Ustinov was in full uniform, in a smartly fitting tunic with ornamented collar and three stars on his shoulder boards. Under a Hero of the Soviet Union star, he wore a row of other medals. His thick head of hair was typically Russian, as were his wide face and large mouth.

Another man stood nearby, portly and of some lower rank. “This is Major Leonid Nazarov, my assistant,” Ustinov said. “Please sit down.” He indicated the two chairs placed directly in front of his desk.

A stack of ledgers already lay there, suggesting he’d done some research. He got right to business.

“Thank you for coming to Moscow,” he said. “Rather than force you to read our Russian accounting, let me just explain the areas that are deficient.”

He pointed out the list of discrepancies, verifying them with copies of the lists his office had submitted and various ledgers that revealed what had in fact been delivered.

“We are not so obtuse that we do not recognize that men and goods are lost at sea and on the road. Our problem is that your agents at the delivery stations provide lists that do not correspond with what arrives in our factories.”

After an hour of comparing lists and figures, Hopkins drew the discussion to an end. “There is only so much we can explain here, sir. If you could provide me with a copy of your records, we can study them at greater leisure and come back to you with some sort of clarification.”

“Yes, of course. Mr. Nazarov has such copies, for both you and for the Foreign Ministry, which shares our interest.”

“No doubt. We have a meeting later today with Molotov,” Hopkins said.

Nazarov produced a notebook from a shelf and presented it without speaking to Hopkins, and while all four exchanged courtesies, Ustinov led his visitors to the door.

Their two minders snapped to attention as the door opened. After a final shaking of hands, Hopkins and Mia pulled on their coats and ventured into the Russian winter again.

* * *

The much shorter meeting with Foreign Minister Molotov was not nearly so amicable. Molotov made many of the same complaints and Hopkins the same provisional explanations. Unlike his colleague, Molotov insisted the only solution was to have duplicate shipments sent for those deemed lost. “In most cases, the lost items are not vehicles or large weaponry, but smaller items: clothing, foodstuffs, medications. These are easier to ship in duplicate immediately after a claim is made.”

Hopkins’s voice was becoming hoarse. “Mr. Molotov, at the moment, I cannot provide a definitive explanation for the discrepancies. We already have the ledger from the Commissariat of Armaments to study, and if you can provide us with similar copies, from the other distribution points, we will be happy to study them as well.”

“Of course we have copies.” He snapped his fingers, and an orderly appeared with several bulging folders. Mia winced. She was going to have to read all of them.

“The missing items are critical to the war effort. Irrespective of how you explain the deficiencies, they need to be compensated for and the original number provided immediately. Is that clear?”

Mia translated his demands without softening his tone. Hopkins stiffened in reaction, though his reply was impeccable. “Thank you for your time, Foreign Minister. In keeping with Mr. Roosevelt’s wishes, we shall endeavor to supply the Red Army with whatever it needs to fight an enemy it once trusted. You will be hearing from us at the appropriate time.” He offered his hand for a cold handshake and turned away, leading Mia from the room.

In the corridor she couldn’t resist a smirk. “Well done, Mr. Hopkins, reminding him of his own blunder in negotiating a pact with Hitler.”

Hopkins snorted faintly and tugged on his winter coat. “It was the least I could do to the little tyrant,” he murmured.

Kiril and Alexia stepped toward them, and together they marched along the corridor to the portal.

“Shall we escort you back to your embassy now?” Kiril asked.

“I suppose so,” Hopkins said. “I’m bushed.” He looked mournfully at the still-closed door, apparently not keen to venture out into the painful winter air.

“But it’s January 6,” Mia reminded him. “Orthodox Christmas Eve on the Julian calendar.”

“Is that so? I had no idea you were religious, Miss Kramer.”

“Oh, I’m not at all. But I have childhood memories of Christmas services.” She turned to Alexia. “Is it true that Christmas is now forbidden?”

“No, not at all. Communists consider religion the opiate of the people, but Stalin hasn’t forbidden it,” she said defensively.

Hopkins was not convinced. “I thought Stalin ordered all the churches closed and even destroyed the great cathedral.”

Alexia shook her head. “He did in the beginning, but last September, he met with the bishops of the church, and in return for their support he gave permission for them to open the Moscow Theological Seminary and to elect a new patriarch. After that, some other churches opened again, too.”

“So where do the Muscovites go on Christmas?” Mia got to the point. “I’d love to see a Christmas service, or part of one. I remember they were long.”

Alexia’s reaction was guarded. “All the big religious events are in the Yelokhovo Cathedral now.”

“And is there a service today?” Mia was suddenly determined.

Kiril shook his head. “There is a mass, but it’s late now. The church will be full, and you won’t find a place to stand.”

“What about tomorrow? Surely on Christmas morning…”

Hopkins tugged his fur hat down over his brow and wrapped his wool scarf twice around his face. Only his eyes were visible, and his voice seemed to come from far away. “Out of the question. We have a dinner engagement tomorrow, with Stalin and his ministers.”

Mia would not give up. “That’s in the evening. We have the morning free. If you’re not interested, I’ll go alone and be back hours before the dinner.”

Alexia was obviously not thrilled. “It starts at nine, but I don’t think my commander will agree to one of his guards attending a church service.”

“Fine. Tell him that we’re sentimental capitalist Christians, that we’ll take the embassy car and that you’ll wait outside.”

