“That’s because Stalin has posted fucking signs everywhere that say, ‘LIFE HAS BECOME BETTER, COMRADES; LIFE HAS BECOME MORE FUCKING JOYFUL!’”
“Lower you voice!” she said, looking around, a few onlookers having heard me yell. “What is wrong with you, Prescott? Calm down! Now!”
I sat with my legs crossed on the blanket, opened the picnic basket, and took out a beer. Opening it, I took a big drink. It had all hit me at once, this anger. It was as if I had allowed myself for over a year to become blind to my surroundings, all in an attempt to unequivocally support Loretta and, in the process, rid myself of any lingering guilt I still had over lying to her about being a spy back in Harlem. But I was awake again now and felt the weight of our situation all at once. I knew, even as I watched the children playing in the distance, that we were already smack dab in the middle of a wall-less prison.
“The new U.S. ambassador,” she said, “Mr. Davies, has come out and said that the show trials are legitimate. He’s witnessed some himself and expressed no worry over them. He has told American expatriates to carry on doing their jobs. Let’s not overreact.”
“Well, Davies is a damn imbecile,” I said. “As far as I’m concerned, he may have blood on his hands someday. And he does President Roosevelt a disservice by making these declarations about a normal Soviet Union. Hell, from what I’ve read while I’ve been in this unfathomable state of coma, Davies has his nose so far up Stalin’s ass, he wouldn’t be able to see one of us getting arrested by the blue tops right outside of the U.S. Embassy. His positive statements about the Kremlin probably have Roosevelt, the State Department, and diplomats like Bobby completely in the dark. It will probably be years before they all learn the truth, whatever that is.”
“When did you last write to Bobby?” said Loretta.
“Two days ago. I told him we had just returned from Leningrad and would be leaving for Kazan in two weeks.”
“Well,” she said, “I think you should go to the consulate and see about arranging for us to leave for Paris soon after we return from Kazan. In corresponding with Natalia Goncharova, she says—”
“Here goes that name again,” I said. “Why does she suddenly have her hands on the controls of your conscience?”
“Because it took an artist who’s already traveled the road I’m on to get my attention. But, then again, she’s only confirming what I’ve already been coming to terms with on my own, Prescott. She has said she thinks it’s in our best interest to leave, but I’ve also been listening to you.”
“It’s just frustrating,” I said. “I’m sure we’ll be fine, but I’m just frustrated. Today is Saturday, so I’ll go by the consulate on Monday and see to it that they have our passports cleared with the State.”
“Good,” she said. “I also need to go by the Anglo-American School and check in with the children’s teachers. I’ll need to make sure they’re up to speed with their lessons after missing all that time. At least this trip to Kazan will only be for one week.”
“I can do it,” I said. “I’m not supposed to be back until Tuesday, but I’ll stop by Monday and check in with my substitute. I’ll need to tell him that he’ll be filling in for me again in two weeks. Hell, he’s probably starting to write his own lesson plans as much as I’ve been gone. It’s okay, though. I detest teaching chemistry. I can’t wait to turn the job over to someone else. Maybe Robert will take it.”
“Robert Robinson?” she said, puzzled. “He has a fantastic job already.”
“Yeah, but he hates the politics at the ball-bearing factory. Still, he is so talented as an innovator that the State doesn’t want him to leave. They keep raising his pay. At least that’s what he told me. But the look on his face says otherwise. I think he’s being forced to stay here, not allowed to leave. I think he just hasn’t told anyone, including me, out of fear. Everyone believes that even their friends might be spies for the Kremlin. It’s paranoia run amuck, Loretta. I can’t believe that subconsciously I’ve had these thoughts all along but haven’t acted on them.”
“Stop, love. You can’t keep doing this. We’ve talked it through. We have a plan now. It’s not like our decision to stay and live here was some anomaly. For Christ’s sake, Paul Robeson’s son goes to school here in Moscow. And we both know Paul was just here again this past May to see his son. He expressed no negative feelings about Stalin, the Central Committee, or anyone else. I’m ready to move now, but let’s not characterize this place as hell on earth all of a sudden.”
I took a sip of beer and noticed James and Ginger running up with grins on their faces, both of them half out of breath.
“Daddy!” said Ginger, bending over, hands on her knees. “James asked me a question that I thought was pretty interesting. But I really don’t know the answer.”
“What is it?” I said.
“Tell him, James,” said Ginger, watching her brother dig through the picnic basket for a bottle of soda.
James popped the cap off, took a sip, and then asked me, “Why do men like to colonize countries where all of the people have black skin?”
I turned to his mother and we both froze. Neither of us could answer this seemingly simple question. I wondered what he’d read that had prompted such a question. I wanted to say something profound and philosophical on him, but no words came to mind. Maybe he was simply becoming more acutely aware of his own skin color. Whatever the case, his question had no obvious answer, so I turned to him and said, “That is a very good question, son. I’ll have to think about it.”
The next day, Sunday, I spent the morning at the house with the children while their mother was preparing her classroom at the Moscow Painting Academy. She would be back to teaching Monday morning, and she was anxious to share stories with her students about the successful Leningrad exhibit. I, on the other hand, was looking forward to the day when she would maybe be sharing stories with her students at the École Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts in Paris.
At around noon, I took the children to the Torgsin grocery, where they sold a great variety of foods to Americans, one of the benefits of not being a Soviet citizen. I bought a big piece of beef to make a pot roast. I also bought some carrots, potatoes, and onions to cook with it.
Later that night at around six o’clock, I sat at the dining room table with James and Ginger waiting for Loretta to come home for dinner. She had been due home by five-thirty. Six o’clock turned to seven, and then eight. No sight of her and no telephone call either.
I’d asked the children to go ahead and eat their pot roast and vegetables, but they couldn’t muster up an appetite, consumed with worry over their absent mother. In the twenty-plus years we’d been together, she’d never been late for a planned dinner. I knew something was wrong.
When the clock struck nine, the children now doing homework, I sent them to bed. Shortly thereafter was a hard knock on the door and I rushed to answer. Two large blue tops stood there stone-faced. Both mustached, one five-eleven and stocky, the other six-three and broad shouldered.
“Is your name Prescott Sweet, and is this your residence?” the stocky one asked in Russian.
“Yes, Prescott Sweet. That is me. What is the problem, officers?”
They looked at each other, obviously a bit surprised that I’d responded in the Russian tongue, something they hadn’t expected from a colored American.
“Come with us,” the tall one said, reaching out and grabbing my arm.
I flung it free and stepped back into the living room. “Tell me what this is about?” I said. “Where is my wife? Loretta Sweet! What have you done to her?”
“She has been jailed for being a counterrevolutionary,” he said. “Now… come with us.”