“Your mother’s kidding you, son. We never brag . . . about ourselves, or about members of our family. Especially in the Soviet Union! Such antics are frowned upon. And it’s actually one of the values here that I believe should be applied everywhere. Humility is a beautiful thing. Haven’t your American teachers hammered that message home yet, son?”
“No, they just—”
“Yes, they have!” said Ginger. “Mrs. Jones said everyone is supposed to be treated equally at all times. No one is rich or poor. No one is smart or dumb. No one is strong or weak. No one is ugly or pretty.”
“Hmm!” said Loretta. “Where is Mrs. Jones from again?”
“She’s from Boston,” said Ginger.
“Ah, yes!” I said. “She’s the woman who’s married to the Ford factory engineer. I actually met him. Told me that autoworkers from the U.S. are flooding here. The pay is better. The housing is darn near free. America’s Depression is turning the Soviet Union into the Soviet States of America. The only man in America who’s had a penny to his name in the last five years is John Dillinger. And he’s been dead for two months.”
“Really!” said Loretta. “What happened?”
“Cover your ears, kids.” Both obeyed my order and I spoke softly to Loretta. “Hoover’s agents shot him dead at the Biograph Theater in Chicago back in July.”
“Oh my!” she said.
I motioned for them to uncover their ears.
“Who is John Dillinger?” said Ginger.
“He was a bad guy, honey,” I said, moving her plate closer to her. “A bank robber. Eat your fish and carrots, too, sweetie.”
“I want to go to Chicago, Daddy,” said James. “I want to go back to America on the Trumpet and see the Statue of Liberty again with Uncle Bobby and Aunt Dorene. And I want to see Milwaukee, where you were born, and I want to see Philadelphia, where Mommy was born. And I want to see the Mississippi River and compare it to the Seine in Paris. Please, Daddy!”
“You will, son. Someday. You will.”
“Mr. Fort-Whiteman said America is the worst place on earth,” said Ginger. “He said here, in the Soviet Union, they treat brown people like human beings, not like animals the way they do in his hometown of Dallas, Texas.”
“What?” I said. “Why is he talking to you about this sort of thing?”
“Isn’t he your chemistry teacher?” said Loretta. “What does any of that have to do with science? Did he really tell you that?”
Ginger nodded big and chewed her carrots so we could all see them.
“Close your mouth, Ginger,” I sternly said. “You know better than to chew with your mouth open. You’re eleven, not three.”
James grinned at my scolding of his twin sister, who always overplayed her sadness whenever I so much as hinted at being upset with her. This time was no different. She put her fork down and just stared at her plate. Loretta and I ignored her, certain she’d be back to normal within seconds.
“I need to go have a talk with this Mr. Fort-Whiteman,” I said.
“Maybe you should let me, your much gentler wife, go pay him a visit. I’ve spoken to Lovett several times already.”
“Who?” I said. “Lovett? You’re on a first-name basis, huh?”
“Yes, Lovett Fort-Whiteman. He’s a colored man from the U.S. He’s usually out in front of the school greeting parents in the morning. And I’ll have you know . . . he most certainly is a proud, card-carrying communist, a formal member. He couldn’t wait to tell me all about it. Said he won’t stop until every American he meets is converted. And he’s even a leader of some sort within the American branch.”
“You learned all of this during those brief visits?”
“Who said they were brief, love?” She smiled. “He is awfully handsome.”
“Oooh, Mommy!” said James, crinkling up his face, embarrassed that his mother had hinted about another man’s attractiveness, the entire back-and-forth prompting Ginger to perk up and chime in, too.
“Yeah, Mommy! Oooh!”
“I third that!” I said. “Oooh, Mommy!”
Loretta reached across the table and took my hand. “Now come on, love. I said he was handsome. I didn’t say stunning and breathtakingly gorgeous. Only you fit that category.” She kissed my hand. “You hear that, children?”
