My left arm felt fractured and was limp, so using my mangled right hand, I pushed at his chest and scooted out from under. I surveyed the silent crowd before turning toward the bosses, the anger on their faces suggesting I’d just murdered their wives. The American had won. The American was still alive. I closed my eyes and waited. It had been fourteen years since my life was embroiled in violence. Those years had been a reprieve from having to question how to simply stay alive.
I opened my eyes and looked at the black night beyond the quiet zeks. I yearned for the simplicity of everyday, normal life. I realized that my current predicament had been born out of a desperate yearning to transport some nonexistent model of freedom back to America, some philosophy that might take hold there and transform the lives of my people. I’d been suckered into believing that the Bolshevik Revolution had created a completely equal society based on certain principles, ones that could serve as the blueprint for solving America’s racial woes, ones that would show U.S. blacks and whites how to live in peace and harmony, ones that President Roosevelt was viewing from afar and basing his New Deal on.
I kept staring at the night sky and realized that my life’s purpose seemed to be cheating death over and over again, all in my impossible quest to finally reach this imagined utopia. Why hadn’t I settled on a simple life in Paris? The answer: God had placed deep inside of me a compass that was always turning toward freedom, guiding my every move, forcing me to disregard logic and pursue that intangible, elusive something that represented fairness for American Negroes, even if it was merely some abstract semblance of it. I imagined that slave of long ago, of my ilk, being told that he might be able to buy his freedom if he plays his cards right. He could only turn to his master and say, “Unless I can buy everyone’s, each and every one of my brothers’ and sisters’ freedom, what difference does it make?”
Continuing to stare beyond the crowd at dark nothingness, I wondered if my sentence would indeed be reduced to eight years. Even if it was, I wasn’t about to serve it out without doing everything in my power to get released sooner. I feared that, at this rate, every member of my family would be dead within a year or two.
Again I turned to the bosses. And once more I waited. But no one said a word or lifted a finger as I stood there bleeding and shaking. They could only stare at their fallen Goliath. I was tired and beaten and sad and lonely. But I still had hope.
10
Moscow, Russia
September 1934
I’D BEEN IN MOSCOW FOR A MONTH NOW, MY FAMILY LIVING IN A wonderful apartment on Arbat Street, only a few houses down from where the famed writer Alexander Pushkin had once resided. This neighborhood’s living quarters were quite different from others in terms of aesthetics, as the buildings were made of stone and brick. It was nice not having to live in one of the many one-story log row houses available to most tenants.
Bobby had helped us find the apartment. It was part of a large, white four-unit building—two apartments on the second floor, two on the first. Our unit was on the left side, first floor. We figured the entire building had once been a czar’s fancy house. Perhaps after the revolution it had been remodeled to create four apartments. Whatever the case, our two-bedroom unit was plenty spacious.
Our stay at the National Hotel had lasted only a week. I never told Bobby that I’d overheard his conversation with the ambassador regarding his desire not to have my family live at the chancery with the other staff. I’d preempted any pending discussion on the matter by simply expressing to Bobby my preference to live in a place large enough for Loretta to do her painting and readily host artists for events. This prompted Bobby to raise my level of pay, allowing us to easily afford the apartment. I was happy to have eased his private worry over the matter. Initially, I had refused to accept his side money, prompting him to spill his soul a bit to me.
“Please don’t make an issue out of the extra money,” he’d said. “It is truly our wish for you to accept it. Money can never become an issue between us, Press. I have learned to accept this idea as well, you know, with my being married to Dorene. Her wealth is just a reality, and as a subject, it’s completely off of the table between us. We’ve chosen to serve our government, not to dwell on our riches. The fact that we can travel and serve abroad without worry is a blessing. I need you to join me in this thinking. You’re my right-hand man. We can be a team.”
“Okay,” I had said, just before he’d gone into a riff about race, which told me he was still pained over the conversation he’d had with Bullitt behind the car that day.
“I can’t stop thinking how much I wish it were as easy for you to become a diplomat as me,” he’d gone on. “Segregation and overall racism is ubiquitous—and evil! But let me help you navigate through it until, God willing, we can come upon a better day. This apartment is certainly fit for a diplomat. Plus, helping you live in this fine establishment so that your wife can do her art is the least I can do. The least you can do is accept.”
This conversation had left the two of us feeling even closer. Since then we’d been engrossed in our jobs, working nonstop on the passport issue plaguing so many American expatriates. It was exhausting work that required lots of research and document reading. But, as we’d anticipated, I was now being summoned to the ambassador’s residence to help advise on the new ballroom, an assignment that irked the hell out of Bobby. But what could he do about it?
I arrived for my first day of work at Spaso House on a Monday morning and was led through the chandelier room into an adjacent area where several walls had been knocked down. The floor was covered in drywall dust, and so were the eight men standing around a large worktable arguing about logistics.
“This one shows that we cannot knock that west wall down because it is essential to the house’s structural support,” said a tall, fat man who appeared to be the lead contractor. His Russian words bellowed out in a deep baritone.
“Excuse me!” I said, interrupting.
