“I wouldn’t hold out much hope for her if she’s in the Gulag system. It’s only a few notches above a suicide battalion,” he said, coughing smoke into his fist.

“I know. You die from overwork after a year instead of immediately from a grenade. And she won’t be released while Molotov is in power.”

Hopkins shrugged. “I’m sorry about your friend. We all lose people we care for.” He crushed out the last inch of cigarette in his ashtray, and a tiny part of her mind registered it as a waste of tobacco. But the rest of her was depressed by his cavalier attitude toward Alexia.

“Will you at least show the president the cable?” she asked. “Just so that he’s aware. She saved my life and… well… that’s all…”

“Of course. He needs to know about every communiqué that comes in from the Soviets. Anyhow, thank you for your report. I’ll show him that as well. In the meantime, I’ve laid another assignment on your desk. Can you work on it first thing today?”

She was being dismissed, obviously, so she stood up. “Certainly. I’ll start right away.” With a faint wave of the hand that felt a bit like a civilian salute, she left his room for her cubicle.

Diligence was one of her strengths, and it served her well in this case, too. Manipulating numbers, categorizing objects by various criteria, calculating depreciations all required a mechanical part of her brain that allowed her to shut off her emotions.

She worked steadily until lunch, grabbed a fried baloney sandwich, and went back to work until five. With no desire to make small talk in the cafeteria and even less in retelling the story of her Russian adventure, she fetched another sandwich and a 7 Up for supper in her room. Then she moped. Still travel weary and lethargic, she dozed for a while, then woke later in the evening with her bedside reading lamp shining in her face. A knock at the door made her realize that was what had roused her in the first place.

Rubbing her face, she stood up and opened the door. Lorena Hickok stood in the corridor holding two bottles of Rheingold beer. “I heard this morning that you’d reappeared and was hoping to run into you in the cafeteria. You never showed, so I thought I’d celebrate your arrival personally. I hope you don’t mind.”

Mia stepped back, admitting the visitor. “Uh, have a seat.” She pointed to the only chair in the room and sat down on the edge of her bed. “I had a lot of work to catch up on,” she said dully. “After all those months, you can imagine how it piled up.”

Lorena handed her one of the bottles. “Eleanor, I mean, Mrs. Roosevelt and I feared you were missing in action.” She sipped from the bottle, and Mia followed her example, odd as it felt. The beer tasted surprisingly good.

“I almost was. But that’s another story. How are you?”

“I’m fine, thanks. Working hard for the Democratic Party in the election campaign, of course. We both are, even though his reelection seems a pretty sure thing. It’s obvious how sick the president is, but who would be crazy enough to change administrations so close to the end of the war?”

“After all the negotiations, he’s the only one who can bring it to a close. But I can see how all of that is wearing him down.”

“It is, but my dear, you don’t look so good either. What happened over there? I know you’ve told the story to Hopkins and to the president. Maybe you can summarize for me.”

Mia took another swallow of the beer. She’d eaten so little in the last week, she feared it might make her sick. “Summary, eh? Let’s see. Stalwart civil servant sent to Russia to uncover source of major diversion of Lend-Lease supplies into black market. Civil servant is successful but gets into trouble for it, arrested, escapes, joins Red Army, is saved from death by young woman sniper. Sniper arrested while I escape. She’s sent to a penal battalion and later to the Gulag.”

Her throat tightened and her voice rose in pitch. “And it’s all my fault.”

Lorena stared at her for a long moment, but it was a kind stare. “Is that all?” She tilted her head back and took a long drink from her bottle. “Well, I always thought you were the kind of woman who took control of events. But the loss of your friend explains that new stoop you have, like you’re carrying a great weight.”

Mia imitated her, feeling a slight light-headedness after the third swallow. “Well, I also had a broken clavicle and scapula, and just today took off the bandage. It stoops all by itself.”

“Even so. Something in your face looks like bereavement.”

“You’re very discerning. I made several good friends among the women snipers, and most of them were lost. Except the most important one, and she’s in the Gulag. Because of me.”

“You loved her, didn’t you?”

“Don’t talk about her in the past.” Mia felt tears welling up and pressed her lips together to keep them from trembling. She took a breath. “I told Mr. Hopkins about her, but he only offered some platitude like ‘we all lose people we care for.’ I might have been talking to a wall.”

