Later that night, my barracks full of tired, smelly, loud zeks once again, I sat with Lovett on the top bunk, our legs dangling down to my middle bed, where I’d had James lie and rest. I felt worried, but hopeful, a strange mix.
“We have to talk about this without saying anything that can be understood by any of these other zeks,” I whispered to Lovett. “It’s too important to risk discussing in-depth.”
“I understand,” Lovett whispered, coughing, his body looking ever more frail and worn down.
“Just know that I intend to get you out of here, too,” I whispered. “James and I have to wait at another barracks and may not see you again before we leave, but please understand that the plan I’ve suggested has gotten the important people’s attention, and I aim to secure your release along with my family’s as soon as possible. Just try to hold on, Lovett.”
“As long as I can stay here and avoid them mines, I shouldn’t have a problem doing that, Bronzeville.”
“That’s up to Koskinen,” I whispered. “I haven’t been able to speak to him for a while, and probably won’t before we leave, but he knows how I feel about you; unfortunately, so does Director Pavlov, and he can hardly be trusted. Still, he has his hands tied.”
“If I do get out of here,” Lovett whispered, “the first thing I’m going to do is go pick up my beautiful B and take her to Morocco. You and I have already talked about our old friend Claude McKay. I told you how much he loved Morocco. Said it made him feel like writing a new poem every day. B and I could maybe settle down there and live in peace.”
“I worry about Koskinen,” I whispered. “He is so bold with how he shares his thoughts about Trotsky. And I know that Stalin has commanders murdered all of the time. In fact, Koskinen told me that the last director of the Dalstroi who was replaced by Pavlov, a man named Eduard Berzin, was arrested not long after he’d left here.”
“They all fall to Stalin,” Lovett whispered.
“Apparently he had just returned from a vacation to Italy. Stalin detests Soviets who leave the country and return. Anyway, Berzin was accused of spying for Britain and Germany and plotting to ensure that the Japanese gain control of Magadan and all of its gold mines. Koskinen said Berzin was shot and killed just two months ago at Lubyanka prison in Moscow.”
“Shit,” whispered Lovett. “If Stalin is willing to kill Brezin, he damn sure will cut Koskinen’s throat. Even though I’m sure Brezin was a murdering son of a bitch, too, he is probably responsible for putting millions of dollars’ worth of mined gold in Stalin’s pockets. And a bullet to the head was his reward. Cold to the bone!”
“I’ll tell you who was on to Stalin’s terror early on,” I said.
“Our buddies Robert Robinson and Homer Smith. They knew something evil was happening long ago. Both of them are probably trying like hell to get out of Moscow as we speak, and I know they’re too worried about their own lives to be making a stink about us. I’m sure everybody is just trying to fend for themselves.”
“Shit,” said Lovett. “I don’t blame ’em!”
“I’m gonna miss you, Lovett. Promise me you’ll stay alive until I can get you out. You’re too valuable to me and every other American Negro to die at the hands of these monsters. You and I both love Du Bois. Maybe we can work with him in the future. But, regardless of what happens, just know that your life’s work will never be forgotten. I will make sure of it. You have helped so many Negroes back home come to see that there’s more than just Jim Crow. You taught them not to ever be afraid to fight for their rights, to be brave enough to die for them, to choose the CPUSA as an alternative.”
“How right you are about us both loving Du Bois,” said Lovett, reaching inside his coat pocket and pulling out his passport. “He was always so willing to help and listen. When I was in New York in 1928, just before I came back to the Soviet Union, I wanted to see him and discuss the crisis surrounding coloreds.”
Lovett opened his passport booklet and took out an old, weathered, folded-up piece of paper. It looked as though it might break apart, like it had been wet and dry over and over again. He unfolded it and handed it to me.
“Have always held on to that,” said Lovett. “It doesn’t say anything special, but it connects me to this great man. It reveals the kind of considerate brother he was.”
I hadn’t ever told Lovett that I had spied in Harlem for over three years, all in an effort to help Du Bois’s NAACP stay afloat against Marcus Garvey’s UNIA and Back to Africa movement. Seeing this simple letter that had been written some five years after I’d already left Harlem for Paris brought it all back for a moment. I ran my finger over the typed words. The short note read:
April 6, 1928
Mr. Lovett F. Whiteman
180 St. Nicholas Avenue, Apartment 23
New York City, New York
My dear Sir:
I have just returned from a month’s lecture trip and shall be extremely busy until the 15th of April. If you are going to be here after that, I should be glad to see you almost any day. If you are not going to be in town as long as that, I can make arrangements to spare a few minutes, if you will telephone me. Very sincerely yours, W.E.B. Du Bois
“Nice of him to have taken the time to write you back,” I said, handing the note to Lovett.
“Indeed,” he said, refolding it. “Because I knew how inundated he was with requests, etcetera, at that particular time. Hell… always! But he really understood what I was trying to do—collect data on the American Negro so I could recruit—even though he’s not a Communist Party member. I’ve spoken with him before, but this letter is the only written item I have from him. It reminds me that he is still out there somewhere continuing the fight.”
“Du Bois has devoted his life to the race problem,” I said.
“You know something sad?” said Lovett. “Even inside the CPUSA, folks liked to tell me, ‘Get over this whole race thing. It’s all you talk about.’ Shit! I could talk about it from now until eternity, and that wouldn’t be long enough. Race! Race! Race! It has been my life’s work. And I’m damn proud to have done it!”
“Preach!” I said.
“And when it’s all said and done, brutha, everyone should know that I was proud to have lost my life, prematurely even, trying to make things right for the colored folk in the Party back home by being their voice here at the various Comintern Congresses over the years. Don’t wanna die, but I’m not afraid to. I ain’t lyin’! If that’s what it comes down to, so be it. I will have died during this seemingly insurmountable quest to break permanently free from those ugly, heavy shackles of oppression. Sounds ironic sitting here in the middle of a Soviet prison. But that’s where the quest led me. This is where my fellow Americans forced me to retreat to in order to live at least one day of my life with an ounce of dignity. And in the end, every Negro worth a damn has to be willing to die trying to make our people one hundred percent free. Do you hear me, Bronzeville? One hundred percent!”
20
Moscow, Russia
August 1937
The train ride from Leningrad had been a pleasant one for the four of us, and we’d been back in Moscow for three days now. The children and I had loved being alongside Loretta for two weeks while she met with art dealers and prominent painters in the city named after the great Bolshevik legend. She’d introduced us to many of her fellow artists who’d made Leningrad their home. We’d met a different, important person each night it seemed at the Neva River Gallery, as guests streamed through the doors to marvel at her exhibit. I’d enjoyed conversing with the famous Isaak Brodsky. But my favorite back-and-forth had been with the great painter-turned-writer Kuzma Petrov-Vodkin.