Mystery Writers of America Presents Ice Cold: Tales of Intrigue From the Cold War

SHOW STOPPER BY GIGI VERNON

The dress had a recklessly full skirt, nearly eight meters of hand-painted silk, and was the most capitalistically decadent garment Ludmila Blatova had ever designed. Every time she set needle or shears to it, a shock, a combination of adoration and apprehension, rippled along her spine and tightened her abdomen. She still couldn’t believe the dress was permitted. But Khrushchev himself had directed that no expense or extravagance was to be spared for the 1959 Soviet Exhibition of Science, Technology, and Culture in New York City. There, the USSR’s superiority would be demonstrated in every aspect of life, from Sputnik to rugs. They’d already beaten the Americans in the race to outer space. But they’d always lagged behind in fashion. Until now. The clothes shown in New York would epitomize the socialist aesthetic — simple, modest, and functional. Even Westerners would want them.

Ludmila was one of four designers brought to the center of Soviet fashion, the Moscow ODMO, the All-Union House of Prototypes, but she was the only one plucked from a provincial garment factory. The others came from GUM, the state-sponsored department store. For months, all of them had worked long hours on the collection of daywear and evening gowns that would represent the Soviet Union in New York. None of them complained. To handle such luxurious materials and patterns was a dream. And a nightmare. One misstep or accident — a clumsy drape or silhouette, the wrong length, crooked or puckered seams, a smear of blood from a pricked finger on a priceless textile — might mean a Siberian gulag, or so Ludmila feared.

They were to be steered clear of such disasters through the close supervision of a senior ODMO designer, Vladlena Gribkova. Not only was her father a high-ranking Party member and Deputy Commissar of the Ministry of Light Production, but also she’d had the benefit of visiting Paris, twice. Her advantages showed in the brilliance of her work. Every design in the collection showed her creative stamp. Ludmila was as jealous of her position and spotless pedigree as of her talent.

Ludmila was the only designer allowed to contribute an entirely original dress to the collection, an honor which both thrilled and terrified her. As she feverishly worked, nausea alternated with light-headedness. She could scarcely sleep and had no interest in food. The only hunger she felt was for the chance to realize more of her ideas. She hoped her cherished dress was just the beginning of a dazzling career. If she could impress Gribkova, Ludmila might gain a permanent position at ODMO, advance, and maybe, one day, become senior designer herself. She tried her best to win over Gribkova, but the senior designer rebuffed all attempts with chilly resentment and mistrust, or so it seemed to Ludmila.

“Is it finished?” Gribkova asked, standing over Ludmila.

All afternoon Ludmila had labored over the skirt’s hem, which required thousands of tiny invisible stitches. “Another minute or two.” She didn’t look up and kept sewing, hoping the anxious tremble of her fingers escaped the senior designer’s scrutiny.

The only soft thing about Gribkova was her generous curves. Everything else was cold and sharp — her voice, demeanor, and scathing criticism, her elegant spiked heels and cat-eye glasses. She was tireless and seemed to see and hear everything. No one dared pilfer fabric scraps or extra buttons, or indulge in anticommunist jokes.

Out of the corner of her eye, Ludmila saw the pointed toe of Gribkova’s black pump impatiently tapping the floor. Ludmila had been so proud of her own new flat sandals from Poland, which she’d procured after standing in line for hours. Now, compared to Gribkova, the shoes made her feel as sturdy and practical as her homemade button-down dress.

At last, Ludmila made the final stitch, cut the thread, and handed Gribkova the skirt for her inspection. “There. Done.”

Gribkova took it, her lips pursed, ready to disapprove. Holding it up to the light, she examined it centimeter by centimeter. When she’d finished, she called, “Inessa.”

Inessa was the model assigned to the dress. A twenty-two-year-old redhead. She and the other models lounged in their underwear around a scarred wooden table in a corner of the workroom, smoking, gossiping, and turning dog-eared pages of Zhurnal mod and Modelt zesona, while they waited to be fitted. At her name, Inessa stood and melodramatically threw off a blanket draped around her shoulders. “Yes, Comrade Gribkova,” she said, hiding a giggle behind her hand. She was always giggling. Tall and stick-thin, her best feature was her almond-shaped eyes and long eyelashes. From certain angles, she might have looked like a giraffe, but on the runway she walked like a goddess.

