The Secrets We Kept(16)

She returned that afternoon carrying a stack of handwritten field reports to type up—her demeanor unchanged. If nothing else, we were professionals. So we didn’t ask how her meeting went or what special skills she must possess or what other duties she might’ve been assigned.



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It was four thirty—right about the time our typing would slow and we’d begin filing away our unfinished work and start looking at the clock every three minutes. But Irina was still typing away with gusto. We were pleased to see the new gal had a solid work ethic, in addition to whatever hidden talents she might possess. A weak link in the Pool would only create more work for the rest of us. At five on the dot, we stood and asked Irina to join us at Martin’s.

“Martini? Tom Collins? Singapore Sling?” Judy asked. “What’s your poison?”

“I can’t,” Irina said, gesturing toward a stack of papers. “I have to catch up.”

“Catch up on work?” Linda said when we were finally outside. “On her first day?”

“Did you meet with Frank on your first day?” Gail asked.

“Hell, I still haven’t met with Frank,” Norma said.

Cold stones of jealousy rattled in our stomachs and we wanted to know more. We wanted to know everything about the new Russian gal.



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Irina took to the job quickly. Weeks passed and she never once asked for help. And thank God, as we didn’t have time for handholding. Tensions had increased threefold in SR that November, after news spread of the failed uprising against the Soviet Union in Hungary—and our role in it. Encouraged by Agency propaganda efforts, Hungarian protesters had taken to the streets of Budapest to oppose their Soviet occupiers. They’d been under the impression that reinforcements would come from Western allies. No reinforcements came. The revolution lasted just twelve days before the Soviets put a violent end to it. The number of Hungarians the Times reported killed was horrifying, but the number we typed in our reports was even worse. They thought they were doing the right thing, that their well-laid plans would work. Our best men were on it. How could it fail? But the country was in ruins. The Agency had failed. Allen Dulles—the spy chief we’d see only when those of us with high enough clearance were asked to take notes at an important meeting—demanded answers, which the men struggled to provide.

We were asked to work late, to sit in during after-hours meetings. If we stayed past the time the buses and streetcars ran, they’d pay for our taxis home. Going into Thanksgiving, we feared they’d cancel our holiday time. Thankfully, they didn’t.

Those of us whose families were a plane ride away would usually stay in Washington over the holiday, saving our paychecks for Christmas travel. We’d throw a potluck at whoever’s apartment was the largest, or whoever’s roommate was out of town. We’d bring a chair and a covered dish and even though we’d try to plan who brought what, we’d always end up with at least four pumpkin pies and enough turkey to last a week.

Those of us whose families were just a train or a bus ride away would go home. Our parents and siblings always welcomed us back like prodigal daughters. For them, Washington was more than a world away—it was a place where the nightly news was made. We’d be purposefully vague about our job duties, and our families thought our lives to be much more exciting than they were. We’d drop names like Nelson Rockefeller, Adlai Stevenson, and the impossibly handsome senator from Massachusetts, John Kennedy, saying we’d met these movers and shakers at various parties and events, though we were lucky if we knew someone who knew someone who’d met them.

For those of us who’d go back to our hometowns, the night before Thanksgiving always meant a big meet-up at a local bar. The old high school crowd would gather over cocktails and we’d wear our best heels and our softest cashmere and make sure our hair was done and that we had no lipstick on our teeth. Forgetting their wedding rings, the popular boys who’d ignored us in high school would tell us how great it was to see us and that we should come home more often. In D.C., we were part of the throngs of government gals, but in our hometowns, we’d made it.

We’d say our goodbyes to our old classmates with a “See ya next year” and go home, slightly tipsy, to at least one of our parents who’d tried waiting up for us but had fallen asleep on the couch. The next day, we’d cook turkey, then eat turkey, then nap, then eat more turkey, then nap again. It was good to be home, we’d tell our aunts and uncles and cousins. But within two days we’d be back on the bus or train to D.C., a turkey sandwich packed in our pocketbook.



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When we returned the Monday after this particular Thanksgiving, we’d forgotten about Irina and were surprised to see her sitting at Tabitha’s old desk. We were polite, asking what she’d done over the holiday, and she told us that she and her mother didn’t really celebrate Thanksgiving, but that she had picked up two Swanson turkey dinners, and that they were surprisingly good. “My mother ate half my peas and mashed potatoes when I got up to get another glass of wine,” she said. We hadn’t known Irina lived with her mother. And before we could ask any more questions, Anderson came by with bundles of paperwork. “Christmas came early, girls,” he said.