”
“Fun? What? You want to relive the 1939 Finnish campaign?” Mikhail had told her about Russian boys frozen into awkward shapes and she’d seen the missing little toe on his right foot, amputated for gangrene resulting from frostbite.
“You know that’s not true. You know better.”
Natalya looked down. “I’m sorry. I know that.” Of the many nightmares from which she’d shaken Mikhail awake, a large number were from his first combat experiences with the elite Fifty-Fourth Mountain Rifle Division in the 1939 defense of Leningrad and the vital Leningrad-Murmansk rail line. “Still,” she said, quiet for a moment. “It was that toast of yours to the second-best ski troops, wasn’t it?”
“Mmmh.”
“He took umbrage, didn’t he?”
“Mmmh.”
“Mikhail …”
“To see who’s best. We’ll each represent our troops.”
“Mikhail.”
She kissed him and then mischievously parted his lips with her fingers. “Talk.”
“Alright, alright.” He pulled her hand from his mouth. “It’s to see if I still have it in me.”
“Have what in you?”
His voice changed. “Grit.”
Natalya then realized this was something her husband had to do. Was going to do, no matter what. She felt just the slightest chill of fear.
“When?”
“In February. We’ll start at the Arctic Circle up by Rovaniemi. Five hundred kilometers. No roads allowed. Choose our own course. First one to Kuopio wins.”
The fear grew. “Wins? What will you win?”
After a moment he answered, “Self-respect. I get so little of it these days.”
She rolled over and stubbed out her cigarette. Leaning in close to his face, she kissed him, stroking his hair and whispering, “I know that you do this job for us. I know you don’t like it. I know. And I love you for it.” She put her hand on his cheek. “Would it be allowed?”
“We’ve agreed to talk to no one about it. Just between us. Two soldiers. No one will know. I’ll say that I’m going up north to do something like identifying bridges, estimating road carrying capacity, whatever. I’m given a lot of freedom as long as I stay in Finland.”
“They always find out.”
“They won’t bother. They hate the cold. It’s just the two of us. He’s a professional. He understands and he won’t say anything.”
“What if you lose and they find out? You’re a Hero of the Soviet Union. It’ll embarrass the Party. They’ve shot people for less.”
“It’s just a race between two soldiers.” He sighed, exhaling smoke. “Can people do nothing without it being political?”
“You know that everything is political.”
“Even this?” He was gently moving his hands between her thighs. Her normal reaction would be to murmur softly and open to him. This time she did neither.
Moving on top of her, looking at her face, a bit discomfited, he smiled reassuringly at her. “I won’t lose.”
Natalya put both hands on his cheeks. “Don’t do it.”
He shook his head slowly, gently taking her hands from his face, and rolled off her. “It’s too late,” he said. “We broke glasses and shook on it.”
She flopped onto her side and stared into the dark.