Beneath the Darkest Sky Read online

  “They are both breathing,” said Yury. “But Mikhail feels too hot.”

  “Wake him up,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “Because you need to ask him exactly how he feels. If he has a fever and it gets too hot, he will simply allow himself to die. Many of these groaning men are only minutes away from letting death overtake them. He’s probably not actually asleep, but rather passed out. Wake him up.”

  “Mikhail!” said Yury, shaking him. “Mikhail!”

  All we heard was him moan.

  “Talk to me, Mikhail,” said Yury. “How do you feel?”

  “Water!” he slurred. “I . . . need . . . water.”

  “Here, Yury!” I said, handing him my canteen. “Give him mine. All of it! Have him drink it all.”

  “But we don’t know when they will give us more,” said Yury. “You are going to need—”

  “Now!” I said, still feeling dizzy. “I will be fine.”

  Yury took my canteen and tried to hand it to him.

  “Here, Mikhail,” he said. “Take the water.”

  Mikhail just moaned louder and louder.

  “He won’t take it, Prescott.”

  “He’s delirious,” I said. “Put your fingers to his lips and force open his mouth. Force-feed him the water. Hold his head and make sure he swallows. Do it carefully. He might throw it up at first but talk him through it.”

  I listened to the ordeal for a few minutes. Fortunately, he drank and kept it down. Besides the old man, Mikhail had seemed the weakest of us six for the last week. He’d been beyond distraught about not being able to witness the birth of his child, his wife all alone back in Moscow.

  Boris, on the other hand, was a damn tenacious Swede. In fairness to Mikhail, however, Boris didn’t have to worry about a wife or child. And I was quickly learning that surviving these seemingly insurmountable conditions was largely based on genetics, one’s chemical and mental makeup, regardless of their food or water intake. It was ultimately survival of the fittest, and in the recesses of my mind, I knew my son would be okay because he had my blood coursing through his veins.

  “Slap his face, Yury,” I said. “Lightly! Make him talk to you.”

  “Can you hear my voice, Mikhail?” said Yury, slapping him a few times. “Say something, Mikhail! Are you there? What is your wife’s name?”

  “Galina!” he whispered.

  “Your baby! You and Galina had probably chosen names. What was it to be if a girl was born?”

  “Dominika.”

  “And if it is a boy?”

  “Anton.”

  “Good!” said Yury. “Either Dominika or Anton will be waiting for you in Moscow when you get out. Stay alive. Remember what the old man said. Stay alive!”

  * * *

  Over the next two days the hatch had only been opened twice, both times to drop nets full of black bread down. The guards had been too afraid to enter the hold, as many criminals were amongst us. Zeks ripped through the nets and we were left to scurry after small loaves like rats. Many skirmishes ensued, as it was supposed to be one piece per zek, but some refused to abide. Luckily the fights had subsided rather quickly, the prisoners too weak to engage in a prolonged back-and-forth. I feared, however, that if the women’s hold had in any way been accessible, some of these pigs might have done the unthinkable.

  The guards had also lowered buckets of water down by rope for us to dip from, hardly an easy task, as we’d been issued one tin cup per five zeks. Those had been our only two meals in forty-eight hours. And they hadn’t replaced the top lamp.

  Now, four days into our blind odyssey north, Mikhail’s condition had grown much worse. As we sat there in the dark, he began to mumble bizarre phrases. And the four of us tried our best to make sense of them.

  “I want to walk alone and then the chair will do the body bleed, bleed, bleed!” said Mikhail, as I fought back my own pain and tried to interpret his Russian drivel. It was as if he were going from coherent thought to speaking in tongues.

  “Body bleed, bleed, bleed!” he continued. “The dove, the dove! Ah, the dove! Ah, the dove! There are five, ten, a thousand. Look at the dove. Look, look, look! Many, many, many, many, many, many! Body bleed, bleed, bleed! We’re gonna ride away to the liver parade. The moon, the moon, the moon! Shoot that frog! Shoot that frog parade and all the flowers and cake! You orange juice engine maker! Kill the chocolate teeth and jelly! Look! Look!”

  Mikhail stopped and began to soothe himself with long, drawn-out moans. There was no need to talk to him, for there was nothing we could offer.