“Put it on so we can check it again,” Gribkova ordered.

Inessa bent down and held her skinny arms over her head like a child so Ludmila could slip the dress over them.

“The petticoat too,” Gribkova said to Ludmila.

She helped Inessa climb into the layers of stiff netting.

The dress became a frothy confection that took Ludmila’s breath away.

“Walk,” Gribkova ordered. She peered critically at the model as she pranced up and down the workroom.

Ludmila peered too, chewing her lower lip.

Inessa stopped and whirled, showing off, as vain as if the dress belonged to her. It was sleeveless with a form-fitting bodice that ballooned into a full skirt. The cream colored silk was tissue-paper fragile, like moth wings. From a distance the fabric appeared to be spotted with fashionably large, multicolored polka dots. Closer, the dots resolved themselves into a pattern, each dot a traditional Ukrainian motif delicately rendered in shades of azure, carmine, teal, and sunflower. The tones suited Inessa’s bronze freckles, and the fit was perfect.

The dress was to be worn at cocktail parties, which were apparently common in the West, or so Ludmila had been told. Couples and young single professionals held them at their big suburban houses in the early evening before dinner. Everyone dressed up. Martinis and other fancy mixed drinks and appetizers were served. She herself had neither attended nor heard of any Russian attending or hosting such gatherings, but her social circles were limited to a few seamstress friends.

“Stop. Don’t move,” Gribkova ordered and picked up Ludmila’s razor-sharp shears. Holding them like a weapon, the open blades glinting in the light, she walked over and cut a dangling thread. Then she stood back.

She and Ludmila studied the dress looking for more flaws. Ludmila could see none.

“All right,” Gribkova said, with a curt nod. “You can take it off.”

Ludmila helped the model wiggle out of the dress, gingerly, so very gingerly. A ripped seam and they might find themselves both convicted of sabotage and sentenced to ten years’ hard labor.

Gribkova clapped her hands and addressed them all. “Workers. That is enough for today. Tidy up and then go home. Get some rest. It’s another early day tomorrow.”

Dutifully, Ludmila began to straighten up her workstation.

“Ludmila,” Gribkova said.

“Yes, Comrade Gribkova?”

“Stay behind. I want to speak to you.”

Ludmila swallowed. Had the senior designer changed her mind? Gribkova didn’t like the dress after all. It was to be purged from the collection. She might even censure Ludmila for individualistic tendencies and send her back to Minsk. Not trusting herself to speak, Ludmila nodded.

Once the others filed out, Gribkova wearily sank onto a stool. “I congratulate you. The Deputy Commissar has seen your dress and is satisfied that it is far superior to any American party dress. It will be a centerpiece of the New York City show.” She pronounced this news in the same stark tone that she denounced something as an utter and disgusting failure. “It embodies the style and comfort Comrade Khrushchev envisions for the modern Soviet woman.”

This wasn’t what Ludmila had been expecting. Her face turned hot, which she knew resulted in unbecoming blotches. “Oh,” she said, the word squeaky with relief. “Thank you, Comrade. That is very kind of you.” She realized she was babbling but couldn’t stop herself. “And him. Comrade Khrushchev. And all of them. Too kind. Of everyone.”

Gribkova seemed unmoved by gratitude. In the same icy tone, she continued, “Furthermore, when we go to New York, we will need a hard worker who’s skilled with a needle, someone able to handle any last-minute crisis that might arise. The deputy commissar has agreed. You will come to New York City.”

Ludmila’s face became even hotter, and no doubt even more blotchy, and her vision blurred. “Oh, thank you, Comrade Gribkova.”

“Just make sure I don’t regret my decision,” Gribkova said meaningfully.

Outside of the workroom, the lightbulb was burned out and the corridor deserted, but someone loitered, hidden by darkness.

“What do you want?” Ludmila asked, her tone more openly frightened than she intended.