They both smiled and nodded, overjoyed at seeing her being affectionate toward me. This sort of loving playfulness between Loretta and me always tickled them. We were all so close and happy, so completely connected.
11
Vladivostok, Russia
October 1937
I’D BEEN BACK AT THE TRANSIT CAMP FOR A WEEK NOW, REUNITED with my son and the other four comrades from my compartment. My right hand was stitched up and wrapped, and my left arm was in a cast, as Leonid’s kick had fractured the humerus bone about two inches above the elbow joint.
I’d found it interesting to learn during my visit to the Camp Z hospital that the man who’d fixed me, a Dr. Smirnov, like all of the other doctors and nurses within Stalin’s entire camp system, was a prisoner as well.
I was still waiting for someone official to tell me that my sentence had indeed been reduced to eight years. But after the officers at Camp Z had learned of my injuries and inability to do any more forestry work, they immediately sent me back here, never showing me any papers or holding a private meeting with me to discuss a sentence change. I was just left to wonder. These men were shamelessly unethical and dishonest. Nothing they’d ever tell me from this point forward would mean a single thing. It was the land of empty promises.
What struck me upon my return to the transit camp, having been away for two and a half weeks, was how much thinner my son and the other four appeared. On the other hand, they were shocked to see how strong and normal I looked, save for the obvious injuries and cuts to my face and arms. I’d made it back just in time, because car number twenty-eight’s men were scheduled to board a ship and head north to Kolyma in two days.
I was back in the same civilian clothes I’d been wearing the night of my arrest back in Moscow. It appeared that someone at Camp Z had attempted to wash them before reissue upon my release. They were still stained with blood, but they had held up nicely since Moscow, a far cry from the raggedy, civilian garb many of the other zeks still wore. Some at the transit had come with suitcases, but my compartment lads and I had not.
It was morning and I lay in my bottom bunk still, James asleep above me, the old man, Abram, on the next lower bunk near my feet, coughing uncontrollably. Yury was above him.
“Can I help you somehow, Abram?” said Yury.
“I’ll be fine,” he groveled.
“Your cough sounds much deeper,” I said. “When did you last visit the hospital?”
He didn’t answer me straightaway. He just coughed for a long spell.
“They told me I shouldn’t have smoked my whole life,” he finally said. “Then they gave me a shot of something and sent me back out. I had tried to also explain to the nurses that I, like so many others, am suffering from night blindness.”
Again Abram went into a coughing fit before continuing.
“One of the nurses gave me some cod-liver oil for it. We’ll see if it helps. At least I don’t have pellagra or scurvy like so many I saw in there. My God, the bloated legs! That medical compound is loaded with diseased souls. The good news is, when you all leave in two days, I will remain here. They told me that next week I can begin serving out my ten years here at the transit cleaning latrines and washing prison uniforms.”
“They most certainly will not have you cleaning shit for ten years!” said Yury, his Russian so proper sounding, as he was very well educated and also seemed to pride himself on giving off an air of a distinguished gentleman.
“Of course not!” said Abram. “I won’t be doing it at all, boy. I’ll be dead within five days.”
“Tell me you won’t,” said James, who’d awoken, his Russian words dripping with sadness. “You can’t die, Abram
.”
My son climbed down from his bed and approached the old man. He leaned down and hugged him. He stayed there and began to cry.
“There, there, boy!” said Abram, reaching his frail arm around James and tapping him repeatedly on the back. The two had obviously grown close over the past few weeks.
“It is conceivable that you could survive here,” said Yury with sudden optimism in his voice. “It’s cleaning shit, yes, but at least you won’t freeze to death.”
“Come here, son,” I said.
James reluctantly let go of Abram and sat with me on my bed. My unbroken right arm around him now, he rested his head on my shoulder. Still teary-eyed, he began touching the dirty bandage wrapped around my hand.
“Dying naturally can be a gift to man from God,” said Abram.
“Hear me. I am not being shot or hanged or stabbed. I am choosing to let go and die. I want to. I am old enough. I had my uninterrupted life for so many good years. And now a madman has overtaken my country. I will not die at his hands. I will choose to die at God’s.”
