She turned her back on him and wandered over to where Pavlichenko was in conversation with the president and Harriman.
“Thank you for agreeing to this tour, Miss Pavlichenko,” the president said, looking up at her from his wheelchair. “Unlike in your own country, a good many Americans are unwilling to fight for Europe. Even the attack on Pearl Harbor has not convinced them that this is a global war. I am hoping your courage will set an example.”
“I hope so, too, Mr. President, for you are well aware how urgent it is that you open up a western front and draw off some of the German force from our cities.”
Roosevelt reached up as if to take her hand, then apparently changed his mind, and the hand dropped awkwardly back onto the armrest of his wheelchair. “I assure you, we are doing everything in our power to prepare a spring invasion, as I promised Marshal Stalin. It will be soon. Very soon.”
Pavlichenko nodded, and if she was disappointed, she did not show it. What showed was fatigue. The president had the sensitivity to notice.
“I think we’ve worn you down enough, Miss Pavlichenko. Miss Kramer, will you escort the major back to her hotel? Mr. Watson will call a car around for you.”
As they made their way from the White House to the Mayflower Hotel in the car, Major Pavlichenko suddenly turned to Mia. “You know, you are the only woman in this country I have been able to talk to without an interpreter, and it’s been a very long day. Why don’t you join me in the hotel bar for a… for whatever it is Americans drink?”
Mia remembered the Russian propensity to celebrate all things with vodka, even the end of a day of diplomacy. “This American drinks a little wine now and then, after a long day, and I’ll be happy to join you.”
The Mayflower bar was typical of its genre. On one side, a half dozen two-person tables stood along the wall, and on the other, a faux mahogany bar with a double row of glasses hanging upside down on an overhead rack. They took seats at one of the tables, and Pavlichenko removed her enormous officer’s cap, releasing once again her formless hair.
“A glass of your house red wine,” Mia said to the waiter.
“Please tell him I’ll have the same as you,” Pavlichenko said.
“No vodka?” Mia asked.
“No sense in reinforcing a stereotype.”
When the drinks arrived, they toasted, took the ceremonial swallow, and Pavlichenko unbuttoned the top button of her tunic. “I don’t know why they make the collars on these things so high.”
Mia smiled at the fact that the major had just acted out two clichés, letting down her hair and unbuttoning her collar. “I have to tell you, frankly, that I’m happy Russia has sent us a woman sniper and not a man. The American public is barely aware of the Red Army, let alone that women fight in it. Can you tell me how many there are?”
Pavlichenko took another large swallow. “In the military in general? Several hundred thousand. As for snipers, that number grows monthly, and the schools are graduating them even now. I would say maybe two thousand.”
“Do snipers generally know about each other?”
“They do if they come from the same schools, and some become known if they attain high scores.”
“I have a friend,” Mia said, conceding inwardly that molestation might not constitute friendship. “Someone I met while I was in Moscow named Alexia Vassilievna, but her friends called her Alyosha. Anyhow, she’s currently in an honor regiment but wants to become a sniper, and I wonder how she would do that.”
“If your friend is a party member and has superior visual ability, she could qualify, and if she does, she’d probably go to the Central Women’s Sniper Training School near Podolsk.”
“I guess I don’t really know what a sniper does. How is it different from the shooting by ordinary soldiers?”
Pavlichenko leaned forward onto her elbows, her eyes bloodshot. “Well, sometimes they send you off to knock out communication lines or machine-gun nests, and then you’re just a soldier with a good aim.” She paused, formulating the rest of her answer, turning her wineglass on the table.
“But often you have to hunt a particular officer, or even an enemy sniper, one of your professional colleagues, so to speak. Then it’s personal, and the act of shooting is a moment of intimacy that leaves a mark on you.”
“Intimacy? Shooting someone from a long distance? How can that be?”
“Yes, because the target’s not anonymous anymore. You track him or watch him, sometimes for hours, and when you finally get him in your scope, you fixate on him, on his uniform. You can even see his rank on his cap or collar, his medals. While you’re waiting for the perfect shot, you see the details of his face, whether he shaved that morning or has a dueling scar. Maybe he’s handsome or looks like a man you know. You wait for him to turn just the right way, and when you lay your crosshairs over his face you find yourself looking into his eyes. He’s perhaps five hundred meters away, but he could be in your embrace, and he’s yours completely.”
Mia simply nodded, not wanting to interrupt the narrative.
“You feel a surge of power but also sadness because you know this man is in the last moments of his life, but he has no idea. How many more breaths will you allow him to take? You’re tempted to let him take another and another, because by now you’re half in love with him. But then you remember your duty, and finally you fire. Your shot, your touch, is always to his head, usually to his face. When it is, we have a name for it.”
“What’s that?”
“We call that the sniper’s kiss.” She emptied her glass and wiped her mouth with her fist.
Mia chuckled softly. “Rather the opposite of the Jesus kiss,” she muttered.
“Jesus kiss? I don’t understand.”
“Oh, sorry. It just reminded me of something a pastor said at the White House Christmas party. He quoted Dostoyevsky, whose Grand Inquisitor challenges Jesus, and all Jesus does in reply is kiss him. A sort of ‘love is the answer’ answer.”
Pavlichenko snorted. “Dostoyevsky! A nineteenth-century intellectual who wallowed in personal soul-searching. He has nothing to say to a people struggling against an invader.” With a swallow of wine, she changed the subject.
“By the way, Miss Kramer. I got a letter from Georgetown University inviting me to teach as a guest lecturer in the Russian language and history. Perhaps they did not realize I was here only for a short visit. When I return home, I will thank them formally, of course, but would you be so kind as to let them know immediately that my travel schedule is very tight, and I will not be able to do anything that is not on the scheduled tour?”
“I’ll be happy to do so, though that would be a real coup, wouldn’t it?”
“A coup for your university or for Russia?”
“I suppose for both. The best sort of international relations.” Mia finished her wine. “Would you like another? Courtesy of the White House.”
Pavlichenko shook her head. “Thank you, no. I’m really ready for bed now.” She rose from the table, set her officer’s cap on, and tugged on her tunic that had ridden up over her hips.
Mia left an adequate number of bills on the table and escorted the guest as far as the elevator. “I believe someone will arrive tomorrow morning to escort you to the train for Chicago. I think it’s wonderful what you’re doing, and I wish you good luck on your tour.”
“Thank you for your service and your companionship, Miss Kramer. And who knows? If this war can bring me to the White House, perhaps it will lead you again to the Kremlin.” After a light hug, Pavlichenko stepped into the elevator.
With a curious feeling of solidarity with the cynical sharpshooter, Mia strode toward the hotel exit and the White House car.