Jason Overstreet - Beneath the Darkest Sky

“Hell,” said Bobby, “Litvinov knew we meant credit.”

“There’s this to consider,” said Bullitt. “The Soviets owe England, France, Germany, and others far more than they owe us. So, in Litvinov’s defense, he feels that they cannot just pay us off or other nations will demand immediate pay as well. He reasons that if, however, we give them a loan that is double the debt they owe us, the other nations will see it as a type of deal they simply can’t afford. He says the interest rate we agree to build in will ultimately leave the U.S. and Soviet Union on agreeable terms.”

“Ah!” said Loy. “So their idea of progress with these other countries is to kick the can down the road and hope that they magically forget what is owed them. Brilliant!”

Bullitt took a drag and frowned. “We’re not worried about these other damn countries right now, Loy. It’s about getting our debt settled. Focus! Can you do that for me, Loy?”

“Yes, but forget about the nations they owe money to for a second here. Besides the obvious concern regarding Germany, I’m growing weary of the aforementioned Japan and the ever-so-enigmatic Italy. I just can’t help but envision men like Emperor Hirohito and Mussolini doing the unthinkable. I’m hoping like hell we can keep the Soviets with us, regardless of what happens.”

Bullitt threw his cigarette on the ground and picked up Pie-Pie. “Well, the good thing is, in terms of Litvinov and me, things are still fluid. He may not admit it, but he knows that the ‘gentleman’s agreement’ was signed between him and Roosevelt last November, in which they agreed to have ongoing talks about payment of debt. He can’t run from it. Changing the subject, men, what’s the latest on the Christmas Eve party? I want it to be mainly comprised of American guests, but let’s invite the French, German, and U.K. ambassadors as well. And try to get Litvinov and maybe some members of the Politburo there. They probably won’t attend, but give it a shot. How’s the planning coming along with Charles? Talk to me, George.”

“It’s full steam ahead, William. Charles has had no hiccups. The event will show Spaso House off like nothing they’ve ever seen before.”

“Good. But it’s the party in the spring that I want to really be our main event. We’ll call it the Spring Festival. We have seven months to plan it, so everyone should be able to come. And at the Spring Festival, I want every damn important Soviet in the country to attend, including Stalin. I want them to have the best time of their lives. When they think of America, I want them to think of bliss. I want them to equate America with a big, fucking, never-ending party.”

“With seven months to plan,” said Bobby, “I’m sure everyone will indeed be there. But I’m looking forward to the Christmas Eve party for now.”

“I wish I were going to be here to see it myself,” said Bullitt. “I’m sure you’ll fill me in, George.”

“Most assuredly. When do you leave for Washington?”

“October 10th,” said Bullitt. “I understand the famous Negro actor, Paul Robeson, is planning to be here in Moscow in December as well. You should invite him.”

“He won’t come,” said Bobby. “Some members of Stalin’s Politburo being here is understandable because it’s viewed by the public as two nations simply gathering on a leadership level. Robeson, on the other hand, is of the people, of the revolution. Our capitalist government is part of the problem in his eyes, and his supporters would find it unacceptable for him to be hobnobbing with us. It’s really quite simple.”

I continued listening to the men ramble on about the Christmas Eve party, all the while thinking about Paul Robeson’s pending visit to Moscow. I figured Lovett might know much more about the details and I couldn’t wait to find them out.

Magadan, Russia

November 1937

WE’D SURVIVED THE LA PÉROUSE STRAIT AND THE STONE OF Danger, barely it seemed, as there’d been one day that had sent us zeks tumbling from one side of the hold to the other, many left to pick stiff bodies off of them in the dark. But the tilting, rattling ship slamming into violent waves had little effect on us, for the mental anguish we’d already survived left us half wishing the boat would run aground.

Beginning from the Sea of Japan and ending at the Sea of Okhotsk, our ship had finally entered the Nagaev Bay, where we’d disembarked near the town of Magadan, a place that, according to the old man, had been built for the sole purpose of advancing Stalin’s Dalstroi, his Far North Construction Trust. In fact, when James and I had first boarded the train back in Moscow and met the old man, he’d already known exactly where we were all going. He’d just decided not to tell us until we’d arrived in Vladivostok.

According to the old man, the Dalstroi was developed to have prisoners mine for gold that would line Stalin’s pockets. “He’s a filthy, soulless animal,” he’d said of Stalin while we were lying in our bunks back at the transit camp. “He has created a forced labor system in the far northeast called Sevvostlag that serves the needs of the Dalstroi, and it will leave more than I can imagine dead eventually. And don’t be so sure that you and your son will be mining for gold. You may be forced to continue the construction of the Kolyma Highway, a road that begins in Magadan and stretches to God knows where. Prisoners started building it in 1932.”

“It sounds like another planet!” I had said.

“If they do put you and your boy on road detail, you must know that you are building a road that is designed for the sole purpose of making it possible for future prisoners to more easily access areas rich with gold. Maybe they won’t have to walk someday, as you will.”

“He’s using us to explore new lands, Abram.”

“Yes, there have been stories of men literally making a path for a future road by exploring the mountainous terrain on foot, creating footprints for others to follow, many falling to their deaths because of the unexplored area. They were the… how do you say in English… the—”

“Guinea pigs!” I said. “Sacrificial lambs!”

“Yes.”

“I refuse to believe that this will be our fates, Abram.”

“The terrain will be horrible, the mountains, the ice… rock-hard, the frigid air… unbreathable. Whatever thick clothing they provide, take good care of it. Keep the snow out of your boots by tucking your pants into them and tying a sock around the tops tightly. Never take your ushanka off, if they give you one. Try to keep your mouth closed and breathe lightly through your nose. Keep your head down and dig.”

“We will.”

“They don’t call that highway the Road of Bones for nothing, Prescott. Many have, and will, be buried right under it.”

It was very cold and windy when we disembarked, but not nearly as cold as the old man had said it would be in December. Nor was it as cold as it would be at the mines, which were located near the distant mountains and far beyond the closer hillsides, both of which were currently being smothered by a thick fog. Still, the old man had painted a picture.

After walking inland about four miles on a road that had been partially carved through the high Nagaev Bay cliffs, we arrived at Magadan, a lonely, depressed place that resembled nothing I’d ever imagined. And it certainly wasn’t a town in any traditional sense whatsoever. It consisted of a snow-cleared dirt road, watchtowers, barbed wire, fuel tanks, and barracks. According to the guards, thousands were being held here temporarily, and it appeared that thousands more would follow, maybe millions.