Beneath the Darkest Sky Page 20

  Trying to calculate where I was in relation to the ambassador’s office two floors below, I began to crawl in that direction. I looked down into a crevasse that outlined two rooms: a guest room on the second floor, and the ambassador’s office just below on the upper lobby first floor. My knee almost bumped into a mounted fishing pole. Beside it was a large recorder the size of a suitcase. It was turned off.

  Shining my light way down into the crevasse, I could see a microphone hanging from a wire that was running from the pole. The lengths they’d gone to! My educated guess told me the microphone was hanging right behind the ambassador’s desk.

  I sat on my behind, legs crossed, and took several deep breaths, the low ceiling reminding me once again that just days ago, Sergei had been bitching and moaning at me as I’d crawled around in the attic just above me. The real one!

  I loosened my bow tie as sweat dripped from my nose. Part of me was terrified that I’d perhaps put myself in a trapped position. I couldn’t help but wonder if an NKVD spy was coming up the ladder behind me. Still, my desire to see more was driving me, and though both the ambassador and I had imagined such hidden devices, what I was witnessing sent chills up my spine. The extent to which Stalin had gone to embed this mansion with microphones, as if they were no different than mousetraps, was literally beyond comprehension. Spaso House was an infested spy complex. NKVD practically lived in these recently constructed spaces.

  I crawled back to the vertical shaft and pointed the flashlight straight down. No one in sight. Are there more secret shafts on the other side of the house? Will this one disappear when the government decides to “remodel.” Are there hidden microphones in the garage, housekeeping facility, barn, or washhouse? All I knew was I couldn’t touch or remove a single device from this place. All I could do was return to the apartment, replace the ceiling tiles, return everything to its rightful position, place the keys back on Sergei’s belt, and rejoin Loretta, Bobby, and Dorene. But I couldn’t wait to tell the ambassador what I’d seen.

  * * *

  My dotting i’s and crossing t’s regarding what I’d seen at the Christmas Eve Party some four months earlier was interrupted when Bobby finally showed up at the office, just in time for us to make our way over to the Kremlin to meet with the Premier. We were stopped by at least ten different security guards on our way inside Corpus Number One, and when we finally arrived at his office on the second floor, he was sitting at a large desk made of thick, dark wood. He was wearing a brown suit.

  The guard who was accompanying us motioned for us to remain still while Molotov finished writing something. It gave me a moment to scan the place. The entire office, with its high ceiling, was full of thick chairs and rugs and bookshelves. It had four windows that overlooked the courtyard. All of the walls were covered with dark, polished, wood paneling. It screamed of the old czarist times, as both the size and quality of the office was fit for a king. But in reality, the only king was encased in a frame behind Molotov’s desk, one Joseph Stalin.

  “Your guests have arrived, Comrade Molotov,” the guard finally said.

  “Good,” said Molotov, standing while the guard stayed posted inside the open doorway.

  He nodded at us and opened his hand in the direction of the available red cushioned chairs in front of his desk. There were no handshakes. We sat and he followed.

  “Thank you for meeting with us,” said Bobby, and I translated his words in Russian.

  “It is my great pleasure,” said Molotov, expressionless, his squatty build and pudgy yet flat face like that of a certain breed of dog. Perhaps I was thinking of a Pug with eyeglasses and a mustache.

  “Before we begin,” he said, “I would like to express something that brings me great pleasure, Comrade Ellington. Your interpreter is black. This is a very good thing. Our Great Stalin has invited . . . recruited . . . thousands of Americans to come work in the Soviet Union, or to study at either the University of Toilers or the International Lenin School, and we are happy that hundreds are black. It is a shame how your country treats these people.”

  I translated to Bobby and he responded to Molotov with a simple, “I could not agree with you more, Comrade Molotov. I am not of that prejudiced ilk back home. I never have been.”

  “The way your America treats its black people is a great symbol, as Lenin himself said, of what is wrong with capitalism. That is why blacks are coming here, many of them skilled laborers. And the whites, too! They can help with our industrialization process. We have no issue with admitting that we need America’s industrial technology.”

