But Baldric wasn’t ready to die. He jumped up as if injected with some powerful stimulant. The zeks shrieked even louder at his display of determination. I was now questioning my decision not to have jumped on him and finished the job. But in my defense, I wasn’t trained for this barbarism. I would have to learn quickly. This was kill or be killed.
We circled again. I watched him trying to get his balance in order. He blinked his eyes several times forcefully, and I could see them watering. This was a lumbering brute who was simply too slow to deal with my quickness. Again he lunged forward and I sidestepped him, hitting his nose with a right hook in the process.
Turning to face him again while he wiped at his nostrils, I decided to maintain the same tactic, to play the waiting game and let him be the aggressor. I knew this was a wounded man running on pure will.
I stood with my fists balled up in a boxer’s stance and looked over his shoulder at the bosses. They were likely surprised that I hadn’t so much as a single scratch. Their plan of seeing the Jesse Owens–like American take a beating was falling apart. At least so far.
With blood covering his entire face, Baldric staggered forward from about ten feet away. I waited. The crowd grew louder with every step he took. It was time to finish him.
As he began to speed up, I took two fast steps forward, leapt in the air, and kicked him square in the mouth with both feet at the same time, a maneuver I’d never executed before but had seen in pictures. The force lifted him off his feet and he fell back, all of his weight crashing flush into the ground, his torso hitting first, his twisted up legs following. This time he wasn’t moving.
A hush came over the men, and I saw one of the bosses nod toward stage right. Within seconds, four officers entered the ring. Two grabbed his arms, two others, his ankles. They then carried him through the crowd and off to the shed.
“That was most impressive, American!” said Officer Kozlov. “Do you all agree?”
“DA! DA! DA!” they began screaming.
Another officer entered the ring and stood beside me.
“That was quite a display of physical and mental strength,” Kozlov continued. “You have one more battle tonight. And if you can manage to win it, well, then . . . we will all be excited to see you in tomorrow night’s final match. Take him away!”
The officer escorted me to the food barracks. Sitting at different tables sipping water were the three other winners—Leonid, the big Russian; Ziegler, the remaining German; and Anatoly, the other, less imposing Russian.
I took a seat at an open table and poured myself some water. My body was still shaking, but I had to regain my focus quickly. My goal was to get through the next fight without sustaining a severe injury, as the bosses would expect me to fight again tomorrow night regardless.
Accompanied by several guards, the four of us sat there for about twenty minutes before an officer entered. “Leonid Nikita and Ziegler Hoffman!” he said. “Let’s go!”
The big Russian and German both eagerly pushed back from their tables and stood. Neither appeared to have any wounds, save for a few minor cuts. And again I was reminded of the sheer size of these brutes. God help me if either were to get me in their grasp. This was going to have to be a mental exercise of epic proportions.
* * *
The next day, fresh off of my semifinal victory and feeling very sore, I was relieved to learn that I had been given the entire day off from work to rest up for the late-night championship fight against Leonid. Anatoly had put forth a valiant effort in my second match, using his stamina and quickness to keep me from finishing him quickly.
We had done a lot of dancing around the ring, both of us reluctant to engage in a wrestling match. But once we’d danced to the point of exhaustion, we’d finally come to the center of the ring and boxed, both of us landing several effective jabs. One that he delivered to my left eye had me now barely able to see out of it, the swelling quite intense. I had landed a shot to his neck, and when he’d begun choking for air, I’d leg swept him, tripping him flat on his back. From there I’d straddled the bullish Russian and face-punched him until he was motionless. The bosses had tipped their hats at me, signaling I’d won.
But that was all behind me now. I had to lock in on my final opponent. I spent most of the day lying in bed, conserving energy. I ate. I drank. I prayed. I thought about the other bit of news that was spreading across the camp: Two fighters, Ziegler Hoffman and Vitaly Petrov, had passed away during the night. And both had fought none other than Leonid Nikita.
8
Moscow, Russia
August 2, 1934
BOBBY AND I ARRIVED AT THE AMBASSADOR’S RESIDENCE AND headed up the walkway after showing our credentials to a U.S. Marine who was standing guard at the gate. He then told us to walk to the driveway on the right side of the house.
Spaso House was a huge, gray stucco mansion on about one acre of land. It was neoclassical in design. The façade was expressive, the front featuring a semi-rotunda with columns. There were also widely spaced, paired columns along the entire front.
When we got to the doorway at the left of the drive, which was under an archway, a butler welcomed us and we entered a rather small, high-ceilinged foyer decorated with Empire-style furniture and paintings. Even the arched ceiling was painted with some type of Empire theme. Bright color was everywhere, save for the dark green columns directly in front of us that separated the foyer from what looked like a lounge. Decorative columns were an obvious motif at Spaso, both externally and internally. They were beautiful.
“We have an appointment with Ambassador Bullitt,” said Bobby. “He’s expecting us. I’m Bobby Ellington and this is my aide, Prescott Sweet.”
“Ah, yes,” said the tall, brown-haired butler in a French-sounding accent. “This way, gentlemen.”
