“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 Bobby 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.