Even though I was still just a zek, there was something encouraging about Koskinen taking a bit of a liking to me. Of course, I assumed it was all because I was making him look good. I was still trying to gather up the courage to ask about my wife and daughter. Based on what the old man had said, I still figured they were in a camp all the way across the country.
Barracks five of our lagpunkt is where they’d quartered sixty of us off back on that first November day, after we’d been quarantined, Boris having been placed in nine. The only word I can use to describe my situation was lucky. It had all come down to good old-fashioned, pure luck—my being assigned to possibly remain in Magadan with my son whenever the rest of Lagpunkt Seventy-Nine headed for the mines.
The temperature here hovered around five below zero, a far cry from the horror that awaited the others inland. It was on Christmas day that we were allowed to remain in our barracks and not work, only because the officers wanted the day off. We’d been given our normal ration of gruel for lunch, but with this unforeseen rest, it tasted like ham, stuffing, and sweet potato pie.
I lay there on my middle bunk with no mattress, James above me, Yury below. All of our appearances had changed dramatically with the extreme weight loss. And besides James, we’d all grown heavy beards. My normal weight of 200 had dipped to maybe 180. But we were surviving, and if this were to be our lot for the next several years, we would live. It was the minus forty-degree Road of Bones that we all feared, including me, as one mistake would cost me.
“This doska is too hard to sleep on with no mattress,” said Yury.
“Sleeping on a sheet of wood is better than the floor,” I said.
“I wish I’d been assigned to your team, Prescott. The head contractor of my team acts blind. Too many of the zeks are getting away with being lazy. Plus, he’s a free hire and knows it will be us who pay for this, not him. As soon as we leave this lagpunkt and arrive at our worksite, the boss just stands at his worktable reading plans and smoking.”
“I need to talk to the top commander, Mr. Drugov,” I said, leaning down toward Yury. “I’m guessing you will be leaving here in no more than three months before the road turns into a quagmire. Trucks may not be able to deliver supplies then. And they’ll want you and Boris to reach the mines when the ice starts to melt in April so you can more easily explode new caves.”
“I see,” said Yury.
“Yeah, they’ll want you to walk that road for at least a month while it’s still frozen. I did the math. I’m guessing, of course, as I’m sure they walk along the sides in the summer, too. Who knows! I’m sure they mine year-round, but perhaps the winter months are spent digging inside already exploded caves rather than grappling with trying to survey rock that’s many feet below solid ice. I’ll bet they rinse the gold in the Kolyma River during the summer, too. Let me stop speculating.”
“What in God’s name can you possibly say to Drugov?” said Yury. “I haven’t even seen his face since the first day we arrived. Maybe he’s traveling. Besides, Commander Drugov only oversees this camp. The real boss is that madman I’ve heard about named K.A. Pavlov. He runs the entire Dalstroi. And every Sevvostlag camp official throughout the region answers to him. Still, what would you possibly say to this Drugov?”
“I want to ask him about my wife and daughter. They might be freezing to death somewhere. They might be starving. Maybe if he sees that I have done good work as an engineer, he’ll be inclined to listen. And maybe once he sees that I’m an American who speaks Russian, just as I’m easily doing to you right now, he’ll warm up to me. It will be a small request to ask about my wife and daughter’s whereabouts.”
“Forget that, Prescott! You can’t make any requests. Don’t even go meet with him. You will be shot. I promise. You can’t! Besides, it is much warmer on the western side of the country. Your family is okay.”
“I also want to ask about you and Boris staying with my crew once the others leave for the mines.”
I leaned down and called him closer with my index finger, noticing the missing tip of my thumb and the scarred webbing next to it. Yury sat up and got close.
“You will certainly die in that cold,” I whispered. “In a few months, not years! You will die in the taiga cutting timber or breaking apart rock along the Kolyma Highway. I must find a way.”
“I don’t even believe we can walk through those trees and mountains for weeks, Prescott. We are going to die in days just getting there.”