  I translated, and Bobby said, “We look forward to building on the relationship we’ve only recently reestablished. President Roosevelt is sincere in his desire to open the channels of communication even more.”

  “Do people get arrested in the United States?” asked Molotov.

  “Of course,” said Bobby.

  “And when you see them being arrested, how do you react?”

  “I don’t react,” said Bobby. “I assume they’ve committed a crime and are being hauled off to jail for it.”

  “Even if a group is arrested on the streets of New York City?” said Molotov.

  Bobby waited for me and said, “Even then. I assume they’ve been involved in some type of illegal behavior.”

  “So, then,” said Molotov, “why is it that so many foreign men and women seem to be confused when they see people being arrested here for committing crimes? It is no different than your country. People commit crimes . . . and they get arrested. Simple.”

  “It’s eye-opening to look at it from that perspective,” said Bobby.

  “Do you follow those arrested men and women back in America to the jails where they are being taken, or to the prisons thereafter?”

  “No,” said Bobby.

  “People don’t do that here, either. People don’t think seeing someone being arrested is odd. Countries have laws and police officers to enforce them. We are no different.”

  “Absolutely,” said Bobby.

  “I read in Pravda recently where an American writer named Richard Wright expressed his views on our society. He said, ‘Of all the developments of the Soviet Union, the way scores of backward peoples had been led to unity on a national scale was what had enthralled me.’ This Negro writer is one of your prized possessions. You must read what he said.”

  Molotov began sifting through a stack of newspapers before handing me one. “Please, Comrade . . . what is your name?”

  “Prescott Sweet.”

  “Please, Comrade Sweet, read and translate this Richard Wright’s words for Comrade Ellington. Maybe he can share it with President Roosevelt so he can see that our government is not this evil machine that so many around the world are suggesting.”

  “My pleasure,” I said, flipping the pages and finding the article. “Richard Wright goes on to say, ‘I read in awe how the Communists had sent phonetic experts into the vast regions of Russia to listen to the stammering dialects of people oppressed for centuries by the czars. I had—’”

  “Let those words sink in, Comrade Ellington,” said Molotov, cutting me off. “They are important. Continue, Comrade Sweet.”

  “He writes further, ‘I had made the first total emotional commitment of my life when I read how the phonetic experts had given these tongueless people a language, newspapers, institutions. I had read how these forgotten folk had been encouraged to keep their old cultures, to see in their ancient customs meaning and satisfactions as deep as those contained in supposedly superior ways of living. And I had exclaimed to myself how different this was from the way in which Negroes were sneered at in America.’”

  I handed the paper back to Molotov, who was almost smiling. I was actually glad to have read the opinion piece, for it shed even more light on a country I, as of yet, didn’t fully understand, and it helped that the views being espoused were those of a colored American.

  Bobby and Molotov went on to discuss the issue of war debt, and my frie
nd did his best to gauge the Premier’s feelings on the subject. We were hoping that Molotov would say something that was in direct conflict with Litvinov. The ambassador had it in his mind that Stalin himself had been kept out of the loop a bit on the debt issue, and that Litvinov had been withholding information from the Politburo. But we soon found out from Premier Molotov that this was not the case. All of them saw the debt issue the same way. They didn’t want to pay it for fear that other countries would come trying to collect their claims. “That debt was accrued during czarist times,” Molotov had said. “In case you hadn’t noticed, Comrade Ellington, we are not czars.”

  * * *

  The following months rolled by rather fast and it was now late September. Loretta and I were heading to the Foreign Workers’ Club to meet Lovett Fort-Whiteman. Since April, I’d been to several of Loretta’s showings, as her paintings were quickly drawing the attention of some powerful people, including Stalin himself. She’d done a grand presentation in Leningrad that had taken us out of town during the big Spring Festival at Spaso. The party had been for the entire diplomatic corps in Moscow.

