Beneath the Darkest Sky Read online

  Before he could say another word, loud cheers and clapping in the lobby began. We turned to the front doorway and in walked a tall man in a long, cream-colored wool trench coat. Accompanying him was a beautiful woman, a young boy, and two handsome men. The woman was colored, but perhaps had some Spanish blood in her.

  “That’s his wife,” said Lovett. “Her name is Eslanda Goode Robeson. And the boy is Paul Robeson, Jr. Pauli! The two men are her brothers, John and Frank, who actually live here, but I haven’t seen them lately.”

  “LIFE IS GOOD, COMRADES!” shouted Robeson with a deep, powerful voice. It was as if these words had rained down on us from a make-believe giant, not a man.

  “LIFE IS GOOD, COMRADES!” the crowd yelled back, and continued clapping for at least two minutes, as there was no bigger colored celebrity in the world than Paul Robeson.

  “COME!” said Robeson, squeezing through the crowd and making his way into the theater.

  I found Loretta, and we all funneled in like happy schoolchildren, each of us grabbing the first seat we could find. My friends Homer and Robert waved for Loretta and me to join them in the back row, so we gladly did, as Lovett continued on toward the stage. It wasn’t three minutes before the theater was packed to capacity. With his family sitting in the front row, Robeson took the stage and stood beside a man I recognized from the newspapers, a renowned filmmaker whose name escaped me. I hadn’t seen him enter earlier, but he was obviously here to introduce the star.

  “My name is Sergei Eisenstein,” said the relatively young-looking Russian, whose English was fine. “I invited Comrade Robeson to Moscow because I want to work on a film with him. And I wanted to make sure our American comrade gets to see all of the splendid things Moscow has to offer. Last night I took him and his family to see a play by Nikolai Gogol called The Government Inspector. We are so proud of our Gogol.”

  Everyone clapped and Eisenstein turned to our guest of honor.

  “Did you like it, Comrade Robeson?” he continued.

  The star grinned, nodded, and raised his hand, as if overjoyed by the experience he was having.

  “I’m glad,” said Eisenstein. “And tonight I will be taking our guest to a Christmas Eve party at Maxim Litvinov’s house.”

  Litvinov was obviously a name I recognized, as the ambassador was in a constant back-and-forth with the Soviet leader. As I held Loretta’s hand and sat back to get comfortable, I thought about how Bobby had told the ambassador that Robeson would never attend a party at the embassy. He couldn’t be seen fraternizing with the American dignitaries, but today I was learning that meeting with the likes of Litvinov wasn’t a problem. And as I’d come to understand it, Litvinov was due to attend the Spaso House celebration. Now I assumed he wouldn’t be.

  “But I will not keep Comrade Robeson from you any longer,” continued Eisenstein from the stage. “Come talk to your comrades.”

  Robeson stood and we all clapped again until he interrupted us with a baritone, “I FEEL LIKE I’M HOME!”

  The crowd came to a hush and he continued. “For the first time in my thirty-six-year life, I feel like I’m at home. Soviet society is fantastic. And all that I’ve read about it . . . the good stuff . . . pales in comparison to what it actually is. Never has a Negro been able to walk the streets with such freedom. My wife, Eslanda, and I have never felt happier and more comfortable. I see white and colored in this audience, and you all appear the same to me . . . very comfortable. You know, it tickles me! I was swarmed at the train station by what seemed like a thousand Soviets. I knew they liked me, but WOW!”

  The crowd laughed at him raising his long arms and making a funny face, eyes wide open, brows raised.

  “I knew they loved me for my folk music here, but WOW!” he shouted through the laughter before it finally died down. “But seriously, it’s nice to see so many Americans here, some of whom I know, some who’ve been fighting the battle for Negro freedom for years. Lovett Fort-Whiteman! William Patterson! I see y’all!”

  He pointed to the two who were off to the side standing, and they saluted him back. Patterson was a lawyer and member of the CPUSA who’d actually had his run-ins with Lovett. It was good to see them being civil to each another.