“No!” I whispered. “Keep your feet dry and just walk. That’s a simple thing. I was talking to the nurse back when they removed my cast and stitches. She is from Estonia. She and her husband were arrested five years ago and he was shot shortly after. She said Sevvostlag officials will no longer be issuing the fur and wool clothing we received upon arrival.”
“My God, Prescott! It is far too cold not to have such things.”
“No more rubber galoshes to cover the felt boots like those under our bunks right now. Apparently, because of the new regulation ordered by Stalin, they will begin issuing canvas shoes along with wadding jackets and trousers. No more coddling! And even though Koskinen claims James and I will remain here, I’ve been taking great care of our garments. You should do the same. We are lucky to have them.”
* * *
January 9th arrived and we’d been working seven days a week still, cutting wood and hammering cold nails, Magadan completely covered in ice and snow. Work never stopped because of weather. To say it was freezing cold would have hardly told the story. Chicago, Milwaukee, Vermont, and New York City could get cold, but this was an entirely different beast. It was sixteen below zero, but the ocean wind made it feel even colder.
I had never gone to visit Drugov, too worried about him putting a bullet through my head on the spot. There was simply no talking rationally to these bloodthirsty men.
The gray and brown shirts, pants, gloves, and socks that they’d distributed to us back in November were serving us well, and we were fortunate to still have the wool items. I kept reminding myself that the newer arrivals would have no such luck. And at least our old coats and ushankas were made of fur. Plus, I wasn’t worried about my feet getting frostbitten because they’d let us keep our felt boots. The Dalstroi heads weren’t ones to waste a thing, other than humans.
This was the day I was going to meet with Koskinen in his office. He wanted to go over the drawings for a massive storage facility they intended to construct. It would be used to house some new dump trucks, tractors, and cargo trucks that had been ordered. The Dalstroi was becoming more and more profitable it seemed.
I was called to his office during lunch. When I walked in, he was sitting at his desk eating a large, wooden bowl of fish soup that looked absolutely delicious. I eyed the glowing wood that was burning in the corner stove to his right.
“Come in and sit, Comrade Sweet. I will call you that when it’s just the two of us. Yes?”
“Yes,” I said, sitting across from him, the frost on my eyelashes already melting.
“The men from Lagpunkt Seventy-Nine will be leaving next week for the mines. You will be staying here with your son. You have pleased me. I want you to take these drawings.” He picked up the roll from his desk and handed it to me. “And I want to give you this cost sheet.” He put it in my other hand. “I want you to determine how much lumber, steel, cement, tar, etcetera, will be needed based on those measurements, and then I want you to cost it out. Yes?”
“Yes, Commander Koskinen,” I said, surveying the books covering the shelves along the right and left walls, a large picture of Stalin hanging directly behind him.
“Then I want to meet with you and the other engineers and compare your estimates. Maybe you zeks will give better estimates than the free hires.” He gave a wry smile. “We are all just Dalstroi employees waiting to be zeks!” He put his finger to his mouth. “Shh! It is only between you and me. Many of my comrades have disappeared. None of us can do the right thing for too long. Please! Y
ou can speak. Please!”
“Thank you.” His demeanor confused me because it felt genuine, like he was sure he would die, perhaps sooner than later. I carefully continued. “When I was at a place called Camp Z in the forest well north of Vladivostok, I was told my sentence would be reduced.”
“I can find out more about that. Continue.”
“My wife and daughter are in the prisons.”
He picked up a pencil. “When and where were you all arrested, and what are their names?”
“Just back in August, in Moscow. My wife’s name is Loretta Sweet, my daughter, Ginger Sweet.”
“Is your wife a Negro, too?” he said, writing down their names.
“Yes.”
“My sister is married to a Negro from Nairobi, Kenya. They live in Toronto, Canada. He is a medical doctor. I have not seen her in five years.”
“That’s a long time.”
