Jason Overstreet - Beneath the Darkest Sky

“Preferred?” I said, sarcastically. “He’s not actually giving you all a choice. I mean, the mere fact that other forms are prohibited and—”

“That’s a temporary thing, love. Stalin is simply trying to encourage artists to help move the social revolution forward. He feels that we artists play a vital role in making sure communism stays healthy, and that those backward-thinking individuals who are still clinging to the czarists’ ways of life are rooted out of society. This country has to heal, and we painters can help by depicting communist values, like the emancipation of the proletariat. We can also do paintings that support the aims of the State and the Party.”

“Since when did you become an admirer of communism?” I said, bewildered at the almost hypnotic way in which she was speaking. “Sounds like you’re taking classes in Soviet politics, not painting. I mean it. When did you become—”

“I haven’t!” she said. “Become an admirer! I’m just learning more about it. But I’ll have you know, Mr. Prescott Sweet, that many of America’s most successful citizens are saying good-bye to capitalism and hello to communism. Men like Paul Robeson and W.E.B. Du Bois to be specific. You adore both, don’t you?”

“Yes, but Du Bois is certainly not a member of the party. He’s just expressed views that lead one to think he appreciates it.”

“Well, then!”

“Just go slow,” I said. “I have a tad more faith in the aims that Lenin and Trotsky had in mind. Stalin’s approach has my eyebrows raised. I know nothing specific of him yet, but let’s not go allowing him to indoctrinate you overnight.”

“Are you gonna be famous, Mommy?” said Ginger, eating only her mashed potatoes. “I think you are gonna become famous.”

“Yeah!” said James, his plate almost completely cleared. “I want—”

“Stop tapping your plate with that fork, son,” I said.

He quickly set his fork down before continuing. “Um… I want you to become famous so I can tell all of my friends at school.”

“Oh!” said Loretta. “Become famous so you can brag to your schoolmates. In that case, I must make it happen at once.”

“Your mother’s kidding you, son. We never brag… about ourselves, or about members of our family. Especially in the Soviet Union! Such antics are frowned upon. And it’s actually one of the values here that I believe should be applied everywhere. Humility is a beautiful thing. Haven’t your American teachers hammered that message home yet, son?”

“No, they just—”

“Yes, they have!” said Ginger. “Mrs. Jones said everyone is supposed to be treated equally at all times. No one is rich or poor. No one is smart or dumb. No one is strong or weak. No one is ugly or pretty.”

“Hmm!” said Loretta. “Where is Mrs. Jones from again?”

“She’s from Boston,” said Ginger.

“Ah, yes!” I said. “She’s the woman who’s married to the Ford factory engineer. I actually met him. Told me that autoworkers from the U.S. are flooding here. The pay is better. The housing is darn near free. America’s Depression is turning the Soviet Union into the Soviet States of America. The only man in America who’s had a penny to his name in the last five years is John Dillinger. And he’s been dead for two months.”

“Really!” said Loretta. “What happened?”

“Cover your ears, kids.” Both obeyed my order and I spoke softly to Loretta. “Hoover’s agents shot him dead at the Biograph Theater in Chicago back in July.”

“Oh my!” she said.

I motioned for them to uncover their ears.

“Who is John Dillinger?” said Ginger.

“He was a bad guy, honey,” I said, moving her plate closer to her. “A bank robber. Eat your fish and carrots, too, sweetie.”

“I want to go to Chicago, Daddy,” said James. “I want to go back to America on the Trumpet and see the Statue of Liberty again with Uncle Bobby and Aunt Dorene. And I want to see Milwaukee, where you were born, and I want to see Philadelphia, where Mommy was born. And I want to see the Mississippi River and compare it to the Seine in Paris. Please, Daddy!”

“You will, son. Someday. You will.”

“Mr. Fort-Whiteman said America is the worst place on earth,” said Ginger. “He said here, in the Soviet Union, they treat brown people like human beings, not like animals the way they do in his hometown of Dallas, Texas.”

“What?” I said. “Why is he talking to you about this sort of thing?”

“Isn’t he your chemistry teacher?” said Loretta. “What does any of that have to do with science? Did he really tell you that?”

Ginger nodded big and chewed her carrots so we could all see them.

“Close your mouth, Ginger,” I sternly said. “You know better than to chew with your mouth open. You’re eleven, not three.”

James grinned at my scolding of his twin sister, who always overplayed her sadness whenever I so much as hinted at being upset with her. This time was no different. She put her fork down and just stared at her plate. Loretta and I ignored her, certain she’d be back to normal within seconds.

“I need to go have a talk with this Mr. Fort-Whiteman,” I said.

“Maybe you should let me, your much gentler wife, go pay him a visit. I’ve spoken to Lovett several times already.”

“Who?” I said. “Lovett? You’re on a first-name basis, huh?”

“Yes, Lovett Fort-Whiteman. He’s a colored man from the U.S. He’s usually out in front of the school greeting parents in the morning. And I’ll have you know… he most certainly is a proud, card-carrying communist, a formal member. He couldn’t wait to tell me all about it. Said he won’t stop until every American he meets is converted. And he’s even a leader of some sort within the American branch.”

“You learned all of this during those brief visits?”

“Who said they were brief , love?” She smiled. “He is awfully handsome.”

“Oooh, Mommy!” said James, crinkling up his face, embarrassed that his mother had hinted about another man’s attractiveness, the entire back-and-forth prompting Ginger to perk up and chime in, too.

“Yeah, Mommy! Oooh!”

“I third that!” I said. “Oooh, Mommy!”

Loretta reached across the table and took my hand. “Now come on, love. I said he was handsome . I didn’t say stunning and breathtakingly gorgeous. Only you fit that category.” She kissed my hand. “You hear that, children?”

They both smiled and nodded, overjoyed at seeing her being affectionate toward me. This sort of loving playfulness between Loretta and me always tickled them. We were all so close and happy, so completely connected.

Vladivostok, Russia

October 1937

I’D BEEN BACK AT THE TRANSIT CAMP FOR A WEEK NOW, REUNITED with my son and the other four comrades from my compartment. My right hand was stitched up and wrapped, and my left arm was in a cast, as Leonid’s kick had fractured the humerus bone about two inches above the elbow joint.

I’d found it interesting to learn during my visit to the Camp Z hospital that the man who’d fixed me, a Dr. Smirnov, like all of the other doctors and nurses within Stalin’s entire camp system, was a prisoner as well.

I was still waiting for someone official to tell me that my sentence had indeed been reduced to eight years. But after the officers at Camp Z had learned of my injuries and inability to do any more forestry work, they immediately sent me back here, never showing me any papers or holding a private meeting with me to discuss a sentence change. I was just left to wonder. These men were shamelessly unethical and dishonest. Nothing they’d ever tell me from this point forward would mean a single thing. It was the land of empty promises.