Inessa stepped out of the shadows. “What did she say to you?” she asked conspiratorially, her eyes shining with excitement. “Whatever she said, she’s wrong. She’s just jealous. It’s the most beautiful dress I’ve ever worn. It’s as good as anything from the Paris salons. I was in Paris last year, you know.”

Despite her lack of respect for Inessa or her opinions about fashion, Ludmila flushed again. “Thank you,” she said stiffly, not wanting to encourage the girl’s familiarity. Inessa was half her age and flighty. Ludmila turned to go down the stairs, abruptly aware of a deep fatigue. Her eyes burned and her back ached.

Inessa linked arms as if they were old friends and accompanied her down the stairs. Ludmila’s short legs and Inessa’s stilts made a disjointed clatter on the scuffed wooden steps. Why this sudden friendship?

“I can’t wait to get to New York City,” Inessa continued. “What’s the first thing you’re going to buy?” Without waiting for an answer, she said, “Soviet Customs will turn a blind eye when we return if we slip them a little gift, you know. As long as we’re not too greedy. Not too much or too big. I’m going to buy a cashmere twin set at Saks Fifth Avenue. It is one of the best American department stores, you know. It will be violet or perhaps crimson. Which shade do you think would suit me better?” She batted her eyelashes at Ludmila.

“Either,” Ludmila said gruffly. How did Inessa know Ludmila would be going to New York City? Was it a guess? Or had she been eavesdropping?

“Or maybe silk pajamas. Igor would go wild. Igor’s my fiancé, you know. He might even set a wedding date under their influence. Or I could get a Maidenform brassiere,” Inessa chattered on, not seeming to expect responses.

They’d reached the street which was deserted at this late hour except for a porter on duty who was obviously KGB. Ludmila turned toward the Metro, which would take them to the Moscow State University dormitory where they’d been provided with temporary rooms. Inessa turned in the opposite direction.

“Aren’t you going back?” Ludmila asked.

“Not yet,” Inessa said with a coy giggle, and began to walk backward. “A friend is having a little birthday party. I want to drop in.”

Where did the girl get the energy? The young. Ludmila could barely keep her eyes open.

“Would you like to come?” Inessa asked. “Some very nice looking boys — men have been invited.”

“What about your fiancé?” Ludmila searched her memory for his name. “Igor?”

“He can’t come,” Inessa pouted. “He has to work late. He’s always working. He never wants to have any fun.”

Ludmila remembered he was some kind of scientist, a physicist, involved with missiles. If you could believe what Inessa said.

“Come with me. Live a little,” Inessa said.

“No, I can’t. Thank you. Another time perhaps.” Ludmila intended to fall into bed and sleep like the dead.

But later, when Ludmila tossed on her lumpy dormitory cot, she wondered if New York City was more curse than opportunity. If anything went badly, if the Party were unhappy with any aspect of the fashion exhibit or show, she would be a convenient scapegoat for Vladlena Gribkova.

Or was that Ludmila’s paranoia surfacing again? It never left her for long. All her life she’d been haunted by her parents’ fate. Her mother had been a tour guide and her father a translator of newspapers. One January night during Stalin’s time, when Ludmila was just a girl, both had been arrested by the secret police. Eventually she learned they’d been convicted of espionage and sent to a gulag, where they died. They’d both been innocent. Their only crime had been contact with foreigners and a knowledge of English. Such activities and skills might not currently be construed as treason, but that could change. Ludmila remained cautious and kept her own knowledge of English to herself.

The remaining seats of the Aeroflot flight were filled by their escort of hatchet-faced KGB men and one lone woman with the hard expression of a prison matron, who must also be an agent.

They landed in New York at Idlewild Airport and were directed to U.S. Customs. Gribkova pulled Ludmila aside. “Help me.”

But an army of American officials, all disconcertingly friendly and apologetic, whisked them through Customs. Not a single piece of luggage, trunk, box, or garment bag was opened. Not a single person was searched. A professional and diplomatic courtesy, it was understood. A gesture of goodwill toward the staff of an exhibition intended to foster warmer relations between the two superpowers. Besides, the Americans didn’t care if they brought in illegal goods. A suitcase full of caviar, vodka, or furs? All relatively harmless. No, contraband would be the issue on the return journey, and Soviet Customs would not be so accommodating.

