Beneath the Darkest Sky Read online

  “Well,” she said, “I think you should go to the consulate and see about arranging for us to leave for Paris soon after we return from Kazan. In corresponding with Natalia Goncharova, she says—”

  “Here goes that name again,” I said. “Why does she suddenly have her hands on the controls of your conscience?”

  “Because it took an artist who’s already traveled the road I’m on to get my attention. But, then again, she’s only confirming what I’ve already been coming to terms with on my own, Prescott. She has said she thinks it’s in our best interest to leave, but I’ve also been listening to you.”

  “It’s just frustrating,” I said. “I’m sure we’ll be fine, but I’m just frustrated. Today is Saturday, so I’ll go by the consulate on Monday and see to it that they have our passports cleared with the State.”

  “Good,” she said. “I also need to go by the Anglo-American School and check in with the children’s teachers. I’ll need to make sure they’re up to speed with their lessons after missing all that time. At least this trip to Kazan will only be for one week.”

  “I can do it,” I said. “I’m not supposed to be back until Tuesday, but I’ll stop by Monday and check in with my substitute. I’ll need to tell him that he’ll be filling in for me again in two weeks. Hell, he’s probably starting to write his own lesson plans as much as I’ve been gone. It’s okay, though. I detest teaching chemistry. I can’t wait to turn the job over to someone else. Maybe Robert will take it.”

  “Robert Robinson?” she said, puzzled. “He has a fantastic job already.”

  “Yeah, but he hates the politics at the ball-bearing factory. Still, he is so talented as an innovator that the State doesn’t want him to leave. They keep raising his pay. At least that’s what he told me. But the look on his face says otherwise. I think he’s being forced to stay here, not allowed to leave. I think he just hasn’t told anyone, including me, out of fear. Everyone believes that even their friends might be spies for the Kremlin. It’s paranoia run amuck, Loretta. I can’t believe that subconsciously I’ve had these thoughts all along but haven’t acted on them.”

  “Stop, love. You can’t keep doing this. We’ve talked it through. We have a plan now. It’s not like our decision to stay and live here was some anomaly. For Christ’s sake, Paul Robeson’s son goes to school here in Moscow. And we both know Paul was just here again this past May to see his son. He expressed no negative feelings about Stalin, the Central Committee, or anyone else. I’m ready to move now, but let’s not characterize this place as hell on earth all of a sudden.”

  I took a sip of beer and noticed James and Ginger running up with grins on their faces, both of them half out of breath.

  “Daddy!” said Ginger, bending over, hands on her knees. “James asked me a question that I thought was pretty interesting. But I really don’t know the answer.”

  “What is it?” I said.

  “Tell him, James,” said Ginger, watching her brother dig through the picnic basket for a bottle of soda.

  James popped the cap off, took a sip, and then asked me, “Why do men like to colonize countries where all of the people have black skin?”

  I turned to his mother and we both froze. Neither of us could answer this seemingly simple question. I wondered what he’d read that had prompted such a question. I wanted to say something profound and philosophical on him, but no words came to mind. Maybe he was simply becoming more acutely aware of his own skin color. Whatever the case, his question had no obvious answer, so I turned to him and said, “That is a very good question, son. I’ll have to think about it.”

  * * *

  The next day, Sunday, I spent the morning at the house with the children while their mother was preparing her classroom at the Moscow Painting Academy. She would be back to teaching Monday morning, and she was anxious to share stories with her students about the successful Leningrad exhibit. I, on the other hand, was looking forward to the day when she would maybe be sharing stories with her students at the École Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts in Paris.

  At around noon, I took the children to the Torgsin grocery, where they sold a great variety of foods to Americans, one of the benefits of not being a Soviet citizen. I bought a big piece of beef to make a pot roast. I also bought some carrots, potatoes, and onions to cook with it.

  Later that night at around six o’clock, I sat at the dining room table with James and Ginger waiting for Loretta to come home for dinner. She had been due home by five-thirty. Six o’clock turned to seven, and then eight. No sight of her and no telephone call either.

