“A second front—it is an obsession with Red Army soldiers,” I offered, struggling to find the right words in English. The words that would offer an olive branch for the narrowness of my focus, without apologizing for asking for what we did, after all, so desperately need from her country. “We are too close to the violence of the fight for objectivity. And of course I think like a sniper, focusing only on what is right in my sights—” I broke off again as a light turned red unexpectedly, and I braced myself before her stamp on the brakes sent me through the windshield.
“Naturally, your chief concern is for the men and women in the trenches at your side. And I would assure you that we have not forgotten them, either. At tonight’s dinner, you’ll find supporters of your cause, but you will also find detractors . . .” The First Lady took her hands off the wheel as she chattered, prominent teeth flashing, the very picture of a gossipy fifty-eight-year-old woman chattering about her grandchildren. Only she was breaking down anti-Soviet factions and which members I might expect to see at the dinner party, not stopping for breath when the light changed and she sent us bulleting off into the night again, at speeds I wasn’t sure trains should be achieving much less automobiles. The President’s wife is a lunatic, I thought, clutching the door for dear life. She threw me an amused glance as if she could tell what I was thinking, but I’d be damned if I asked her to slow down. And she didn’t offer.
“Is your sniper’s tally truly at 309?”
Yes. No. Maybe? I knew my official tally was over three hundred, but in the final chaotic days of Sevastopol’s fall, I’d stopped taking note of official hits. Who had time for that with the German advance grinding forward? “But the Americans will want a specific number,” the secretariat had insisted back in Moscow, so the number 309 was settled on. I didn’t care enough to argue. My real count was probably over four hundred, but no one seemed interested in the complex answer over the simple one. “Three hundred and nine, da,” I told the First Lady now.
“You know, your English will put you at an advantage at events like tonight’s,” she said, hurtling us through a yellow light without slowing. “It’s really quite good. Where did you learn?”
“My first lessons came from my mother, when I was a child.”
“Is she a teacher?”
“Da—” I caught my lip in my teeth as we scraped past a dark green Packard. “Is this interesting to you, Mrs. Roosevelt?”
“Americans want to like people,” she said unexpectedly. “We want to like everybody. It’s one of our better traits. But we need a reason, Lyudmila. You Russians with your statements and talking points—that’s all well and good for policy meetings, but the American people want to know you. The young woman behind the official statements. Who your family is, what food you like—”
“What underwear I wear?” I couldn’t help saying, and imagined Lena chuckling: She might be the First Lady, but she’s still a cheeky Yank! And you can’t let cheeky Yanks have it all their own way. “That is the kind of thing Americans want to know about me—my underwear?”
“They would appreciate a glimpse at the underpinnings of your character,” Mrs. Roosevelt said tactfully. “Questions about the underpinnings of your clothing may of course be ignored.”
“But things about my character, my family—these things are not relevant. Not to the public.” I tried to find the words as the convertible pulled up with a screech of tires outside a stately Washington home, all redbrick and vast expanse of lawn. The windows blazed with light; I could see women in satin gowns moving on the other side of the glass; waiters with trays of hors d’oeuvres. “What is important is the reason I am here. You say your presidential adviser Mr. Hopkins wants the details of our fight—why does no one else?” My voice rose despite myself. “Why does your press not care? Why don’t their readers?”
“Let them get to know you,” Eleanor replied. “Make them care.”