“The five months you’ve been away from your wife and daughter feels much longer, I’m sure.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t speak of any of this. You would be shot. I will look into it.” He leaned in over his desk. “Of course,” he whispered, “it would be easier to predict how my request might be received if my beloved Trotsky were our leader and not Stalin. Like Lenin before him, Trotsky is a brilliant man with much foresight and creativity. He would most certainly be able to outsmart this Hitler. We are all going to be zeks when that powerful man takes over the world. I know such things. Do I sound like it?”
“Yes, Commander Koskinen.”
“Stalin believes it is all about exporting food to the West and importing machinery into the Soviet Union. As Stalin has said about his continuing Five Year Plans, ‘Technical skills and machines will decide everything.’ So . . . you see . . . you zeks are nothing to him. I am nothing to him. If only my Trotsky would return from exile. A dream!” He sat back. “Well, Comrade Sweet, anything else?”
“I . . . I must ask. Two other comrades of mine in the camp here, Yury—”
“I cannot help them. You are trying to see if they can stay here?”
I nodded.
“I cannot do that. It is logical regarding your boy. Your comrades. . . no.”
“Yes, Commander Koskinen.”
“Your Russian is excellent, Comrade Sweet. But how do you feel about your America?”
I was guessing that my answer would carry significant weight. And I was certain that he, like most Soviet brass, detested my country. Even if he didn’t, I couldn’t afford to say something positive.
“I hate America,” I said. “That is why I moved to Moscow and learned your language. They treated me like trash back in America. It was only when I got to Moscow that I felt like a human being for the first time. I was all too surprised when I was arrested, for I love the Soviet Union.”
“Good,” he said. “Me too!”
* * *
Later that night I lay in my bunk talking to Yury. I was devastated that he and Boris would be leaving soon, much earlier than I’d previously guessed. But I could do nothing about it.
“Koskinen says it will remain Lagpunkt Seventy-Nine when you all leave,” I whispered to Yury in barely audible Russian. “But a freshly shipped-in batch of zeks will replace you. This cycle will continue until Seventy-Nine is full of a thousand highly skilled laborers. Zeks who know contracting! How is Boris?”
“I don’t know,” said Yury. “I hope he is holding up. I could see the bones in his back too much when I last saw him. I could see far too many bones.”
“Once you all depart, you’ve got to maybe figure out an escape. Maybe after you stop and set up camp—”
“There is no way out. They have guns. And Drugov told us that no one has ever escaped the Sevvostlag prison system in this area. You know this! And even if we can manage to escape the camp, the bears will kill us. Many have met such fates.”
“Don’t talk about bears,” I whispered.
“It’s true, Prescott. I would rather work all day and even sleep in a big ice pit at night if need be. The old man said he’d heard of such sleeping conditions.”
“What!”
“I’m just telling you what he said. Maybe it was a form of punishment. Maybe it was because they ran out of tents.”
“I don’t believe that, Yury. Sounds like an old wives’ tale.”
“Believe it! I’m sure they do such things.”
“Or not!”
“I’m just thinking of the worst-case scenario, Prescott. The old man said to start from thinking the worst and then work your way back from there. No surprises!”
“Makes sense.”
“I am no longer afraid to die, Prescott. The old man is with God. I am not afraid because I can go see God, too. I am happy for you and James. But I am not afraid to go see God now. I have accepted my fate. No one survives the Road of Bones.”
14
Moscow, Russia
December 1934
SINCE THE TIME I’D FIRST MET LOVETT FORT-WHITEMAN BACK IN September, I’d gotten to know him much better. Loretta and I had attended the shindig at his apartment and had been introduced to several interesting people, many of them colored.
Perhaps the most fascinating was not colored, however. His name was Karl Radek, a friend of Lovett’s, and a close associate of Stalin’s. Radek wrote for Pravda, the official newspaper of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, and he was actually helping to write the Soviet Constitution. Much controversy surrounded him, as many wondered, especially Stalin, if Radek had lied his way back into the Soviet Union by swearing he was no longer loyal to Leon Trotsky. Meeting the editor had been fascinating, as this was a politico who not only conversed with Lovett and Stalin, but also Bullitt. According to Lovett, the ambassador had been trying to get Radek to help him convince Litvinov and Stalin to make good on the debt issue.