Outside, they were blinded by white sunshine. It was blistering, American hot. The only smell was exhaust; the only sight a desert of glittering automobiles, pavement, and ripples of rising heat. Ludmila was glad to be ushered into one of a waiting fleet of shiny black limousines, the interior dim, cool, and enormous. Several KGB men squeezed into the rows of seats with them.

On the drive into the city, the models gaped and exclaimed at the skyline. Ludmila wanted to do the same, but she didn’t dare when she saw Vladlena Gribkova’s impervious disdain. Instead she risked sideways glances out the windows. An assembly line of cars, all of them sounding their horns, inched through the granite crevices of Manhattan. Not only was it louder than she expected, it was also grimier and much darker, even on a sunny June afternoon. The flight had been long, and they were tired, but they were not taken to the hotel.

Instead they were driven to the New York Coliseum, where the exhibition was to take place. They pulled up to a white block of a building that looked like a futuristic flying saucer or a frosted cake. Protesters gathered in front holding signs, “Russkies Go Home.”

Inside, they were met by a group of Americans, five or six men in gray suits and two women. They greeted the Russian delegation warmly as if they’d been the best of friends for many years. Polite introductions were exchanged, the Americans making a valiant effort to pronounce Russian names.

Ludmila was disconcerted by them and their smiles. Their teeth so white. Their shoulders and jaws so square. They seemed as unreal as mannequins.

The exhibition hall was an echoing cavern so large it could have contained whole airplanes. Air conditioning made it artificially cold and clammy, and Ludmila shivered. They were cocooned by an escort of KGB and Americans. An area had been reserved for fashion in the Culture section. There, workmen were constructing platforms, a stage, a runway, and dressing rooms. When Gribkova saw what they had done, she announced, “It’s all wrong. Completely wrong. Who gave you these instructions?” She glared at them. “Wrong. Who told you to do it this way?” she repeated in careful, heavily accented English.

Most of the American workers assembling the exhibition were Negroes. They were the first Negroes Ludmila had ever seen. None of the men were actually black. Each man’s skin was a slightly different color, rich, satiny shades that recalled chocolate, earth, coffee. They in turn stared at Vladlena Gribkova, trying to comprehend the Russian woman.

Two American women pushed their way to the front. Miss Bennett and Miss Johnstone, they’d called themselves. They wore summer suits, stylishly cut, one lilac with black trim, the other navy, both with half sleeves, and Ludmila could scarcely wrench her gaze from them. Both had pulled their hair into smooth buns at the base of their skulls. It turned out they were translators, and Gribkova began to lecture them about the problems with the layout.

Meanwhile, the models clustered in a corner, smoking, Inessa at the center. Ludmila joined them to escape the legion of forbidding gray-suited men. “Why so many KGB? Do they think we’re conducting espionage?” she murmured.

“They must show Soviet superiority by outnumbering the CIA agents,” Inessa whispered, with uncharacteristic sarcasm. At Ludmila’s gasp of surprise, she giggled and added, “But they can’t compete with the Americans on looks. Especially the one on the left. Dreamy.”

Ludmila saw nothing remarkable about the man. Without much enthusiasm, she agreed, “Yes, very handsome.”

After a moment, Inessa continued, “And those are only the KGB that are not undercover.” She inclined her head slightly toward Vladlena Gribkova.

Of course there were informers, there were always informers, everywhere, but Ludmila hadn’t suspected Gribkova. Informers were rarely subtle. They usually tried to entrap people, but Gribkova spoke only about fashion. How would Inessa know? “I don’t believe you,” she said aloud.

Inessa shrugged. “Just watch yourself around her, okay?”

Why would Inessa warn Ludmila? Just because she was wearing Ludmila’s dress? No. It was more likely Inessa thought Ludmila had a future; that Ludmila would design clothes for her, help her build a modeling career. Ludmila was flattered, but had no intention of worrying about someone else. She had her own career to think about.

