“Yes,” I said, watching him clinch his jaw and turn a bit red. It was as if he hated not being in control of this situation, of having to sit there and listen to me make all of my requests.
“I am indeed a very mad man,” he said, removing his pistol from his waist and setting it on the table in front of him. “But . . . you’re not to be touched, you see, at least for the time being. In fact, you and your son will be sleeping in a vacant room in one of the Dalstroi barracks until Berlin is confirmed. The guard outside will return you to the camp. You are to finish your day’s work. Commander Koskinen will have you work alongside another lead engineer whom you must bring up to speed. At day’s end, you will turn your brigade over to this engineer. After you return to your barracks, gather your items and wait with your boy. We will be sending a guard to retrieve you tonight and take you to your new room. Please leave now.”
* * *
Later that night, my barracks full of tired, smelly, loud zeks once again, I sat with Lovett on the top bunk, our legs dangling down to my middle bed, where I’d had James lie and rest. I felt worried, but hopeful, a strange mix.
“We have to talk about this without saying anything that can be understood by any of these other zeks,” I whispered to Lovett. “It’s too important to risk discussing in-depth.”
“I understand,” Lovett whispered, coughing, his body looking ever more frail and worn down.
“Just know that I intend to get you out of here, too,” I whispered. “James and I have to wait at another barracks and may not see you again before we leave, but please understand that the plan I’ve suggested has gotten the important people’s attention, and I aim to secure your release along with my family’s as soon as possible. Just try to hold on, Lovett.”
“As long as I can stay here and avoid them mines, I shouldn’t have a problem doing that, Bronzeville.”
“That’s up to Koskinen,” I whispered. “I haven’t been able to speak to him for a while, and probably won’t before we leave, but he knows how I feel about you; unfortunately, so does Director Pavlov, and he can hardly be trusted. Still, he has his hands tied.”
“If I do get out of here,” Lovett whispered, “the first thing I’m going to do is go pick up my beautiful B and take her to Morocco. You and I have already talked about our old friend Claude McKay. I told you how much he loved Morocco. Said it made him feel like writing a new poem every day. B and I could maybe settle down there and live in peace.”
“I worry about Koskinen,” I whispered. “He is so bold with how he shares his thoughts about Trotsky. And I know that Stalin has commanders murdered all of the time. In fact, Koskinen told me that the last director of the Dalstroi who was replaced by Pavlov, a man named Eduard Berzin, was arrested not long after he’d left here.”
“They all fall to Stalin,” Lovett whispered.
“Apparently he had just returned from a vacation to Italy. Stalin detests Soviets who leave the country and return. Anyway, Berzin was accused of spying for Britain and Germany and plotting to ensure that the Japanese gain control of Magadan and all of its gold mines. Koskinen said Berzin was shot and killed just two months ago at Lubyanka prison in Moscow.”
“Shit,” whispered Lovett. “If Stalin is willing to kill Brezin, he damn sure will cut Koskinen’s throat. Even though I’m sure Brezin was a murdering son of a bitch, too, he is probably responsible for putting millions of dollars’ worth of mined gold in Stalin’s pockets. And a bullet to the head was his reward. Cold to the bone!”
“I’ll tell you who was on to Stalin’s terror early on,” I said.
“Our buddies Robert Robinson and Homer Smith. They knew something evil was happening long ago. Both of them are probably trying like hell to get out of Moscow as we speak, and I know they’re too worried about their own lives to be making a stink about us. I’m sure everybody is just trying to fend for themselves.”
“Shit,” said Lovett. “I don’t blame ’em!”
“I’m gonna miss you, Lovett. Promise me you’ll stay alive until I can get you out. You’re too valuable to me and every other American Negro to die at the hands of these monsters. You and I both love Du Bois. Maybe we can work with him in the future. But, regardless of what happens, just know that your life’s work will never be forgotten. I will make sure of it. You have helped so many Negroes back home come to see that there’s more than just Jim Crow. You taught them not to ever be afraid to fight for their rights, to be brave enough to die for them, to choose the CPUSA as an alternative.”
“How right you are about us both loving Du Bois,” said Lovett, reaching inside his coat pocket and pulling out his passport. “He was always so willing to help and listen. When I was in New York in 1928, just before I came back to the Soviet Union, I wanted to see him and discuss the crisis surrounding coloreds.”
Lovett opened his passport booklet and took out an old, weathered, folded-up piece of paper. It looked as though it might break apart, like it had been wet and dry over and over again. He unfolded it and handed it to me.
“Have always held on to that,” said Lovett. “It doesn’t say anything special, but it connects me to this great man. It reveals the kind of considerate brother he was.”
I hadn’t ever told Lovett that I had spied in Harlem for over three years, all in an effort to help Du Bois’s NAACP stay afloat against Marcus Garvey’s UNIA and Back to Africa movement. Seeing this simple letter that had been written some five years after I’d already left Harlem for Paris brought it all back for a moment. I ran my finger over the typed words. The short note read:
April 6, 1928
Mr. Lovett F. Whiteman
180 St. Nicholas Avenue, Apartment 23
New York City, New York
My dear Sir:
I have just returned from a month’s lecture trip and shall be extremely busy until the 15th of April. If you are going to be here after that, I should be glad to see you almost any day. If you are not going to be in town as long as that, I can make arrangements to spare a few minutes, if you will telephone me. Very sincerely yours, W.E.B. Du Bois
“Nice of him to have taken the time to write you back,” I said, handing the note to Lovett.