  Hours later, the guards felt it a good idea to open the hatch and point their hoses down at us. Within seconds there was frigid seawater spraying men, the guards’ version of bathing us.

  With bright flashlights flickering on different faces throughout the hold, the guards hadn’t told us to close our eyes, so the first poor souls to get sprayed felt a salt burn that must have been excruciating. Sure, the five of us felt some sting, but having been able to close our eyes and brace for the lathering made all the difference. And it was only after the guards had closed the hatch that we’d dared to even peek at the dark chaos.

  Some of the men had already been dead, others, I was guessing, had typhus, pleurisy, or dysentery. And now, whatever filth had washed off of these moaning, bony, infected, withering souls was left for us all to slosh around in until it slowly made its way down the drainage.

  “Is everyone okay?” I said to my comrades, the other lamp going out now, leaving the hold black. “Son, talk to me. Are you okay?”

  “I think so,” he said.

  Boris and Yury answered yes as well.

  “Talk to me, Mikhail,” I said, but there was silence.

  “He’s dead,” said Boris. “I’m holding his neck. My comrade is gone.”

  He began to weep, but it only blended in with the other cries throughout.

  “My beautiful comrade is gone,” Boris continued. “I have nothing now. No one! This was my brother. This was my new family. His child is fatherless now. His wife is without her husband.”

  “You can visit them when you get out,” I said, the darkness not allowing me to catch even a glimpse of him. “You can be the strength they will need, Boris. And until then, I will be your brother. Stay with me. I will be your family. You hear me, Boris.”

  He wept even louder, the madness finally overtaking him. And James, taken by the scene, began to cry into my shoulder. I’d feared that death was becoming too normal to him, but he was still not immune.

  “I want to die now,” said Boris, trying to control his cry. “I cannot go on. Mikhail was so young. He was so strong. How could he die?”

  “Stop!” I said. “The only thing you can do is accept this hell. We are in hell, Boris. My son here is but fourteen years old. He will never be the same. And I have to accept that. But we can survive! For the love of God, Boris, we can survive.”

  “Prescott is right,” said Yury. “You must do as the old man said and think of your parents back in Sweden, Boris. You’ve only known Mikhail for a short while, but your parents have been there your entire life. They will be waiting for you.”

  Those words silenced Boris. I didn’t know if he had given up or not, but I knew he was a strong enough young man to endure the agony we all had in store for us, if only he would search deep within himself and try to block out all of the fallen victims. But he’d need to find his focus quickly, for death was trying its damnedest to pay us all a visit.

  12

  Moscow, Russia

  September 1934

  ON A FRIDAY MORNING I LOADED THE FAMILY IN OUR USED MAROON Ford Model A and headed straight to the University of Toilers, where Loretta was scheduled to meet with an enrollment counselor about taking some history courses. She was dead set on learning about the roots of the Bolshevik Revolution, the rise of Lenin, the history of the kulaks, the origins of Stalin’s anti-religion campaign, and the split between Trotsky and Stalin. She al
so wanted to know what was making so many people from around the world want to discover the Soviet Union. She figured if she could capture the essence of whatever that was, she’d be able to reveal it through paintings. I feared that she would only learn the version of history Stalin had instructed his professors to teach.

  Once I’d dropped her off, I headed straight for the Anglo-American School to make sure the twins made it to class on time. I also needed to pay a visit to Mr. Lovett Fort-Whiteman, the science teacher Loretta had gone on and on about.

  As soon as we pulled up I spotted him. He appeared to be about my age and was hard to miss with his high cheekbones, angular face, big smile, and jovial demeanor. He was a toffee-skinned man of maybe six feet and was wearing a long-sleeved, belted blue shirt that came all the way down to his knees. The golden belt was a wide, ornamental one, pulled tight to accentuate his narrow waistline and muscular upper body. His tan pants were tucked into his black pointy leather boots, and he sported a white fur hat. I could have sworn I was looking at a Cossack. The only thing missing was a shashka.

  This was a man whose appearance screamed classic, proud Russia. Perhaps if he were a native, his flamboyance would be frowned upon as czarist flavored, but as an American, it could only be appreciated as a rejection of the U.S. and a full-throated endorsement of Mother Russia.