  Part of me was glad to have missed the massive shindig, although I’d heard all of the details about the animals from the zoo—mountain goats, white roosters, a baby bear, pheasants, parakeets, and one hundred zebra finches. It had all been part of a barnyard motif, and apparently Bullitt had successfully pulled off the grandest diplomatic party in Moscow history. Several members of the Politburo drank until the wee hours of the morning, and other than Stalin himself, just about every important man in Moscow had attended. Bobby had raved about it being “so absolutely odd that it was actually brilliant.”

  Since I’d been out of town during the formal event, I’d pressed Bobby for more details. Apparently Karl Radek had substituted the baby bear’s milk with champagne, prompting it to vomit on a Soviet general. One thing Bobby and I couldn’t wrap our heads around was why these Spaso shindigs had to have animals present. It all seemed so odd to us.

  Besides the party I’d missed, there were other events from the past months to reflect on. After the meeting with Premier Molotov back in April, I’d left Bobby at the chancery and headed to Spaso to meet with Ambassador Bullitt, per his immediate request. I’d arrived to find him arguing back and forth with his French butlers about whether to keep his office where it was across from his library or make the library his office. Apparently he’d already switched back and forth quite a few times since first arriving the previous year because he couldn’t get comfortable. He was glad I’d arrived to break up the argument, and so were his butlers.

  My meeting with him had been brief. We’d driven along the Moscow River in his roadster, he behind the wheel.

  “Their spy apparatus is even more elaborate than I’d thought,” he’d said. “But I’m certainly very happy that you found out exactly where the microphones are. You’ve truly gone above and beyond, Prescott. It gives me peace of mind to know that my instincts are still as good as ever. We’ll keep this between you and me. No need to alarm the staff. And when the next ambassador replaces me, I’ll decide then whether or not to tell him about the secret tunnel and shaft. But I must say, the story about the dwarf paints a vivid picture. He’s probably up there right now squirming about. Gives me the creeps.”

  “Indeed,” I’d said.

  “We’ll certainly be one step ahead of them now.”

  Since that meeting with the ambassador back in April, I hadn’t seen him even once. I’d heard that he’d been very upset about Litvinov reneging on a key component of the “Gentleman’s Agreement.” Over the summer, the Communist Party of the Soviet Union had hosted a meeting of the Third International. American communists attended and this was a clear violation of Litvinov’s promise to Roosevelt that they’d stay out of domestic affairs. Bobby believed that Bullitt had almost completely given up on Moscow, and was actually looking to leave.

  * * *

  When Loretta and I walked into the Foreign Workers’ Club, the place was packed with several white members of the Communist Party, a good percentage of them American, although to be fair, lots of people in attendance were not Party members. This is where folks liked to smoke, socialize, and drink. It wasn’t a bad place to be seen frequenting in the eyes of the gun-toting blue tops either. NKVD believed that folks who hung out here could be trusted.

  In the lobby, we walked past a large sign that had some very familiar words on it. It was a quote from Stalin, and we’d seen it all over town lately. It read, “LIFE HAS BECOME BETTER, COMRADES; LIFE HAS BECOME MORE JOYFUL.” Continuing through, we spotted Lovett and his wife sitting at a corner table near the back, which was unusual. For him not to be holding court was a shock to my eyes. But at least they were smiling and conversing.

  “Ain’t you two a sight for sore eyes!” he said, standing and kissing Loretta on the cheek before he and I slapped hands. “My brother Bronzeville Sweet is up in the house!”

  “Good to see you, Lovett.”

  His wife B stood and we hugged her before all of us sat. B was a lovely, regular built, brown-haired woman who dressed rather plainly, as most Russian women did. And she always seemed to let Lovett do most of the talking. She was still trying to teach him Russian, but he wasn’t taking to it very well. Luckily for him, her English was good enough to allow them to communicate effectively. Their love of science is what had initially brought them together while he was studying fish breeding at Moscow State University, and she was employed at a scientific research institution.

  “I’ll be right back,” said B, leaving.

  “She’s going to grab us four beers,” said Lovett. “My lovely wife is so, so good to me. Love her to death! Anyway . . . you know who I’ve been thinking about a lot lately? Alexander Pushkin!”