“Yes!” said the fat man.
“I’m Prescott Sweet. The ambassador has hired me to help as a technical advisor.”
“Ah, yes! Comrade Sweet! Please! Come join us! I am so glad to hear an American speak Russian. My name is Makar.”
A couple of the men moved aside and created some space for me to join them around the table. Then they all introduced themselves.
“Don’t take this personally,” said Makar, “but I have been going back and forth with . . . let me whisper . . . with your ambassador about my electrician. He will not even allow Egor in the building because he has demanded that one of his men do the job. I assume that is you.”
“That is correct,” I said, trying not to act surprised at this news.
“He told me, Comrade Sweet, that no power can be shut off until you’ve had a chance to study the drawings and inspect all of Spaso House’s wiring. He claims that the lights go out at night all of the time and that the phone often doesn’t work. He also claims that all of the food in the refrigerator keeps spoiling because of these late-night power outages. My electrician, Egor, could easily fix! If I sound angry that is because I am! Not at you, but, you know, this is your ambassador showing that he doesn’t trust me.”
“No!” I said, preparing to defend the ambassador as best I could.
“What do you mean . . . no?”
“I mean . . . I think it has more to do with him feeling like a brand-new set of electrical materials will need to be ordered from America, and that I can recommend the highest quality ones. America’s made new advancements in wiring technology. He also believes I’ll be able to determine what’s causing things to short-circuit so often. I’m an expert in that area. It probably has to do with the house’s outdated system not being able to support the amount of wattage being regularly used, especially at night, when so many lights are turned on. The last thing the ambassador wants is to be hosting a big social event, only to have a blackout.”
“I think you Americans don’t believe we are smart en
ough,” said Makar, lighting a cigarette.
“Where exactly is the circuit breaker?” I asked, studying the drawings and ignoring his comment.
“We are smart, too!” he said, exhaling.
“Also,” I said, “can someone give me a tour of the house? I need to get an intimate understanding of the layout, etcetera.”
All of the men looked around at one another, seemingly uncomfortable with my request. This quick little lie I’d told reminded me of how easily I’d always been able to fool people.
Even when I’d originally been hired at the University of Paris and had shown them my diplomas, they’d asked why the name on them read Sidney Temple instead of Prescott Sweet, which was on my passport. I’d told them that upon moving to Paris, I wanted to completely embrace France and leave all of America and its backward ways behind me, to become an entirely new man. They’d liked my insult of the United States and it probably helped me land the job.
The reason I’d been okay with showing them my original diplomas was simple: I knew the name Sidney Temple would never be uttered aloud in the future for any British Intelligence spy to get lucky and overhear. And the odds of said spy unpro-vokingly visiting the university’s human resources department to inquire about some American named Sidney Temple was highly unlikely. At best he’d check the faculty listing and see no such name.
Moments later, I found myself in the bowels of Spaso House being given a tour by Sergei, the caretaker. He was in a foul mood to say the least. I got the distinct feeling he viewed all of us visiting Americans as intruders who’d overtaken the mansion he’d long considered partly his own. When we reached the actual basement, all he would show me was the circuit breaker. He claimed that the main room down here was his living quarters, and that it was locked and would stay that way as long as he lived there.
“Why are you so insistent that no one is allowed inside?” I asked.
“I am the caretaker of this house and the least you Americans can do is allow me to maintain a private space in which to live. There is nothing in there for you to see. There is a bed and a couch and a washroom. It is where I live. Do I ask to come to your house and look around your bedroom? No!”
“Very well,” I said. “Is this the only circuit breaker?”
“Yes.”
“I have to inspect this panel thoroughly. I am going to need some time here. Feel free to carry on with your daily routine. I can manage alone now.”
He looked at me with a bit of a frown before nodding and heading back upstairs.
“Oh!” I said, stopping him, as he was about halfway up. “I am going to need to get back up in the attic after I’m through here to begin inspecting the wires. I will need you to unlock that door again. Will you be around?”
“Of course! I never leave Spaso House. Where else did you think I’d be?” He began to head up again and I heard him mutter, “Stupid Americans!”
Before he reached the top step he began descending again, rapidly approaching like he wanted to come hit me.
“Comrade Sweet, let me show you the other, smaller circuit breaker at the far end of the basement on the other side. It’s a bit of a maze getting there.”
“Thought you said this was the only one.”
“I meant the only one that you need as far as the power that will involve the new ballroom. This is a big house, comrade.”
“Uh, I need to be the one who decides which breaker needs to control which sections of the house. I need to make all of the technical decisions based on a completely thorough understanding of the house’s electrical system. So, I’m going to ask you again . . . are these the only two circuit breakers. Or is there one inside your living quarters?”
“Excuse me, comrade! You think because you are speaking Russian to me with such confidence that this gives you the right to make accusations? According to Ambassador Bullitt, you are not a diplomat of any sort. You are an assistant. You are no higher than my level. Nor are you any higher level than the ambassador’s personal butler, Jean.”
“Just show me the breaker!” I somewhat angrily said. “I need to get on with it.”
“This way!”
