I stayed quiet on those words and realized how different she sounded. I wondered if she’d become a bit drunk off success. I’d never heard her speak of being so happy with being in the proverbial spotlight. I was genuinely happy for her but wanted to make sure this love of fame hadn’t usurped her love of our children and me. Part of me felt like she’d become blinded by this newfound celebrity, unwilling to see the Soviet Union for what it might actually be.
“Look,” I finally said, “I just want to celebrate you tonight, to brag about you when we arrive at the French Embassy. They’ll probably buy some of your paintings, especially considering your connection to Paris. So this is probably not the best time to discuss the complexities of this Argentina decision vis-à-vis global politics. But do you have any idea what’s brewing internationally in terms of the Soviet Union’s current and future standing in the world? Their standing is anything but stable, particularly in relation to Germany and Japan.”
“Here we go with politics!” she said, shaking her head. “But please! Do tell!”
“Not tonight. Please. I just want to talk about your amazing paintings.”
“Dammit, Prescott! Just get it out of the way!”
“Fine! None of this concerns colored folk, so let me preface my comments with that little nugget. But the world is run by white men.”
“Thanks for the reminder,” she sarcastically said.
“Anyway, the Soviet Union finds itself in no man’s land, Loretta. Quite simply, there are the haves and the have-nots, globally speaking, with respect to military power. The U.S., the U.K., and France are the haves. Germany, Japan, and Italy are being very loud about their displeasure with the Western Powers, but, still, they remain the have-nots. For the time being, albeit! Meanwhile, the Soviet Union is somewhere in the middle, seemingly uncertain as to which group they should join, you know, consumed with what’s in their best interest, trying to have it both ways.”
“Well, I think Stalin is with us,” said Loretta. “With America. I know he’s with the Negro.”
“Not so sure. I mean, he might be with the Negro, but I’m talking strictly about countries here. Anyway, regarding Italy, Germany, and Japan, they want territorial expansion to create empires. They want to build up their militaries and overthrow the post–war international order. The writing’s on the wall! I believe that’s why Bullitt wants to be ambassador to France. He wants to work with a true ally if some global war breaks out again. God forbid!”
“But,” said Loretta, “Italy, Germany, and Japan also want to destroy, or at least neutralize, the spread of Soviet Communism. Stalin is aware of that. You know I’m right.”
“That doesn’t change the fact that Stalin might, and I stress might, be America’s enemy for other reasons. He operates quite secretly and selfishly.”
“Stop, Prescott! The U.S. is just as selfish in its desires. And Germany, you know, Adolf Hitler, is clearly the enemy of us all. He’s always resented the fact that Germany was forced to sign the Treaty of Versailles. He’s truly a madman, and I’m sure remains no friend of Stalin’s. But truthfully, regardless of any of this, it’s my turn to have a say in where our family lives. Do you disagree?”
With both hands on the wheel now, I took in her question and contemplated my answer for a good minute. She sounded resolute in her desire to remain here. I couldn’t deny her that. So, I said what I felt was fair.
“Truthfully, no, I do not disagree,” I said. “You certainly didn’t choose to move to Paris. That was a move forced by my dishonesty, and you know I’ll forever be aware of that fact. It is about you now. I’ll find work at one of the schools or universities here, or maybe at one of the factories. I’ll talk to Robert Robinson about maybe getting a job where he works making tools. Hell, perhaps Homer Smith can get me on at the post office. And after all, maybe I’ve forgotten what my true mission has always been, to seek freedom for colored folk, even if through unconventional means, not to become bogged down in State Department bureaucracy matters. And regardless of my reservations about Stalin, the revolution here and the people behind it are courageous. I’m probably best positioned to affect change from a country where the phrase ‘Freedom for the Negro’ is actually met with a smile. So… I say… let’s stay.”
“Really, love?” she said, cracking a welcomed smile.
“Yes, I want to be nothing but supportive of you. I love you. You’re my life.”
I took my right hand and placed it on her lap. She covered it with both of hers. Though I had real misgivings about her unbridled adoration of all things Soviet, I was committed to her right to follow her own path, especially given my previous behavior toward her in New York, which had almost cost us our marriage. In her defense, considering the privileged and sheltered childhood she had enjoyed under the Rev. and Mrs. Cunningham, what person would have the tools to deal with the fierce politics of Stalin—or even J. Edgar Hoover, for that matter? I had tried to shield her from Hoover’s world. How much more dangerous might Stalin’s world be? All I could do at this point, having failed her in America, was respect her opinion, her success, her growth, free at least from the debilitating injustices of Jim Crow America.
Summer and fall dragged on, and I spent most of that time turning down jobs that I just didn’t have the stomach for, one as a toolmaker, another at the Torgsin grocery, and a third at the post office. But it was okay for the time being, as we were getting by just fine and Loretta liked me spending time at home with the children.
I’d been told shortly after Bobby had departed for Argentina that I’d have to wait until the new ambassador arrived to be considered for any position at the chancery, which I actually didn’t want. Still, when he did arrive in mid-January of 1937, some eight months after Bobby had left, I went to Spaso and met with him. Joseph E. Davies was his name. He was a man quite different from William Bullitt. To put it bluntly, he knew nothing about the Soviet Union or, for that matter, diplomacy in general.
Bobby had told me he despised the man and considered it a joke that Roosevelt had appointed him in the first place. Davies said to me point-blank, “We have no position here for you as an interpreter or as an assistant of any kind.” If he thought he’d been hurtful with his comments, he’d been incorrect because I actually was enjoying this long break from embassy work. Besides, I knew the only reason I’d ever received a paycheck from the State Department had been because of Bobby. And I’d saved up enough money to pay two years’ worth of rent, excluding Loretta’s income.
Other than that brief meeting with Davies, the only news I had heard about the goings-on at Spaso House was from one of the couriers I’d run into at the Anglo-American School while picking up James and Ginger one afternoon. He’d told me that Davies and his filthy-rich wife had ignored Soviet officials and had had a yacht full of food shipped in from the United States, particularly dairy products, all of which had spoiled after being stored in the refrigerators at Spaso House.
Apparently, he had installed so many appliances and packed so much food into them that the power required to service them all had blown the circuits, leaving tons of cream, milk, and butter spoiled. Jim, the courier, had told me that Davies was so scared of NKVD finding out about his secretly imported food that he’d been forced to scramble around and dispense of it, no small task apparently.
It was also on this day at the Anglo-American School when I learned of an open position, one teaching chemistry. The idea of working at the school where my children attended excited me, so I applied immediately. A week later, I was hired. It was the same job my friend Lovett had held.