Inside, the home looked bright and beautiful, thanks to new lighting and our décor, which included framed photos of our family mixed with priceless imperial art. As we gathered around the dinner table, a rich feast spread before us thanks to General Foods—and more specifically, Birds Eye—Joe made a toast to welcome our guests. Just a few minutes later, once we were seated and poised to begin our soup, Comrade Molotov raised his glass of vodka, asking whether he might also offer a toast. “Of course, Premier,” Joe said, smiling.
The room fell silent as the premier tilted his vodka and looked in my direction. “Madam Davies, Ambassador Davies, for the first time, when I enter the American embassy, I feel a welcome that is worthy of your country.” And then he nodded, and an aide appeared at my shoulder, delivering into my lap an immense package. Beaming, Molotov ordered Joe and me to unwrap the heavy parcel right there in front of our dinner guests. We did so, pulling out a pair of magnificent sable coats. “For President and First Lady Roosevelt,” Molotov explained, as the table erupted in applause. “Warm, you see?” Molotov pointed a thick finger toward the glossy pelts. “Just like relations between our two countries, thanks to the Davieses.”
The musicians played as our guests ate and drank for hours, lulled into relaxed cordiality by champagne and vodka and steak, the warm evening and our free, open hospitality. Later, once our guests had risen to begin dancing, I presented Polina and Ivy each with a small gift I had arranged—the film reel for one of our new American films, Swing Time, starring two of our own national treasures, Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire.
Polina and Ivy had also brought a gift, and they presented it to me then. An uncharacteristically wide smile stretched Polina’s lips as I unwrapped the stunning set of jeweled vases once belonging to the fabled Princess Anastasia. “We do know how you love your art,” Ivy said with a wink. And then, leaning close, she whispered, “I’m so glad to see how you appreciate it, Marjorie.”
Polina interjected, “You show us your American ways; we show you Russian ways.”
“Indeed,” I said, nodding warmly, thanking my two friends in turn for all of their generosity.
“You shall be missed, my dear,” Ivy said, her smile flickering for just a moment before she fixed me with a cheerful grin once more. “Now, let’s get you to the dance floor. I know that my Maxim wants a dance with our hostess.”
Joe held tight to my arm as we stood in the doorway of Spazzo House and bid one final farewell to our last guests, a giggly Maxim and Ivy Litvinov, who had stayed until well past midnight and had enjoyed at least four glasses of vodka each. The air was still mild and the sky no darker than a velvety purple, these being the longest days of the year, and Joe’s embrace was tender as we watched the commissar’s car lights recede into the sideways shadows of the Russian spring night. “My dearest Mumsie,” my husband said, pulling me inside and toward our bedroom. “You have been an unmitigated success. The beloved ambassadress and America’s most irresistible asset.”
I smiled at this, padding barefoot up the marble stairs. The night, like our diplomatic tour in the country, had been an unabashed triumph. Even Joe had found himself feeling well enough for the hours of feasting and dancing. We had shown the Soviets how happy we Americans were. And now I longed for nothing more than to go home.
Chapter 39
Washington, D.C.
Late Summer 1937
Back in Washington, I stared into the concerned face of my physician, both of us thinking about Moscow. “Moscow Malaria,” my physician declared, stethoscope draped like a necklace around his throat after a long and thorough examination.
I grimaced, but that only made my stomach hurt more. “What exactly is Moscow Malaria?” I asked.
“It’s largely a mystery,” the man answered. “Even to me. Like the flu in symptoms, but unlike the flu, it lingers in the body for months.” And it had lingered for months, this discomfort and fever I’d been experiencing. Worst of all were the bouts of intermittent hearing troubles, as if cotton balls were being stuffed into my ears one minute, then plucked out the next.
“Time and rest,” the physician said. “Stay in bed, Mrs. Davies. You’ve overexerted yourself in Russia. And now it’s time to recover.” I nodded, accepting his prescription.
In spite of my feeling ill, in spite of Joe’s regular stomach pains, things had not been all bad in recent months. We’d left Moscow and cruised our way through Europe aboard the Sea Cloud, with stops in Vienna and Paris before a longer stay in London to attend the festivities of King George VI’s coronation. As guests of our American ambassador to England, Robert Bingham, we kept a full social schedule. We went to dinner at the townhouse of a rising member of the government, a man by the name of Winston Churchill, whose sharp-tongued wife, Clementine, had me in stitches by the second course. We attended the glittering coronation ball presided over by the royal family, during which time I couldn’t help but silently observe that my new Russian amethysts and diamonds were even more splendid than any of the other priceless pieces on display in the palace. And I spent a lovely afternoon strolling the flower-lined paths of Hyde Park with Sara Delano Roosevelt, the president’s very proud and protective mother, who was also traveling abroad at that time.