Christmas morning Mia ambled leisurely down the hall from the White House cafeteria where the staff had just enjoyed a breakfast of pancakes and waffles. She clutched her gifts, the box of chocolate the Roosevelts gave to every staff member and the new fountain pen Harry Hopkins had bought her. A Schaeffer White Dot, in tortoise shell. Now she was headed toward the library to fill it with ink. As she reached the stairs, a bulky figure blocked her way.
“Merry Christmas!” Lorena Hickok said with robust cheer. “Have you looked out the window? It’s started to snow, and I was just searching for someone to stroll through the Rose Garden with me.”
Mia was still intimidated by the gruff woman with the deep voice, but she didn’t relish spending the rest of Christmas Day in her tiny upstairs chamber with only her radio as a companion. “Sure. Just let me get my coat.”
Reaching her room, she deposited her gifts on the bed, snatched up her wool coat and hat, and hurried down again to the door leading to the Rose Garden.
The snow now fell in thick flakes, and their footprints whitened again behind them. Mia drew her scarf tighter, wondering what they’d talk about.
“So, how was the Tehran conference?” Lorena began the conversation. “I know it was ages ago, but I was away on business all of December, and we haven’t talked since you left. Did you meet the big man himself?”
“Stalin? Of course I didn’t meet him, but I did see him up close. He’s rather ugly but has a certain magnetism, and everyone’s afraid of him. He has a Georgian accent, too.”
Lorena guffawed. “That’s right. Eleanor told me you’re Russian, so you can understand him. When did your family come over?” She swatted a bush, knocking off the powdery snow.
“Back in 1918, from St. Petersburg, during the civil war. I was ten.”
“Do you get nostalgic when you hear the language?”
Mia thought for a moment. “Yes, I suppose it has a certain warmth that reminds me of childhood. But what about you? Where do you call home? And what brings you to the White House? If I may ask.”
Lorena raised her collar to cover her neck and closed the last button. “I’m from Wisconsin and was damned glad to get away from the place when I went to work for the Associated Press.”
“Journalism must be exciting.”
“It was. I met great people—actresses, musicians, opera singers. And in ’32, I covered the campaign of a certain Franklin Delano Roosevelt, where I met Eleanor. She got me a position working on the New Deal programs. Then, just before the war, I was hired by the Democratic National Committee.”
“Sounds like you’re very important to the Roosevelts.” The snow wafted into her face, and she tugged her hat lower on her forehead.
“I like to think so. But I’m a little jealous of your travels. I mean, you’ve just been in Iran with the leaders of the Western world.”
“Yes, it was amazing to listen to those men discuss the fate of all of Europe, how they planned to divide Germany and Poland, and so forth. And at the dinners, they drank like fish.”
Lorena laughed again. “Yes, they do that, those politicos. Some sort of test of manliness. Even if it kills them.”
Mia felt a certain warmth from Lorena, a certain trust. Spontaneously, she added, “And you should have seen the Russian honor guards. Exotic uniforms, Slavic faces, the kind you don’t often see here. Some of them really beautiful. There was one, a blonde…”
“A boy? They have that kind of ash-blond look. A bit rough, but appealing.”
“No. This one was a girl. A young woman. Her name was Alexia.”
“Ah, you even learned her name. Well done.”
They made a circuit of the White House and returned to the portal. Mia glanced back over the grounds, watching their footprints in the white carpet gradually disappear. She smiled at the fantasy landscape, vaguely recalling innocent winters in St. Petersburg.
As they entered, a man waited next to a security guard, and her heart sank. “It’s all right to admit him,” she said to the guard. “It’s my brother.” She waved good-bye to Lorena and drew him to the side, scowling. “For God’s sake, what are you doing here?”
“I had a hell of a time finding you. I knew you were in Washington, working on the war in some way, but I never thought you’d be here. Wow. Nice going.”
She drew him to a quiet corner. “You still haven’t told me why you’re here.”
He pursed his lips, as if reluctant to speak. “The police have reopened the case of Father’s death.”
“What? Why? It’s been over a year now, and they found no evidence of a crime.”
Van shrugged helplessly. “Apparently Smerdjakov, you know, his boss, found a letter that you’d sent his wife saying how much you wanted to get rid of him.”
“But that’s nonsense.”
“You never wrote a letter?” Van crossed his arms.
Mia found herself stammering. “Well, I did, but it was just some silly love letter written in a fever of infatuation. I mentioned something about having big plans once I was free of him, but I just meant after I’d moved out. She knew I’d applied for a better job and planned to leave.”
She winced, recalling her reckless trust in someone so shallow. “So now I’m a suspect again?”
“Not officially. I mean, the police have the letter, and they’ve questioned Grushenka. I just wanted to let you know what’s going on so you could, well, get away if you need to. I mean, they can pick you up at any moment here.”
“Van, I’m not going to run away from my job at the White House just because the police found an old love letter from me that said I was unhappy at home. You were, too. We both hated his hypocrisy, the way he ruined God for us.”
“Yeah, he did, didn’t he? Certainly as an explanation for the whole wretched world. The war, the suffering, the guilt and obligations that have nothing to do with reality. It’s like a train ride I don’t want to be on.”
“So you’re an atheist now?”
He shrugged. “It’s not God that I don’t accept, Mia, only I most respectfully return Him the ticket.” He buttoned up his coat. “Take care of yourself,” he said, and strode toward the door.
She watched him pass the security guard and disappear across the Rose Garden. Typical cynical Van. But she was inclined to agree with him.
Chapter Seven
Alexia snapped to attention in the guard station at the Kremlin Palace. “At ease, soldier.” Nikolai Vlasik, head of Stalin’s bodyguards, passed by with a slight nod. She resumed her guard position holding her ceremonial rifle across her chest.
She hoped he hadn’t noticed how bored she was. The Special Purpose Regiment had an important function, of course, guarding the heads of government. But it didn’t feel like service to the motherland.
Perhaps it was the cold that crept into her from the concrete floor of the station. Outside the station it was twenty below zero, and though she kept the door shut and wore a thick wool coat, her shiny leather boots seemed to conduct the cold right up her back.
The already dark afternoon and evening dragged by, and finally, at eighteen hours, her relief came. She stepped out, saluted, stepped to the side, and marched stiffly away while the new guard took up position.
Her ice-cold feet ached as she crunched through the snow along the northern corner of the Kremlin. She passed the rows of antique French cannons mounted in front as trophies and fast-marched to the end of the barracks, where the women of the regiment were housed.
She yanked the door closed behind her, breathing in the warm interior air and stamping life back into her feet. Only Ainur, a dark-eyed woman from Kazakhstan, was off duty and slouched on her bunk reading The Red Star, the army newspaper.