Losing interest in the recitation, she studied the cathedral interior again, the holy opulence that meant to lift the spirits of the congregation into the ethereal. At the same time she felt the pressure of Alexia’s shoulder against her in the crowd and smiled inwardly. The Divine Spirit being summoned by the celebrants would surely disapprove of the forbidden animal pleasure that lifted her heart just then.

She was startled by hot breath on her ear as Alexia leaned near and whispered, “It’s time to go.” Obediently she followed Alexia’s lead as they wormed their way back through the crowd. At the entrance, which was as packed full as the rest of the church, they fastened their coats and drew on scarfs and hats.

Prying open the huge church doors, they stepped out into the icy wind.

The embassy car was not in sight, so they huddled by the church door exhaling columns of steam and clapping their upper arms for warmth.

“What did you think of our orthodox ceremony?” Alexia asked.

“Pure theater, of course, but I have to admit, the child in me loved it. I remembered Easter at the great Church of the Resurrection in St. Petersburg with my parents and my little brother.”

“You don’t believe in the Divine Father?”

“In fact, I get along just fine with no father at all, divine or earthly. Still, I’m sentimental about big holidays.”

“It’s the same for me. I don’t remember my father, and the local priest was the only male presence for me. I loved him, but I began to doubt when I went to school, and by the time I joined the Komsomol, I rejected faith completely. Only the moral part of it remained, and that’s what has held me back from fighting. At least so far.”

“You sound like you’re having doubts about that, too.”

“Yes. I think faith, even that tiny remainder, has caused me to stay a child, if not a coward, when Russia really needs me to be an adult, at the front.”

Just then, the embassy car came into view, and they waved it over. Once they were seated in the warm interior, Mia continued. “Does that mean you’re going into active service?”

“I think so. I have to apply for training. My commandant won’t like it, but he won’t refuse.”

“What do you want to train for?”

“Apparently, I’m a good shot, so I’ll go where I can do the most good. I want to be a rifleman. A sniper.”

* * *

In the late afternoon, still warmed by the memory of the morning in church, Mia crunched across the snow toward the Grand Kremlin Palace. Taciturn as always, Hopkins strode alongside her. Kiril and Alexia marched a few steps behind them, still doing their job.

“Ironic, isn’t it, that Stalin the atheist has invited us to dinner on Christmas Day? Do you suppose he harbors a tiny bit of sentimentality?”

Hopkins shook his head. “I doubt it. The communists got rid of all the church ‘fathers,’ but they replaced them with the likes of Stalin and Molotov. Same obedience, just no ceremony.”

She gazed up at the imposing façade of the Grand Palace, a vast block of a building with three ranks of windows, though she knew from reading that the upper floor had a double row of windows and that the palace had only two floors. The upper one held the vast spaces of the five great halls, named after the Russian saints: George, Vladimir, Alexander, Andrew, and Catherine.

The Dining Hall of Catherine the Great where they ended up dazzled with gold. She stared, stupefied, at the ceiling. Apparently noticing her awe, Hopkins leaned toward her and whispered, “It was Catherine the Great’s throne room.”

The hall had a vaulted ceiling, like the church she’d just been in, though this one was supported by massive pylons with bronze capitals and malachite mosaics, and the carved doors held an elaborate coat of arms. The chandelier hanging over the center of the room astonished her, given the German bombing. But there it was, in all its tsarist splendor.

Dinner was served in a semicircular reception hall adjacent to the Great Hall, but it, too, was staggeringly ornate, with floral paintings and walls upholstered in gold-green brocade, matching that of the chairs.

The table was set for eight, though the guests milled about until Stalin himself arrived and all were seated. As the only woman at the table, Mia was thoroughly intimidated and was glad that her function would largely be as Hopkins’s interpreter. Stalin’s other guests were former foreign minister Litvinov, acting as interpreter, then Molotov, Beria, Voroshilov, armaments minister Ustinov still looking splendid in his uniform, and finally Nicolai Vlasik, head of the Kremlin Guard.

The right side of the table held Harriman, Hopkins, herself, and Ustinov’s placid assistant, Leonid Nazarov.

The food offered was plentiful and varied: wild birds, fish dishes, borscht, potato dumplings, pirozhki, red and black caviar. Dinner began, as always, with a series of vodka toasts.

