“True Socialist Realism,” said Loretta.
“Hmm,” said Bobby. “What exactly is Socialist Realism again?”
“You sound suspicious,” said Loretta.
“No, not at all, just curious.”
“Well,” said Loretta. “It was explained best by Andrei Zhdanov, an aide of Stalin’s. Most artists here have his words stained in their brains. And Stalin himself gave Zhdanov’s explanation his stamp of approval.”
“Tell us,” said Bobby.
Loretta cutely closed her eyes and began. “Zhdanov said, ‘Socialist Realism, being the basic method of Soviet literature and criticism, requires from the artist truthful, historically concrete representation of reality in its evolutionary development. Moreover, truth and historical completeness of artistic representation must be combined with the task of ideological transformation and education of the working man in the spirit of socialism.’ ”
Moments later when we arrived at Loretta’s two paintings, my heart began to race, as I hadn’t seen either. They were nothing like those I’d looked at before, no women holding babies in either. One was a painting of two young proletariat boys in civilian clothing chasing two uniformed czars who had looks of fear on their faces. The other was a similar painting, but the two young chasers were girls. Both were so vivid and colorful, as if they were photographs that had simply been copied. That was how truly talented my wife was.
“Stunning!” said Dorene.
“Truly!” said Bobby.
“My gosh, Loretta!” I said, taking her around the waist and pulling her close.
“You’re all being far too kind,” said Loretta, such pride washing over her. “They represent the true fear that was instilled in the czars as the revolution drew to an end. They feared the Bolsheviks at this point so much so that even the mere sight of proletariat children scared them to death. They knew that lingering not too far behind these youngsters was likely a heavily armed brigade of angry Bolshevik soldiers. At the same time, these children symbolized this newfound, emboldened attitude that had permeated the whole of the proletariat. This one is called Proletariat Boys Rising Up, and the other is called, of course, Proletariat Girls Rising Up.”
“The color is just stunning,” said Dorene. “But it’s as if you’ve used only various shades of red, yellow, black, and white. And still, it pops off of the canvas so powerfully, the girls’ lemon dresses, the boys’ cherry pants.”
“Thank you,” said Loretta. “In terms of color, probably the great artist, Konstantin Melnikov, gave me the greatest compliment. He said I must have found a way to paint with molten lava.”
“But you’ve always had a flair for color,” I said, turning to Bobby and Dorene. “Our daughter’s namesake, Ginger Bouvier, from our Harlem and Paris days, liked to brag about Loretta’s talent for creating various shades of particular colors.”
“Ah, yes,” said Dorene. “I remember her. We actually met her once when we first arrived in Paris, before she moved to Canada with her new husband.”
“Oh, that’s right,” I said. “Of course.”
“Where do you go from here, Loretta?” said Bobby. “I mean . . . you’ve truly reached the mountaintop. Tretyakov Gallery! The pinnacle!”
“Well,” said Loretta, “I can tell you what might be next. Prescott and I haven’t discussed this yet, and I know that you’ve asked him to join you in Argentina, but a bit of breaking news here, even for you, love.” She looked at me and raised her eyebrows. “I’ve been asked by the State to teach full-time here at the Moscow Painting Academy. Obviously, as you know, only the very top artists in the country are given the opportunity to do such.”
“Of course,” said Bobby. “Only the masters! Wow!”
“We have a lot to discuss in the coming days,” I said.
“I worry about the changing climate here,” said Bobby. “Ever since Kirov was mysteriously killed in Leningrad about a year and a half ago, Stalin seems to have made a shift. He’s arresting some of his own men. Perhaps justifiably, but still, all of us at the chancery have continued to grow suspicious of these arrests, along with those of regular citizens. And there’s an ever-disturbing secrecy about them.”
“But he’s arresting men and women who’ve obviously shown an allegiance to Trotsky or the exiled czars,” said Loretta. “So many men and women are undermining Stalin. This country is still hanging in the balance in terms of folks who long for yesteryear versus we who want to move forward. It’s like the Confederacy never fully embracing the Republic. That battle is still being fought as well.”
