I’d return to Spazzo House most days in time for lunch. The house had been vastly improved since our arrival. I’d swapped out some of the old plumbing with new pipes, and I’d overhauled the electrical system. Fresh paint gave both the inside and outside of the house a cleaner, brighter appearance. And now our walls were covered in priceless objects of art. Whenever Polina invited me on an outing to a commission shop, I gladly accepted. I’d spent the winter and spring accumulating as much treasure as I could—dishes of silver and porcelain, pens crusted in diamonds, glittering holy icons, sable and mink coats, tapestries, paintings, vases, glasses, and of course all different types of jewelry. I now had a collection of baubles fit for a tsarina, Joe commented, but I wouldn’t have dreamed of wearing the pieces until we returned to America.
Since diplomacy was our primary job, we entertained several times a week, hosting dinners for staffers of the American embassy and Russian government officials, or else delegates from other friendly countries like Britain or Canada. Joe spent much of his days closeted in his offices dictating memos for the president and the State Department. At other times he was busy meeting with members of the press corps, dining out with fellow members of the diplomatic community, and taking meetings with Soviet officials. As much as I had enjoyed my friendship with the commissar wives like Polina and Ivy, Joe was a great success with government members like Molotov and Litvinov as well. We had no shortage of invitations to ballet and opera performances at the famed Bolshoi Theatre, to dinners at restaurants frequented by the highest-ranking members of the politburo.
But as much as we were enjoying our time in this strange and colorful land—a place both hospitable and ominous, possessing a storied and vibrant past and yet fiercely hostile to such a past—I longed for home. Deenie would soon be out of boarding school for the summer, and I ached to see her. I longed to gather her, Adelaide, and Eleanor to me to hear without censor about their lives and to tell them about our strange Russian adventures. And not just the three of them—I wished to speak to my husband without the ever-present eavesdroppers. I longed to walk a city street without a secret police tail, to stare into the faces of those I passed and see something other than fear or mistrust in their eyes. I longed for the optimism and earnestness and plenty of our American smiles, our American tables, our American homes and homeland.
What’s more, Joe had begun to suffer from sudden and debilitating stomach pains. Several times he had to cancel meetings at the last minute because the discomfort was too severe for him to be upright. He rarely found himself up to the task of eating a full meal. Sleep became difficult at times. After a few weeks of this, at the recommendation of Ivy Litvinova, I called a Dr. Dmitri Pletnev and asked that he pay us a call at Spazzo House. The doctor appeared several hours later, a kindly man with a warm manner and charming, even if broken, English. He spent an hour examining my husband in our bedroom.
Afterward, the doctor stood before me and my husband in the hallway outside our bedroom, his face rumpling as it shifted back and forth between gentle smiles and confused frowns. “Ambassador Davies, Mrs. Davies, do you have perhaps a doctor in the United States who is familiar with your whole history?”
“Yes,” Joe said, clutching his side in discomfort. Standing like that was difficult for him.
Dr. Pletnev sighed, nodding. I wondered, in that moment, about all that the doctor was thinking, all that he could not say, given the fact that we were being listened to through probably a dozen different microphones. Finally, all Dr. Pletnev said was: “I suggest you see him.” And so, as spring ripened toward summer, Joe and I asked the president for permission to take a trip home to Washington. Fortunately, permission was granted via a prompt telegram reply.
* * *
Before our departure, we decided to host a final dinner party. Nobody could accuse the Davieses of leaving Moscow in anything but the grand style for which we were now known. I planned to give the party in honor of Polina Molotova and Ivy Litvinova, in thanks for their generous hospitality, but we invited hundreds of other guests as well—the cabinet of commissars, ambassadors from nearly every European country, members of the press corps, dozens of high-ranking Soviet party members, even kind Dr. Pletnev.
The night of the party was a mild one, and with the gardens surrounding Spazzo House in bloom, I decided to throw open the French doors and light candles across our veranda, where small clusters of furniture were arranged and a makeshift bar stood ready and stocked with American cocktails and Russian vodka. I’d hired musicians for the night and asked them to play a mixture of Russian classics, including works by Tchaikovsky and Stravinsky along with American favorites like Porter and Gershwin. I dressed simply for the evening in a satin gown of pale rose, gloves to my elbows, with my ears, wrists, and throat bare of jewelry. My smile was warm and genuine as I greeted my guests.