Beautiful Assassin (25 page)

“Why not?”

“He wants them to think, well…that I am unattached,” I replied.

“What!”

Whispering, I explained to her what Vasilyev had said to me.

“That’s absurd. Who does he think he is?” Then, shaking her head, she added, “I’ll speak to my husband.”

“No, please,” I said. “I’d rather you not.”

“Well, if you insist. But watch yourself around Comrade Vasilyev. Beneath the smiles and bonhomie, he’s rather an unpleasant sort of fellow.”

Mrs. Litvinov didn’t ask any more about my personal life, for which I was grateful. She spent the rest of the time telling me about life in Washington, the parties and dinners she’d recently been to, the best places to dine, where to buy clothes.

“Do you know Mrs. Roosevelt?” I asked.

“Of course. Ellie and I are good friends.”

“What is she like?”

“She’s something of an acquired taste,” Mrs. Litvinov offered with a smile.

“What do you mean?”

“She marches to her own drummer. The woman wears the most dreadful outfits, especially for the wife of the president. Doesn’t care a fig about her personal appearance. She goes out in public looking like a peasant.” She laughed at her own joke. “But she’s also the most sincere woman I’ve ever known. And completely fearless. Not afraid to speak her mind. Even with her husband. I fancy you and she will hit it off nicely.”

When the hairdresser was finished, the woman held up a mirror for me to see her handiwork. I stared at myself, surprised but pleasantly so, to see the change my new hairstyle made in me. My hair was shorter
and swept back in soft waves, framing and highlighting my face. It actually made me look younger, even pretty, like one of the women in the magazine.

“What do you think?” Mrs. Litvinov asked.

“I like it very much.”

“It’s quite flattering on you, my dear. Believe me, you will turn some heads at the White House tonight.”

Later that morning, Vasilyev met me in the hall outside a large room on the first floor of the embassy where the press conference was going to be held.

“What on earth did you do with your hair?” he said, looking me over critically.

“Mrs. Litvinov suggested I have it cut. Why, don’t you like it?”

He leaned in and whispered, “You look…too American.”

“What does that mean?”

“They are expecting a soldier from the Soviet Union. Not Lana Turner.”

I had no idea who Lana Turner was. “It is
you,
Comrade, who is always harping on the importance of my looking presentable.”

“But I want you to look like a simple country girl. You should have cleared it with me first.”

“I didn’t know I would
need
your permission to have my hair cut,” I replied crossly.

“Here,” he insisted, taking my cap out of my hands and setting it on my head. He adjusted it, stuffing my hair up under the sweatband. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was listening, then said, “They are broadcasting the press conference on the radio. Millions of Americans will be listening. This will be their first real contact with a Soviet citizen. Be sure to tell them how pleased you are to be in America. How much you are looking forward to meeting the First Lady. Also, try to work into your responses the importance of America opening a second front.”

We then entered the room, which was crowded with reporters talking and holding cameras and little notepads. We headed up to the front and sat behind a table set up with a bevy of microphones.

“Good morning, Lieutenant,” said Viktor, who was already seated next to Gavrilov. “Are you ready for the show?”

Gavrilov leaned across and said, “You look quite nice this morning, Comrade Levchenko. Have you done something different with your hair?”

“I had it cut.”

“You look radiant.”

After a while, three Americans—two civilians and a soldier who had the insignia of an officer—entered the room and proceeded up to the table. One of the civilians, a gray-haired man with a stern, deeply lined face, greeted Ambassador Litvinov, and the two conversed amiably in English, as if they were old friends. Litvinov, who spoke English fluently, then introduced us to the Americans. The gray-haired man was someone named Charles Bowen, an assistant to President Roosevelt. The other civilian, a slight, mustachioed man in a white linen suit, was Robert Swall, a reporter from CBS Radio, who would act as moderator. The soldier was a Captain Taylor. He was tall and fair, with short, receding hair. The most obvious thing about him, though, was that the left sleeve of his tunic was empty and pinned to the shoulder. He smiled as he shook our hands and welcomed each of us with “
Dobro pozhalovat’ v Ameriku
.” He spoke Russian fluently.