  I’d asked the children to go ahead and eat their pot roast and vegetables, but they couldn’t muster up an appetite, consumed with worry over their absent mother. In the twenty-plus years we’d been together, she’d never been late for a planned dinner. I knew something was wrong.

  When the clock struck nine, the children now doing homework, I sent them to bed. Shortly thereafter was a hard knock on the door and I rushed to answer. Two large blue tops stood there stone-faced. Both mustached, one five-eleven and stocky, the other six-three and broad shouldered.

  “Is your name Prescott Sweet, and is this your residence?” the stocky one asked in Russian.

  “Yes, Prescott Sweet. That is me. What is the problem, officers?”

  They looked at each other, obviously a bit surprised that I’d responded in the Russian tongue, something they hadn’t expected from a colored American.

  “Come with us,” the tall one said, reaching out and grabbing my arm.

  I flung it free and stepped back into the living room. “Tell me what this is about?” I said. “Where is my wife? Loretta Sweet! What have you done to her?”

  “She has been jailed for being a counterrevolutionary,” he said. “Now . . . come with us.”

  21

  MR4 Labor Camp - Kirovsk, Russia

  November 1938

  THE MR4 LABOR CAMP WAS FAR CLOSER TO FINLAND THAN THE Soviet city of Leningrad. James and I had arrived in late November, having taken the ship south from Magadan to Vladivostok, and then the weeks’ long train ride across the country to Moscow. From there we’d taken a different train north to Leningrad. Once there, NKVD put us in the back of a cargo truck, where we had to endure more travel—a fifteen-hour drive north to Kirovsk.

  There had been one big difference in our travel arrangements this time, however. We’d been kept in a decent cabin aboard the ship, and our train rides had been normal, the two of us given our own compartment aboard a car that was carrying free hires going home from the various camps.

  The guards aboard both the ship and trains had been ordered to feed us three good meals a day. In fact, we had been accompanied by one particular blue top during the entire journey. He had checked in on us periodically from his adjacent ship cabin and train compartment. It was clear he had one job to do: make sure the American spy reaches his destination in one piece.

  Four days after I’d met with Director Pavlov back at Magadan, Bobby had responded with a cable that confirmed what I’d predicted. His message had been short and specific. He had mentioned how sad he was to have heard about my pending divorce, but had gone on to say, “I can’t tell you how excited I am to see you on the first of January in Berlin. I will have a new visa and all of your embassy credentials waiting for you at Vitebsky Railway Station in Leningrad. You will be departing at 8:00 a.m. on December 29th. We have much to discuss.”

  Ever since the Kremlin had learned of my spy proposal, James and I had found life much more livable. Both of us had gained about ten pounds over the last month and a half, but I was still concerned about James’s health. He was no longer having dizzy spells or coughing, but every few days he’d have these fits with breathing. He needed to see a proper doctor.

  Our first day at the MR4 Labor Camp was spent in a small, vacant room inside a commander’s barracks. Our accompanying blue top had turned us over to a young guard named Osip. He couldn’t have been any older than twenty
, not a hair on his pale face, but the rifle he was shouldering made him look just dangerous enough. And as he sat in the chair by the door, James and I moved about, sorting through the bags full of clothes and toiletries they’d given us. There was one bunk in the room and we had our items placed on the bottom bed.

  “I can’t wait to trim this thick, ugly beard with these shears and then use this blade and cream,” I said to James in Russian, out of respect for Osip. “You haven’t seen your daddy clean-shaven in over a year, son.”

  “There is a small mirror and sink in the toilet closet over there,” said Osip, whose soft Russian words sounded like those of a twelve-year-old. “But as soon as you are finished shaving, leave the scissors and blade on the sink for me to take. You can have it again whenever you need it.”

  “Thank you,” I said, running my fingers through my beard.

  “Also,” said Osip, “there are many guards stationed just outside this barracks. Don’t get any ideas.”