We followed him through the foyer and into the lounge. Heading to the right, we walked up a long, shallow stairway, which was covered with wine-colored carpet. The pristine white walls were decorated with framed pictures of various American dignitaries, and the white-painted railing looked impeccable. The wine against white everywhere was pleasing to the eyes.
As we finished climbing and landed at what was essentially an upper lobby, another set of stairs could be seen straight ahead. I assumed they led up to the sleeping quarters. To our left was one of the grandest chandelier rooms one could imagine. It was massive, with a high, arched ceiling and columns decorating the entire room. An old, czarist-looking rug covered the wood floor, and the chandelier hanging in the middle of the room was truly grand.
As the butler turned to the right into another impressive section adjacent to the chandelier room, we stopped, still caught up in admiring the glistening, hanging centerpiece.
“Ah, yes,” said the butler. “That is the largest chandelier in all of Moscow. It is made of bronze and crystal.”
“It’s magnificent,” said Bobby.
“Shall we, gentlemen?” the butler said. “The ambassador’s study is this way.”
We turned and followed him to the right, and then again to the left, into an impressive room with a stunning fireplace. Standing at the window was a handsome man—thin, medium height, intense—a cigarette in his hand. Sitting on the floor next to him was a small white dog.
“Mr. Bullitt,” said the butler, “your guests are here.”
“Ah, Bobby!” said a smiling Bullitt, turning and approaching, the two shaking hands. “It’s wonderful to see you again.”
“Great to see you as well, William,” said Bobby. “This is my assistant and interpreter, Prescott Sweet. The man I told you about who was so vital to all of us in Haiti.”
“Ah, yes,” said William.” We shook. “It’s a pleasure. Welcome, Prescott.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said, noticing his receding dark hair.
“Please, both of you, come and sit,” he said, as the three of us made ourselves comfortable around his desk. “Don’t mind the dog. It’s my daughter Anne’s West High
land Terrier. Name’s Pie-Pie. Anne is at the Moscow Children’s Theater right now at a rehearsal. Anyway, enough about that. Bobby tells me, Prescott, and only recently, that you’re a man of many languages . . . and of many technical skills. I should send you straightaway down the hall to help those idiots who are doing measurements for the new ballroom. And I’m serious.”
“Well,” said Bobby, “Press, here, is my ears and mouth for at least—”
“Your own fucking personal interpreter, Bobby?” said William, taking a drag. “I’m the damn ambassador.”
“Yes, you are, sir.”
“Months ago I told you that you could hire whomever you wanted as a personal secretary, but had I been made aware of his acumen for languages up front, I may have tried to hire him for myself.” He turned to me. “It was only two weeks ago, Prescott, that I learned of your translator skills. I should still hire you away from Bobby immediately.”
“I was told,” said Bobby, “that you already had Charles and—”
“I kid, Bobby,” said Bullitt. “My interpreter, Mr. Thayer, is fine. And I’ve also got a new aide who’s great at shorthand and typing. Italian American named Carmel Offie. But these two assistants are not colored like your man Prescott, Bobby. That will certainly be looked upon favorably here in Moscow. And I mean it sincerely. Stalin is actually—”
Bullitt stopped talking and held up his finger for us to wait. He then jotted something down, a rather long something. He finally handed it to Bobby, who read it before handing it to me. It read: Stalin is actually recruiting American Negroes to come study here and work in the factories. They’re being told to leave America’s bigotry behind and come be a part of a truly equal society. It’s a real propaganda coup for him.
“Sounds promising,” said Bobby, while I just nodded and placed the paper on the desk.
“But seriously,” said Bullitt. “We should all be so lucky to have an assistant with your skills, Prescott.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“And I want to be on hand when the locals first get a glimpse of a colored American speaking Russian. He’ll be a star, Bobby. You’ll probably have to hold court so they can get a good glimpse of you in action, Prescott.”
I was reminded once again of my color. Bullitt didn’t feel like an out-and-out racist, but he had quickly made sure to remind me who I was. I was accustomed to such casual, even unintentional barbs back in America. But I had enjoyed being away from them for years in Paris. It was so American. And Bullitt continued.
“There’s a colored American columnist named Homer Smith who I’ve visited with several times here at the embassy. He seems to be trying to report on the Negro situation overall as it relates to living conditions in Moscow versus America. I’ll have to introduce him to you, Prescott.”
“Thank you,” I said, halfheartedly, wondering why I should be so inclined to make this stranger’s acquaintance. “I would love to meet him, Mr. Ambassador.”
“It would suit you to know,” said Bullitt, “that Mr. Stalin and . . .”
Bullitt, once more, put his finger to his lips, signaling for us to remain quiet. “I like to keep this handy,” he said, opening his desk drawer, pulling out a slip of paper, and passing it along to us again. It read: Sometimes I forget where I am. This room probably has camouflaged wire recorders hidden somewhere. Maybe even behind the walls. We believe the cleaning people are in on it. Found one in the garden last month. Hell, the damn light fixture above may be an actual recording device. After all, they built this house long before we ever arrived. Let’s go take a drive.