“Indeed,” he said, refolding it. “Because I knew how inundated he was with requests, etcetera, at that particular time. Hell . . . always! But he really understood what I was trying to do—collect data on the American Negro so I could recruit—even though he’s not a Communist Party member. I’ve spoken with him before, but this letter is the only written item I have from him. It reminds me that he is still out there somewhere continuing the fight.”
“Du Bois has devoted his life to the race problem,” I said.
“You know something sad?” said Lovett. “Even inside the CPUSA, folks liked to tell me, ‘Get over this whole race thing. It’s all you talk about.’ Shit! I could talk about it from now until eternity, and that wouldn’t be long enough. Race! Race! Race! It has been my life’s work. And I’m damn proud to have done it!”
“Preach!” I said.
“And when it’s all said and done, brutha, everyone should know that I was proud to have lost my life, prematurely even, trying to make things right for the colored folk in the Party back home by being their voice here at the various Comintern Congresses over the years. Don’t wanna die, but I’m not afraid to. I ain’t lyin’! If that’s what it comes down to, so be it. I will have died during this seemingly insurmountable quest to break permanently free from those ugly, heavy shackles of oppression. Sounds ironic sitting here in the middle of a Soviet prison. But that’s where the quest led me. This is where my fellow Americans forced me to retreat to in order to live at least one day of my life with an ounce of dignity. And in the end, every Negro worth a damn has to be willing to die trying to make our people one hundred percent free. Do you hear me, Bronzeville? One hundred percent!”
20
Moscow, Russia
August 1937
The train ride from Leningrad
had been a pleasant one for the four of us, and we’d been back in Moscow for three days now. The children and I had loved being alongside Loretta for two weeks while she met with art dealers and prominent painters in the city named after the great Bolshevik legend. She’d introduced us to many of her fellow artists who’d made Leningrad their home. We’d met a different, important person each night it seemed at the Neva River Gallery, as guests streamed through the doors to marvel at her exhibit. I’d enjoyed conversing with the famous Isaak Brodsky. But my favorite back-and-forth had been with the great painter-turned-writer Kuzma Petrov-Vodkin.
It was now the first Saturday of August, and the four of us were taking advantage of a perfect seventy-three-degree day by having a picnic in Gorky Park. We had two large blankets spread out on the grass and were surrounded by other families. Some kids and adults were playing baseball, a sport introduced to them recently by American expatriates, and other folks were engaged in an assortment of other games. I was just happy to be lying in the sun with my family next to a basketful of sandwiches, fruit, and beverages, compliments of the Torgsin grocery.
“You kids don’t want to go play?” said Loretta, lying on her back with her eyes closed, her shoulder touching mine.
“No,” they said simultaneously.
Both kids were sitting with their legs crossed, bottoms affixed to their yellow blanket, each reading the same book, Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, an American Slave. I lay on my stomach and watched them both caught up in another world and realized how they’d become more enthralled with reading than running and playing. But at least it had happened out of choice. They had simply seen their mother and me read every night in bed, this after years of us reading bedtime stories to them back in Paris. Now they, too, were voracious readers.
“This sun feels so nice,” said Loretta.
“It does,” I said, closing my eyes. “What do you think it means that Japan has just attacked China?”
“You tell me.”
“Maybe the beginning of another great war,” I said. “Japan and Germany signed their Anti-Comintern pact last year. They want to stop the spread of communism. So I’m sure Germany is pleased with Japan’s attack on China. And it looks like Italy will be signing the pact soon as well.”
“Can we lighten the conversation?” said Loretta.
“Sure.”
She smiled. “Did I tell you I’m going to be spending a lot of time visiting Saint Basil’s Cathedral? Something about the powerful aesthetic of the interior has me fascinated. I think I’m going to try painting something that pays homage to it. Subliminally, I mean. People may not get it at first, but because most Russians are familiar with Saint Basil’s, their subconscious will be affected by what I’m going to do.”
“That sounds like an abstract,” I said, my belly moving up and down against our turquoise-colored blanket. “It sounds experimental, too.”
“It is.”
“I can’t imagine you trying to actually paint the interior of Saint Basil’s as it is. As soon as I set foot in there it looked like a labyrinth. I thought, Which passageway is one supposed to take? It was as if it had been designed to confuse people, to perhaps make it impossible to follow any map or set of directions. Only a man very familiar with its maze of paths and walkways could truly move about with any degree of certainty. It certainly fits the State’s modus operandi: complete secrecy.”
“Stop,” said Loretta. “I don’t want to write a dissertation on it. I just want to let its interior design inspire me.”
“Sorry,” I said. “Good luck.”
“Did I tell you I have been corresponding with Natalia Goncharova, the famous Russian painter who lives in Paris? We’ve been exchanging letters. One was waiting for me when we returned the other day.”