To her surprise, the conversation touched only very lightly, almost flippantly, on the issues addressed at Tehran and soon migrated to generalities. Stalin continued toasting and urging his guests to empty their entire glasses. Mia realized it was his way of loosening men’s tongues and getting his opponents to reveal themselves.

She was confident that such a primitive ruse could not trap Hopkins. He had nothing to hide, was at the core guileless, and had no agenda other than to keep Stalin happy without being servile to him. Moreover, alcohol appeared to make him even more amiable than sobriety.

But by the second hour, he was clearly not holding up. His persistent stomach problems obviously could not cope with the heavily salted fish, the cream, and the river of vodka. He excused himself momentarily to use the facilities, and when he rose from the table, his face became splotchy and discolored. Harriman stood up quickly and guided him from the dining room.

The dinner conversation continued, with Stalin recounting a tale of his early Bolshevik days. It soon took a bawdy turn, and he began to use Moscow slang, which escaped her. Everyone laughed.

Eventually Harriman returned, alone. “Please excuse us, Marshal Stalin. With thanks for your great hospitality, Mr. Hopkins has unfortunately taken sick, and I must escort him back to the embassy.”

Stalin stood up. “I am sorry to learn that we have overtaxed Mr. Hopkins’s digestion. Would you like some assistance to help him to the car?”

Harriman raised a hand. “No, thank you. We can find our way out and do not want to disrupt your dinner. Miss Kramer, would you…?”

Nazarov also got up from his seat. “Oh, please. Do not deprive us of the one pretty face at the table.”

Ustinov added, “Yes, if Miss Kramer finds our Kremlin diet tolerable, we would love to continue our visit with her. I am sure she has tales to tell about the White House.”

Stalin extended a meaty hand in her direction. “What do you think, Miss Kramer? Will you do us the honor?”

Mia stared at Harriman, pleading with her eyes to be rescued. But the ambassador had only Hopkins on his mind and effectively abandoned her. “It’s quite all right with us. We’ll send the car back in two hours,” he said, and with a final wave to the table, he left the dining room.

She went slightly limp. She was stuck with a table full of Kremlin big shots and way out of her depth. Was it better, or worse, that all of them were intoxicated?

As it turned out, it was better. Stalin signaled for dessert to be served with wine, which he pointed out was Georgian, so if anyone complained about it, he’d be shot. He chuckled, and everyone at the table chuckled nervously with him. But following Stalin’s lead, Ustinov talked of bagging elk and bear in the snow, Molotov of escaping Siberian exile during the tsarist regime, and after each tale, the table drank to the teller, or the bears, or Bolshevik heroism.

“So, Miss Kramer.” Stalin slammed his empty glass down on the table. “It’s your turn. Tell us something about life in the White House.”

One did not refuse the dictator of all the Russians, so Mia searched her memory for a story that would not compromise anyone. Roosevelt himself was forbidden territory, and so was Hopkins. Who could she expose to Kremlin judgment? She could think of only one thing.

“I will tell you about a great prize the White House has. That is the wife of the president, Eleanor Roosevelt. A great lady. I think you would like her, Marshal Stalin, as much as you like our president.”

“Oh, would I?” Stalin took a pipe from one pocket and an envelope of tobacco from another. What makes you think so?” He tapped a quantity of tobacco into the bowl and pressed it down with his thumb.

“Because she’s a friend of American workers and of the American people of all colors.”

“How many colors do you have?” Molotov snickered, leaning toward Stalin to light his pipe for him.

Stalin puffed until the tobacco glowed bright orange and he sucked in smoke. “Don’t be rude, Vyacheslav Mikhailovich. Let the woman talk.” He blew out smoke in a thin stream. “So, tell us the story of Yeleanor Roosevelt,” he commanded.

“It concerns another great woman, a Negro opera singer named Marian Anderson. Miss Anderson wished to sing a concert in a hall owned by a patriotic group called the Daughters of the American Revolution.”

“Hmm. Revolution. That’s a good thing.”

“Not in this case, sir. These women refused to allow it because, although Miss Anderson is a magnificent opera singer, she is a Negro.”

“And Yeleanor Roosevelt’s role in this?”

“Mrs. Roosevelt arranged for her to sing outdoors in front of the Lincoln Memorial and at the same time for it to be broadcast on the radio. So in the end, Miss Anderson sang not for three hundred people in a hall, but many thousands in Washington and millions across the nation.”