Jason Overstreet - Beneath the Darkest Sky

“Your three requests,” said Pavlov. “What are they?”

“One!” I said. “As soon as you receive word from Bobby that Berlin is an affirmative, I want to be moved to the camp where my wife and daughter are being held. I want to confirm, with my own eyes, that they’re alive. Meanwhile, I can wait at that camp until we receive word from Bobby that he’s arrived in Berlin.”

“Continue,” he said.

“Two, my son must leave here with me and be allowed to remain at the camp with his mother. He is developing one sickness after another, and I worry about his long-term health. Three, I would like for a particular zek comrade of mine, Lovett Fort-Whiteman, to be allowed to remain here in Magadan and not be sent to the mines. Once I have completed the mission, I ask that Fort-Whitman be released along with my family.”

“The Kremlin will decide whether to accept your preconditions,” said Pavlov.

“Thank you. All I ask is that the assignment have a specified time length, one that would assure all of our releases in no more than one year. Otherwise Stalin must certainly know they will die in the camps if kept inside much longer than that. I can gather plenty of intelligence in twelve months.”

“Stop,” said Pavlov. “You are repeating word for word all of the terms that were in Commander Koskinen’s original letter to the Kremlin. You must have it all memorized. I can’t blame you, but we know most of this already.”

“Sorry,” I said, realizing I had indeed memorized everything word for word. Hell, I’d been walking around like a robot for weeks.

“You must know,” said Pavlov, “I would very much like to take you behind this building and shoot you in your fucking black face. And if consideration of this mission weren’t being handled at the very top level, from our Great Stalin himself, I would do just that. I’m known as a madman. Everyone from the mines to this coast believes me to be so! Have you heard this?”

“Yes,” I said, watching him clinch his jaw and turn a bit red. It was as if he hated not being in control of this situation, of having to sit there and listen to me make all of my requests.

“I am indeed a very mad man,” he said, removing his pistol from his waist and setting it on the table in front of him. “But… you’re not to be touched, you see, at least for the time being. In fact, you and your son will be sleeping in a vacant room in one of the Dalstroi barracks until Berlin is confirmed. The guard outside will return you to the camp. You are to finish your day’s work. Commander Koskinen will have you work alongside another lead engineer whom you must bring up to speed. At day’s end, you will turn your brigade over to this engineer. After you return to your barracks, gather your items and wait with your boy. We will be sending a guard to retrieve you tonight and take you to your new room. Please leave now.”

Later that night, my barracks full of tired, smelly, loud zeks once again, I sat with Lovett on the top bunk, our legs dangling down to my middle bed, where I’d had James lie and rest. I felt worried, but hopeful, a strange mix.

“We have to talk about this without saying anything that can be understood by any of these other zeks ,” I whispered to Lovett. “It’s too important to risk discussing in-depth.”

“I understand,” Lovett whispered, coughing, his body looking ever more frail and worn down.

“Just know that I intend to get you out of here, too,” I whispered. “James and I have to wait at another barracks and may not see you again before we leave, but please understand that the plan I’ve suggested has gotten the important people’s attention, and I aim to secure your release along with my family’s as soon as possible. Just try to hold on, Lovett.”

“As long as I can stay here and avoid them mines, I shouldn’t have a problem doing that, Bronzeville.”

“That’s up to Koskinen,” I whispered. “I haven’t been able to speak to him for a while, and probably won’t before we leave, but he knows how I feel about you; unfortunately, so does Director Pavlov, and he can hardly be trusted. Still, he has his hands tied.”

“If I do get out of here,” Lovett whispered, “the first thing I’m going to do is go pick up my beautiful B and take her to Morocco. You and I have already talked about our old friend Claude McKay. I told you how much he loved Morocco. Said it made him feel like writing a new poem every day. B and I could maybe settle down there and live in peace.”

“I worry about Koskinen,” I whispered. “He is so bold with how he shares his thoughts about Trotsky. And I know that Stalin has commanders murdered all of the time. In fact, Koskinen told me that the last director of the Dalstroi who was replaced by Pavlov, a man named Eduard Berzin, was arrested not long after he’d left here.”

“They all fall to Stalin,” Lovett whispered.

“Apparently he had just returned from a vacation to Italy. Stalin detests Soviets who leave the country and return. Anyway, Berzin was accused of spying for Britain and Germany and plotting to ensure that the Japanese gain control of Magadan and all of its gold mines. Koskinen said Berzin was shot and killed just two months ago at Lubyanka prison in Moscow.”

“Shit,” whispered Lovett. “If Stalin is willing to kill Brezin, he damn sure will cut Koskinen’s throat. Even though I’m sure Brezin was a murdering son of a bitch, too, he is probably responsible for putting millions of dollars’ worth of mined gold in Stalin’s pockets. And a bullet to the head was his reward. Cold to the bone!”

“I’ll tell you who was on to Stalin’s terror early on,” I said.

“Our buddies Robert Robinson and Homer Smith. They knew something evil was happening long ago. Both of them are probably trying like hell to get out of Moscow as we speak, and I know they’re too worried about their own lives to be making a stink about us. I’m sure everybody is just trying to fend for themselves.”

“Shit,” said Lovett. “I don’t blame ’em!”

“I’m gonna miss you, Lovett. Promise me you’ll stay alive until I can get you out. You’re too valuable to me and every other American Negro to die at the hands of these monsters. You and I both love Du Bois. Maybe we can work with him in the future. But, regardless of what happens, just know that your life’s work will never be forgotten. I will make sure of it. You have helped so many Negroes back home come to see that there’s more than just Jim Crow. You taught them not to ever be afraid to fight for their rights, to be brave enough to die for them, to choose the CPUSA as an alternative.”

“How right you are about us both loving Du Bois,” said Lovett, reaching inside his coat pocket and pulling out his passport. “He was always so willing to help and listen. When I was in New York in 1928, just before I came back to the Soviet Union, I wanted to see him and discuss the crisis surrounding coloreds.”

Lovett opened his passport booklet and took out an old, weathered, folded-up piece of paper. It looked as though it might break apart, like it had been wet and dry over and over again. He unfolded it and handed it to me.

“Have always held on to that,” said Lovett. “It doesn’t say anything special, but it connects me to this great man. It reveals the kind of considerate brother he was.”

I hadn’t ever told Lovett that I had spied in Harlem for over three years, all in an effort to help Du Bois’s NAACP stay afloat against Marcus Garvey’s UNIA and Back to Africa movement. Seeing this simple letter that had been written some five years after I’d already left Harlem for Paris brought it all back for a moment. I ran my finger over the typed words. The short note read: