The source of the Russians’ limitless energy, Bobby eventually discovered, was their fatalism. Each one believed they would eventually be drafted and killed by the Nazis.
Bobby wasn’t surprised that this fatalism led to drinking. He’d done the same thing after his battle with the Japanese over the Aleutian Islands. But he was surprised that it led to a lively social atmosphere rather than a maudlin one. The Russian response to the inevitability of death was to live life to the fullest. They wanted to drink, sing, and make love today, because they didn’t believe there would even be a tomorrow.
Bobby so enjoyed his nights out at the speakeasies that a part him was secretly dreading the summit itself.
The Russians didn’t even want the American pilots to attend. They weren’t dignitaries, after all. They were mere soldiers, which from the Soviet perspective meant sacrificial pawns in the great games of power. The Americans couldn’t disagree more. America celebrated the Everyman, and these pilots, college-educated young officers from all walks of life, epitomized the American dream.
So a compromise was struck. The pilots could attend, but only in pseudosecret. After all, the Russians didn’t want to be forced to invite their own pilots. So the Americans wouldn’t wear their uniforms. They could hear the concert, but would have to eat dinner in the kitchen, with the staff. Bobby wished General Marshall and the rest of the American delegation hadn’t bothered. He fully expected the summit to be uncomfortable and gloomy.
When the summit came, they put Bobby and the pilots in the kitchen, as proposed. As he ate his meal, he couldn’t help but wish he was spending another evening at one of the speakeasies. But the music was interesting, at least—much better than the accordions and fiddles he’d sung to every night. It seemed like ages since he’d last heard a proper symphony.
He started to listen more attentively. He tried to identify the piece and eventually had to admit he’d never heard it before. But it was good; it was emotional. The cellist was particularly good. Bobby had become something of an expert on cellists after he started dating Karen. He knew she resented his father’s demands of her talent and, as a result, even resented her talent itself. But Bobby couldn’t help but be proud of his girlfriend. She was just so darned good at it. And this cellist was as talented—clearly better than the rest of the orchestra.
Curiosity overcame Bobby. He’d never known a cellist as good as Karen. He snuck to the kitchen door and peaked out, careful not to reveal himself. And he saw her. The cellist was as good as Karen because the cellist was Karen. Bobby’s heart leaped. He felt dizzy with joy. It was fate; there was no other explanation. Never before had Bobby so completely believed in the power of faith. Yet he had kept his faith, doing everything he could to be near her again, despite having no communication with her or even knowing whether she was still alive.
Karen, too, had clearly kept her faith, somehow escaping Leningrad and finding her way east, to head closer to Bobby. Fate had rewarded their faith by bringing them together for this chance encounter. God, it turned out, was a romantic.
Bobby stared at Karen, feasting on her beauty. She was even more striking than when he’d first met her. She looked too thin, practically emaciated. But what Bobby noticed most was that she was no longer a girl. She was a woman.
Bobby looked away from the spectacle and rushed out of the kitchen through the back door. It was difficult, like tearing off a bandage, but he had to. He had so much to do. He returned to his hotel, where Jack had ditched the summit to spend another night alone with Bel. Bobby knocked loudly on Jack’s door to give them fair warning, and burst inside.
Jack and Bel were in bed. “What are you doing?” Jack yelled, pulling the covers over Bel.
Bobby ignored Jack. He told Bel, “I need a gift quick, something romantic.”
Bel smiled. “Romantic? For Lenka?”
Bobby shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. It’s for someone else.”
Jack stared at Bobby. “You’re not talking about…”
Bobby grinned, nodded. “I am. I found her. I found Karen.”
Bel did her best. There was no florist in Chelyabinsk, and few gardens. But there were wildflowers. She helped Bobby gather a bouquet of exotic steppe colors.
Finally prepared, he returned to the summit and waited outside the stage door. It was like the first time they’d met, two and a half years ago, except this time Bobby was sweating in the humid July heat. The door swung open and the musicians spilled out. Bobby searched their faces. He didn’t see Karen. In broken, halting Russian, he asked where the lead cellist was. One of the young musicians pointed back inside the building.
He pushed past them. The hallways were quiet, dark, and abandoned. Where could Karen be? He began to panic, thinking he’d somehow lost her. Then he heard something—a girl—giggling. He followed the voice. It sounded like Karen, but why was she hiding in the dark? He saw shadows but couldn’t fully make them out. He brushed the wall with his hand, found a light switch, and flipped it on. He immediately wished he hadn’t. He’d found Karen, all right. But she wasn’t alone. She was with a boy. And she was kissing him.
CHAPTER 41
THE CELLIST, THE ORGAN-GRINDER, AND THE CHOIRBOY
Bobby grabbed Petr’s shoulder, spun him around, and hit him in the jaw.
The blow took Petr completely by surprise. One moment he was kissing the woman he loved, the next his brain flashed with pain and confusion. But he didn’t pass out. He’d had time to flinch, which made Bobby miss the nerves leading from the jawline directly to the brain. He fell back against the wall, gathered his legs under him, and steadied himself.
Bobby had his hands up, his elbows tight, ready to protect face and stomach from a rain of fists. He’d learned to box in high school.
Petr had never learned to box. The Red Army hadn’t trained him to brawl, only to kill in combat. And he had no idea who Bobby was; all he knew was that some strange man had attacked him for no apparent reason. In Petr’s world of Nazis and NKVD assassins, Bobby could have been any number of deadly foes.
Petr launched himself at Bobby and tackled him, knocking him down. He was going to kill him. He instinctively reached for the sharpened spade that hung from his belt. It wasn’t there. Of course it wasn’t—this wasn’t his infantry uniform.
Bobby took advantage of the opening to roll out from under Petr and climb back to his feet. He returned to his boxing stance. He was ready for Petr now; he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. When Petr lunged to tackle him again, Bobby would shuffle out of reach and hammer Petr’s downturned skull with crosses and jabs.
But instead, Petr grabbed a chair and flung it at Bobby, who ducked and deflected the flying furniture with his left forearm. The chair spun past him and cracked against the wall.
His forearm hurt like hell, but Petr charged again, trying to knock him down. Bobby stepped back, reducing Petr’s tackle to a mere clinch around him. He hammered Petr’s sides with hooks, aiming at his solar plexus. Petr didn’t let go. He twisted and pulled, nearly dragging Bobby to the ground again.
“Stop it! Stop it!”
Karen had been screaming from the start, but neither Petr nor Bobby had heard her. Adrenaline and instinct had pushed her pleas to the back of their minds so they could focus entirely on what both now realized was a life-or-death struggle.
But Karen grabbed at them, pushing herself between them.