Jason Overstreet - Beneath the Darkest Sky

We stood in the center of the horseshoe, the hanging lamps beyond the crowd illuminating an otherwise pitch-black night. Baldric Falke had white-blond hair and was my height. And like all the other fighters was covered in tattoos. He stood there bouncing up and down, all the while his knees bent and butt down like a wrestler. His face was twisted up into an intense frown. Even with his mouth closed, I could see some of his rotten teeth through his mangled cleft lip.

“BORBA!” yelled Officer Kozlov from the stage.

He had yelled for us to fight, and Baldric charged immediately, aiming for my midsection in an attempt to tackle me. I moved aside and he whiffed, still managing to keep his balance, however. I was focused on breathing, on not wasting any movements. Every punch I threw needed to be efficient, every kick I attempted, precise.

“KILL THAT AMERICAN!” yelled someone, as the two of us stood five feet apart, circling.

He lunged at me again and I went belly to the ground, grabbing both of his legs in the process and tripping him as he continued forward with his momentum. We were both on the ground now. I wasn’t about to wrestle him, so I jumped to my feet again before he could secure me in his grasp. He rolled over and up onto his knees but didn’t get to his feet fast enough. I kicked him square in the jaw with my heavy boot. I’d hurt him, even feeling a sharp pain in my own foot.

The big German stayed on all fours shaking his head, trying to get the dizzy out, but the kick had landed in the sweet spot and he was struggling. I moved forward and delivered a heavy uppercut to his face, dropping him flat on his back. As the crowd shouted, I turned to the stage. The bosses showed no reaction. They simply waited for Baldric to get up. I watched him struggling, coughing up blood until it covered his face. I didn’t want to kill this man. I had no ill will toward him. But he damn sure appeared willing to kill me.

I looked again at the bosses, assuming they wanted me to charge Baldric and finish the job. We were like Roman gladiators brought back from the past to fulfill these Soviet monsters’ sick, perverted fantasies. All of this was being done for their pure entertainment. It was evil. Yet I knew there was no choice, for if I refused to fight, they’d shoot me. Regardless, I looked at them and held my hands out, palms up, suggesting as best I could for them to call the fight off and drag this wounded man away. But they only sat there stone-faced, the crowd summoning, “KILL, KILL, KILL!”

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.

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.