She nodded, although he already gave his full attention to the telephone call, and she passed quietly from his office into her own.
At least she finally had a task. Under the light of her gooseneck lamp, she opened the folder. The papers were dispatches from the People’s Commissariat of Arms requesting specific items, others complaining about items that had not been delivered. Midway through the pile she came upon a telegram that seemed to leap out at her. From Molotov, the Russian foreign minister.
She found herself smiling. The political name Molotov meant “hammer” and, like Stalin, was obviously chosen to be intimidating. His language was brusque as he complained about an agreement for a certain amount of foodstuffs that had been promised and that had not arrived. Since the Red Army was sacrificing its blood daily nearly alone among nations, in defense of Europe, he pointed out, a replacement shipment needed to be sent as soon as possible. She translated the letter immediately, careful to express the right amount of anger and disdain.
The sound of tapping surprised her, and Mia glanced up, confused. Only on the second rap did she realize it came from the door to the First Lady’s office. She stood up and rushed to open it.
Eleanor Roosevelt stood in the doorway, hands clasped at her waist, her severe gray skirt and high-collar blouse adding to the schoolteacher image.
“Hello,” the First Lady said. “Mr. Allen said you were installed in your new office. The maid has just brought in a pot of tea, and I thought it gave us a chance to chat. Or are you working on something critical?”
“Oh, no. Nothing like that.”
Eleanor stepped back, and Mia entered the room hesitantly. The First Lady’s office was more domestic than official. A hinged “secretary” desk provided the only writing surface. It was open at the moment and revealed stationery and a tiny vase of roses. A small round table to her right was set for three, and the porcelain teapot at its center gave off a pleasant aroma.
“I was just translating a message from Molotov, but I’m sure it can wait.”
“Molotov!” Eleanor threw back her head and laughed. “That old Bolshevik can certainly wait for his answer.” She gestured toward the table and Mia took a seat.
“He’s a real scoundrel, that one. I take pains to keep out of my husband’s business with the Soviets, but I do read the newspapers. It was Molotov who negotiated the non-aggression pact with Hitler so the Soviets could annex half of Eastern Europe. Worse, he surely had a hand in the famine in the Ukraine that killed millions of peasants.” She sighed. “And now he’s our ally. Would you like cream and sugar?” She poured the steaming tea into both cups.
“Both, please, if you don’t mind.”
Eleanor passed the cream pitcher and sugar bowl to her, and they both sipped delicately.
“He’s a peasant, and it amazes me that he’s survived so long in Stalin’s government. He was here last year for meetings with the president and the State Department, and we all had a good laugh behind his back. Oh, he puts on a good façade, but you learn a lot about a person when you unpack their bags.”
Mia set down her cup, puzzled, and Eleanor raised her hand to cover her bright, ladylike snicker. “Oh, I didn’t unpack his bags, but Mr. Allen did, while Molotov was out shaking hands. It’s standard practice for White House guests. Believe it or not, Allen found a sausage, a loaf of black bread, and a loaded pistol.”
“A loaded pistol! In the White House? And I wonder if he thought our food might poison him.”
“Who knows what the man thought? Mr. Allen placed all three objects in the same drawer as his shirts but had the good sense to remove the bullets. If Molotov was upset at that, he apparently decided not to make an issue of it.”
The tale allowed Mia to relax in the First Lady’s presence, and she spoke candidly. “Well, he’s making an issue of some of the Lend-Lease deliveries, and it will be my job to sort it out in the accounting. But I’m delighted to hear about the sausage and bread. I’ll be a little less intimidated now.”
“Oh, you must not let anybody intimidate you, my dear.”
“Who is intimidating whom?” a rich contralto voice said, and Mia glanced up, startled.
A woman in her fifties entered uninvited. She was portly, plain-faced, and wore a mannish jacket over a long skirt. She dragged a chair over to the table and sat down by the third teacup.
“So you’re Harry’s new assistant. Is Eleanor giving you the pep talk?”
Eleanor glanced up through her eyebrows. “Hicks, do try to behave.”
“What? I’m just here to meet the new recruit.” She held out her hand. “Lorena Hickok at your service.”
Mia took it, found it meaty, warm, her grip firm. “I’m… uh… pleased to meet you.” Who was this drab, avuncular woman who could enter the First Lady’s office without knocking?
As if hearing her thoughts, Eleanor explained. “Lorena is head of the women’s division of the Democratic National Committee. In fact, she has rooms upstairs not far from you.”
“I see.” Mia smiled, though she didn’t see. Hickok’s job title explained little about either her residency at the White House or her familiarity.
Lorena reached past her and poured herself a cup of tea. “So, what’s this I hear about intimidation?”
“Miss Kramer was just saying that she was a bit alarmed by Molotov’s tone in his telegraphs. You know what he’s like.”
Hickok snorted. “He’s a bully. They all are.” She leaned toward Mia. “Don’t ever let them cow you. If I’d let big-shot politicos, domestic or foreign, browbeat me, I’d never have made it as a journalist. And Eleanor would never have stood up to the Daughters of the American Revolution.” She glanced toward Mia. “You must know what she did for Marian Anderson when the DAR refused to let her sing in Constitution Hall.”
“I know that she arranged an outdoor concert for her at the Lincoln Memorial. I heard it on the radio.”
Eleanor was more conciliatory. “The Daughters of the American Revolution has always been an all-white patriotic association. And then, of course, Washington was still very segregated in 1939. I’d hoped that Anderson’s fame—and pressure from the press, other artists, and politicians—would create an exception for her, but the DAR stood fast in their refusal.”
“But you did create a scandal, didn’t you?” Lorena beamed with wicked pleasure over the top of her cup.
“You mean by resigning? Yes, I suppose I did. But my real ally was the Secretary of the Interior, who helped me arrange the concert at the Lincoln Memorial. On Easter Sunday, no less. And the park estimated that seventy-five thousand people showed up.”
“I remember being thrilled by it, for her, for you, and for a government that had crossed the color line. And it has to cross that line. We can’t claim to be the bastion of freedom when we discriminate against our own citizens.”
Hickok tilted her head admiringly. “Oh, looks like we have a live wire here, Eleanor. We’re going to have to keep an eye on this one.” She bumped elbows with Mia.
Mia smiled weakly at the compliment. She would never have used the term “live wire” for herself.
The teapot was empty now and Eleanor was folding her napkin, a polite but unmistakable gesture. “It was lovely chatting with you, my dear,” Eleanor said.
Mia pushed back her chair. “A pleasure for me, too, and now I have Russian complaints to translate. Thank you so much for the tea, Mrs. Roosevelt.”
She edged toward the door leading to her own tiny space.
“Quite all right. Do let us know if the boys make too many demands on you.”