“Anything you particularly excelled at?”

“No, sir.”

He looked her up and down, then tilted his head. “Just how tall are you?”

“One meter seventy-seven, Comrade Commissar. I was the tallest in my class.”

He scribbled something on her papers. “They’ll find a place for you after your training. Here, fill out the form for your identification, then take it down that corridor to the photographer.” He handed her several sheets of paper as well as a pencil and pointed with his chin toward a table in the corner.

She wrote in her birth date and place, family members, Komsomol membership number, civilian profession, and list of Vsevobuch courses, then joined the line to the photographer. When she returned to the beefy sergeant and handed over her photo and questionnaire, he clipped everything together, then slid a page of military regulations toward her. “Sign here at the bottom,” he said, handing her a fountain pen. Without reading any of the text, she wrote her name.

“All right, then. You’re in the Red Army now. Report at eight tomorrow morning for the ride to the training center. Don’t be late, or you’ll be arrested.”

* * *

The next morning an open troop carrier transported her and sixteen other recruits to the training center at Vaskovo, where half a dozen other trucks had arrived as well. She clambered out of the carrier, shrugging inside her coat to keep away the sharp October wind, and was glad to soon be indoors in the female barracks. She and her barrack mates were herded into a central hall, where a lieutenant delivered a patriotic speech and then ordered them to the quartermaster to be issued uniforms.

With her own bundle in hand, she stepped into an assembly room and examined the parts. The trousers were baggy, wide at the hips and narrow below the knee, with the lower portion designed to slip into boots. The boots were a disappointment. She learned that leather was reserved for officers while hers were some sort of stiff rubberized material sewn over leather soles. Tying on the new footcloths, of which she was issued two pairs, she drew the boots on and found they were a size too large.

The best part was the gymnasterka, the closed tunic that would be both shirt and jacket. Buckling on the military belt, she sensed a change of attitude. More than the official welcoming speech, the uniform gave her a sense of belonging, of being part of a body of patriots defending the homeland.

“All right, stop preening,” the sergeant ordered. “Put your civilian clothes in the bags provided and write your home address on the outside. We’ll mail them for you. Five minutes, then fall out for roll call.”

Roll call meant another hour of standing in ranks until she had been assigned to a training group. Hers was Group J, and by the time the entire group had been assigned, she was hungry.

Her first military meal, a stew of kasha and assorted vegetables, was tolerable, and if it represented what she’d be getting for the rest of the war, she was content.

“Company attention!” Benches scraped as the recruits got to their feet. Another sergeant stood at the front of the dining hall with an open notebook.

“You all know your group designations, so you will march starting from the first table and proceed in order to the last. Training assignments are posted on the walls outside. You have ten minutes to determine your assignment and to fall in at the relevant location. Dismissed!”

Alexia shoveled the remaining portion of her stew into her mouth and joined the line from her table as it waited to exit the dining hall. Full, and feeling quite smart in her new uniform, she decided the army wasn’t such a bad place to be.

* * *

Because they were urgently needed at the front, their basic training was brief. They practiced running in full gear, jumping and falling without breaking a limb, shooting at straw targets, and marching in step to patriotic chants. She could dig a trench in just minutes, carry a fallen colleague on her back, and bayonet a sand-filled dummy on the run. And they listened to endless political lectures reminding her of the virtues and duties of communism.

Though she had little time for socializing, she grew to respect her comrades, tough men and women of northern Russia, hardened to the cold.

Ironically, her rifle fascinated her. The 7.62 caliber Mosin Nagant, with its bayonet attached, was longer than she was tall. With concentration, she could dismantle, rebuild, and fire it in less than three minutes, and it pleased her to hit the center of the target with surprising regularity. The rifle itself was a beautiful thing, but it marked the line between being a patriot and a killer. And always the spirit of Father Zosima seemed to hover near.

“Not bad, Mazarova.” her instructor said, “You’ll be an asset to the infantry.”

She cringed. “You think so, sir?”

“Yes, but it’s not up to me. The military board will decide what to do with you, and they’re full of surprises.”

The day came when training was over, and the lists were posted in the corridor. Alexia searched for her name, found it, and stood ruminating in front of the board.

Standing next to her, a comrade smiled at his posting. “Tank training. Fantastic. I love those things. Talk about power.” He turned toward her. “What about you?”

“Special Purpose Division, D.O.N, Kremlin Regiment,” she read off. “What’s that?”

“That’s the NKVD Honor Guard. They’re elite troops that guard the leaders. They were in the military parade in Red Square when the war started. You should be very pleased they’ve chosen you.”

“Why do you suppose they did?”

“To start, my dear, you look great in uniform. And you’re the tallest woman in our class. Ash-blond hair, great cheekbones, ice-gray eyes… your face is so Russian, it belongs on a coin.”

“What nonsense. Russians don’t look any special way.”

“The leaders don’t care, and they like having handsome people like you around them in spiffy uniforms. Don’t complain. You’ll stay alive longer than a lot of the rest of us.”

Uncertain, she returned to her barracks. Was a pretty face all she had to offer her homeland? And what did she want to do in the Red Army, anyhow? The Honor Guard, a purely ornamental regiment, would certainly please Father Zosima. But how could it be honorable to not want to fight?

Chapter Four

The White House, October 1943


Her sparse belongings unpacked and stored, Mia descended again to the main floor and Harry Hopkins’s office.