“You mustn’t be so hard on him. He just lost one of his sons. In the Pacific. He never talks about it, though.”

“Oh, I didn’t know. Then he’s stronger than I am.” The beer was making her reckless, but she didn’t care. “I’m choking with guilt, and I can’t bear it. If she hadn’t become involved with me, she’d still be with her friends at the front.” The pooling tears flowed over onto her cheeks, and she sniffed noisily.

Lorena bent forward across the small space between them and laid a plump hand on her good shoulder. “I understand more than you know. I mean about loving someone.”

“Do you?” Mia was certain Lorena was hinting at Eleanor Roosevelt, but she dared not ask.

Lorena nodded somberly. “Loving someone doesn’t do anything to change the world, but it changes you. Being a person who loves, that makes you somehow a superior being. I don’t believe in God, but if there is a divinity in us, that has something to do with our capacity to love. I’m sure that’s not much comfort to you.”

She finished her beer and added, “Do you have any idea where she is?”

“Somewhere in Vyatlag. I don’t even know what that means. Only that bastard Molotov knows exactly where she is. He’s the one who sent her there.”

“Molotov? The one with the gun and the sausage in his suitcase?”

“Yeah. I caught him stealing Lend-Lease supplies, presumably to sell for profit on the black market. His revenge, since he can’t kill me, is to arrest the woman I love.”

“But she’s alive? You’re sure she’s alive?”

“At least so far. Mr. Hopkins showed me a cable from Ambassador Harriman today that said so. He’s going to pass it on to the president. That’s all I know.”

Lorena glanced down at her bottle that was now empty. “I’m sorry, deeply sorry for your bereavement.” She stood up and stepped toward the door.

As Mia stood up as well, Lorena turned and embraced her. Mia found it awkward being pressed against Lorena’s plump breasts but appreciated the sincerity.

Lorena let go and stepped through the doorway. “If you don’t mind, I’ll tell your story to Eleanor,” she said over her shoulder.

“Thank you, for the beer and the sentiment,” Mia said, gently closing the door behind her. Then she let go and had another good, long cry.

Chapter Twenty-six

Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s reelection in November 1944 was probably the least celebrated presidential victory in American history. Though it was for an unprecedented fourth term, most appreciated that victory came primarily from the understanding that a nation at war could not change its commander in chief.

The Allies were winning the war, but after the euphoria of taking Paris and marching along the Champs-Élysées in August, they met with an iron-hard Wehrmacht and had to wring every town and village from them.

The president and his advisors, including Hopkins, spent a great deal of time in the Map Room tracing the slow advance of their troops, and when Mia asked Hopkins about the Eastern Front, she was disappointed by the paucity of new information.

It was mid-December. Where was the Red Army? Newspaper reports showed it was poised to cross the Vistula and enter Germany itself. In the south, it was sweeping across Bulgaria and Hungary, edging toward Budapest. Where was the 109th Rifle Division, or the 62nd Armored Division that had absorbed them? Were Kalya and Klavdia still alive? And Galina, the medic?

Hopkins’s voice broke her reverie. “Our men are held up here in the Ardennes,” he said, punching the map on his desk. “The Jerries are mounting a terrific offensive, and it doesn’t help that it’s the worst winter in years. Our guys aren’t used to that much snow.”

Snow, she thought. Did the Americans use snipers in white camouflage? She didn’t think so. Maybe that was part of their problem. They didn’t really understand winter, and now it was killing them.

Victory seemed both inevitable and distant. And there was more ominous talk, just a word or two, that something big was going on. Some great weapon that scientists were developing in the deserts of southwestern United States. Something more terrible than the flamethrower and mustard gas.

She excused herself and returned to work, for the Lend-Lease shipments continued, though she wondered with each list and manifest how much was still being stolen.

Christmas came and went, leaving no impression on her. No pastor came to read Dostoyevsky to them, and while she herself gained back her weight, both the president and his closest advisor looked ever more gaunt.

And scarcely had Roosevelt been sworn in on January 20 when, a few days later, news came from the Eastern Front that the Soviets had come upon a horror near the town of Oświęcim. A few days later she heard the name in German: Auschwitz. Were Kalya and Klavdia among the liberators?