“It’s very bourgeois,” said Robert, “which is wonderful, as far as I’m concerned, delightful to look at, but I wonder how the blue tops would interpret it, that’s all.”
“You’ve told me this before, Robert,” I said. “The last time you were here.”
“Please!” said Homer. “It’s much plainer in taste than that czarist shit I see in all the supposed proletariat homes of most State officials. All that gold and maroon! This décor here is nothing but dark wood chairs and floors, brown and cream upholstery, and pristine white walls. Makes for a very clean, crisp look, I must say, quite foreign to Moscow. And shoot! Your wife’s framed paintings hanging everywhere provide just the right amount of color to accentuate it all. NKVD would consider it a Socialist Realism paradise.”
“This color scheme is what my wife likes, Wayland,” I said, sipping my red wine. “Our home on Strivers’ Row in Harlem had a similar décor. Dorene also happens to like the chocolate against white, so she and my wife had a ball picking items out. Dorene and Bobby sure are missed. And our children were so close to theirs.”
“Speaking of missed,” said Robert. “I went by to see B the other day and she acted like I was with NKVD. When I asked about Lovett and when she’d last seen him, the look on her face went cold. She said she hadn’t heard from him at all. She said my guess was as good as hers.”
“You know,” said Homer, “I went by there recently and she said the same thing to me. It’s concerning. Sounds like Lovett done found him a new wife down in Kuybyshev!”
“You act surprised,” said Wayland. “Y’all know Lovett wasn’t ever one to sit still. Shoot, he probably finally got the State to let him leave for Cuba or Canada, places he’s been before. Probably found him a Cuban wife. Or, for that matter, he’s probably back in Dallas or New York City signing up new Party members. And hell, if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Lovett, he’s the last brother in the world any of us needs to worry about.”
19
Magadan, Russia
October 1938
IT HAD TAKEN TWO MONTHS FOR KOSKINEN’S LETTER ABOUT MY POTENTIAL spy mission to be met with a response. And it had come in the form of a cable from Moscow. Koskinen hadn’t sent the original letter as a telegram because of its sensitivity, which made sense. What he probably hadn’t expected was to be completely left out of the loop when the Kremlin responded.
I was approached by a guard on a Wednesday morning while standing in the soup line with Lovett and James. He simply told me to come with him and I was led to a black vehicle, then driven down toward the shipping docks. Before we actually reached them, however, we turned left, well on this western side of the rocky cliffs. Navigating a narrow, tree-lined road, we stopped in front of a small, red-painted, stone building and exited. The inside of the building consisted only of a ten-by-ten room, which was dimly lit and had a large, square table in the middle. At the far end sat three important-looking men, all of them dressed in sharp, army green, military-style uniforms and hats.
“Come!” said the guard, leading me to a chair directly across from them, my back to the door. “Sit, zek!” the guard continued, and as I did, he stayed standing beside me.
“Ostav’ nas!” said the serious man sitting in the middle.
“Yes, Director Pavlov,” said the guard, doing as he’d been ordered and exiting, leaving the four of us alone now.
“Mne skazali, chto vy govorite Rossii,” said this man named Director Pavlov to me.
“Yes, that is correct,” I said in Russian, noticing how much thicker he was built than the other two. “I do speak Russian.”
“Well, then you will understand when I tell you that my name is Karp Aleksandrovich Pavlov,” he said, the other two staying quiet, all three sitting tall. “I am the director of the Dalstroi. It is not every day that I am asked by the Kremlin to handle such matters as this. The cables I received were very specific. I have received five alone in the past two days. A lot. Yes?”
“Yes,” I said.
“This entire situation is unique and complicated. But I’m sure you can help us sort it out.”
“I can,” I said.
“I have a fairly decent understanding of what you have proposed. But I have a few questions. Where does this Comrade Ellington believe you to be living right now? Does he know that you were arrested?”
Before answering, I thought of Koskinen. Knowing he had helped me send the few letters to Bobby that I’d sent, and being solely responsible for suggesting that I tell Bobby that I was currently living in Leningrad, I had to think fast. I was sure they hadn’t a clue of Koskinen’s handiwork, and perhaps if they found out, he’d be in big trouble.
“No,” I said. “He does not know that I was arrested. He must think I’ve just finished touring with my wife.”
“Touring?”
“Yes,” I lied. “Just before being arrested in Moscow, I had sent him a letter telling him that, beginning in December, we would be traveling with our children over the next six months—at least—to attend various art exhibits throughout Europe, and maybe even America, as she’d received many requests from some prominent art aficionados. Dealers! These people were offering to pay for our expenses, too.”
“Of course,” said Director Pavlov. “She sells one of her expensive paintings in their bourgeois galleries and they take a nice percentage. These capitalists always arrange to come out on the better end. Continue.”
“Apparently,” I said, “some of the important Russian artists who admired my wife’s work had spread the word about her paintings to Paris and London. The requests started flooding in. Socialist Realism was being viewed as a mysterious, fresh form apparently. All things Soviet Union are probably still viewed as mysterious and attractive to the outside world. Anyway, we were set to do a lot of European traveling beginning in December as far as Bobby was concerned.”
“I see,” said Pavlov, nodding. “Maybe this Ellington thinks you are all in Berlin now.”
The three of them looked at one another and wryly smiled.
“Maybe,” I continued lying. “I had told him that our plan was to settle down in Leningrad upon our return to the Soviet Union, a country we absolutely fell in love with. So, he might be anxiously awaiting word from me now, but he is certainly not worried. He’s a very busy man who’s probably been doing a lot of traveling himself.”
“The Kremlin would like for you to clarify one thing,” said Pavlov. “They need to confirm that he will be stationed in Germany as you’ve suggested.”
“Let’s send him a cable,” I said.
“Of course,” said Pavlov.
“This will be a long and expensive cable message,” I said.
“It’s okay,” said Pavlov. “We are paying for it.”
“It should originate from Leningrad,” I said. “It should say, ‘Dear Bobby, I hope this message finds you, Dorene, and the children in good health. I have finally returned to Leningrad after being gone a bit longer than I’d originally anticipated.’ ”
“Stop,” said Pavlov, handing a paper and pen to the man to his left. “You must write this down in English while you continue speaking to us in Russian. Then we can cable it to the Kremlin with specific instructions.”
As the man with the pen and paper stood and walked around the table toward me, I continued writing the lie in my mind. I knew that when Bobby saw the words “finally returned to Leningrad after being gone longer than I’d originally anticipated,” he’d simply think I was referring to the lucrative engineering job at the port here at Nagaev Bay that I’d written to him about, per Koskinen’s orders.