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 friend 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.”