And then there wasn’t time to think about anything. First, the garments had to be unpacked, pressed, hung up. One of the evening gowns was misplaced and panic ensued. Instead of joining the hunt, with breathless anxiety Ludmila looked for her own dress. Inessa was uncharacteristically helpful. Together the two of them located the box, which had been mislabeled “sewing tools and supplies.” Inessa even helped her unpack it and found a place for it on the clothes rack.

Then, showroom exhibits had to be installed as well as the final preparations for the fashion show made. The evening before the opening day, a special preview and reception would be held, which would be attended by Deputy Premier Kozlov and other top Soviet officials, Vice President Nixon and his wife and daughter, the American and Soviet press, and many other illustrious dignitaries of both nations. It all had to be perfect. The order of models had to be adjusted. Last-minute alterations had to be made.

Days at the Coliseum sped by in a frenzy of pressing, trimming, cutting, and stitching. Vladlena Gribkova never asked for advice, and Ludmila never offered it. Ludmila just watched and learned, and little by little, it seemed, Vladlena came to trust her and rely on her.

In contrast, the models were useless, too giddy and lazy to be delegated the simplest task. When they didn’t manage to slip out to tour New York, trailed by KGB, they loafed, drinking Cokes, smoking, and looking at the Vogue magazine they’d bought from the corner newsstand. They also flirted with the Americans, or at least tried to.

They stopped when one of the KGB men looked their way. Except for Inessa. She paid the KGB no mind and they, miraculously, didn’t seem to harass her.

As Ludmila watched, Inessa blatantly waved at one of the American CIA men who seemed particularly taken with her.

Ludmila resolved to distance herself from the girl even more.

“Where is she?” Vladlena screeched. “The devil take that girl! I should never have brought her. Where is she? I’ll send her back tomorrow, so help me.”

It was the morning dress rehearsal before the evening preview. It had been decided that Ludmila’s dress would finish the show, a position of great prestige. Ludmila might have been ecstatic if Inessa wasn’t missing. She’d been on the bus with them from the hotel, but once they’d reached the Coliseum, she’d disappeared. Off on some stupid lark, Ludmila thought, numb with frustration and despair. When the girl finally turned up, she’d probably charm the searching KGB men into not reporting her, too. But by that time it might be too late.

Vladlena was beside herself with a rage that struck them all dumb with terror. They’d never seen her like this, and Ludmila feared she might use Inessa’s absence to strike her cocktail party dress from the show entirely.

Ludmila wanted to plead for her dress, but she was afraid if she opened her mouth, she might vomit. She shivered in the air conditioning, and hoped.

To her relief, Vladlena ordered, “Put Alla in it!”

It would be too tight and too long on Alla, but Ludmila hurried to obey.

At the last minute, as Ludmila was about to help Alla change, Inessa dashed in, all smiles, as if nothing were wrong, her cheeks rosy with summer sun.

There was no time for lectures now. They blotted the perspiration from Inessa and slipped her into the dress. Vladlena glowered at the girl, but said nothing.

But on stage, Inessa was the best of them all, walking with an insouciant confidence that none of the other models could match, and Vladlena was mollified.

When the dress rehearsal was over, Vladlena led them in a round of applause. Before they dispersed, she delivered a speech detailing all the many errors that would have to be corrected before the next day, but they knew her well enough to see how pleased she was. Ludmila now realized just how nervous Vladlena had been, that the senior designer had just as much to lose, perhaps even more to lose than Ludmila herself if the show was a failure.

The tension drained from Ludmila. Calm descended on her as she headed backstage, and she allowed herself a smile when the models congratulated her.

In the changing area, Alla asked, “Cut this thread, will you?” The model lifted her hair above her neckline. “It’s been tickling me all morning.”

Ludmila picked up a pair of shears, found the offending loose thread, and snipped it.

“Ah, that’s much better. Thank you,” Alla said.

Ludmila looked for Inessa to help her change. She glimpsed the model still in the dress exiting through a back door. The anger that Ludmila had been too afraid to let herself feel earlier at Inessa’s tardiness welled up. Would the girl never learn? Furious at Inessa’s disregard for her garment, Ludmila followed, a harsh reprimand forming on her tongue.