As he and I continued winding through the dark basement hallways again, I kept thinking of what Ambassador Bullitt had said about hidden tunnels and secret passageways. Sergei’s insistence on not allowing me to see inside his living quarters had me all the more curious. I didn’t necessarily want to find any of this out for the ambassador, either. It was simply a personal curiosity, one that was actually becoming more of an obsession with each step we took.
I thought back to my spying days in Harlem and the time I’d drugged one of the UNIA Legionnaires so I could break into Marcus Garvey’s private file cabinet and sift through his documents. Now I found myself staring at the ring of keys dangling from Sergei’s waist, jingling with each step he took. How could I get my hands on them? My immediate dislike of him had me far too determined.
Later that evening, having brought Loretta home an assortment of fresh flowers, I sat with her and the children at the dinner table and we dined over baked sturgeon, mashed potatoes, and steamed carrots. This was my favorite thing in the world, eating peacefully with my family, listening to them carry on about the day’s happenings, speaking both French and English to one another. And Loretta seemed particularly enthused on this evening.
“Aimez-vous l’esturgeon?” said Loretta.
“C’est délicieux!” we all three answered at the same time, as it was customary to praise her cooking and mine.
“My goal is to learn Russian in one year,” said Ginger. “Then I’ll be trilingual. That’s what Mrs. Stapleton said to me.”
“Trilingual?” said a jovial James. “Well, I am going to be a poly . . . a poly . . . a polyglot! Yeah! I will speak ten languages. More than you, Daddy!”
“Une langue à la fois, le fils,” I said.
“Yes,” said Loretta. “One at a time, James. Being able to speak two already is very good for an eleven-year-old.”
“Anyway,” said Ginger, “what I was trying to say is I really want to set a goal to learn Russian in one year. And I’m serious, James.”
“That would be wonderful, sweetheart,” I said, savoring the warm fish. “Ce sera marveilleux! Or, in Russian . . . Eto budet za-mechatel’no.”
“I love when you speak Russian,” said Loretta, smiling, then turning to the children. “If your daddy will speak Russian at the dinner table more often, we can all learn faster. Lord knows it would help me navigate the art scene here!”
“Will you, Daddy?” said James, anxiously swinging his legs under the table and bouncing up and down.
“Yes, son. Stop jerking like that, though.”
“Changing the subject,” said Loretta. “Simone says she’s never seen anyone with a more natural feel for Socialist Realism painting than I,” she said.
Simone Dragic was a painter from Switzerland who’d married a Russian dentist and had lived in Moscow for ten years.
“But isn’t that particular form too limiting for you?” I said, forking my fish.
“Perhaps,” she said, “but it’s actually the first time in my career where I’ve been in a classroom full of students and been singled out by the teacher as the premier painter.”
“Wow, Mommy!” said a smiling Ginger.
“The fact that a woman as brilliant and well-trained as you is still taking classes is puzzling to me,” I said, pouring her some more water from the pitcher.
“An artist never stops trying to learn specific new forms, love. And ever since we arrived in the Soviet Union, I have been learning that Socialist Realism . . . not to be confused with social realism, by the way, can be powerful. This form is unique to this country and is the preferred style of Joseph Stalin.”
“Preferred?” I said, sarcastically. “He’s not actually giving you all a choice. I mean, the mere fact that other forms are prohibited and—”
“That’s a temporary thing, love. Stalin
is simply trying to encourage artists to help move the social revolution forward. He feels that we artists play a vital role in making sure communism stays healthy, and that those backward-thinking individuals who are still clinging to the czarists’ ways of life are rooted out of society. This country has to heal, and we painters can help by depicting communist values, like the emancipation of the proletariat. We can also do paintings that support the aims of the State and the Party.”
“Since when did you become an admirer of communism?” I said, bewildered at the almost hypnotic way in which she was speaking. “Sounds like you’re taking classes in Soviet politics, not painting. I mean it. When did you become—”
“I haven’t!” she said. “Become an admirer! I’m just learning more about it. But I’ll have you know, Mr. Prescott Sweet, that many of America’s most successful citizens are saying good-bye to capitalism and hello to communism. Men like Paul Robeson and W.E.B. Du Bois to be specific. You adore both, don’t you?”
“Yes, but Du Bois is certainly not a member of the party. He’s just expressed views that lead one to think he appreciates it.”
“Well, then!”
“Just go slow,” I said. “I have a tad more faith in the aims that Lenin and Trotsky had in mind. Stalin’s approach has my eyebrows raised. I know nothing specific of him yet, but let’s not go allowing him to indoctrinate you overnight.”
“Are you gonna be famous, Mommy?” said Ginger, eating only her mashed potatoes. “I think you are gonna become famous.”
“Yeah!” said James, his plate almost completely cleared. “I want—”
“Stop tapping your plate with that fork, son,” I said.
He quickly set his fork down before continuing. “Um . . . I want you to become famous so I can tell all of my friends at school.”
“Oh!” said Loretta. “Become famous so you can brag to your schoolmates. In that case, I must make it happen at once.”
Beneath the Darkest Sky Page 10