  “Good-bye, Daddy!” both kids said, hopping out and closing the back doors, book bags in hand.

  “Have fun at school!” I said, getting out myself and walking toward Mr. Whiteman, who was engaged in conversation with a blond woman.

  “Ronald has an acumen for this stuff, Caroline,” he said. “I mean, he’s digested the periodic table of elements with ease.”

  “Well, thank you, Lovett,” she said. “I’ll be sure to tell his father.”

  “Have a nice day now!” he said, and she walked away.

  “Excuse me!” I said. “I wanted to introduce myself. Name’s Prescott Sweet!” He removed his hat and we shook. “You have my two—”

  “Of course!” he said, grinning. “Ginger and James Sweet are your kids. I’ve been wanting to meet you. Fantastic children by the way!”

  “Why thank you.”

  “Your wife tells me you work at the embassy. Impressive! And it sure is nice to meet another American brother.”

  “Likewise,” I said, already certain that I liked him. He was so charismatic and full of energy, to the point where it damn near made me want to run to join the Communist Party right then and there.

  “You’d have to work at the embassy to wear a blue suit like that,” he said. “Looks to me to be the finest I’ve ever seen. Expensive! Don’t let anyone from the Politburo see you.”

  “Excuse me!”

  “I’m messin’ with you. Looks like you got something on your tie there, though.” He leaned in with his sharp nose and pointed. “Right in the middle there.”

  “Hmm,” I said, chin and eyes down. “Ah, yes! Made the kids kolbasa sandwiches this morning to pack for their lunch and put plenty of mustard on the bread.”

  I licked my right thumb and rubbed at the red silk.

  “Damn yellow stuff stains like crazy, too!” I continued.

  “Oh, yeah! That Russian mustard is a beast.”

  “Thank you for pointing it out, Mr. Fort-Whiteman.”

  “Ah, call me Lovett . . . please!”

  “Okay. And you can call me Prescott.”

  “Will do! What a time to be working at this particular embassy, Prescott.”

  “Yes, it is fascinating work. Quite an influx of Americans here with the unemployment rate back in America being what it is. I understand you teach chemistry.”

  “Yes! But you’ll have to forgive me for dabbling in current events from time to time with the students. I’m sure your children have shared a few of my passionate stories with you. I’m a very political man and find myself teaching civics sometimes when I should be teaching chemistry. Something about being in the Soviet Union and not feeling colored all the time has liberated me to the point where I want to shout it to the world.”

  “Amen! I’ve had the same feeling since arriving here.”

  “Where you from?”

  “Born in Chicago. Raised in Milwaukee. Educated in Vermont. Employed in Harlem. Liberated in Paris.”

  “Ha, ha! Harlem! I moved there after finishing school at the Tuskegee Institute. Tried to become an actor. Tried!”

  “You have the gravitas for it,” I said, studying how his sallow-brown skin, shaved head, and pointy features almost gave him an Asian, Buddhist monk look.

  “Wasn’t deep enough,” he said. “Acting! Didn’t help heal things. Nah, but even before that, after I was done at Tuskegee, I tried to be a doctor. Got into medical school in Nashville. Wasn’t for me. That’s when I went to Harlem and tried acting. Wasn’t long before I left that and went to Mexico for a few years. Got to see up close the Mexican Revolution. Affected my thinking!”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “Inspired me to head back to Harlem and seek change. Yeah, I was there when it seemed like every brother and sister I ran into had come there seeking refuge. But I didn’t find it. Didn’t find it anywhere in America. It was only when I joined the Communist Party that I began to see a way forward.”

  “When did you join?”

  “Only secretively in 1920, then publically . . . officially . . . in 1924. I rose up quick. Started recruiting other coloreds, too. Now I’m workin’ on you!”

  “I see!”

  “Was that year, 1924, when I came to the Soviet Union for the first time. Found my soul. Ain’t never looked back! Had a lot of colored folks say to me, ‘Don’t you know the U.S. Government has declared the Party their number-one enemy?’ I said, ‘Give me a choice between communism and Jim Crow, and I’ll sign up the same way every single time.’ My daddy and momma back in Dallas taught me too good about the evil of Jim Crow. Got to know it all too well! Oh, yeah! That Crow is an awfully ugly bird.”