“Yes,” said Dorene, “but Roosevelt is hardly arresting all of the conservative members of Congress who oppose him.”
“Maybe he should,” said Loretta. “Many of them are, after all, responsible for turning a blind eye to mass lynchings, just like the czars were responsible for—”
“Both of you make good points,” I said, squeezing Loretta’s hand. “Like I said, we have a lot to discuss in the coming days. I think we’re all just reacting to the fact that there’s a question mark about whether we’re all going to be together again in Argentina.”
“I hate even the thought of us not,” said Bobby.
The four of us stood quietly admiring the paintings, the somewhat sad thought of our maybe not joining them perhaps running through each of our minds. It was a joyful moment mixed with a dose of confusing emotion.
* * *
As Loretta and I drove to the French embassy, the Ellingtons’ car just ahead of ours, I still hadn’t come down from the high I’d felt at seeing the paintings. I was married to a renowned artist.
“Well,” she said from the passenger’s seat, “what do you think of all this news?”
“It’s amazing,” I said, one hand on the wheel. “I’m so excited for you. So impressed.”
“But I’m sure you’re conflicted.”
“A bit.”
“Well, I hope you can come around to seeing how important this is to me, love.”
“Of course,” I said. “But you’re an artist with a name now. You can work from anywhere in the world. Why not spread your celebrity to Argentina and beyond? I’m sure Paris and London would roll out the red carpet for you.”
“I have no interest,” she sternly said. “I’m committed to this country, to the people who’ve accepted me and made me a success. My paintings can, and might, be sent to every country in the world, but I want to live and work here. They love me here. And it feels good.”
“Let’s take some time this week to think about it all, Loretta. This opportunity at the embassy in Argentina—”
“No! This is about me now. We’ve always done what you’ve wanted to do. But now, this is about me. I’m not moving to Argentina. I’m going to stay right here in Moscow, where I’m actually, in case you haven’t noticed, becoming somewhat famous. I’ve finally arrived as an artist. I just wanna shine.”
I stayed quiet on those words and realized how different she sounded. I wondered if she’d become a bit drunk off success. I’d never heard her speak of being so happy with being in the proverbial spotlight. I was genuinely happy for her but wanted to make sure this love of fame hadn’t usurped her love of our children and me. Part of me felt like she’d become blinded by this newfound celebrity, unwilling to see the Soviet Union for what it might actually be.
“Look,” I finally said, “I just want to celebrate you tonight, to brag about you when we arrive at the French Embassy. They’ll probably buy some of your paintings, especially considering your connection to Paris. So this is probably not the best time to discuss the complexities of this Argentina decision vis-à-vis global politics. But do you have any idea what’s brewing internationally in terms of the Soviet Union’s current and future standing in the world? Their standing is anything but stable, particularly in relation to Germany and Japan.”
“Here we go with politics!” she said, shaking her head. “But please! Do tell!”
“Not tonight. Please. I j
ust want to talk about your amazing paintings.”
“Dammit, Prescott! Just get it out of the way!”
“Fine! None of this concerns colored folk, so let me preface my comments with that little nugget. But the world is run by white men.”
“Thanks for the reminder,” she sarcastically said.
“Anyway, the Soviet Union finds itself in no man’s land, Loretta. Quite simply, there are the haves and the have-nots, globally speaking, with respect to military power. The U.S., the U.K., and France are the haves. Germany, Japan, and Italy are being very loud about their displeasure with the Western Powers, but, still, they remain the have-nots. For the time being, albeit! Meanwhile, the Soviet Union is somewhere in the middle, seemingly uncertain as to which group they should join, you know, consumed with what’s in their best interest, trying to have it both ways.”
“Well, I think Stalin is with us,” said Loretta. “With America. I know he’s with the Negro.”
“Not so sure. I mean, he might be with the Negro, but I’m talking strictly about countries here. Anyway, regarding Italy, Germany, and Japan, they want territorial expansion to create empires. They want to build up their militaries and overthrow the post–war international order. The writing’s on the wall! I believe that’s why Bullitt wants to be ambassador to France. He wants to work with a true ally if some global war breaks out again. God forbid!”
