During General Robertson’s impromptu lunch, however, she discovered she was one of only two women in the staff dining room for the lower-ranking members of the respective entourages. Naturally, the women gravitated toward one another. Or rather, Mila Mikhailivna slipped around the room to introduce herself.
Although the Soviet woman was shorter and looked roughly five years younger than Galyna, she was a Hero of the Soviet Union, which intimidated Galyna. Mila laughed and said something in German to which Galyna replied in Russian that she didn’t speak German. Mila’s face lit up like a lantern as she asked, “Are you Russian?”
Galyna had hesitated with her answer. She had a British passport and she felt loyalty and gratitude to the country that had given her grandmother and herself refuge. She admired the British and even loved them, but she was not British. She could never be no matter how much she tried. So, she had nodded, adding by way of explanation, “My grandparents were émigrés.” That was true but it also made her sound like the child of Tsarist refugees, conveniently ignoring her Soviet parents and childhood.
“You live in England? Fought for England?” Mila asked looking over Galyna’s WAAF corporal’s uniform.
“Yes, I am in the Royal Air Force. In the war, I was a radio technician.” She explained proudly, pointing to the badge on her sleeve.
Mila looked up at her with what a look of wonderment. “A radio technician? That’s amazing!” She exclaimed with apparent sincerity before adding in a tone of disappointment, “I’m hopeless with modern technology.”
“But — but you are a Hero of the Soviet Union!” Galyna had protested, indicating the other’s medals.
Mila had shrugged. “I killed a lot of Germans. I was a partisan.”
“What is your position here?” Galyna asked cautiously.
Mila shrugged again. “Decoration. Marshal Sokolovsky likes to point to me when he talks about the sufferings and sacrifices of the Soviet Union and the courage of Soviet women.”
Against her best intentions, Galyna liked Mila and before she knew what was happening they were chattering like old friends. Or, rather new friends, still learning about one another. Wasn’t General Robertson kind to include them? Wasn’t the food good? It seemed to be the same food that was being served upstairs; was that possible? They exchanged impressions of the Reichstag and Reichskanzlei etc. Cautiously, gradually, they risked more personal questions. Galyna asked where Mila had learned German, “From the enemy,” she answered. “It was useful to be able to deceive them.” Galyna had been intimidated by that answer and fell silent.
Mila persisted, unwilling to let the conversation die. She asked the question, “Are you married?” When Galyna said no, she volunteered that she wasn’t either. “It was the war. There was no time for marriage and children.” Mila looked momentarily wistful and added, “I fell in love many times, but…” She lifted her shoulders in a gesture of helplessness. “I would like to settle down now, but here…” she looked around the room at the others. All the men seemed intent on helping themselves to the generous platters of food and filling up with hot tea, coffee, or vodka.
Mila changed the subject, asking Galyna, “Does your family live in England?”
Galyna said ‘yes’. That was not strictly true. Only her grandmother lived in England, while she did not know if her father was alive at all and her mother was still in the Soviet Union. But to Galyna, her mother was dead ever since she had remarried and tried to make Galyna forget her real father.
“And they are well?” Mila asked with big, concerned eyes.
“Yes, last I heard,” Galyna answered without thinking.
“Has it been a long time since you heard from them?” Mila asked more anxiously still.
“Not really. My grandmother writes once a week.”
“But isn’t there a terrible famine in England?” Mila asked astonished. “And no one has any heat.”
“Nonsense,” Galyna answered irritated, remembering too late the articles from Pravda that made these claims. Understanding where Mila had her information, she’d made a point to speak firmly, “There have been some power shortages in London, but nothing lasting more than a few hours at a time. As for famine, that is pure propaganda. We still have rationing, which is tedious I admit, but no one in England is starving. Our last harvest was excellent. We’re just all so spoiled,” Galyna added, “that we want chocolate and coffee and oranges too!”
At this point in the conversation, an English officer put his head into the staff dining room and announced the break was over. It was time to get back in the cars and return to the ACC. Everyone stood and started looking for their overcoats, hats and gloves. In the commotion, Galyna risked asking Mila a favour. “I have a friend with a six-year-old daughter,” she explained in a rush. “I would like to give her a set of Matryoshka dolls — as my father gave me when I was six. Is there somewhere in the Soviet Sector where I could buy a set?”
“Not for sale, no, but I can find you one. I will bring it to you next time.”
“Oh, I won’t be at the next meeting of the ACC. I’m only here with Wing Commander Priestman, and he is a substitute for Air Commodore Waite.”
“Then…” Mila started but cut herself off and stood frowning.
“Don’t worry,” Galyna assured her. “It was just a silly whim. It’s not important.”
“No, but—” Mila bit her lower lip and looked across the room toward the other Russians. They were laughing loudly and hastily pouring a last vodka down their throats. “If you want….” From the street came the sound of voices and car doors opening. Mila dropped her voice, “On Sunday. I could come to the Lehrter Bahnhof — in civilian clothing.” She looked toward the other Russians, who were donning their caps and moving toward the door, joining the general exodus. “If you meet me there on the platform at noon, I’ll bring the Matryoshka dolls…”
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