  I nodded and continued sorting through my bag, nothing but thoughts of Loretta and Ginger on my mind. MR4 wasn’t actually in the town of Kirovsk, but rather about half a mile away. And, of course, the men’s camp was separate from the women’s. Snow-covered mountains surrounded the entire area; the town itself was situated on the shores of a stunning lake. We’d been able to see the town when the cargo truck refueled before dropping us off.

  “Excuse me,” I said, turning again to Osip. “Would you happen to know when we will be able to see my wife and daughter?”

  “I am going to take you to see Colonel Zorin in one hour. He can answer all of your questions. There is a tub room down the hall. After you shave, go bathe. Your boy can wait here while you meet with Colonel Zorin. And make sure you eat a second helping at every meal. Zorin’s orders! You only have one month before you leave for Berlin, and you must look normal. Right now you still look very much like a skinny, sick zek. Your comrade cannot be allowed to see you like this.”

  Later that day, Osip accompanied me across the camp toward the north section, my new blue wadding coat keeping me plenty warm in this welcomed twenty-five degree weather. MR4 was considerably better kept than Magadan but had fewer barracks. Osip had told us about the open-pit mines in the surrounding area, and about the grueling schedule the zeks were forced to work mining for apatite. The moderate climate allowed for plenty of snow, but a zek freezing to death was highly unlikely.

  When we entered Zorin’s barracks, I could instantly tell this was a man who didn’t spend his time worrying about comfort. There was nothing in the entire office except for a desk and two chairs. There was no fireplace, no bookshelves, no pictures on the walls save for the large one of Stalin behind his desk. There were no windows, no rugs, no cabinets, no art.

  All I saw when we entered the small barracks was a tall-looking, olive-skinned man sitting and writing with his head down like he was the busiest person in Russia. He sported a thick black mustache and wore a gray tunic with red piping around the cuffs and collar. His visor was also gray, with a red band and red piping, all of which was accentuated with gold embroidery. He appeared to be in his thirties.

  “Perevodchik is here,” said Osip, prompting Colonel Zorin to look up and put his pen down.

  “Come and sit,” said Zorin. “Osip, please stand outside and wait.”

  He exited and I sat. Osip had introduced me as Perevodchik, which was the Russian word for “interpreter.”

  “I was told by the Kremlin that you speak six languages,” said Zorin in an abnormally deep voice, his Russian spoken so slowly and loud it was easy to understand.

  “Yes,” I said. “Six.”

  “That is why your code name is Interpreter. Let me first tell you something that I am certain you would like to know. That way you don’t have to ask. The Kremlin has advised me to tell you this. Your wife was originally arrested for a simple reason. She was sending letters to a famous Russian painter named Natalia Goncharova, who now lives in Paris. Did you know she was writing letters to her?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Well, here is what she said in the last letter that was intercepted by NKVD before she was arrested.” He held up a sheet of paper. “She wrote, ‘My husband and I believe in freedom of expression. We have taught this God-given right to our children as well. We love the Soviet people, but the State should not be allowed to repress the ever-evolving, creative ideas of an artist. No one country should have a monopoly on art. You have inspired me with your bravery, Natalia, so much so that I now feel it’s in my family’s best interest to return to Paris.’”

  He set the paper down and looked up at me. “Your wife went on to say more, but this was enough to brand your entire family counterrevolutionaries. So, now you can focus on the job at hand, spying for our Great Stalin. Yes?”

  “When can I see my wife and daughter?” I boldly asked.

  “Let me explain this up front to you, Perevodchik. The work here at MR4 is grueling. Your wife and daughter spent most of their time hauling stones in wheel barrels. At first they were quite terrible at it, but after I had them slapped around a little, they got strong really fast. You should also know that your wife kept asking about you and your son, too. But, unlike you, she was never told where you were. Why give her hope, you see. Anyway, your wife and daughter learned how to work hard. But your spy plan should have been thought of sooner.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said.