Mr. Bowen said something to us, and the captain translated for him. “On behalf of the president, Mr. Bowen extends his warmest greetings. The president is very appreciative of your bravery on the field of battle and looks forward to meeting you all.”

After this, the press conference got under way. The ambassador stood and in English briefly introduced the three of us students to those in the room. I watched as the reporters scribbled in their pads. Then Mr. Swall, with Radimov translating for us, explained how the journalists would go up to a microphone they had stationed at one side of the room, state what newspaper they worked for, and then ask their questions, which Radimov would translate for us. We would then make our replies into the microphones in front of us, after which the American captain, who sat on the other side of Vasilyev, would translate for both those in the room and those listening on the radio. It seemed needlessly complicated, and I didn’t quite understand the need for two interpret
ers, but evidently each side wanted to make sure that they weren’t misquoted.

At first the reporters put questions of a general nature to all of us. About what we thought of America, the upcoming peace conference, the prospect of meeting Mrs. Roosevelt, the war in the East. Gavrilov did most of the talking to start with, making it appear that he’d been in the thick of things. As he spoke, Viktor shot me a sardonic look. Viktor was asked a few questions—where he’d fought, how he’d gotten the scar on his face. I sat back, content to quietly observe the proceedings. After a while, though, I slowly became the focus of their questions. I was, no doubt, a curiosity to them, a woman soldier, a sniper, an oddity as interesting as a bearded lady in a carnival.

“Miss Levchenko,” one reporter said, “can you tell us why you fight?”

The question, of course, struck me as patently absurd, but I did my best to answer it.

“As you Americans do, I fight because of a love for one’s country. And because of my hatred for the enemy.”

“Is it true that you’ve recorded three hundred and fifteen confirmed kills? The most of any Soviet sniper.”

I glanced over at Vasilyev before answering. “I cannot say for certain if that is the most. But that’s what I have been told.”

One man went up to the microphone and asked if it was hard to pull the trigger.

“The key,” I replied, “is to calm your breath and gently kiss the trigger, not pull it.”

“What I mean is, is it hard to kill a man?”

I shrugged. “They are the enemy. It is my duty to kill them. One’s skill at killing is merely a matter of controlling one’s breath. Making the heart go still.”

At this I heard a collective groan, as if I’d said something that offended them.

“But you are a woman,” the reporter persisted.

With a masklike smile, I said, “I am glad you noticed, sir.” This evoked laughter from the crowd. “No one takes pleasure in killing,
not even Germans. But I do take pride in my job. In defending my country.”

Another man said, “Some newspapers have called you the Beautiful Assassin. Do you mind being called that?”

“What woman would mind being called ‘beautiful’?” I replied. Before translating my words, the American captain glanced over at me, and I could see that his mouth held a hint of a smile. The reply elicited more scattered laughter from those in the room.

One reporter asked me if I wore makeup or nylons into battle. When he asked this I noticed some of the men looking at my legs beneath the table. I replied, with as much politeness and decorum as I could muster, that such frivolous things did not concern a soldier when he or she was fighting, that all of one’s attention had to be focused on the task at hand, otherwise one could be killed. Another wanted to know if the men in my unit watched their language in front of us women.

“No. We women are not such fragile things as you may think.”

“But doesn’t such coarse language offend the sensibilities of Soviet womanhood?”

“We can hold our own as far as cursing,” I offered with a smile.

More laughter, this time loud and raucous. I could see that they considered me “interesting,” a novelty that might help them sell their newspapers.

“Miss Levchenko, has the war made you any less feminine?” asked another.

“It has certainly toughened me, if that is what you mean. But beneath my uniform, I am still a woman.”

“America doesn’t permit women to participate as combatants,” began one reporter. “What do you think about the Red Army allowing women to fight?”

“It is not a question of allowing us to fight. We
must
fight. Every available body is needed to defeat the Nazis.”

“But do you think women are cut out for battle?”

