It was now Christmas Eve and I had quite an eventful day in front of me. Loretta and I were on our way to hear Paul Robeson speak. Apparently he was beyond excited to visit Moscow for the first time and wanted to say a few words to us American coloreds. After we were finished hearing Robeson, the plan was to meet Dorene and Bobby at Gorky Park so the four children could play in the snow and drink hot cocoa. Then the four adults would get ready for the big Christmas Eve party set to take place at Spaso House.
Both of us wearing black wool trench coats, Loretta and I arrived at the Theater of People’s Art at around noon. When we entered the lobby, a racially mixed crowd of folks were mingling. There was an excitement in the air—everyone bundled up in long coats, hats, and boots, as the light snow had been continuous for days.
“There’s Lovett!” said Loretta, pointing across the lobby and removing her gray fur ushanka.
“I see he’s in full swing already,” I said, as we slid our wet gloves off and made our way through the throng.
“I SEE YOU TWO!” shouted Lovett through the noise.
“You holding court?” I said, shaking his hand before he kissed Loretta on the cheek.
There were handshakes and kisses all around, as many familiar colored faces were surrounding Lovett. One thing we’d quickly learned since arriving in Moscow: all of the colored folks knew one another, even if casually. And whenever an event came up that involved anything they might be remotely interested in, everyone seemed to show up, just as they had when we’d first arrived in Moscow at the National Hotel.
Taking off my black fedora, I took inventory of the folks surrounding Lovett and was glad to see these folks again. All of them, again, were noted individuals, here in Moscow because of their talent as performers, scientists, artists, or engineers. There was Robert Robinson, Lloyd Patterson, Homer Smith, Oliver Golden, George Tynes, Coretta Arle-Titz, Robert Ross, Wayland Rudd, and William L. Patterson. Other than Lovett, the only ones I knew fairly well were Robert Robinson and Homer Smith, as we’d conversed on several occasions. Robert was a popular engineer, and Homer was a journalist and postal worker.
“Where is that lovely wife of yours, Lovett?” said Loretta.
“B isn’t feeling well at the moment,” he said. “She has a cold. I’ve got my Russian queen locked in bed with hot tea and biscuits.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Loretta. “Tell her I send hugs and kisses.”
Lovett placed his hands together in a prayer position and mouthed a “thank you” to her. Then he took my arm and gently led me away from the group.
“Pardon us for a moment, y’all,” he said, never one to shy away from doing exactly what he wanted to do, right when he wanted to do it.
“What is it?” I said, the two of us settling near the entry to the theater.
“Let me whisper somethin’ to you, Bronzeville,” he said, referring to me by the name of the town where I’d grown up. “I wanted to ask you what the embassy is saying about the death of Stalin’s first secretary in Leningrad, Sergei Kirov.”
“No one is speaking openly about it,” I whispered. “All I know is that when his death was announced on December 1st, it was hard to imagine that some random person shot him.”
“Kirov was rising in power. Stalin was certainly threatened by him.” Lovett leaned in real close to my ear. “Stalin ordered the killing. I know because my friend Karl Radek has told me as much. Radek says Stalin will try to blame the murder on the exiled Trotsky. I don’t know anything more specific, Bronzeville, but you can bet your bottom dollar it was Stalin.”
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.