Jason Overstreet - Beneath the Darkest Sky

“It feels so surreal finally being in this country,” I said, “in this place that only seventeen years ago was home to the Bolshevik Revolution. I’m looking at all of these old buildings and trying to visualize Lenin and Trotsky leading their army of peasants against the powerful czars and overthrowing them. Hard to imagine.”

“Also hard to imagine Lenin approving of Stalin’s current treatment of Trotsky,” said Bobby. “Having him expelled from the country and all. I’m pretty sure it was Trotsky whom Lenin wanted to have succeed him, not Stalin. Lenin definitely didn’t trust Stalin. Even wanted him ousted as secretary general. John Reed would be quite upset were he alive today.”

“Mmm, I don’t know, Bobby,” I said, studying the white stone building to my right, as our stroll continued. “I’ve read different accounts. Even though Trotsky was Lenin’s right-hand man during the revolution, Lenin wasn’t too fond of him, either, when it came to leading the country. He thought he was the most capable of all the candidates, but believed he was too arrogant. In reality, he wasn’t too fond of anyone succeeding him. He wanted to increase the size of the governing body, the Central Committee, so that no one man would have too much power.”

“Where is Trotsky by the way, Press? I ask because I’m only guessing you might know. Who am I kidding? Go ahead.”

“Reports in April said he was forced to leave Barbizon, France. Hang on a second.”

I touched Bobby on the arm and we stopped, taking a moment to look through a store window at a display that was set up. It was a bunch of loaves of black bread and mustard. I looked further into the store at the shelves that looked empty, save for a few that had more mustard and loaves of bread.

“Odd,” I said, as we kept looking inside.

“Indeed.”

“Like I was saying, and I should whisper this. He was forced to leave Barbizon because police could no longer guarantee his safety. Too many Russian spies.”

“A life on the run.”

“Stalin truly seems to want this man gone,” I said. “Trotsky still has so much international support that Stalin probably fears he could return to Moscow someday and regain power.”

“Speaking of power,” said Bobby, “I think it’s vital that Roosevelt project such to the world for as long as he’s in office. Our work here will play a role in that. After all, we are only fifteen years removed from the Great War.”

“I hear you,” I said, “but, selfishly, I also have to always believe that the work we’ll be doing, in whichever country, will in some way be helping coloreds, particularly colored Americans.”

“It will be,” he said. “Look at it this way. The work we’re doing is critical. It involves massaging old wounds. If we can play even a tiny role in keeping this country and ours on good enough terms to influence the temperament, or even the nerve , of our enemies, it could prevent another war from breaking out. That, my friend, is helping the Negro by keeping him, quite bluntly, from dying along with the rest of America. That’s just reality.”

“I hear you,” I said.

“Besides, Press, if I can eventually rise up and be an ambassador, and then maybe even a senator… hell… the president… I’ll be in a position to influence those social issues we want addressed. Just stick with me and always take comfort in knowing you’re playing a vital role and that you’re doing all you can, Press. Jim Crow is not going to last forever. No way!”

We began walking again, crossing a wide road that long ago had been a big moat filled with water, which made the Kremlin an inaccessible fortress. I could feel the energy of this place and it felt good. Not one person had taken a second look at me, completely oblivious to my being colored. And it was genuine obliviousness. It was the first time I’d ever felt somewhat invisible, but in the most beautiful of ways.

“Can you believe these massive churches… the onion domes?” said Bobby as we began walking along the stunning, high, redbrick wall that outlined the massive triangular fortress known as the Kremlin. “Everything’s so colorful, Press. But what do they have against broccoli or asparagus? Only onion domes I see!”

“Amazing,” I said. “It truly is the ‘city of a thousand churches,’ most designed and built by Italians. Hard to believe they’re all closed, museums essentially, per Stalin’s orders, not to mention the many medieval churches that were built by Russians. Those were actually blown up… destroyed, also per his orders in 1929.”

We continued walking along the wall, maybe fifteen feet high at some points and perhaps sixty at others. Finally arriving at Spasskaya Tower, we entered through the famous gate that Napoleon had actually passed through when he occupied Moscow in 1812.

“Look up at the big clock,” I said once we’d walked through. “Spasskaya Tower’s chimes have been way up there since 1852. The clock itself has been there since the days of Czar Michael Romanov, and I believe that was from 1613 to 1645.”

“You’re too much, Press. But thank you. Who needs a tour guide with you around?”

“Hey, you told me to learn as much about the Soviet Union as possible.”

We made our way to the center of the Kremlin and stopped at Cathedral Square. Neither of us said a word as we marveled at the Cathedral of the Dormition, Cathedral of the Archangel, and Cathedral of the Annunciation.

“All three have shiny, gold onions on top,” said Bobby. “Wonder why?”

“Don’t know why they’re gold, but there is widespread belief that the onion shapes themselves are supposed to symbolize burning candles. Focus on Dormition because it’s the oldest cathedral.”

“Which is the Palace of the Facets?” said Bobby. “I’ve read of its being very old, too, perhaps the oldest secular building… where the czars held banquets.”

“It’s the one in between Dormition and Annunciation,” I said, pointing. “Let’s go get a glimpse of Corpus Number One before we have to leave.”

We headed toward the massive yellow and white building, where all of the powerful State officials had their offices, including Stalin. But when we arrived, no one was allowed to enter, so all we could do was stand outside and marvel at the neoclassical Corpus Number One. I was imagining what I’d read about the inside—the statues, magical courtyard, and stunning oval halls. Even from the outside, it reeked of power, of secrecy, and it somewhat resembled the Capitol Building in Washington, D.C., save for the lack of a very high dome.

“A colleague in Paris said that Stalin’s office is a corner one on the second floor,” said Bobby. “He said men get very nervous when called to the so-called Corner as they are all petrified of Stalin.”

“It was designed in the 1770s,” I said, looking in every direction, trying to remember what I’d read. “Lenin’s old apartment is in there somewhere.”

Bobby took in my comment and looked down at his watch. Our quick glimpse of the old buildings would have to suffice for the time being, because it was time to catch a ride to Spaso House. I was looking forward to eventually getting a formal tour of the Kremlin. I was also a little bit nervous about meeting the ambassador. And I didn’t know why.

A Far East Forest, Russia

September 1937

IHAD BEEN AWAY FROM THE TRANSIT CAMP NEAR VLADIVOSTOK FOR about two weeks now, hidden away in the woods at Camp Z with a few hundred other male prisoners. We’d been tasked to cut down pine trees from dusk ’til dawn. No talking allowed unless it involved logistics. All of the men here were robust and fit, and most had a vicious air about them, many covered in tattoos and scars. I’d come to learn that a large percentage of Soviet prisoners convicted of violent crimes were covered in ink. They could easily double as pirates.