“No one is cut out for battle,” I replied. “It is something one has to learn. Both men and women. But I do think women have more patience than men.”

This last comment brought a couple of whistles from the men. Another reporter wanted to know if I was married.

“No,” I replied, again looking at Vasilyev, who gave me an imperceptible nod.

They asked many other questions, many of which were quite foolish. At one point the moderator asked of the three of us students, “What would you like to say to the American people?”

When it was my turn I said, “I would like to thank the Americans for their support. We soldiers in the field greatly appreciate it. But we desperately need more help. Not just guns and trucks. We sometimes feel we are fighting the Germans alone. We need you to open a second front. Not in a year or two. But now.”

When the press conference was over, the captain approached me and offered his hand in greeting. In Russian he said, “I just want you to know how proud America’s fighting men are of your bravery. You are really an inspiration for us.”

“Thank you, Captain,” I replied in English.

Smiling at me, he said, “So you speak English?”

“Just a bit.”

He was about to say something when the ambassador interrupted us then to gather the students together for photographs.

After the press conference, the ambassador led Vasilyev, Radimov, and the three of us students out to a waiting limousine, where we headed off for the White House.

“You handled yourself quite well, Lieutenant,” the ambassador said to me. I sat across from him, between Viktor and Gavrilov.

“Thank you, sir.”

The day was sunny and clear, the city shining brightly. The foliage and flowers were in full bloom—a far cry from our own capital, with its dirt and concrete fortifications, its tanks and trenches and gun emplacements, the rubble left in the wake of bombs. Just as in New York, people were busily going about their business as if there wasn’t so much as a rumor of war. As we wound our way through the city, I stared out the
window at the various sights of the capital, its massive stone buildings, its broad, tree-lined avenues, its monuments and statues.

“The First Lady is a woman of the people,” said Ambassador Litvinov. “She has championed the rights of workers, the poor, Negroes. She is someone we hope will be supportive of our aims.”

“If I may ask, Ambassador Litvinov,” I inquired, glancing across at Viktor, “what exactly are our aims in regards to Mrs. Roosevelt?”

The ambassador looked at Vasilyev before answering.

“The First Lady is very influential. Millions of Americans read her columns in the newspapers. She is a beloved figure. Besides which, she has the president’s ear. She has been quite supportive of our struggle against the Nazis. That’s where you come in, Lieutenant.”

“Me, sir.”

“From our sources in the White House, we know that she is quite taken with your accomplishments, Comrade. In fact, in her newspaper column just yesterday she said that you were an inspiration for all women.”

“I am flattered,” I replied. “But I still don’t quite know what all this has to do with me.”

Litvinov smiled condescendingly.

“For now, it’s enough to know that Mrs. Roosevelt might be quite useful to our plans. Go out of your way to befriend her.”

As we drove along I pondered what that meant, befriending the president’s wife. I also thought about how the ambassador had said our government had “sources” in the White House. Of course, I should have known that the NKVD, which spied so extensively and pervasively on its own citizens, would be spying on the United States. Still, it came as something of a surprise to know they could be so close to the seat of American power.

At the White House we were warmly greeted by a short woman named Miss Thompson, who turned out to be Mrs. Roosevelt’s personal assistant. She led us inside, past several guards, and into a large round room that had blue wallpaper and a massive chandelier hanging from the ceiling. She had us sit around a low table set up for tea.

“Mrs. Roosevelt will be with you presently,” she said through Radimov.

Soon a tall, ungainly woman of middle age strode briskly into the room. She wore a dark shapeless dress with a white collar and clumsy black shoes that made her feet look enormous on her too-thin legs. Her reddish brown hair had streaks of gray in it and was held unceremoniously back with a white headband, the sort a factory worker back in Kiev might have worn. I recalled what Mrs. Litvinov had told me about her. Though she obviously didn’t care much about fashion, there was about her a confident air as she made her way across the room, her shoulders thrown back, a barely withheld smile on her face. She was accompanied by her assistant and behind them the American soldier I’d met earlier at the Soviet embassy.