“I don’t know,” he said. I stepped forward and kissed him in the middle of the crowded hotel court, long and desperately, and his hand came around my waist and touched the scar over my spine.
Then I broke away, ignoring the glances all around us, and joined the delegation for my last visit to the White House.
PRESIDENT ROOSEVELT RAISED his glass. “To new friends.”
The delegation murmured in response, toasting. We sat in the same small dining room where we’d been welcomed to our first American breakfast. Had that really been only two months ago? When I first sat at this table, I’d been grieving, angry, resentful, convinced I’d hate America and all Americans. Well, I’d given speeches in more cities than I could count, in front of more journalists than there were stars in the sky, and I’d seen the beauty in rolling American hills, towering American skyscrapers, and friendly American faces. I no longer flinched to see my name in print, or a microphone standing in the circle of a spotlight awaiting my voice, or a crowd of eager faces turned up toward mine to listen. How very far Mila Pavlichenko had come.
Although I was still grieving and still angry, even if for different reasons.
“Are you quite all right, Lyudmila?” the First Lady asked in a low tone. She’d placed me on her right, the seat of honor. “You look strained.”
“Quite all right, Eleanor.” I saw Alexei looking at me from his place at the far end of the table, his gaze speculative rather than sullen—I hadn’t spoken to him since he scooped his rejected roses off my rug and stormed out of my room. He’d probably decided he’d come out on top of it all . . . no one could beat Alexei when it came to twisting an argument around so he’d won it.
Three courses, more toasts, and then the President excused himself to the oval reception room, where the press would take some final photographs. I knew by now—though Eleanor certainly never said any such thing—that her husband would situate himself in an armchair in advance of the photographers, so they would find him at ease with his trademark cigarette holder clamped between his teeth, not struggling with his braces and cane. A respectful wait, then the Soviet delegation followed into the big oval room with its vaulted ceilings and graceful fireplace, beside which the President gave his famous fireside chats. One last bank of photographers and journalists flooded in, snapping pictures—not just of us but of the gifts we’d accrued during the goodwill tour. A long table had been piled with plaques, city seals, mayoral keys, commemorative albums of all the cities we’d visited. I smiled to see the mahogany box of the twin Colt M1911A1 pistols that had been given to me by the Sharpshooters’ Association in Chicago, and the soft silver pile of the lynx coat I’d been awarded in New York.
“Two more gifts for you, Lyudmila.” The First Lady drew me aside, lowering her voice as Krasavchenko approached President Roosevelt for his farewell handshake. “I have many photographs of you by now, but I thought you might like one of me, to remember our friendship.”
I blinked down at the framed picture she placed in my hand: an image of Eleanor in the black dress she wore tonight, seated at her desk like the hard-working woman she was, inscribed in her own hand. To Senior Lieutenant Lyudmila Pavlichenko, with warm good wishes from Eleanor Roosevelt.
My eyes prickled as I looked up from the picture to its smiling subject, and for a moment my own troubles faded away. “I will miss you,” I said simply. “I will not miss hot dogs, or your press—” Casting a glance at the hubbub of journalists and flashbulbs all around. “But I will miss you, Eleanor. You have taught me so much.”
“And you me,” she said with a smile. “I’ll miss all of you, even Mr. Krasavchenko and his rather endless anecdotes of his Komsomol days . . . but of everyone, dear Lyudmila, you’re the one I wish I could keep.”
You might be keeping my partner, I wish I could have said. If he stays, look after him. But I couldn’t say that. If Kostia asked for asylum here, our delegation would be in utter uproar; it would have to look like he’d told no one of his plans. Besides, I knew I didn’t have to ask the First Lady to extend a helping hand if he needed it. If there was one thing Eleanor Roosevelt knew how to do, with grace and tact and unending sympathy, it was how to help.