“But,” said Loretta, “Italy, Germany, and Japan also want to destroy, or at least neutralize, the spread of Soviet Communism. Stalin is aware of that. You know I’m right.”
“That doesn’t change the fact that Stalin might, and I stress might, be America’s enemy for other reasons. He operates quite secretly and selfishly.”
“Stop, Prescott! The U.S. is just as selfish in its desires. And Germany, you know, Adolf Hitler, is clearly the enemy of us all. He’s always resented the fact that Germany was forced to sign the Treaty of Versailles. He’s truly a madman, and I’m sure remains no friend of Stalin’s. But truthfully, regardless of any of this, it’s my turn to have a say in where our family lives. Do you disagree?”
With both hands on the wheel now, I took in her question and contemplated my answer for a good minute. She sounded resolute in her desire to remain here. I couldn’t deny her that. So, I said what I felt was fair.
“Truthfully, no, I do not disagree,” I said. “You certainly didn’t choose to move to Paris. That was a move forced by my dishonesty, and you know I’ll forever be aware of that fact. It is about you now. I’ll find work at one of the schools or universities here, or maybe at one of the factories. I’ll talk to Robert Robinson about maybe getting a job where he works making tools. Hell, perhaps Homer Smith can get me on at the post office. And after all, maybe I’ve forgotten what my true mission has always been, to seek freedom for colored folk, even if through unconventional means, not to become bogged down in State Department bureaucracy matters. And regardless of my reservations about Stalin, the revolution here and the people behind it are courageous. I’m probably best positioned to affect change from a country where the phrase ‘Freedom for the Negro’ is actually met with a smile. So . . . I say . . . let’s stay.”
“Really, love?” she said, cracking a welcomed smile.
“Yes, I want to be nothing but supportive of you. I love you. You’re my life.”
I took my right hand and placed it on her lap. She covered it with both of hers. Though I had real misgivings about her unbridled adoration of all things Soviet, I was committed to her right to follow her own path, especially given my previous behavior toward her in New York, which had almost cost us our marriage. In her defense, considering the privileged and sheltered childhood she had enjoyed under the Rev. and Mrs. Cunningham, what person would have the tools to deal with the fierce politics of Stalin—or even J. Edgar Hoover, for that matter? I had tried to shield her from Hoover’s world. How much more dangerous might Stalin’s world be? All I could do at this point, having failed her in America, was respect her opinion, her success, her growth, free at least from the debilitating injustices of Jim Crow America.
* * *
Summer and fall dragged on, and I spent most of that time turning down jobs that I just didn’t have the stomach for, one as a toolmaker, another at the Torgsin grocery, and a third at the post office. But it was okay for the time being, as we were getting by just fine and Loretta liked me spending time at home with the children.
I’d been told shortly after Bobby had departed for Argentina that I’d have to wait until the new ambassador arrived to be considered for any position at the chancery, which I actually didn’t want. Still, when he did arrive in mid-January of 1937, some eight months after Bobby had left, I went to Spaso and met with him. Joseph E. Davies was his name. He was a man quite different from William Bullitt. To put it bluntly, he knew nothing about the Soviet Union or, for that matter, diplomacy in general.
Bobby had told me he despised the man and considered it a joke that Roosevelt had appointed him in the first place. Davies said to me point-blank, “We have no position here for you as an interpreter or as an assistant of any kind.” If he thought he’d been hurtful with his comments, he’d been incorrect because I actually was enjoying this long break from embassy work. Besides, I knew the only reason I’d ever received a paycheck from the State Department had been because of Bobby. And I’d saved up enough money to pay two years’ worth of rent, excluding Loretta’s income.
Other than that brief meeting with Davies, the only news I had heard about the goings-on at Spaso House was from one of the couriers I’d run into at the Anglo-American School while picking up James and Ginger one afternoon. He’d told me that Davies and his filthy-rich wife had ignored Soviet officials and had had a yacht full of food shipped in from the United States, particularly dairy products, all of which had spoiled after being stored in the refrigerators at Spaso House.