“But your children,” said Yury.
“I have written a letter to my daughter in Poland. She will receive it and send word to my other daughter and three sons. It has been made clear to them. Besides, they know I was ready to go when my wife died two years ago.”
“That’s one of the many sick aspects of Stalin’s prison system,” said Yury. “He allows us to write letters to our families, after they’ve been read by NKVD, of course, but still, it is as if he wants our loved ones to know of our misery, and to also live in fear.”
“Or, perhaps he does it to trace their whereabouts,” I said.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Abram, now coughing blood into a white rag. “He can find whomever he wants to find. He can round up the entire country. I wrote the letter to my daughter in Poland. She is safe there. And she’s smart. She will notify my other children in Leningrad in a safe way. Besides, we cannot live in terror of this man. Whatever our destinies be, they shall be. Stalin tried to rip away our religion, but I still have God in my heart.”
I looked around the filthy barracks and saw most of car twenty-eight’s men still sleeping, including our two other compartment mates, Boris and Mikhail. I always wondered which prisoners were actually asleep or dead, as we’d lost several since being here.
“I wish Stalin had never been born,” said Yury. “I wish Lenin had lived longer. He is rolling over in his grave right now. I am hoping Trotsky will somehow return and bring sanity back to my Soviet Union.”
“You keep talking out loud about such things and one of these zeks is going to tell on you,” said Abram. “I am much older than you, boy. You are so full of passion, but you must keep your political opinions to yourself. There are always spies within our midst. Do you understand me, Yury?”
“I want to do it your way,” he said, the tone in his voice emoting deference to the old man. “I just had such belief in Trotsky. But I will stop and do it your way, Abram. Just promise me you will try to stay alive. I don’t want to go to Kolyma with the thought of you being dead in my mind. You remind me of those Russian people from our history who are beautiful, not ugly. You make me believe that I, too, can live a long life, have children, a wife, read books, grow wise, and someday . . . educate young men the way you do. Don’t die, Abram.”
“When you all get to Kolyma,” said Abram, coughing, “make sure you do one thing for me. And I want you, young James, to pay particular attention here. I want you to do exactly as the guards say. Never talk back or delay in responding to their orders. Understand?”
We all nodded and he went into another coughing fit, this time followed by heavier breathing. Then he continued in an even weaker voice.
“I want you to wake up every day and look straight up to the sky and past it. I will be there with my wife and God looking down on you. You may not know why this horror is happening right now, but don’t examine it for another second. Accept it. Focus on that day’s work. Treat that day’s soup or bread as if it were a king’s feast. When you lie down at night on whatever hard, freezing board they provide, think of me and let my voice put you to sleep at once. You can make it. I don’t care if you have to sleep in one of those holes dug in the ice. You can make it. You are all young, strong, smart. Your spirits are free. They can’t touch it. They can’t break you. No matter how thin and weak your bodies become, stay alive. See your families again, my boys. I love you dearly.”
It was on those last words that he took several deep, labored breaths and closed his eyes. I sat up and approached him, placing my hand on his neck to feel for a pulse. The beautiful, old man had gone to see God. And in two days, when the five of us would finally take our ominous ship ride north, we wouldn’t have to wonder if our gray-haired sage had died yet. He’d left us with some lovely last words. But now he was gone.
* * *
Three days later, we were still adjusting to having been crammed into a cargo ship like a bunch of sardines for about twenty-four hours now. The waters were choppy and many of the men had been vomiting from seasickness. The smell throughout was deplorable. There were men and women on the ship, but we were not together. We were packed in the lower hold, and they were on the deck above us. The hold smelled of ammonium nitrate, and it was fairly dark, but not completely like the train had been, because two dim lamps hung from the ladder, one at the top, the other at the bottom.
