help. “There’s my little devochka !” she calls to me from one of the break room tables. I reel toward her—my anchor, my filter for everything mad in this new world. She hugs me for a moment before I pull away. “How’s your first day so far?” she asks me in Russian.
“Rough. But not the worst I’ve had.” I glance over my shoulder, check that Cindy is still chatting in the far corner with Donna, and tell Winnie briefly about the file with my mother. Her lips draw tight as she listens.
“I can’t blame you for being upset. But these people are only trying to keep the country safe—you can’t blame them for doing their job, for following the rules.”
I want to believe her, but her voice is flat, as if she’s said these words before. I may still be learning English, but I know the sound of something you have to convince yourself of. “What about Cindy? Do you trust her?”
Winnie’s eyebrows lift. “She’s tough—just the right kind of ruthless we need. I don’t agree with her methods sometimes, but I can’t argue with her results.”
“But do you trust her?” I ask.
“As much as I trust anyone.” She takes a breath like she’s about to say more, but the door swings open, and Papa, Valentin, and two others enter the break room. Valentin’s stare softens when he sees me. He circles around my chair and rests his palms on my shoulders, murmuring a sweet nickname for me in Russian before planting a kiss on the crown of my head. All the nervousness and fear that’s been skittering through me vanishes with that touch. I smile and lean back in the chair.
Is everything okay? he asks, our shared music tangling together like our fingers: the Beatles and Dave Brubeck and Babi Yar all at once. You seem tense.
I hesitate. Last night was a good night—no nightmares pulsing through the halls. No screaming. No anguish. But I know it’s somewhere under the surface, lurking, waiting for its chance. I don’t need to burden him with my troubles. I need him strong. Just a little overwhelmed, is all. I turn our music bright and summery. I’ll be fine.
“Have a seat,” Winnie tells Valentin, “but we’re switching back to English.”
We both groan.
Valentin and Winnie banter back and forth about his work with the CIA’s new employee class, training them to resist his psychic assault. His English is soft and buttery, a stark reminder to me of his past life as the son of a high-ranking Party official within the Soviet Union—he can cycle through Russian, English, and German like he moves through piano chords. I mostly keep up, but the chattering conversations around us—Cindy and Donna, Papa and his friends—tug my ears in different directions like a cross-breeze whipping me around.
Winnie must notice the fake, baffled smile frozen on my face, because as soon as Valya stops talking, she turns toward me. “All right, Yulia. What do you need help with?”
Everything , I think. “A few words from today’s reading. ‘ Yacht ,’” I say, with my best phlegm-loosening German accent.
“ Yacht ,” Winnie corrects me with a laugh. “It’s a boat. A rich-guy boat.”
I grin back at her. “ Lacrosse .”
“It’s a sport, kind of like tennis and football combined. Let me guess, you’ve been reading dossiers on rich senators.”
“Very observant. What else was there … ‘ Adulterer’ … ‘er.’ Is it someone who is more adult than someone else?”
Winnie stops smiling and glances down at her deli sandwich. “No. It’s someone who cheats.”
“Cheats?” I ask. “Like at cards?”
“No. Cheats—is unfaithful to their partner. Like their wife.”
“Oh,” I say, my stomach sinking. “Oh.” I can’t help but glance in Papa’s direction. I’ve seen him flirt with waitresses and secretaries before, but it’s always been harmless banter, as far as I can tell—not seduction, and not warping their thoughts to his will. But Papa naturally radiates a magnetic charm that
“Rough. But not the worst I’ve had.” I glance over my shoulder, check that Cindy is still chatting in the far corner with Donna, and tell Winnie briefly about the file with my mother. Her lips draw tight as she listens.
“I can’t blame you for being upset. But these people are only trying to keep the country safe—you can’t blame them for doing their job, for following the rules.”
I want to believe her, but her voice is flat, as if she’s said these words before. I may still be learning English, but I know the sound of something you have to convince yourself of. “What about Cindy? Do you trust her?”
Winnie’s eyebrows lift. “She’s tough—just the right kind of ruthless we need. I don’t agree with her methods sometimes, but I can’t argue with her results.”
“But do you trust her?” I ask.
“As much as I trust anyone.” She takes a breath like she’s about to say more, but the door swings open, and Papa, Valentin, and two others enter the break room. Valentin’s stare softens when he sees me. He circles around my chair and rests his palms on my shoulders, murmuring a sweet nickname for me in Russian before planting a kiss on the crown of my head. All the nervousness and fear that’s been skittering through me vanishes with that touch. I smile and lean back in the chair.
Is everything okay? he asks, our shared music tangling together like our fingers: the Beatles and Dave Brubeck and Babi Yar all at once. You seem tense.
I hesitate. Last night was a good night—no nightmares pulsing through the halls. No screaming. No anguish. But I know it’s somewhere under the surface, lurking, waiting for its chance. I don’t need to burden him with my troubles. I need him strong. Just a little overwhelmed, is all. I turn our music bright and summery. I’ll be fine.
“Have a seat,” Winnie tells Valentin, “but we’re switching back to English.”
We both groan.
Valentin and Winnie banter back and forth about his work with the CIA’s new employee class, training them to resist his psychic assault. His English is soft and buttery, a stark reminder to me of his past life as the son of a high-ranking Party official within the Soviet Union—he can cycle through Russian, English, and German like he moves through piano chords. I mostly keep up, but the chattering conversations around us—Cindy and Donna, Papa and his friends—tug my ears in different directions like a cross-breeze whipping me around.
Winnie must notice the fake, baffled smile frozen on my face, because as soon as Valya stops talking, she turns toward me. “All right, Yulia. What do you need help with?”
Everything , I think. “A few words from today’s reading. ‘ Yacht ,’” I say, with my best phlegm-loosening German accent.
“ Yacht ,” Winnie corrects me with a laugh. “It’s a boat. A rich-guy boat.”
I grin back at her. “ Lacrosse .”
“It’s a sport, kind of like tennis and football combined. Let me guess, you’ve been reading dossiers on rich senators.”
“Very observant. What else was there … ‘ Adulterer’ … ‘er.’ Is it someone who is more adult than someone else?”
Winnie stops smiling and glances down at her deli sandwich. “No. It’s someone who cheats.”
“Cheats?” I ask. “Like at cards?”
“No. Cheats—is unfaithful to their partner. Like their wife.”
“Oh,” I say, my stomach sinking. “Oh.” I can’t help but glance in Papa’s direction. I’ve seen him flirt with waitresses and secretaries before, but it’s always been harmless banter, as far as I can tell—not seduction, and not warping their thoughts to his will. But Papa naturally radiates a magnetic charm that
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