Jason Overstreet - Beneath the Darkest Sky

The thought alone made me start to miss our home city. Again, there, only when we’d ventured into high-end areas had Loretta and I so much as sniffed hints of well-disguised bigotry. Paris as a whole was the most accepting place on earth I could imagine when it came to treating coloreds well. And I actually wondered at times if even the bits of racism I felt were a result of the issue being so engrained into me back in the U.S. that I assumed it was there when it wasn’t. Maybe those odd looks from wealthy Parisians had had more to do with class than color.

While teaching at the University of Paris, I was actually encouraged to try to earn my PhD and become a full-time professor, but I’d declined, knowing I didn’t want to be a lifelong lecturer. But, still, the administrators never even batted an eye at my being a Negro. Even the idea of treating me as if I were less than was anathema to them. And outside of work, I was always invited to private functions or parties. Our social life was not just limited to attending events that took place within Loretta’s little Montmartre artists’ colony.

Looking back, I realized that the reason I’d always felt the need to leave Paris and pursue something else was born out of my desire to help my American brothers and sisters feel what I’d felt in France. Unless all of them could be free, too, my happy bones still ached for them. And if working for a potential U.S. ambassador meant having a hand in shaping a more compassionate foreign policy, one that might eventually teach our government to treat its own people with the same dignity and respect that it shows citizens abroad, I had to do it.

“In many ways,” said Bullitt, lighting a new cigarette, “this might be one of the worst days in history. I failed to mention the news I received earlier. German President Paul von Hindenburg died today. God help us! Chancellor Adolf Hitler has just become the absolute dictator of Germany. He’s calling himself Fuhrer . All that means is ‘leader,’ but I fear it will come to mean ‘savage murderer’ to the rest of us in the civilized world.”

Again I looked at Bobby in the mirror. He was wiped out. This made me both sad and happy. Sad that he was hurting, but happy to know he cared so deeply about me. This was a friend, a brother—a man I’d follow to the ends of the earth.

Camp Z, Far East Russia

September 1937

DARKNESS HAD COME QUICKLY AND THE MEN GATHERED ONCE again. They sounded even louder this time, unaffected by the long day of work they’d just completed, starving to see more blood. And as Leonid and I entered the ring, I had the distinct feeling one of us was about to die.

“SILENCE!” shouted Officer Kozlov, turning away from the bosses. “Most of us gathered here in the middle of this vast forest are Russian. We are proud Russians, too! And although we men up here are free and you zeks out there are not, we all share the same history. I say that to say this: Make us proud, Leonid Nikita!”

The crowd roared all the way up to the star-filled sky. The bosses smowned with pride at their great Russian beast, and Leonid nodded back at them, assuring each that he’d heard their message loud and clear and would heed it. I was alone. I was surrounded. I was an American.

“BORBA!” yelled Officer Kozlov.

Leonid lumbered forward in attack mode and I tried to evade him. My only hope was to make this a game of stamina. He lunged again. I dodged.

With my back facing the stage, he moved in once more and I jabbed his eye, ducking his sweeping counter right as the two of us switched places. His eye had been cut open pretty well. I jabbed again with my right and he caught my fist, pulling it in and biting it, taking the tip of my thumb off in the process. Then he bit down on the webbing between my thumb and index finger, ripping away more flesh like a rabid wolf. Blood oozed down my arm, as he still had it in his grasp.

Before he could chew any more of my hand off, I groin-kicked him and he released me. The visual of this beast growling at me now and chewing my flesh—fresh blood covering his lips—was a haunt for all times. He clutched his crotch and smiled, waiting for me to make another move.

“NIKITA! NIKITA! NIKITA!” the throng howled.

I held out my hand to have a look, all the while backing up. He’d taken off two substantial chunks. I tried to ball up my fist again, but the pain made it next to impossible.

Leonid rushed me once more and this time was able to grab the left shoulder strap of my coveralls as I turned away. He pulled me close, bear-hugging me, lifting my feet off the ground, trying to squeeze the air out of me.

I gasped for air and he began to run with me as if I were a mere child. As we neared the stage, he shoved me into one of the thick log beams that held up the platform. I fell to my knees and shook my head, desperately attempting to stay conscious. I could see a blurred image of him readying to kick me with a kill shot and I began to crawl. His foot still caught my left bicep, however, the force feeling like it had fractured my humerus.

“KILL! KILL! KILL!” the zeks belted out while I continued crawling on all fours.

He wound up for another kick, but I rolled away and got to my feet. The zeks screamed with approval, happy to see the battle continue. I was still woozy, my legs wobbly. Facing him and circling, I tried to buy time, praying with each second that my senses would return.

Leonid stood strong with his mammoth arms flexed and he grinned at me, his teeth appearing to be completely rotten, even with the pink of my blood covering them. Each time he stepped forward I backed up, vigorously shaking my head in the process and breathing deep for oxygen. I needed to think, to outsmart this giant. My only hope was to use his aggression against him.

I purposefully circled back around to the stage and backed up. He swung big and I dodged it, waiting for the next one. He kicked at my groin and I sidestepped, his foot crashing into the beam while I spun around, his back now against the stage.

The zeks laughed at his miss and a look of frustration came over him. I backed up and again we danced center ring, both of us breathing heavily. The blood from my hand and his busted-up eye had decorated both of us, creating a scene of complete savagery. His arms spread like a bird’s, he lunged at me again, and once more, I was quicker. There was no doubt he wanted to wrestle, to get me on the ground and muscle me to death. And it was a smart strategy on his part, because he had to weigh at least 270, much heavier than my even 200. The time had come to stop evading him.

I looked over his shoulder at the stage platform, studying how high it was—no more than three feet, I figured. I began circling until again my rear faced the stage. Then I slowly began to back up, measuring my steps carefully, judging exactly how far I was from the platform—calculating every move. I would need to be precise in order to execute this final maneuver.

As I’d anticipated, he bullishly rushed at me once more and I dipped down real low, grabbing him around his upper legs, my face pressed against his stomach, all the while allowing his force to continue through me as I lifted him and he drove me straight back, my feet off the ground now, both of us suspended in air. Instead of banging my back against the stage beam, I arched my spine, continuing to use his momentum and weight to drive his head straight down now and into the platform’s edge, splitting his face open, snapping his thick neck, killing him instantly.

We both lay there as a silence came over the crowd, dust swirling around us. Leonid’s body had me completely blanketed, all of his weight bearing down on me like a dead grizzly’s. I rested there for a moment, trying to feel for something that might be broken, but his head had taken the full brunt of the fall. I had surprised him with the all-too-quick tripping maneuver, so much so that he hadn’t been able to extend his wing-positioned arms properly in time to brace himself and save his face.