“I’m guessing there are at least a thousand men in here,” said Yury. “While you were at Camp Z, the old man told me that other ships on this Kolyma route are much larger, three or five thousand onboard. The holds are different, too. They just threw us in here like dogs, but the bigger boats have three-level holds filled with mattress-less bunks so the zeks can lie down.”
“You can lie down on the deck there,” I groaned.
“Would rather have a bunk.”
“It feels like the sea is very angry right now,” I said, my bandaged hand on my sleeping son’s leg.
“The old man told me that many ships have capsized trying to make this journey,” said Yury. “He said the route is difficult because of the La Pérouse Strait, which is a twenty-five-mile-wide stretch of sea dividing two islands: Hokkaido and Sakhalin.”
“I want to thank you, Yury,” I said, my stomach rolling, the nausea intensifying as I sweated and kept my eyes closed, the back of my head pressing against the sticky, wooded bulkhead behind me. “I want to thank you for not being sick. It allows you to keep talking, which keeps my mind busy. And your Russian diction is so crisp, so soothing. Thank you. I envy your resilient stomach.”
“You’re welcome. I have eaten many bad things in my life. I am immune. As I was saying, according to the old man, the edges of the strait are made up of rock hazards. So the ship has to fight the choppy waters and at the same time keep it from pushing it toward the edges. But this is tricky, Prescott, because the more the ship tries to stay in the center of the strait, the more it also has to avoid the big monster in the middle. Not easy to navigate.”
“Monster?” I slurred.
“Yes, right in the middle of the strait is a rock monster named the Stone of Danger. Many boats have smashed right into it. When it’s dark out, they actually can’t navigate around it. They can’t see it. They have to basically guess where it is and try to avoid it. So, you see, we may be in luck after all. The ship will probably run aground. We may die at sea.”
“That’ll be nice,” I mumbled, sour stomach acid bubbling up to where I could taste it now, the fish soup we’d eaten some twenty-four hours earlier still refusing to digest. Perhaps it had been made of rotten bream. I wondered because I hadn’t gotten seasick on the Trumpet yacht during that journey to Nantucket, but these were extremely turbulent waters. Fishy bile burning your throat while you’re on the verge of vomiting ranks near the top on the misery list.
“Not a single guard has come down here,” said Yury. “I’ll bet it’s because of the choppy waters. They are
all up in their cabins sick as dogs. Or they know we are all too weak and sick to cause any commotion. Still, with all of these animals among us, free to move about as soon as their seasickness subsides, I’ve got my guard up. And there were reports of some zeks breaking into the women’s barracks while we were at the transit camp. There were rapes. That was the word going around while you were at Camp Z, Prescott. Apparently the suspects were all shot, though.”
“Don’t repeat that story in the company of my son,” I slurred, just before the lamp at the top of the ladder went out and left us all in an even less visible hold, many of the men moaning louder as a result.
“Of course not, Prescott,” he said, oblivious to the change in light and the agony surrounding him. “I know James is asleep. But you do want to know such details, yes?”
“Yes, thank you, Yury.”
“How long before your fractured arm heals?”
“The doctor said four weeks. So, should be almost healed upon our arrival.”
“Yes, we should be there in nine more days,” he said.
“And then, in about another week after, they will have me digging with you all, Yury. If I’m kept back at camp during those first days, make sure to try to watch over my son out there while you’re mining. I know it may not be possible, but try to stay close to him. Please.”
“You have my word, Prescott.”
“Check on Mikhail and Boris,” I said.
Yury, sitting to my left, stood and walked to the right, past me first, then James. Boris was next to my son, and Mikhail was to his right. All of us zeks were covering the deck throughout. We lucky ones at least had our backs to the bulkhead, but others had to sit back-to-back or lie down and curl up tight. The last good light we’d seen had been on the deck when the guards had given us soup prior to our climbing down the ladder. There was one toilet hole in the corner near the bottom of the ladder, but getting to it required squeezing through the knot of zeks, so unless it was vital, one was best off holding it.
Beneath the Darkest Sky Page 11