But by the second hour, he was clearly not holding up. His persistent stomach problems obviously could not cope with the heavily salted fish, the cream, and the river of vodka. He excused himself momentarily to use the facilities, and when he rose from the table, his face became splotchy and discolored. Harriman stood up quickly and guided him from the dining room.
The dinner conversation continued, with Stalin recounting a tale of his early Bolshevik days. It soon took a bawdy turn, and he began to use Moscow slang, which escaped her. Everyone laughed.
Eventually Harriman returned, alone. “Please excuse us, Marshal Stalin. With thanks for your great hospitality, Mr. Hopkins has unfortunately taken sick, and I must escort him back to the embassy.”
Stalin stood up. “I am sorry to learn that we have overtaxed Mr. Hopkins’s digestion. Would you like some assistance to help him to the car?”
Harriman raised a hand. “No, thank you. We can find our way out and do not want to disrupt your dinner. Miss Kramer, would you…?”
Nazarov also got up from his seat. “Oh, please. Do not deprive us of the one pretty face at the table.”
Ustinov added, “Yes, if Miss Kramer finds our Kremlin diet tolerable, we would love to continue our visit with her. I am sure she has tales to tell about the White House.”
Stalin extended a meaty hand in her direction. “What do you think, Miss Kramer? Will you do us the honor?”
Mia stared at Harriman, pleading with her eyes to be rescued. But the ambassador had only Hopkins on his mind and effectively abandoned her. “It’s quite all right with us. We’ll send the car back in two hours,” he said, and with a final wave to the table, he left the dining room.
She went slightly limp. She was stuck with a table full of Kremlin big shots and way out of her depth. Was it better, or worse, that all of them were intoxicated?
As it turned out, it was better. Stalin signaled for dessert to be served with wine, which he pointed out was Georgian, so if anyone complained about it, he’d be shot. He chuckled, and everyone at the table chuckled nervously with him. But following Stalin’s lead, Ustinov talked of bagging elk and bear in the snow, Molotov of escaping Siberian exile during the tsarist regime, and after each tale, the table drank to the teller, or the bears, or Bolshevik heroism.
“So, Miss Kramer.” Stalin slammed his empty glass down on the table. “It’s your turn. Tell us something about life in the White House.”
One did not refuse the dictator of all the Russians, so Mia searched her memory for a story that would not compromise anyone. Roosevelt himself was forbidden territory, and so was Hopkins. Who could she expose to Kremlin judgment? She could think of only one thing.
“I will tell you about a great prize the White House has. That is the wife of the president, Eleanor Roosevelt. A great lady. I think you would like her, Marshal Stalin, as much as you like our president.”
“Oh, would I?” Stalin took a pipe from one pocket and an envelope of tobacco from another. What makes you think so?” He tapped a quantity of tobacco into the bowl and pressed it down with his thumb.
“Because she’s a friend of American workers and of the American people of all colors.”
“How many colors do you have?” Molotov snickered, leaning toward Stalin to light his pipe for him.
Stalin puffed until the tobacco glowed bright orange and he sucked in smoke. “Don’t be rude, Vyacheslav Mikhailovich. Let the woman talk.” He blew out smoke in a thin stream. “So, tell us the story of Yeleanor Roosevelt,” he commanded.
“It concerns another great woman, a Negro opera singer named Marian Anderson. Miss Anderson wished to sing a concert in a hall owned by a patriotic group called the Daughters of the American Revolution.”
“Hmm. Revolution. That’s a good thing.”
“Not in this case, sir. These women refused to allow it because, although Miss Anderson is a magnificent opera singer, she is a Negro.”
“And Yeleanor Roosevelt’s role in this?”
“Mrs. Roosevelt arranged for her to sing outdoors in front of the Lincoln Memorial and at the same time for it to be broadcast on the radio. So in the end, Miss Anderson sang not for three hundred people in a hall, but many thousands in Washington and millions across the nation.”
Stalin nodded. “Excellent story. And that deserves a toast, too. To Yeleanor Roosevelt and opera singer Median Enderson.” Everyone at the table stood up and emptied their vodka glasses, and with Stalin’s eyes on her, Mia could not avoid downing another dose of the brain-scalding liquid.
She dropped down onto her chair and breathed deeply, wondering how much longer she could last. Could she keep her wits about her? She was confident of not saying anything improper to her hosts, but would she be able to find her way through the Kremlin Palace back out to the embassy car in… She peered at her watch until her eyes focused on the tiny numbers. In half an hour.
The stories continued around the table, and as the men became drunker, they became more vulgar. When she was no longer the center of attention, she faked drinking each toast to keep from losing consciousness.
Finally the hour of her liberation came and she stood up, massaged her mouth to prepare the muscles for speech, and said, “Marshal Stalin, I wish to thank you for your great hospitality, which only increases my admiration for the Russian people. Unfortunately, I have obligations to my own government and have to return to my embassy now, with great regret.”
Did all that come out all right? She thought so. As she turned around, she was struck by a wave of dizziness and found walking difficult. Fortunately, a butler came and led her outside the Great Hall, where, to her enormous relief, Alexia waited.
Without comment, Alexia helped her into her coat and guided her to the palace courtyard. The ice-cold air hitting her face sobered her a little, but not enough to dampen her high spirits. She’d been tipsy before, but never quite as drunk as this, and was enjoying it. Plus, she realized, it was still Christmas. The thought made her philosophical and affectionate.
She halted and took Alexia’s arm. “Look how clear the sky is.” She swayed slightly as she tilted her head. “You can see millions of stars. Millions and millions and millions.” She found the idea thrilling.
Alexia scanned the sky, blowing little clouds of steam, perhaps humoring her. “The priest who raised me always said the stars were proof of God’s existence.”
Mia chuckled. “Funny, scientists would say the stars are proof God doesn’t exist. In any case, when you see this many, you can’t help but feel connected. Even the ancients gave them identities. Right up there is Orion, for example.” She pointed upward more or less in the right direction, gripping Alexia’s shoulder to keep her balance.
“You can identify the constellations?”
“Na, just showing off. Orion’s easy because of the three stars that make his belt. Then you can look for the stars that make his shoulders and feet.”
Alexia held her collar up under her chin. “I don’t see a man in the sky. I see—I don’t know—some great force, unfathomably vast and wholly indifferent, that has no face. There’s a majesty in that.”
“I know what you mean. It has no interest in comforting us, yet we are comforted. As by the sunrise.” Mia smiled, pleased to have produced such poetry from an alcohol-soaked brain.
The embassy car pulled up in front of them, and she tumbled into it. Once inside, she rambled on about the mysteries of the universe and the beauty of the human spirit. Alexia agreed in each case, seemingly amused.
When they reached the embassy, Mia realized that her Russian Christmas was over and in just a few minutes she would be alone.