He stood and held his arm out, signaling for us to go before him, which we did, as Pie-Pie lagged behind. Once outside, he walked us to a black Lincoln parked in the driveway. “Hurry,” said Bullitt, “before my chauffeur, Stewart, arrives. He’s a U.S. Marine. But I have them dress in civilian clothes.”
He’d barely gotten the door open when a gentleman in a black suit came running from a distant, smaller living quarters. “Where to, Ambassador Bullitt?” he said, half out of breath.
“I think I can handle this one, Stewart,” said Bullitt.
“But, sir, I was—”
“You don’t mind driving, do you, Prescott?” said Bullitt, ignoring the chauffeur. “I’ll direct.”
“Not at all,” I said.
“Good. Listen, Stewart, can you make sure my little roadster is washed and waxed while we’re gone? I want to take it for a drive this weekend.”
“Certainly, sir.”
We hopped in the Lincoln and I took the wheel, the two of them sitting in back so they could chat.
“Back out and take a right, Prescott,” said Bullitt. “Then I’ll point you where to turn a few times so we can get to Smolen-skaya Naberezhnaya Street. We actually just call it ‘Smo Nab Street’ to avoid biting our tongues off. Such is the case with many of the street names. Anyway, from there we’ll make our way to where we can get a nice view of the Moscow River.”
I nodded, looking at them in the mirror.
“How is Dorene?” he asked Bobby, handing him a cigarette. “Has she already begun to complain about the lack of fashion here? She will not be able to do an ounce of clothes shopping.”
“She’ll make do,” said Bobby, lighting up.
“Ah, you say that, but she’ll be on the first train to London within weeks for a vacation. If I am finding it necessary to get out of town so much, she certainly will. I can’t tell you how much I’d rather be in Paris.”
“Moscow doesn’t suit you, William?” said Bobby.
“Not particularly,” he said, leaning forward toward me. “You know, Prescott, Louise Bryant, my ex-wife and mother of my ten-year-old daughter, was in love with the idea of this place. But she was actually just in love with Jack Reed, who was indeed authentically in love with Russia. So, you see . . . love, love, love.”
“And you?” I said.
“I love Paris,” said Bullitt, pointing. “Turn here, Prescott. I have hope for this place, but it frustrates me. Trying to make inroads with Stalin is like trying to find a good steak in this city. And Maxim Litvinov, the People’s Commissar for Foreign Affairs, is all the more difficult. He’s smart, but his integrity could use some work.”
As Bullitt continued smoking and talking, it was as if he were venting his frustrations, thinking out loud. I could sense the weight he was carrying.
“Mr. Litvinov is acting as if the financial debts they owe America, along with their agreement not to interfere in our domestic affairs, are subjects we never discussed when our two countries initially met last year. Those agreements were signed when we reestablished relations. Why the hell does he think the president agreed to send me here?” He touched my shoulder. “You’re not a spy, are you, Prescott?”
“Ya ne shpion,” I said in Russian. “No.”
“I like that,” he said, leaning back again. “I’m going to steal him from you, Bobby. Maybe I’ll use him to find out where these damn Soviet spies are planting their hidden recorders. Can you find this out, Prescott?”
“Sir?” I said, pretending I hadn’t heard him.
“I think Sergei, the caretaker who lives in the basement, is working with NKVD,” said Bullitt. “His room remains locked and we have no access. I really don’t care, actually, as we know the entire house is littered with hidden wire recorders. We just try to always make sure we’re saying nice things about our hosts when inside Spaso House. We’re actually just being honest, a foreign concept to them, one that will continue to puzzle them, as they only deal in suspicion.”
“Does Sergei act suspicious?” said Bobby.
“Not particularly. Turn again here, Prescott. But you have to remember, gentlemen, when we reestablished relations last year, they had plenty of time to install whatever they wanted in Spaso before we moved in. God knows what’s behind the walls. One of our third secretaries, George Kennan . . . you know him, don’t you, Bobby?”
“Yes, I met him once in Washington.”
“Just your hunch, though, right?” said Bobby. “You’ve seen nothing specific, have you?”
“No, it is indeed just my hunch. But my hunches are good. I believe they can plant recorders behind the walls, ceilings, and floors in the morning and remove them at night without any of us knowing it. Don’t know how, but would like to find out! And I believe the new chancery they just finished next to the Hotel National is even more riddled with recorders. We may as well have had our staff move into the Kremlin.”
“This sounds like a major problem,” said Bobby. “Is there anything—”
“It’s not a major problem. They just still don’t trust us. That’s what happens when you’ve had no relationship for sixteen years. I figure the less suspicious we act, the better. We’ve been tasked with a mission by the president to reestablish good relations with these people. We’ll do our part and do so honorably. All of our staff simply leave the house when we want to carry on private conversations.”
Bullitt paused for a moment and then continued.
“Hell. Who am I kidding? This car probably has a wire recorder hidden somewhere. Probably turns on automatically when the car door is opened. Can they do that sort of thing yet, Prescott? Technologically, I mean.”
Beneath the Darkest Sky Page 8