  “I want everyone in here to listen to me clearly,” continued Robeson. “I want to thank you for taking part in the development of this great, new social order. You are here in the Soviet Union at a time when real world change is beginning to take place. The Revolution has begun to stretch its tentacles to every corner of the globe. You are pioneers. You are freedom seekers. You are proud, determined anticapitalists. And I salute you! TO MOTHER RUSSIA!”

  “TO MOTHER RUSSIA!” many in the crowd yelled back, then clapped for a long spell while Robeson watched over them with a large grin.

  But not everyone yelled those words. I certainly did not, as it still was a foreign land that I didn’t understand. And my friends Robert Robinson, the engineer, and Homer Smith, the journalist, both sitting to my left, felt the same way. They weren’t communists. Make no mistake, many American coloreds and whites working in the Soviet Union had by no means joined the Communist Party. And as far as coloreds specifically, most may have loved the freedom Russia offered, but they were not necessarily interested in becoming communists like Lovett or William Patterson. They were here for the good-paying jobs. In fact, according to Lovett, Paul Robeson himself hadn’t actually joined the Party.

  “Robeson’s a damn big man,” said Homer, leaning into me, the audience still clapping. “He certainly looks the part of an ex-football player.”

  “You got that right,” I said, leaning across Homer to tap my eyeglass-wearing engineer friend. “I didn’t hear you yell ‘To Mother Russia,’ Robert.” I smiled. “What’s wrong with you, Negro?”

  “The only mother’s name I’ll ever shout out is my own,” said Robert, real proper and serious sounding, as he was a brilliant and studious toolmaker.

  The clapping died down and we sat and listened to Paul Robeson for another ten minutes or so before he was whisked away to some other event Eisenstein had lined up for him. Hearing him speak with such conviction about Stalin and the Revolution had an effect on me. I couldn’t help but feel connected to all of these people. I wasn’t ready to join the CPUSA, but I was proud to be friends with men and women who wouldn’t settle for being treated as second-class citizens. These were people who saw communism as a far better option than Jim Crow.

  When we arrived at Gorky Park, the Ellingtons and our twins were already there. It was a beautiful picture of white Moscow in the winter, children running everywhere throwing snowballs, adults sipping hot drinks and laughing. I was happy.

  “I think James has a future as a baseball pitcher,” said Bobby, sitting on the edge of a picnic table, Dorene sitting between his legs on the bench below. “And Ginger isn’t a bad aim, either.”

  “I see you’ve failed to mention the skills of your two little angels,” said Loretta, kissing them both on the cheek.

  “Ours haven’t found their coordination yet it seems,” said Dorene, smiling and watching Grant and Greta fling snowballs ten feet over the heads of each other.

  “Doesn’t seem to matter,” I said, kissing Dorene on the cheek and tapping Bobby’s shoulder. “Judging by the grins on their faces, they seem to think their aim is just fine. Ah, to be a child again!”

  There were hundreds of kids in the park running around like bundled-up monkeys. And the four of us winced and dipped every time one of our babies barely avoided a snowball to the face.

  Dorene took out a large canteen and poured hot cocoa into a couple of glass coffee cups for us. Then she opened up a basketful of croissants. She had come prepared.

  “Cheers!” said Bobby, flicking some snow from the brim of his brown fedora with one hand and raising his cup with the other, all the while ignoring the powder that was now covering the shoulders of his thick blue overcoat.

  We all clinked cups and I sat on the table next to Bobb
y while Loretta parked herself between my legs.

  “To no bloody noses or black eyes!” Bobby continued, his half-worried eyes still on the children. “Apparently, all of the kids have been told repeatedly, at school and in the park, to never aim at another’s head. I fear they didn’t listen.”

  “How are your paintings coming along, my dear?” said Dorene, her matching white ushanka, gloves, and coat making the snow on her person invisible.

  “Perfectly!” said Loretta. “I don’t think I’ve ever been more busy. The ideas just keep coming. It’s like there’s not enough time in the day. Moscow is pulling the truth out of me. I’ve actually got a showing next month, and I’m hearing through the grapevine that some high-ranking State officials are coming.”

  “She’s being modest,” I said. “It’s set in stone and was set up by Claudia Pike, the popular gallery owner from London who’s lived here for fifteen years. The showing is going to make her the star of Moscow.”

