Jason Overstreet - Beneath the Darkest Sky

I casually nodded, realizing that Bobby hadn’t received my letter telling him we’d been arrested. I’d written it earnestly, half believing it would only be a matter of time now before we were released. It had given me the impetus to work hard and remain in decent spirits.

“Was this comrade in Moscow when you were arrested?”

“No.”

“When did you last correspond with him?”

“I sent him a letter in August, which he likely received in September. So, maybe four months.”

“How often do you correspond?” he said, setting his cigar in the ashtray.

“At least a letter every five months.”

“Do you cable each other?”

“We hadn’t since he’d left. But it would be something he would do only if it was urgent.”

“Sounds like it is about time for him to hear from you to keep him from being concerned. But it seems that won’t happen. What do you believe your Moscow friends and neighbors are thinking about your absence now?”

“My wife and I were traveling to Stalingrad and Leningrad a lot. She was… is ... a noted painter here. So the neighbors likely think we are away doing showings.”

“Neighbors are too afraid to say a word to anyone anyway when they know of an arrest. They are only worried about themselves. You could be gone for ten years and they’d never say a thing. NKVD has everyone afraid of his or her own shadow. Besides, what your neighbors don’t know is that NKVD has already emptied your apartment during the night. Your belongings are being stored somewhere and your place has been rented to someone else. By the way, many artists, like your wife, and writers have been arrested. And their comrades won’t report it. Believe me. Too terrified that they’ll be put on a list also. What does this comrade you speak of do?”

“He’s a diplomat.”

“Ah. Not good. He will be one to go poking around. Very much not good.”

He stood and walked around the desk until he was at a cabinet next to the door behind me. Returning with a bottle and two tin cups, he sat again. The label on the bottle read ubróvka , a brand of vodka I recognized, as Bobby enjoyed it.

“Does this comrade think you’re still in Moscow?” he said, pouring two drinks and handing me one.

“Thank you, Commander. Yes, he does.”

He held up his cup and I followed suit, both of us downing the tasty stuff. It would be the first time since Moscow that I’d perhaps have my emotions numbed a bit, a more than welcome possibility.

“Hear me,” he said. “Your comrade needs to keep believing that you live there, as far as NKVD is concerned. Or, even better, I will give you some strong advice that might keep you alive longer, Comrade Sweet. It will keep this comrade from pestering Moscow NKVD about you.”

“Okay.”

“I am doing this only because I feel that if I help at least one decent zek in this world stay alive, especially a black one who makes me think of my sister’s husband, maybe my Trotsky will look upon me someday with pride. I am doing this for Trotsky. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Write another letter to this comrade and tell him you have moved with your family to Leningrad. Tell him you are all happy and fine. Tell him, however, that your wife and children are still traveling a lot with her paintings, and that you’ve been hired to do a quite lucrative engineering job at the port here at Nagaev Bay for at least six months. There is actually construction being done down there as we speak. I say this all to keep you alive. Makes sense, yes?”

“Yes.”

“The bags of zek mail here at the Magadan post office are kept separate from the free hires’ mail. And it is all shipped to Moscow postal before it goes anywhere else. I will drop your letter in the free hires’ bags when I take my mail over to the post office.”

“Thank you, Commander.”

“Moscow postal might then forward it to NKVD, but once they read it and realize you’re from Leningrad, and that you’re only temporarily working at Nagaev Bay, they will let it go out. There are only a handful of officials in this entire country who know of you. No random NKVD policeman or postal worker is going to recognize your name whatsoever. They deal with millions, you see. But, of course, you’ll never receive your comrade’s return letters, as you must use a fictitious Leningrad address. I will give you a good one. I used to live there.”

“Well,” I said, “he probably won’t write back until July, especially if he believes I’m busy here at Nagaev Bay. But still, once his letter eventually comes, it will be returned to him. Not good. I mean, maybe he won’t write back until August, but then again, maybe sooner, if he thinks Loretta might forward it to me.”

“Ah,” he said, pouring us both another vodka, “I know what to do. It is now late January. Don’t send the letter for two weeks.”

He held his tin cup up again and I did the same. Then he nodded and we drank before slamming our cups down, both of us feeling the vodka.

“Now,” he said, “one of the free hires here, a medical equipment technician who I know and trust, Kirill, is returning to Leningrad in March. He, like me, is a Trotskyist. A lot of us Trotskyists know one another. There are more than you would think amongst the free hires, guards, and even the Dalstroi and Sevvostlag officials. And we’re brave. Not afraid to take risks. We always help one another. Anyway, I know another loyal Trotskyist who works for Leningrad postal named Rodion. I will have Kirill track him down and tell him in person to set up a post office box in your name. Rodion will then check the box weekly while at work, but will simply save the letters for you. He won’t write back to your comrade, obviously.”

“Thank you, Commander Koskinen,” I said.

“Ah, a problem! I will have to first cable Rodion and tell him that my cousin from Moscow is moving to Leningrad and would like to set up a post office box until he gets situated. The cable will tell Rodion this: ‘Please assign a number to P. Orlov and cable me back the box number so I can inform my cousin, who wants to begin having his mail forwarded.’ Then I will simply explain the truth of the matter to Kirill and he can relay it to Rodion in person, you know, explain that the box is actually for you. Rodion will switch the name. You see, we have to get a box number before you send your letter. And, of course, I have no cousin in Moscow.”

“I can’t thank you enough,” I said, truly stunned at his kind gesture.

“This should work for a while, until your comrade realizes you’re not answering any of his questions. Yes?”

“Yes,” I said. “Could work for a year or so before he grows truly suspicious.”

“But maybe our Trotskyist takeover will happen before then. It is only a matter of time before we Trotskyists rise up and retake control by force, allowing our Leon Trotsky to return and lead us. Many men with guns across the country, and many inside the Kremlin, are Trotskyists. All of us former and current military men are simply awaiting the Kremlin overthrow. I won’t say his name, but a top member of the Politburo is a Trotskyist. He is in position to seize power and send orders to us loyalists. We want a war. Understand?”

“Very much.”

“Still,” he said, picking up his cigar, “I can’t help you beyond this mailbox arrangement. But just know that NKVD would never release you if your comrade learned of your arrest and demanded such.”

“I understand, Commander.”

“They would tell him you’d committed certain crimes against the State and then proceed to secretly kill all four of you in order to prevent an ongoing investigation by your government, and that’s assuming your Roosevelt would even consider such. He has never done so for any other to this date. Why would he concern himself with a Negro? It is this simple.”