The visit had, in fact, lifted her spirits. The mystery of her father’s death had been solved, and the bitterness she’d felt toward him had evaporated.
It was good to talk openly to someone about Alexia, she thought. And then the irony struck. Grushenka’s blackmail had been the cause of her final trip to Moscow and the whole misadventure that followed: Molotov’s attempt on her life, her involvement with the snipers, her dragging Alexia into the political mire, Alexia’s condemnation. The solace she’d felt talking to Grushenka did nothing to alleviate Alexia’s misery. Only the end of the war could do that… maybe.
And when would the war end? She craved it like a swimmer seeing the thinnest line of shore in the distance. The tension was wearing them all down. Hopkins was in the hospital again trying to absorb food with half a stomach, and the president, too, was ghostlike. His portrait painter would have to add color that he no longer had in his face.
She hurried upstairs to the Private Meeting Room, where the sitting had already gone on for half an hour, and slipped in just ahead of Thomas, who was about to serve him lunch. Roosevelt’s assistant, Edwin Watson, stood inconspicuously in the background. The artist Elizabeth Shoumatoff had already sketched an excellent though slightly idealized representation of the president’s face, leaving out the frighteningly dark circles under his eyes and his sunken cheeks.
Roosevelt glanced up as Mia entered and smiled. “Hello, Miss Kramer. Nice to see you.”
“Please don’t let me disturb you, Mr. President.” Mia hurried to take a seat.
“It’s no disturbance at all. By the way, I’ve been meaning to thank you for your service in Russia. You must feel a certain futility since we were not able to act on your information.”
“Not at all, sir. I understand that state matters must take precedence over individual ones.”
“Sometimes I wonder,” Roosevelt mused. “States are as transitory as we are. They only change more slowly. With individuals, you bring your ethics, your understanding of things to the conversation, and the result is immediate. Not so with states. Even those of us at the helm can only move them so far and so fast, and we have no way of knowing the ramifications of each decision, a year, a decade, a century later. It’s exhausting to think of it.”
“Yes, sir. It must be.”
“Do you believe in God, my dear?”
Mia hesitated. “Uh… no sir. Not in the usual way. I see the absolute only in the movement of the stars. Not astrology, of course. I mean in the galaxy and beyond. But I don’t think any benevolent divinity is looking after us.”
“The stars, eh? A nice thought. Beautiful, over our heads through all the centuries, but indifferent. Leaving us to make all the decisions, take all the responsibility.”
“Yes sir, but I find that somewhat comforting. No matter what we do, they go on.”
“Perhaps so. Anyhow, I’ve been wanting to tell you that I did my best for you, but unfortunately…” Suddenly he grimaced. “Oh, I’ve got a terrific pain in the back of my head,” he said through clenched teeth. He went rigid for a moment, then slumped, his head lolling to one side.
Both Thomas and Watson rushed to him, catching him as he toppled from his chair, and together they carried him into the adjoining bedroom.
Mia snatched up the office phone and told Security to locate Howard Bruenn, the president’s doctor-in-residence. Within moments, he arrived and rushed into the bedroom.
Mia stood at first helplessly with the artist, wondering what was the appropriate thing to do. Watson would inform the First Lady, but then Mia remembered that one other very important person needed to know.
She took up the phone again and asked the switchboard to connect her with the hospital. While she waited for Harry Hopkins to come to the phone, Dr. Bruenn emerged from the bedroom and closed the door behind him.
“I’m sorry to tell you. The president is dead.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
Two days later, the body of Franklin Delano Roosevelt was borne on a gun carriage from the hospital back to the White House before a sea of mourning Americans. Mia stood on the White House steps with the other staff as six uniformed pallbearers slow-walked the flag-covered casket up the stairs. The president had not wanted a state funeral, and so his casket lay only briefly in the White House to be visited by close friends and by Congress, then was transported by train to Hyde Park for burial.
The world war had been so cataclysmic and the president’s leadership so central that his sudden passing seemed a nasty trick of fate. Now, while a bland Missouri hat maker was stepping into the shoes of a giant back in the White House, Mia rode on the train with Roosevelt’s close friends and family.
She stared brooding out the window at the early spring countryside, then felt someone sit down next to her.
Lorena Hickok laid a hand on her forearm. “We haven’t spoken in a while, and I’ve neglected you terribly. I’m sorry. I just want you to know I did my best for you.”
“How very strange. That’s exactly what the president said, just minutes before he died. But I have no idea what that means.”
“He said that too? I’m sure he was referring to the cable that came after you returned from Moscow. About your friend. Eleanor asked the president if he had any influence on Stalin for such things. He was sympathetic but didn’t hold out much hope. Obviously, he either never brought it up or Stalin said no. Bigger issues to deal with, I suppose.”
Mia cringed at the idea that five people in the White House, including the president, knew about her love for a Russian sniper. “I thank all of you for your concern, but that was completely unnecessary. It was my personal sorrow.”
“Yes, dear. I know. But we take care of our own. And now I’ve got to go take care of Eleanor.” She patted Mia’s hand one more time and continued down the aisle of the train.
Mia slumped back in her seat, both embarrassed and touched, and with an additional reason to mourn the passing of Franklin Delano Roosevelt.
April continued with one momentous event following the other. Within ten days of the funeral and the swearing in of Harry Truman, the Western Allies and the Red Army met on the Elbe. The Third Reich was on its knees. Five days after that, Adolf Hitler committed suicide, and it became headless. Seven days later, its remaining military leadership surrendered unconditionally.
Truman, who had been vice president only eighty-three days and had played no part in Roosevelt’s negotiations, turned his attention to the continuing war in the Pacific. Yet more—much more—needed to be done about Europe. On May 20, 1945, Harry Hopkins called Mia into his office one more time.
She sat down without invitation. They’d long ago done away with formalities, and she felt sure he was about to terminate her job anyhow.
“So, now that President Truman has shut down Lend-Lease to the Soviets, we’ll be closing this office, I suppose,” she said, making it easier for him.
Hopkins tapped off the millionth ash of his millionth cigarette and smiled ambiguously. “Not quite yet. It’s true that Truman ended the program officially on May 11, but Stalin was so angry, it looked like it would affect postwar talks. So I’ve got to go over there and work out a compromise. An extension, with limited provisions, at least through the summer.”
Mia nodded. Where was this leading?
His smile widened. “You ready for one more round with Uncle Joe?”
“Me? Meet with Joseph Stalin?” She was speechless.
“Yep. Six meetings, starting on May 26. Harriman’s also coming, to discuss China, Japan, the Control Council for Germany, Poland, the United Nations, all that kind of thing.”