And a lump rose in my throat as I saw Kostia take his place quietly before the table.
If Alexei could pull strings to get a position on the delegation, so could I—and I’d maneuvered to get my partner back at my side, the moment I’d heard Krasavchenko drone about bringing our own interpreters. I hadn’t formulated any kind of plan, just blurted, “I can recommend an excellent interpreter, newly transferred to the Moscow military district. Decorated soldier and fluent speaker of English and Russian.” Because if I was going halfway around the world with the possibility of new enemies in front of me and the certainty of at least one old enemy behind me, I wanted my partner at my back.
And here he was, my partner, almost unrecognizable in a pressed uniform and a clean shave, standing beside the delegation table, leaning on the cane he still needed after a splinter had nearly blown his knee apart in Sevastopol’s fall. I willed him to look over and smile, but he was shuffling papers, adjusting his microphone. After the press conference, I thought. We can finally talk—but flashes were going off again all over the room as the broadcast began.
I shifted in my seat as the introductions rolled, trying to get rid of that feeling of being exposed, unarmed, locked in unfriendly gunsights. Krasavchenko seemed polished and at ease in this kind of setting; I’d rather be dressed as a bush with my Three Line in hand. But my way back to the front led through this tour. The Americans need to be shown the truth of our struggle against Nazism, we had been lectured in Moscow as we prepared for the trip. Our need for reinforcements—that is the real purpose of your delegation, not merely sitting in sessions with international students. This directive comes all the way from Comrade Stalin. A stern look all around. We cannot miss this chance.
My spine had straightened at that. Maybe I wouldn’t have a rifle in hand, but apparently this mission still boiled down to the same directive: Don’t you dare miss.
“Propaganda ponies,” I heard an American journalist snicker in the front row as the broadcast rolled on, not bothering to whisper, since he assumed none of us could understand. “Let’s see ’em go through their paces.”
I put up my chin. Yes, let’s.
At first it wasn’t so bad. Krasavchenko read a statement: the dire plight of our country, the unity of our civilians. Pchelintsev read a statement: the readiness of the Red Army to strike back against the Germans. I read a statement—first some Party-approved fluff about greetings from Soviet womanhood, and then I was glad to get to the meat of it. “The Soviet people send thanks for your aid, but the struggle which our nation is leading demands more and more from us. We await active assistance and the opening of a second front.” I heard Kostia’s voice translating in a quiet murmur; saw pencils scratching as the journalists took notes. I straightened in my chair. “As a Russian soldier, I extend my hand to you. Together we must defeat the Nazi monsters.” That was the end of my printed statement, but I added in English, with a smile, “Forward to victory!” A nice little slogan that could wrap up just about any speech. People need a signal that you’re finished, and that they can clap now.
The ambassador opened the floor for questions, and I began marshaling facts and figures, though most questions would probably go to Krasavchenko.
But the questions were almost all for me, and they weren’t about the war.
“Is it true your nickname is Lady Death?”
I began to say that another interpretation could be Lady Midnight, but I was already sensing that no one here wanted complicated answers; they wanted simple comments that fit easily into newspaper captions. “Yes,” I said, through Kostia. I’d been instructed to use the interpreter for all questions, even if my English was up to it. （Because who knew what a volatile female might say, without a man to sift her words if she gets out of hand? I’d rolled my eyes at that, but on the whole I preferred to be underestimated by the press, so all to the better if they thought I spoke little English.） “I am sometimes called Lady Death. Also the lynx, for the way I move through trees.”