  “Fantastic!” said Bobby.

  “My goodness,” said Dorene. “We’ll of course be there! How exciting!”

  “I’m nervously thrilled, but enough about me,” said Loretta. “We’ll see what happens. Fingers crossed! Dorene, Sweetheart, the question is, how are you keeping yourself busy?”

  “I’m sewing. And I’m loving it! I’m actually having my father ship a new machine here for me. Whom I’m sewing for, I’m not exactly sure. The Soviet fashion doesn’t exactly scream colorful, linen dresses. So, I guess I’m sewing for the two of us.”

  “Yay!” said Loretta, the two pressing their cold cheeks together.

  “Whomever you’re sewing for,” said Bobby, “just try to imagine people from other countries wearing it, because we’re not going to be here in Moscow forever. Could be a year. Could be two. But it will come. That goes for you two as well, Press. Maybe we’ll all end up in Berlin. That’s my dream. That’s where the action is going to be.”

  “I can’t imagine living in the middle of that Nazi hell,” said Loretta. “I mean, I’m sure we’ll be fine because of the embassy, but this Adolf Hitler worries me.”

  “Ditto!” said Dorene. “But that’s what this service, this diplomatic mission, is all about. We have to be courageous enough to venture into the hot spots. It’s not a calling, but I choose to look at it as a duty. The last thing the world needs is a madman like Mr. Hitler growing in global stature. Not that Bobby working at the embassy there will stop him, but it would certainly be beneficial to have eyes and ears on the ground there. According to Eleanor, the president is becoming more and more consumed with the rise of the Nazi leader.”

  “I’m hoping Maxim Litvinov is at the party tonight,” said Bobby. “With the ambassador stateside, John Wiley and I would like him to lend us his ear on the Nazi matter. I’m sure he’d like to discuss something other than war debt.”

  I wanted to tell my friend that Litvinov was hosting his own party that night and would not be in attendance for Wiley and him to visit with. Wiley was the counselor directly under Bullitt. But the matter could wait. I figured I’d let Bobby have a glass of wine first at the party before breaking it to him. Or two glasses!

  * * *

  Later that night at about eleven o’clock, the four of us were already two hours into the festive event at Spaso, assembled in the massive chandelier room with roughly three hundred guests in attendance. We’d had a few glasses of the finest champagne, had danced, eaten enough Beluga caviar to feed a large family, and were now being entertained by, of all things imaginable, three dancing seals, compliments of Charles Thayer, Bullitt’s young assistant who’d been put in charge of organizing the entire event. He’d been told to spare no expense, but this wasn’t what we’d had in mind.

  “Am I dreaming?” said a half-drunk Dorene over the laughing spectators. Her black dress, high heels, and gold earrings were stunning. “Are those actual seals, Bobby?” she continued. “Or are they midgets in costume?”

  “They’ve been dancing for minutes now, Dear. You’ve only just noticed?”

  “I’ve noticed. I just can’t believe it still.”

  “Charles met the trainer at the circus after seeing them perform there,” said Bobby. “He tried to get more animals from the zoo but couldn’t.”

  “Thank God!” giggled Dorene, spilling a little champagne on Bobby’s black tuxedo.

  The room was dark, save for some light emanating from the hallway and a spotlight on the seals, their trainer hidden in the dark, all of us guests positioned on one side of the room. One seal balanced a small, lit Christmas tree on her nose, another, a tray of wineglasses, the last, a bottle of champagne.

  “They’re so adorable!” said Loretta.

  I looked at my wife taking in the entertainment with such delight. She and Dorene were wearing dresses by the same French designer, a woman named Augusta Bernard. Dorene’s was a black V-back gown made of crêpe silk, accentuated by peach-colored lamé ribbon along the sleeves and sides of the V-back. The sleeves stopped about three inches above her elbows.

  Loretta’s was also a V-back gown, except it was sleeveless. It was a shell pink silk, which captured her long, thin frame, the light silk laying smoothly on her brown skin. And what truly made this a stunning dress was how the V-back was outlined with magenta velvet, which captured the beauty of my wife’s sexy back and narrow waist. At the point of the V, the velvet tied into a bow and covered the top half of her buttocks. My simple black tux was hardly a match for her, and rightfully so. The women were front and center.