Apparently, he had installed so many appliances and packed so much food into them that the power required to service them all had blown the circuits, leaving tons of cream, milk, and butter spoiled. Jim, the courier, had told me that Davies was so scared of NKVD finding out about his secretly imported food that he’d been forced to scramble around and dispense of it, no small task apparently.
It was also on this day at the Anglo-American School when I learned of an open position, one teaching chemistry. The idea of working at the school where my children attended excited me, so I applied immediately. A week later, I was hired. It was the same job my friend Lovett had held.
By the time February of 1937 rolled around, our family, particularly Loretta and the children, were in a very good place. Loretta was engrossed in her work teaching, painting, and traveling around the country to show her newest pieces, and the children and I were closer than ever. When I wasn’t teaching, I was tutoring them and watching them develop into young scholars. Both were fluent in Russian now and had plenty of friends.
Of course I spent moments thinking about the conversations Bobby and I had had about him becoming an ambassador or senator, and I longed to be by his side helping him rise through the ranks. I remembered his promise to keep fighting for social change and him telling me I was playing a solid role in it all. But now I wasn’t affecting Negro life at all. Joining the CPUSA seemed like the only way to do such, but Bobby had told me early on, “Whatever you do, do not join the Communist Party. It will make it difficult, if not impossible, for me to ever rehire you.”
So, for the foreseeable future, I just had to hold down a job. And I found myself beginning to feel a bit militant. I was channeling the anger and frustration I imagined my brothers and sisters feeling back home, for even though I was a respected man in Moscow, I walked around as if I were still back in America. It’s who I was. I found myself ruminating about this thought all of the time: The Negro’s problem is that he always finds himself wanting and needing to work full-time at creating a free society, but he is faced with the reality of having to work a full-time regular jo
b, one given to him by none other than his oppressor just to stay alive. Quite the dichotomy!
I tried my best, however, not to let all of this completely consume me. I needed to embrace my circumstances, to enjoy Moscow life. My good colored comrades, Robert Robinson and Homer Smith, came by our apartment regularly, especially when Loretta was traveling. On February 15, 1937, they, along with the colored actor, Wayland Rudd, were visiting for dinner, and the issue of NKVD arrests came up.
“Where is that gorgeous wife of yours?” said Homer. “You’re lucky my friend Langston Hughes isn’t here to try to do another film. He was quite the ladies’ man on his last Moscow visit. I’m sure he’d have a hard time refraining from flirting with her.”
“Just stop, Homer,” said the Jamaican-born Robert, adjusting his dark-rimmed eyeglasses.
“Yes,” said Wayland, “you need to quit.”
“It’s fine, Wayland,” I said, refilling my wineglass. “I know she’s gorgeous. She’s in Stalingrad.”
“She’s no safer down there than she is up here,” said Robert. “I can’t tell you how many of my coworkers have disappeared from the tool factory.”
“Maybe they’re criminals,” I said. “Maybe they’re Trotskyists. Maybe they miss the czars.”
“You must be joking,” said Homer. “My editors back in America are begging me to investigate deeper into these ever-growing arrests of foreign workers, and if I didn’t have to split my time between being a reporter and working at the post office, I’d probably be able to give them more. And apparently the State Department back home is mum on the entire issue, not giving New York reporters a thing. So, my bosses want me to dig. But there’s also a side of me that’s worried about saying too much. Hell, they might arrest me if I go poking around trying to find out who’s been arrested and where they’ve been sent. And NKVD men are lurking outside of the U.S. Embassy just waiting to see who’s trying to get out of the Soviet Union.”
“You should keep your mouth shut, Homer,” said Robert. “Write about something else. I can only speak for myself when I say I’m becoming terrified that I may be arrested for some fabricated crime. A white American comrade of mine from the factory went to the U.S. Embassy looking to find out what happened to his brother, who’d gone missing, and Ambassador Davies was of no help.”
Beneath the Darkest Sky Page 23