***
Maria heard Olivia’s key in the door, her faintly awkward tread in the foyer as she hung her coat on the tall rack beside the door. “I am home, Aunt.” Announcing herself as she always did, after the first time she’d simply walked in, to be met by Maria Fedorovna with a cast iron skillet in a ready position. “I’ve sent everyone home early, so the ones who are coming with me can be with their families tonight. We might go out for dinner.”
Maria looked around nervously, then caught Madame Getmanova’s eye, who nodded and called, “I’m in the dining room, Doctor Tolchinskaya.”
Suddenly puzzled and fearful, Olivia walked into the dining room, really an extension of the kitchen. With her platinum hair loose to her shoulders and the intricately cabled cardigan of burnt orange that she had knit at Tver, its yoke slightly décolleté, she looked wild and wise and wary, on the verge of flight. The silent, smiling people sitting around the table who had come to see her off made her swallow again and blink furiously. General Getmanov and Madame Getmanova. Lieutenant Colonel Marianenko and Major Suslova. Maria Fedorovna standing back against the wall, a very pale grey Orenburg shawl knit from soft goat down draped over her black dress, looking torn between loyalties and both worried about Olivia’s reaction and yet also pleased by the obvious pleasure on the woman’s face.
Olivia turned towards her, a rueful, bemused, wry expression on her face, her startlingly blue eyes even brighter than usual. She opened her mouth to say something but found no words. Instead, she simply went around the table, kissing everyone on their cheeks, then quietly poured wine for her guests and her housekeeper. She found herself nearly crying when General Getmanov handed her back her pistol in its holster and even several boxes of ammunition, along with a Russian permit. “I took the liberty of shooting it.”
“Of course you did.”
“It’s a beautiful weapon.” Smoothly dehorned so that every plane and angle flowed into another, the slide and hammer had been machined from Damascus steel, patterned like moiré silk. The original grips, which he had replaced with utilitarian micarta, then tucked into the ammo boxes, were lacy ironwood.
“It is, isn’t it?” She blew her nose and flashed a grin at Major Suslova, who had taken her to the range more than once. Shooting under her calm instruction had been a miracle and a revelation to Olivia, who’d never been a bad marksman, but was now expert.
“There’s a huge open air arms market in Grozny. You’ll be able to find all the ammunition you need.”
“I’m not going to tell you to keep your head down, because if you do, you won’t be able to see who’s shooting at you. Just come back in one piece,” Colonel Marianenko growled.
When Madame Getmanova handed her a balaclava knit from very soft black wool, and tucked inside it, fingerless gloves in the same black wool, this time worked in a shell stitch into which the thumbs settled neatly, left and right mirror images of each other, Olivia had to choke back tears. “I made them on airplanes of various kinds, going to various places,” she said.
General Getmanov stood to offer the first toast. “To our Olivia,” he said quietly.
They drank. Then Colonel Marianenko asked quietly, “Is everything ready?”
Olivia nodded. “Ready enough to get started. I have a dozen or so prototypes of hand-held ground sensors and one aerial vehicle I’ve barely started on. The ground sensors have a thirty-minute life. If they’re not turned off in half an hour, an integral acid vial automatically opens and burns them out. Once they’re developed and plentiful, I’m sure some will fall into the wrong hands. But not this early.”
Colonel Marianenko stood and raised his glass. “To the lives these devices will save.”
They drank. Then it was Olivia’s turn. “L’Chaim,” she said as she raised her glass. “To life.”
There was a moment of silence. Then Suslova rose, and after her, all of them. “L’Chaim.”
They drank.
“Olivia,” Madame Getmanova said quietly. “I should like to ask your permission for something.”
“Done deal,” Olivia answered with a smile. Then, “What?”
“While you’re in Chechnya, I should like to contact your father, discreetly, and tell him that if he agrees to three conditions, he may begin to ship your stored possessions in our diplomatic pouch. It will be a time-consuming process.”
“What are the conditions?”
“The first is that he makes no independent effort to communicate with you. For now. That he accepts our explanation that you are alive, well, and happy.”
“And the second?”
“That after he learns more and if it should come to such a thing…that he never tells your government what you’re doing.”
Olivia smiled. “Of course, if he doesn’t know what I’m doing…”
“He wilt not tell what he dost not know,” General Getmanov interrupted. “Shakespeare, with gender adapted for the occasion. Do you agree?”
“I do.”
“And the third?”
“That when it becomes possible for you to communicate with him, you do so only through our embassy.”
“I believe he will agree to those conditions.”
“Then we shall tend to the necessary arrangements upon our return to your…” Madame Getmanova stopped.
“Yes, Madame,” Olivia finished for her. “My country.”
The dinner began. Later that night, much later, all guests long gone, Olivia stood on her tiny balcony, four meters by two, watching the snow fall, brilliant in the reflected light of the streets and buildings. Her pistol was a comforting weight in her waistband under her cardigan; a last glass of wine was comfort of another kind. Maria Fedorovna joined her. She had always been surprised by the American’s calm and confidence. But armed, she was profoundly different, almost tranquil. Olivia reached out, put her arm around the older woman’s shoulders and gently drew her into her side. It was a startling gesture because Olivia tended to shy away from physical contact. Others also avoided casual physical contact with her, finding her strength unsettling. But kindness was tangible in her touch, her strength a threat to no one who did not threaten her. “I know you’re a country woman still, Aunt.”
“I’ll be all right in this city while you’re gone. I will miss you, dear child, you know that.”
“Thank you.”
“Are you afraid? You’re young, you should have a family, not be on your way to a war that isn’t yours.”
“Yet this war will come to America. If not this winter or the next, then soon enough. I’ll be alright. I’m not a soldier who has to fight. To some degree, I can pick my risks.”
Maria Fedorovna found herself slipping her arm around the younger woman’s waist. Her back was straight and oaken from all the lifting she did, though the ligaments felt knotted and warped. The damage was obvious and startling. “Why does that pistol mean so much to you?”
“Many reasons. The greatest is that as a woman I have a right to defend myself that is equal to a man’s. If you can defend yourself, if you can trust yourself to defend yourself, many other things become easier.”
“You really aren’t afraid, are you?”
“Yes and no. I have the normal fears. I also know, so long as I have my pistol, the final decision on whether I live or die is mine. Anyway, who knows? Soldiers are mostly young men. Perhaps I will find one, an officer I hope, drag him back here, make him marry me.” She laughed quietly, then bowed down, kissed the older woman’s hands. “Go on in, Aunt. It’s too cold out here for you. I’ll be in shortly.”
“Yes, Doctor. May I tell you something before I go in?”
“Certainly.”
“Against the power of the State, a pistol isn’t much. But I must wonder. What would have happened if every kulak they came for had met them with a pistol in his hand? How long could it have gone on?”
“What would have happened if every Jew the Germans came for had met them with a pistol in her hand?”
“It’s the same thing, isn’t it?”
“Yes, my dear, it is. For us all.”