“Corresponding?” I said. “No, I didn’t know that. But I certainly know the name, even from back when we were in Paris. How were you put in touch with her?”
“I actually met her when we were living in Paris, but it wasn’t until some friends here in Moscow began bragging about her past that I took interest and decided to send her a letter. To my surprise, she responded in kind and we’ve been carrying on a dialogue. She keeps telling me how much she detests how the Soviet Union suppresses the free will of artists.”
“But you knew this,” I said. “Why is this woman of interest to you all of a sudden?”
“Because she is so brave,” said Loretta. “Back in 1910, she and many other artists got in trouble here in Moscow for daring to imitate European Modernism. She didn’t let them intimidate her, though. She and the others put together the first radical group of independent-thinking artists. They called themselves the Jack of Diamonds, and they did exhibitions, despite threats. Now that’s what it means to be an artist.”
“When did she move to Paris?”
“Years ago,” said Loretta. “She had to be free. She had to grow. But she can certainly be credited with helping to create the art philosophy known as Russian Futurism.”
“And now, she couldn’t come back here if she wanted,” I said.
“I know. And that bothers me.”
“How can this all of a sudden bother you?” I said. “You’ve known for three years about the State’s laws concerning artistic expression. We’re only here still because you said this controlled, or better yet, forced form of art is one you loved. Don’t get upset, but you are sounding a bit naïve.”
I opened my eyes and looked at the children, both still with their heads in their books.
“You two go play catch,” I said. “Take the baseball and the mitts and go play. Your mother and I need to talk. You can read more in a few minutes. Go!”
They knew when I was serious, so there was no backtalk as they stood, gathered the ball and gloves, and ran off.
“I have been naïve,” said Loretta, both of us sitting up. “I have been naïve because perhaps I was only wanting to hear what they were telling me, that I am a great Socialist Realism painter. I thought the adoration would be enough. It isn’t. I need to try other forms. I need to be back in Paris. We need to be back in Paris. I’ve exhausted this form and I’m ready to move on. I can do exhibits in Paris and make a lot of money for us. It’s time.”
“Then we need to move soon,” I said. “I tried to tell you this back—”
“I know, Prescott. I have been on a high for so long that I couldn’t see clearly. But everyone eventually comes down from a high, at least if they are sane. Reconnecting with Natalia helped validate the restrictions I was already beginning to feel. This relationship between Russian artists and the State is abusive. I liken it to a woman in an emotionally abusive relationship who is with a man who showers her with gifts, takes her to fine places, even makes her fall in love. But then she realizes she’s being controlled and has been for some time. A light suddenly comes on. And she decides to leave.”
“I wanted us to leave with Bobby last year,” I said.
“And perhaps we should have. I’ll take responsibility for it, though. It’s my fault we are still here. There! Are you satisfied?”
“Not really,” I said. “This was a big mistake we made. People were having a very difficult time getting out of the country back when the Ellingtons left. It’s only gotten worse since. I mean, at that time we were under the assumption that it was only Soviets, both regular citizens and State officials, ones guilty of real crimes, who were being arrested. But now I fear they are just sweeping up whomever they damn well please.”
“Look around,” said Loretta. “There are families everywhere. People are picnicking and laughing and playing. There are folks in boats on the river in the distance. They hardly look worried about being arrested, Prescott.”
“That’s because Stalin has posted fucking signs everywhere that say, ‘LIFE HAS BECOME BETTER, COMRADES; LIFE HAS BECOME MORE FUCKING JOYFUL!’”
“Lower you voice!” she said, looking around, a few onlookers having heard me yell. “What is wrong with
you, Prescott? Calm down! Now!”
I sat with my legs crossed on the blanket, opened the picnic basket, and took out a beer. Opening it, I took a big drink. It had all hit me at once, this anger. It was as if I had allowed myself for over a year to become blind to my surroundings, all in an attempt to unequivocally support Loretta and, in the process, rid myself of any lingering guilt I still had over lying to her about being a spy back in Harlem. But I was awake again now and felt the weight of our situation all at once. I knew, even as I watched the children playing in the distance, that we were already smack dab in the middle of a wall-less prison.
“The new U.S. ambassador,” she said, “Mr. Davies, has come out and said that the show trials are legitimate. He’s witnessed some himself and expressed no worry over them. He has told American expatriates to carry on doing their jobs. Let’s not overreact.”
“Well, Davies is a damn imbecile,” I said. “As far as I’m concerned, he may have blood on his hands someday. And he does President Roosevelt a disservice by making these declarations about a normal Soviet Union. Hell, from what I’ve read while I’ve been in this unfathomable state of coma, Davies has his nose so far up Stalin’s ass, he wouldn’t be able to see one of us getting arrested by the blue tops right outside of the U.S. Embassy. His positive statements about the Kremlin probably have Roosevelt, the State Department, and diplomats like Bobby completely in the dark. It will probably be years before they all learn the truth, whatever that is.”
“When did you last write to Bobby?” said Loretta.
“Two days ago. I told him we had just returned from Leningrad and would be leaving for Kazan in two weeks.”
Beneath the Darkest Sky Page 25