Hopkins nodded toward Kiril to finally open the portal to the icy exterior. “Do what you wish. Just take me back to the embassy now so I can warm up.”

“Are we agreed, then?” Mia looked toward Alexia. “You’ll pick me up at eight thirty?”

Alexia glanced away, then sighed. “Yes. All right.”

“Wonderful. S razhdestvom!” Mia exclaimed. “Merry Christmas.”

Chapter Nine

The next morning, Mia ate breakfast alone. Hopkins had made it clear he saw no reason to join her in a freezing orthodox church listening to Old Slavonic chanting and so remained in bed. Ambassador Harriman, on the other hand, thought it was a good way to get to know another side of Russia and agreed to provide the embassy car and driver.

At eight thirty she was at the portal drawing on her coat as a military troop carrier dropped off her “security” for the day.

Ambassador Harriman appeared just as she was preparing to leave. “Enjoy your hour of nostalgia. Robert’s bringing the car around now. He’ll drop you off, and you can tell him when to return.” He patted her gently on her well-insulated back as he opened the door for her. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas to you, sir.”

Alexia stood by the side of the embassy car, as before, in a sheepskin coat and furred ushanka. The ear-flap hat suited her perfectly. Well, everything suited her perfectly. The driver climbed from the car to assist them, but Alexia had already opened the rear door for them both, so he waved and sat back down at the steering wheel.

As the car moved away from the embassy, the tires crunching on the crusted snow, Mia felt a childish joy. It was Christmas morning, the real Christmas, not the American version, and she would celebrate it with the lovely Alexia. Now, if she could just get her to go one step farther.

“Alexia, today it’s just you and me. Kiril’s not here to keep an eye on you. Will you come inside the church with me? No one has to know. Besides, Robert’s going to drop us off and come back later, so you would have to stand outside in the frigid air the whole time.”

Alexia seemed to consider. “You make a good point. Well, maybe I’ll just stand inside the portal, away from the cold.”

Mia smirked. Inside the door was as good as inside the church. “Good. That’s settled.”

* * *

In the snowy setting, the Epiphany Cathedral at Yelokhovo, with its central dome, bell tower, and four corner domes, looked like a postcard picture. Its neoclassical exterior was a bit shabby and in need of paint, but considering the war that raged even at that moment, it was a beautiful sight. Hundreds of people, bundled in bulky clothing, formed a line along the street, shuffling toward the wide main entrance.

“I’ll come back in an hour and a half,” Robert said. “Is that enough time?”

“Yes, and I promise we’ll be here so you don’t have to wait,” Mia assured him. “Thank you for taking the time to drive us.”

Mia and Alexia joined the line, polite enough not to crowd in at the front, but rude enough to use Alexia’s military uniform to step in somewhere before the end. Their place guaranteed they’d get through the door but would not be trapped too far inside where they could not leave without disruption.

Fifteen minutes later they were inside, where the sheer density of bodies raised the air temperature twenty degrees. Mia removed her wool hat and loosened her collar. Remembering the correct protocol, she drew a cotton scarf from her pocket and draped it loosely over her head and shoulders.

“Surely you don’t believe in all this.” Alexia glanced toward the ceiling, suggesting the entire ceremony.

“No, I don’t, but before I was Mia Kramer, I was little Demetria Fyodorovna Kaminskaya, and I did believe. I just want to see if it still has the power to move me.”

With Alexia shuffling alongside her, they arrived within sight of the center of the church. They would have to stand throughout their visit, for no one but the elderly and infirm could sit. Mia gazed around the interior, so completely different from the elongated Western cathedrals she’d studied.

The entryway, with its comparatively low ceilings and archways, was more like a crypt. The massive square piers that supported the wide vaults were heavily carved with gold filigree and at their centers held glass-covered icons in black and gold. Icons—somber haloed images of Christ—also hung in filigreed frames from the tops of the pillars. Farther in, the crypt-like entry opened abruptly to a central space that rose up high, but the heavy baroque ornament and iconography continued, filling every bit of space up to the dome far overhead. It seemed as if all the riches of the world were being offered up.

The congregants, with few exceptions, were elderly, though a few held young children in their arms. She swept her gaze across the old women, bent and haggard in their fringed scarves, and the old men, many of whom resembled her father before he shaved his beard upon arriving in America.

The deep voices of a male choir rumbled, as if from the very belly of the earth, and the service began. The first to arrive were the regular priests, deacons, if her memory served correctly. All wore brocade gold silk that fell to the floor and covered their feet, and capes that rose high behind their necks, a strange display of opulence in a wretched war-strained city, but she supposed church vestments were a holdover from tsarist times. Carrying tall, narrow tapers in pairs, tied together at the top, they chanted as they entered. The patriarch followed in white brocade silk and a high, bulbous miter. All the men had full beards, though the patriarch’s was longer and whiter than the others, and gave him an unmistakable Father Christmas look. He swung his silver censer, to chase away evil spirits, she supposed, and even from a distance, she could smell the fragrant incense.

She could make no sense of what they chanted in recitation and response, then remembered it was Church Slavonic, not meant to be understood. Still, it was pleasing to hear, a deeply soothing, otherworldly sound.

But their beards, the rich bass of their choir, and the complete absence of women in the celebration reminded her how very male the orthodox church was. God was male, his earthly representatives and celebrants were male, and women were there to simply worship.