I’d still been trying like hell to make progress on finding the hidden microphones in the bowels of Spaso House, but to no avail. Luckily, I wasn’t getting constant pressure from the ambassador, as he was back in the U.S. and might not be back until April. Nevertheless, much to Bobby’s dismay, Bullitt had assigned me to remain at Spaso and help with technical issues until the new ballroom was complete. And he’d made me swear I’d do my best to locate the hidden microphones. So, I’d had my hands full trying to figure out a way to get the keys away from Sergei.
It was now Christmas Eve and I had quite an eventful day in front of me. Loretta and I were on our way to hear Paul Robeson speak. Apparently he was beyond excited to visit Moscow for the first time and wanted to say a few words to us American coloreds. After we were finished hearing Robeson, the plan was to meet Dorene and Bobby at Gorky Park so the four children could play in the snow and drink hot cocoa. Then the four adults would get ready for the big Christmas Eve party set to take place at Spaso House.
Both of us wearing black wool trench coats, Loretta and I arrived at the Theater of People’s Art at around noon. When we entered the lobby, a racially mixed crowd of folks were mingling. There was an excitement in the air—everyone bundled up in long coats, hats, and boots, as the light snow had been continuous for days.
“There’s Lovett!” said Loretta, pointing across the lobby and removing her gray fur ushanka.
“I see he’s in full swing already,” I said, as we slid our wet gloves off and made our way through the throng.
“I SEE YOU TWO!” shouted Lovett through the noise.
“You holding court?” I said, shaking his hand before he kissed Loretta on the cheek.
There were handshakes and kisses all around, as many familiar colored faces were surrounding Lovett. One thing we’d quickly learned since arriving in Moscow: all of the colored folks knew one another, even if casually. And whenever an event came up that involved anything they might be remotely interested in, everyone seemed to show up, just as they had when we’d first arrived in Moscow at the National Hotel.
Taking off my black fedora, I took inventor
y of the folks surrounding Lovett and was glad to see these folks again. All of them, again, were noted individuals, here in Moscow because of their talent as performers, scientists, artists, or engineers. There was Robert Robinson, Lloyd Patterson, Homer Smith, Oliver Golden, George Tynes, Coretta Arle-Titz, Robert Ross, Wayland Rudd, and William L. Patterson. Other than Lovett, the only ones I knew fairly well were Robert Robinson and Homer Smith, as we’d conversed on several occasions. Robert was a popular engineer, and Homer was a journalist and postal worker.
“Where is that lovely wife of yours, Lovett?” said Loretta.
“B isn’t feeling well at the moment,” he said. “She has a cold. I’ve got my Russian queen locked in bed with hot tea and biscuits.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Loretta. “Tell her I send hugs and kisses.”
Lovett placed his hands together in a prayer position and mouthed a “thank you” to her. Then he took my arm and gently led me away from the group.
“Pardon us for a moment, y’all,” he said, never one to shy away from doing exactly what he wanted to do, right when he wanted to do it.
“What is it?” I said, the two of us settling near the entry to the theater.
“Let me whisper somethin’ to you, Bronzeville,” he said, referring to me by the name of the town where I’d grown up. “I wanted to ask you what the embassy is saying about the death of Stalin’s first secretary in Leningrad, Sergei Kirov.”
“No one is speaking openly about it,” I whispered. “All I know is that when his death was announced on December 1st, it was hard to imagine that some random person shot him.”
“Kirov was rising in power. Stalin was certainly threatened by him.” Lovett leaned in real close to my ear. “Stalin ordered the killing. I know because my friend Karl Radek has told me as much. Radek says Stalin will try to blame the murder on the exiled Trotsky. I don’t know anything more specific, Bronzeville, but you can bet your bottom dollar it was Stalin.”
Beneath the Darkest Sky Page 15