Hopkins sat at his cluttered desk, cigarette in one hand. A slight haze of smoke surrounded him, and the odor of ashtray permeated the air.

“Sit down,” he said, pointing with the cigarette toward a chair at his left. “Are you settled in now?”

“Yes, sir. Raring to go.” She took a seat and tried to hold his gaze yet not seem to be staring. Up close, his face shocked her a bit. Hollow-cheeked and myopic, and with thinning hair, he reminded her of the pitchfork-holding farmer in the painting American Gothic.

“Is this where the Lend-Lease program began?” she asked.

“Yes, in fact. But soon enough the accounting became so complex, we needed other offices, like the one you were working in, to deal with Britain, China, Free France, and the two dozen smaller allies. Right now, my problem is the Soviets. Not just supply issues, but also diplomatic ones. For that I need someone to read and translate correspondence between this office and the Kremlin.”

The Kremlin. The word, like a sudden dramatic chord, stirred a mix of fear, fascination, distaste. She had grown up in an immigrant family with a hatred of Bolshevism, and the Kremlin was where the neo-Bolsheviks—who now called themselves Communists—were headquartered.

“We’ve achieved a certain rapport,” she heard, and she realized she’d lost the thread.

“Rapport?” She repeated, feeling a bit stupid.

“Yes. Stalin is a dictator and a hard pill to swallow diplomatically. But he has a huge nation to hold together and defend, and is losing thousands of men every day. I respect his position and sympathize with it a great deal. Stalin knows this and trusts me for it. Our president trusts me, too, so I’ve been acting as his de facto secretary of state, though we don’t say that around Mr. Hull, who actually holds the office. As a result, I need a Russian-speaking person at my side to negotiate the… turbulent waters.” He took a final puff and crushed the stub amidst a dozen others in his ashtray.

“Has the president already met with the Russians?”

“That’s what I—”

Someone knocked at the door, and he called out, “Come in!”

For the briefest moment, Mia stared, puzzled, at the slowly opening door, waiting for a head to appear. Only when she dropped her glance did she perceive feet, then knees, and finally a man rolling into the room in a wheelchair. She stood up.

“Mr. President,” Hopkins said, though he remained sitting.

“Good morning, Harry. Just thought I’d stop by and see what you’re hatching.”

Franklin Roosevelt looked tired, in spite of his good cheer. His long, oval face and prominent chin had always appeared amiable and paternal. But now his cheeks were sunken, his hair thin and receding. His gray-blue eyes were puffy, and he seemed to squint through his rimless glasses. It was strange to be in the presence of two men with such political power who appeared so physically feeble.

But FDR’s vigorous tenor voice belied his appearance. “Oh, please sit down, Miss Kramer. No need for formalities.” He maneuvered himself into place next to her. “So, you are to be our plenipotentiary to the Kremlin.”

“I’ll serve the White House in whatever way I can, Mr. President, but I’m still only a lowly assistant.”

“Don’t worry, my dear. We won’t overtax you. Mr. Hopkins tells me you have the best possible skills, though I suppose you are not fond of Mr. Stalin.”

She winced, not knowing what to reply, but he laid a soft hand on her forearm and leaned toward her as if confiding. “Mr. Churchill is not fond of him either, but he’s on our side in this war, so we have to keep him happy.”

“Thank you for your confidence, Mr. President. I’ll do everything I can to live up to it.”

“Good to hear you say it, my dear. Now, would you like to see our command center?”

“Command center? Really? Isn’t that top secret?”

The president chuckled. “I’m not going to show you our military strategies, only our wonderful setup. Very futuristic. Hopkins, would you be so kind as to wheel me there? Saves wear and tear on my hands.”

Hopkins leapt from his seat and took hold of the handlebars at the back of the wheelchair. They proceeded down the corridor to the elevator, and she strode alongside the president’s chair as he explained. “It used to be a simple map room, but now it’s staffed twenty-four hours a day and fitted out with… well, you’ll see.”

The elevator opened on the ground floor, and they turned right. The guard who stood before one of the rooms snapped to attention, then stepped in front of them to open the door.

What had been a low buzz now became a cacophony of orders, conversations, and ringing telephones. Mia felt her jaw drop slightly, and she closed it again.

The otherwise drab walls were papered with gigantic maps—of Europe, Africa, Asia, all the theaters of the war. Uniformed staff, both army and navy, stood before them, some on the floor and some on ladders, moving little markers here and there, though she was too far away to discern any patterns or identifications.

“Those markers show the progress of the armies?” she asked.

“Oh, much more than that. The staff tracks the movements of all the belligerents. The land armies, the convoys, ships’ day-to-day positions, sea battles and losses. It marks the whereabouts of certain people, too. You can’t see from here, but Mr. Churchill is a cigar, my marker is a cigarette holder, and Mr. Stalin is a pipe. Good thing we all smoke, eh?”

Mia let her glance sweep over the walls and the military personnel moving between them. “And that’s where the information comes from?” She nodded toward a long table where a row of men and women wearing headphones sat in front of typewriters.

“Yes. That’s our communication staff—smart, loyal people who can be trusted. They also transcribe and file all messages that pass between myself, Chiang Kai-shek, Churchill, and Stalin. They work in alternating teams, twenty-four hours a day, and I come in periodically with the war secretary to check on our progress.”