  “Ain’t that the truth!” I said, thinking about my old friend James, whom Lovett reminded me of. The longer he spoke to me, the looser his talk became, as if he had been sizing me up, seeing what kind of brother I was.

  “Ya know, Prescott, stayin’ on Jim Crow for a second . . . lotta folks knew only that ugly thang and nothin’ else from cradle to grave!”

  “I like the way you said that. Thang!”

  “Us Texas niggas don’t never get too far away from what we done got used to! Come on now! Guess I feel like I can talk to you straight, just like I could when I was around my two Communist Party USA brothers, Harry Haywood and Otto Hall. Been a while since I ran into a brutha like you. But I’m like a chameleon. I can talk real white for those high-and-mighty muthafuckas who like to sit up high. But then I can get on down with my country family like you. Feel like you the type who mighta done ate a chitlin or two! Ha!”

  “Oh, yeah!” I said, laughing and purposely slipping into his way of talking. “My aunt Coretta and my momma used to cook the mess outta them things back in Bronzeville. Would throw some hog maws in there, too. Had the whole damn house . . . hell . . . the whole damn neighborhood smellin’ like . . . like—”

  “Like shit!” he bluntly said. “Go on and say it, boy! Shoot! Can eat me a whole pot of them thangs! A whole mess of ’em! I been known to slap the hell out a nigga who tries to take the last chitlin out my momma’s pot! Uncles, cousins! Shit! I ain’t one to play!”

  We both giggled aloud, his words tickling me to the point I had to bend over. It had been a long time since I’d felt this kind of deep, sidesplitting laughter burst out of me. I’d gotten used to being around such formality for so long, and he was taking me back to that essence of old, black-folk comfort, the kind that never leaves you, the kind that bonds people. A momma’s pot of chitlins was familiar to all of us colored Americans.

  “You should come by this shindig I’m throwing next Saturday night, Prescott. There’ll be other fun-loving members of the Party th
ere as well. I know you might have to keep it hush-hush in terms of your embassy colleagues, but I think you and your wife would find the company quite enlightening and spirited.”

  “I just might do that.”

  “Everybody there will be dressed up in their finest, but here’s the catch . . . bring your suits, fine dresses, makeup, and jewelry in a suitcase. Then get dressed once you’re inside. Stalin’s NKVD tend to keep a watchful eye on us foreign Americans when it comes to our nightlife.”

  “You’re kidding?” I said. “Look at me now.”

  “But they know you work for the American embassy. I’m talking about the masses. They’re okay with the way I dress flamboyantly because they think I’m making a positive statement to the U.S. They actually think I’m protesting the U.S., and that brings a smile to Stalin’s face. I’ve been told as much by a member of his Politburo.”

  “You’ve met one of them?”

  “Of course! Time magazine didn’t label me the ‘Reddest of the Blacks’ for nothing. I was the first organizer of the American Negro Labor Congress that got this damn flood of coloreds-to-Russia thang started. Back in 1924, I actually spoke to a large contingent here in Moscow during the Fifth Comintern Congress, and Joseph Stalin was in attendance. The Comintern is simply the international organization that advocates world communism. I like to call it the League of Nations for communists. Damn near every country in the world has its own party, and representatives from each gather in Moscow quite often. Headquarters is here! But, yeah, in 1924 I spoke in front of Stalin.”

  “I’ll be damned!” I said.

  “I spoke about America’s Negro problem being a race thang and not a class thang. Stalin and company didn’t like that too much. His men made it clear to me that dealing with class always came first. Shoot! These Soviets still don’t know that being colored in America ain’t got a damn thang to do with class. It’s race first! The wealthiest nigga in the U.S. is still a lowlife nothin’ to greater America.”

  “Preach, Lovett!”

  “Shoot! I wanted to tell Stalin that the poorest white man in the U.S. is treated far greater than said wealthy Negro. You don’t see any poor white men being lynched all over the South. We’re far away from it over here, but lynchings are still rampant back home. I wanted to make Stalin understand that if he snapped his fingers and all at once, every American suddenly became of the same class, Negroes would still get lynched. But these Soviets just don’t get the complexity of our homeland. Our color-land! Shh! Let me watch my tongue!”