“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-the-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.”
“Neither am I,” said Lovett. “Why do you think I’m pining to get out of Moscow for a while and take that job in Kuybyshev. I’m not afraid to try anything new.”
“Why are you moving?” I said.
“It’s not permanent,” said Lovett. “I’m just exhausted with some particular members of the CPUSA. They don’t seem to share my views about the importance of America’s Negro problem as one that is wholly independent of class. I keep telling them that Jim Crow is not a damn class problem. It’s a race problem. I need the Party to be more proactive in addressing race as a singular issue. All they say is, ‘The Party’s aim is to lift all boats, and that includes the impoverished American Negro.’ Fuck that! Pardon me, ladies.”
“Well, we hate to see you move,” I said. “You’re like family to us. And the kids will miss your demonstrative storytelling. They adore you, brother.”
“Not a move actually,” he said. “Just more like a one-year sabbatical from the Party politics here in Moscow. I’m worried I may hurt somebody. During the Third International this summer, I nearly strangled three white members of the CPUSA. No one, including that damn nigga William L. Patterson, shares my sense of urgency when it comes to the Party tackling the issue of race in America. That was the entire point of my joining the Party. Guess I shouldn’t say that about ol’ Patterson. He sees it my way, but he just doesn’t like my flamboyance and the way I aggressively approach the whole thing. I’m not the go along to get along type. And I’ll dress the damn way I wanna dress.”
“I love that you dress like a Cossack,” said Loretta.
“Well, then, go on ahead and paint me, girl!” he said, raising his hands in the air and laughing. “I make a damn colorful subject!”
“Yes, you do,” said B, kissing him on the cheek.
“A sabbatical in Kuybyshev, huh?” I said, not so keen on joining the playfulness. “Will you still be teaching?”
“Oh, yeah! Already have a job set up down there teaching chemistry. Gonna teach some boxing, too. Y’all didn’t know I was a boxer I’ll bet!”
“No,” said Loretta and I.
“Yep! Will be good for me to take a reprieve from all things science and politics. And B is going to keep her job here in Moscow. We’ll meet at the halfway point in Glazov about once a month. I just really need this break. Trust me.”
17
Magadan, Russia
August 1938
SUMMER HAD COME AND ALMOST GONE. I COULD NOW SAY I’D OFFICIALLY been a prisoner for one year, starting from that initial arrest back in Moscow. James and I had been hardened, meaning we didn’t speak much about our condition, we just lived from minute to minute, thankful at the end of each day that we’d survived to see the sun go down.
As far as my killing the guard in the punishment isolator, the aftermath had played out as I’d imagined, with NKVD officials certain that Vladimir had gotten drunk and fallen into the sewage hole. For months now the hole had remained covered and sealed. And the guard certainly wasn’t missed. I’d even overheard one officer say, “Vladimir was a fucking pathetic drunk, terrible at his job. It was just a matter of time before he would have gotten shot by the bosses for being a shitty guard anyway.”
Commander Koskinen had been pleased with my cost estimate for the big vehicle storage facility, but he’d also liked some other engineers’ offerings. Regardless, the project still hadn’t gotten under way yet, and I was overseeing a brigade of zeks tasked with constructing a new medical barracks made of stone, as the current wooden one was so weathered it was about to blow over from the strong sea winds.
I’d learned some unspeakable news from Koskinen about the group of hundreds that Yury and Boris had been a part of. Eighty percent of them had died along the Road of Bones before making it to the mines, and the remaining twenty percent had passed away shortly thereafter. Why they had even bothered to send them all on such a suicide mission was incomprehensible. Koskinen’s answer: “They got at least one good month of excellent mine work out of that twenty percent, and that’s lives well spent as far as Stalin’s concerned. He reasons that there’s an endless supply of bodies.”
My weight had originally gone from 200 to 180 to now 170, and I only knew this because a nurse had weighed me during a two-day stay at the medical barracks during my bout with dysentery. My recent concern, however, was less about my own health and more about James’s. He had developed a cough and dizzy spells that were plaguing him more and more regularly.