  “Why’s that?” I said.

  “He’s the most famous Russian Negro of all time, that’s why. And I love his poems. Don’t you, Comrade Sweet, my American brutha whom I love like no otha?”

  “I do. I like his poem ‘The Gypsies.’”

  “Hot damn, me too!” said Lovett, reaching across the table and touching Loretta’s hand. “I should not have said I love him like no other, because I love you just as much, Queen Loretta.”

  “Thank you, Lovett. You’re the sweetest.”

  “When am I going to get you to officially join the Party, dear? Most of the coloreds in Moscow won’t join, so you’re not alone. But I do understand why you can’t, with Comrade Prescott here working for the embassy and all. Still, I’d love to have ya’ join someday, girl!”

  “I hear you, Lovett. You keep on doing your recruiting. You’re so good at it. The Party owes you a whole hell of a lot!”

  “Thank you, sista! Congrats on this amazing success you’re having with your art! You’re a Moscow celebrity. Ain’t too many of those around here besides Stalin himself. Socialist Realism is a form of painting that I believe was created just for you. I particularly like your paintings that show mothers holding their babies. You really capture Russian women. B has said as much.”

  “It’s in the eyes,” said Loretta. “At least that’s what I believe. None of the women are smiling, but the joy is in their eyes. It’s the kind of authentic joy that only a mother who has given birth to this beautiful being they’re now holding in their arms can truly understand. That’s the essence of my paintings.”

  “You talking about your masterful works of art?” said B, setting four bottles of beer on the table. “Your paintings are hanging in some very important houses. I will certainly drink to that.”

  We held up our green bottles, clinked them, and all took a swig.

  “Any concern that the State frowns on other forms?” said Lovett.

  Loretta looked at him and contemplated. “No, I have found my calling. I love this form. And I love finally being recognized and appreciated. It’s nice to be honored for your art. New to me! And I love the humble way the people of Moscow show their appreciation. It’s sincere, but not over-t
he-top praise or worship.”

  “Believe me,” said B, “they are worshipping you in the privacy of their homes. You are probably going to have Stalin send word that he’d like for you to paint him. I can see this happening very soon because of how your name is being talked about. Moscow is claiming you as its own. You will have to become a Soviet citizen very soon.”

  “Paint a portrait of Stalin?” said Loretta, looking surprised.

  “No pressure there!”

  “And that’s my point,” said Lovett. “Why should you feel such pressure in such a case? It’s because Stalin is too domineering and rules with an iron fist.”

  “I agree,” I said.

  “No,” said B.

  “No,” said Loretta. “He is simply trying to create rule of law. There are too many folks who still long for the czarist times. They believe in a system that has a ruling upper class and a starving lower class. Stalin can’t afford to let them regain power. His current Five Year Plan is effectively industrializing the entire country, and soon everyone will be operating on a completely level playing field, with equal-paying jobs and equal shares of food, etcetera.”

  “Sounds good,” said Lovett, “but Stalin, the Politburo, and the entire Central Committee are the ones living like czars. Them niggas is eatin’ damn caviar! They seem to be the ruling upper class you speak of. I fear they have forgotten to read from the communist playbook. But I digress.”

  “Perfectly articulated,” I said. “I’ve been trying to tell Loretta this for the—”

  “Just stop, Prescott!” she said, somewhat angrily. “Everyone has varying opinions about how the revolution should take form. The Central Committee and Politburo are not some crazy, iron-fisted body. They are clearly in the throes of recreating a societal structure that meets the needs of everyone. They are undoing centuries of evil, barbaric, czarist damage. And they have to operate with some semblance of order and authority. Otherwise the old, fat, set-in-their-ways cats will eat us new, hungry, revolutionary mice, so to speak. Simple!”

  “Yes,” said B. “Anything new is met with strong opposition. Stalin’s ways are new. Collective farms are new. Hiring thousands of foreign workers is new. Bringing in all of this new technology and machinery is new. Strengthening and globally growing the Communist Party is new. We are rebuilding an entire new country. I for one am not afraid of new.”