Behind the stage was a service corridor, its light dim and sickly green. Inessa scurried down it and into the women’s toilet. A man, an American, followed her in.

This was too much! Wearing Ludmila’s creation to some sordid romantic rendezvous!

Ludmila burst in on them.

The man knelt before Inessa, the skirt in his hands. At first Ludmila thought he was lifting it, before she realized he was picking at the fabric. They both were.

The man turned toward her and exclaimed, “Hell.”

“Ludmila, give me a moment’s privacy, please,” Inessa begged. She didn’t giggle.

“What are you doing?” Ludmila choked out. But she knew, even as she asked. She saw it on the man’s fingertip. A dot, a microdot. According to Soviet propaganda, spies used them, American spies. She’d never believed such things existed. But here was the evidence before her eyes.

How long had the microdots been in place? The tiny dots blended with the fabric, indistinguishable from the pattern. She handled the garment daily and even she hadn’t noticed them.

The man stood, uncertainly glancing at Inessa.

In a flash, Ludmila understood. The girl had used Ludmila’s dress, her beautiful creation to smuggle out secrets. With or without her fiancé the physicist’s connivance. The invaluable information wouldn’t be lost or go astray if it was attached to a carefully tended dress. Inessa must be hoping to buy defection to the U.S. with such a delivery. And if the microdots were discovered, Inessa could claim she knew nothing. Inessa would get away with it as she always did. It was Ludmila’s dress. Ludmila would be the one condemned as a traitor and spy, not Inessa.

“In my dress?” Ludmila rushed forward, hearing herself roar, “You used my dress!”

“Your precious dress is fine. It hasn’t been damaged. I was very careful. Go away for a moment,” Inessa said, and pushed her gently back toward the door. “You never saw any of this.”

Ludmila held her ground. “My dress! You filthy little slut!” she shrieked. Her vision clouded, and a scream filled her ears, reverberating on the lavatory tiles. She struck Inessa, punched her, forgetting she still clenched a pair of shears. Rather than a blow, it was a stab.

Too late, Inessa flinched. The blades glanced over her jawbone and tore open the fleshy part of her long neck.

Ludmila pulled out the shears and stabbed again, harder, deeper.

Blood spouted from Inessa’s throat and poured down the front of the dress, drenching it, painting it a bright and terrible red.

The sight stopped Ludmila. “My dress,” she croaked, her voice raw.

Inessa went white and her ankles buckled. Her eyes rolled up into her head, before she crumpled to the ground, the skirt spread around her.

Ludmila couldn’t move, couldn’t take her eyes from the blood seeping across the silk.

The American shoved by her.

People poured in behind her, the KGB, the other models. Vladlena was there, shaking Ludmila, turning her head forcibly to get her to look away, to focus on something other than the lifeless model. “What is the meaning of this? Have you lost your mind?” Vladlena slapped her.

“She was spying. Using my dress…” Ludmila managed, her voice hoarse and painful. Her knees went weak and her whole body began to shudder convulsively.

She hadn’t realized she was sobbing until Vladlena pulled her head down to her shoulder and murmured, “My dear.”

Conversations happened, but Ludmila couldn’t understand the words. Vladlena spoke too, but it was as if Ludmila were far far away. Disjointed phrases were spoken but they had nothing to do with her.

“She must have slipped and fell.”

“Scissors.”

“Dead. She’s dead.”

“A dreadful accident.”

“Traumatic. Too much for her. A breakdown.”

Ludmila wasn’t aware of leaving the Coliseum or returning to the hotel or going to the airport the next morning at dawn with Vladlena in a limousine. Her body felt heavy, her mind dull, her eyes unable to focus. Vaguely, she understood she was to be put on a flight to Moscow.

At the gate, Vladlena held her hands, squeezed them, and kissed her warmly on both cheeks in farewell. “You’ve done the Soviet Union a great service, my dear. You’re a hero of the revolution.” Then, apparently overcome with uncharacteristic emotion, she embraced Ludmila and said in her ear, “You’re fine. There’s nothing to worry about now. In gratitude for your services the Party will reward you well. Your career is made.”

“But my dress,” Ludmila whimpered into the collar of Vladlena’s elegant black suit.