  “You still have one very important reason to go to Berlin and keep your promise to the Kremlin, though. Your son will be here working in the mines waiting for you. And if you do a good job, I’m sure our Great Stalin will eventually release him.”

  “The agreement,” I said, “was for me to gather intelligence for up to one year and then have my entire family released, along with my comrade, Lovett Fort-Whiteman.”

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “I have it written down right here. The Kremlin did agree to release this Fort-Whiteman after your mission is complete. So, yes, it would be him and your boy.”

  “And my daughter and wife?”

  “I told you, your spy plan should have been thought of sooner. They both died within the last week.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Your wife and daughter are dead,” he said. “Your wife died four days ago, and your daughter gave up shortly thereafter. She passed two days ago, too sad after seeing her mother go. But we haven’t touched them. We stored them in the meat freezer room at the NKVD food barracks to preserve their bodies for you.”

  I must have sat there for twenty seconds before what he’d said actually penetrated my inner ear, at which point, all of the blood in my body rushed to my feet, feeling as though it were spilling all over the floor. With each passing second, I felt myself sinking into this now vast pool of blood, then slowly drowning in it. I could not breathe. The visual of this Colonel Zorin before me grew blurry, my eyes watering, my heart beating as if I’d sprinted up a mountain, chill bumps covering my clammy skin. I tried to form a word but could not. I couldn’t even lift my hand to wipe at my tears. I was paralyzed.

  As the seconds continued ticking by, I could see the image of Colonel Zorin mouthing something to me. But I couldn’t hear him. All I could hear was the sound of my arms splashing at the blood all around me. Then, as if the hand of God had reached deep into this pool and yanked me back up onto my chair, I took one big gasp, begging in air like a man who’d just been held underwater.

  “Can you hear me, Perevodchik?” I finally heard Colonel Zorin saying.

  I nodded and wiped the tears from my face.

  “Come with me,” he said.

  We both stood and I followed him outside into the cold night and across the way to another barracks, Osip remaining behind, standing guard on Zorin’s deck. I was floating behind Zorin, my footsteps not under my control, no feeling of my boots actually contacting the ground. I was moving forward, but some force beyond me was orchestrating it.

  We entered the large barra
cks, and I realized we were in the camp hospital, beds full of sick zeks throughout, only a few nurses here to attend to what looked like a hundred men. We made our way to the back of the large barracks and entered a hallway, with several medical staff offices located along the sides. We finally reached the last room on the left and he opened the door.

  Facing a dark room, he flipped on the lights and we stepped forward. The inside was quite cold. It appeared to be nothing more than a storage room—mops, buckets, brooms, and cleaning supplies having been shoved against the walls. In the middle of the room lay two wooden boxes, both the size of caskets. For some reason, I was expecting to see two people lying inside who were not Loretta and Ginger. I still had hope.

  “I know,” said Zorin, “that you had asked to see your wife and daughter before going to Berlin. This is the hospital for male zeks, but I had your wife’s and daughter’s bodies hauled over here from the freezer room when you arrived.”

  He approached both boxes and lifted the lids off. Inside one lay Loretta. Inside the other lay Ginger. The hair had been shaved off and their bodies looked stiff. They were so frail, so colorless, their lips parched and cracked.

  “Their eyes were open,” said Zorin, “even after they took their last breaths, but I had the nurses close them.”

  I stepped closer and looked down at them. Flashes of the guard who I’d killed and buried under the punishment isolator ran through my head. The same rage was boiling up in me, and I forced myself not to look over at Zorin, afraid I might kill him the same way. I tried to think of James and the life he’d have to live alone if I, too, were taken from him now.

  More tears ran down my face as I stared at my lifeless sweethearts. Then the nightmare overtook me like a gust of wind. I looked up at the ceiling, closed my eyes, and screamed to the heavens. And I couldn’t stop. Two guards rushed in and took me by the arms. I didn’t fight them off, but continued crying at the top of my lungs while they escorted me out of the room and past the beds of zeks and busy nurses. I was absolutely inconsolable and the guards knew it.