  “Take a look, Press,” said Bobby, nudging me. “I see that France, the U.K., and Germany are in attendance. Those are their three ambassadors drinking and laughing on the far left near the hallway—Charles Alphand, Lord Chilton, and Schulenberg, respectively. I wonder if they’re enjoying their Soviet postings more than Bullitt! I’ll bet they are. At least at the moment! If only Stalin were here. Perhaps he’d love the seals, too.”

  “Perhaps,” I said.

  As the show continued—the seals now balancing balls, the audience oohing and aahing—I thought about Sergei, the caretaker, whom we’d run into earlier with his wife. It was the first time I’d seen him smile. I figured when the lights came back on and the conversing commenced again, I’d find him and have a little chat. I needed to take advantage of his good mood.

  “OOH! The crowd moaned at once, as the largest seal had slid across the floor and was relieving himself near one of the marble pillars. Fully, it appeared.

  “Excuse me!” I said to Loretta. “I’m going to go downstairs to the kitchen and see if I can find the whiskey I hid there last week.”

  “Oh!” she said. “Bring me some, love.”

  “Where you going?” said Bobby.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  When I got to the kitchen, which was full of cooking staff and waiters cursing in Russian, German, Spanish, and French, I found the box of whiskey in the cupboard way above the sink, but I hadn’t run into Sergei in the hallway as I’d hoped. The whiskey was actually a gift I’d gotten for the ambassador for his birthday next month on January 25, but being that he’d still be gone then, I decided to use it for something else.

  After nearly knocking over a busboy carrying a massive silver tray full of caviar—freshly shipped in from the Caspian Sea per young Thayer’s explicit orders—I began searching the mansion high and low, but couldn’t find the son of a bitch. I knew he was out and about because when I’d seen him earlier, he was dressed in a suit and shaking hands with all of the Soviet dignitaries who’d shown up, perhaps before they headed off to Litvinov’s house.

  Grabbing my coat, hat, and gloves, I headed outside and searched the grounds, saying hello to the various marines along the way, one of whom was near the work shed fondling a young woman. I recognized her as one of the many ballerinas who’d been a constant presence at Spaso since I’d arrived some months back. Bullitt was the one who wanted them around, and now, with him gone, they were keeping the marines from
doing their jobs. I was betting they were spies for NKVD. How effective they were, however, only time would tell.

  I finally headed to the garage, which had no marine standing guard. I opened the side door and it was dark inside. Flipping on the lights, I realized my search had come to a conclusion, for sitting inside Bullitt’s prized possession was Sergei; his wife was in the passenger’s seat. I was certain the ambassador had not given them permission to smoke cigarettes and drink wine in his roadster, but there they were.

  “Comrade Sweet!” said a surprised Sergei, opening the door and hopping out, his olive skin covered in sweat, which was surprising considering it was about twenty degrees outside, though not nearly that cold inside the garage. Even his mustache was glistening with moisture.

  “Hello, Sergei!” I said.

  “I was showing my wife the ambassador’s beautiful car,” he nervously said in English. “She never saw such an automobile. She wanted to . . . how do you say . . . pretend! Yes! Pretend we were driving real fast in the country! But, of course, we did not start the automobile. No keys!”

  He smiled and sipped his wine. I looked at his lips, which had his wife’s lipstick smeared all over them. I looked down at her, then quickly away, as she was casually pulling her panties up, her bright red dress still bunched up at the waist, her brown hair much more ruffled than it had been earlier.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “The ambassador doesn’t need to know about this. You were simply trying to get away from all of the chaos inside. I can understand that.”

  “I’m so appreciative, Comrade Sweet.” He was practically bowing over and over, begging me with his eyes not to tell on him, a far cry from the short-tempered jackass he’d shown himself to be in the past.

  “Yes, Comrade Sweet, it’s chaos inside. I’ve never seen so many people.”

  “Do you recognize most of the Russian guests?”