Jason Overstreet: Beneath the Darkest Sky

It was in this private room that I’d explained to them what the escape plan was. I had reiterated how important it was for them to drop to the dirt as soon as the gun was fired. I’d even demonstrated how they needed to fall. “Don’t jerk backward,” I’d said. “Just fall straight to the ground and come to rest wherever your body’s natural movement stops. If you’re still on your knees and slumped over, fine… just stay there.”

“I will have no problem falling, Daddy,” Ginger had said. “I’ve been wanting to drop to my knees and rest for almost two years.”

The feeling of guilt I felt for not having kept my daughter safe was uncontrollable. She and James were sixteen now, she as tall as her mother, and James only an inch shorter than I. They were all grown up, but with real-life educations that were far too advanced.

Our rehearsal had gone well, but I also knew that the darkness would aid in our dangerous skit, making it difficult for Zorin’s witnesses to see details. I spent most of my time telling Loretta and the children not to scream or react when Zorin fired his gun. “He’s going to shoot at me first,” I’d said. “Just stand there and wait for your turn, as if you’ve completely accepted your fates. Trust me! This is our only chance!”

I’d also made it very clear to Zorin that his family would be killed on May 21st if I didn’t confirm our release with Xavier sometime between now and then. And I’d gotten the sense that the colonel knew I wasn’t bluffing. Still, as Zorin raised the gun and pointed it at me, I couldn’t help but fear that he had decided to use real bullets.

We were lined up almost shoulder-to-shoulder, me to our far right next to Loretta, James on the far left next to Ginger, the only light emanating from the white Ford Coupe’s headlights that had been left on in the distance. Zorin pulled the trigger and bang ! Then another bang ! I dropped to the dirt like a sack of potatoes and lay there on my left side about five feet in front of the pit, relieved that the bastard had actually kept his word. I was alive and well.

I listened to the next two shots ring out and then felt Loretta’s arm slap against my shoulder. And as the next four blanks were fired, we listed to our babies fall to the ground, doing everything in their power to act out the scene like seasoned thespians. God bless them!

“PROSHCHAY!” yelled Zorin, which meant, “Good-bye, Americans!”

“PROSHCHAY AMERIKANTSEV!” yelled the other men.

“OSIP!” yelled Zorin. “You and Roman take their pictures and then throw them in the graves and bury them!” He turned and began walking toward his car. “We have some steak and potatoes to eat!”

“Da!” said the other high-ranking officer, following him. “And some good vodka!”

The two nameless guards joined them, the four getting into Zorin’s black vehicle and driving away. As soon as they were out of sight, Osip approached us.

“Stay lying there,” he said, as I opened my eyes a bit and watched him take the small can of animal blood from his bag. “Go get the camera and lamp from the white Ford, Roman.”

Roman nodded and walked away, while Osip continued rummaging through the bag. When Roman returned with the brightly lit lamp and set it near our bodies, Osip dipped a paintbrush into the can and let a drop of blood fall to my forehead. Then he let another one drop to my chest. After he’d done the same to the others, he took the camera from Roman.

“Go get the shovels from the trunk now, Roman,” he said.

After he’d taken several photos of the dead Sweet family, he wiped the blood from our faces with a wet rag.

“You can stand now,” he said.

As we got to our feet, there was no hugging or talking, for the situation was still very much fluid, our hearts and minds racing. The six of us began shoveling dirt into the pit until it was completely covered. When we were finished, we returned to the white Coupe and I removed several bags from the trunk. Inside them were their new clothes, fancy hats, and one of my suits. We quickly removed our raggedy, bloodstained zek uniforms and got properly dressed. Osip and Roman then patted us all down and checked the bags.

After they were finished, James and I hopped in the white Coupe, myself behind the wheel this time, James in back, Osip in the passenger’s seat with a loaded pistol. Roman was driving the beige Coupe behind us with the ladies sitting in the backseat. A long drive to Leningrad awaited us.

The following afternoon we pulled up to the beautiful Hotel Astoria in Leningrad. We would be spending one night here, checking in as the Robeson family, all of us sporting our new clothes and fancy hats. Before I’d left Berlin, Bobby had given me our new, fake passports. He’d had them made way back in late January before we’d ever met with Dallas Conrad, as part of my plan involved us leaving the Soviet Union disguised as the famed Paul Robeson’s family. The international Negro star was now a true hero to the Soviet people. There was no one more beloved in the country, save for Joseph Stalin.

The next morning, after James and the ladies had covered their drab faces with lots of makeup, we drove to the train station, parked the vehicles, and approached the terminal. As we stood in line and waited for our turn at the ticket counter, folks began staring at us, obviously curious to know more about the foreign-looking, well-dressed colored people.

Osip and Roman took our passports and placed them on the ticket counter. The young agent seemed to be enamored with the names he was reading, so he turned to the guard standing behind him, signaling for him to approach. Both continued reading the passports.

“Robeson?” said the guard. “Vy svyazany s Pol’ Robeson?”

“Yes,” I said in Russian. “I am related to Paul Robeson. He is my brother.” I grabbed Loretta, James, and Ginger, pulling them in close. “And this is my wife and our children.”

The guard smiled real big, holding my passport up as if it were a piece of gold.

“Can we take a photograph of you and your family?” he said. “No one here has a camera, but I can have one retrieved from the east office. It will only take five or ten minutes.”

“Well,” I said, “we don’t normally—”

“I am the Robeson family’s military host,” said Osip, chiming in. “Their tour guide! We really don’t have time. Besides, they have been constantly swarmed during their tour of the country. And if you start taking pictures of them, a huge crowd will gather and it will be chaos.” He looked at Roman. “This is my security aide. If some of your staff would like to take a quick photograph with the Robesons, we could come inside one of the administrative offices back there and organize a private session. Roman here can use his camera and send you all a picture in the mail.”

“Very good!” said the guard, he and the ticket agent smiling. “Please come around to the side door.”

Minutes later, the four of us stood in one of the back rooms, several guards and other staff members surrounding us as Roman clicked away. Of course these were pictures no one would ever see. Still, you would have thought I was Paul Robeson himself the way these Soviets were treating us, huge grins pasted on all of their faces. The reach of the famous colored American was on full display.

When we arrived in Riga later that night, we took a taxi from the station to the Riga Hotel, a destination Osip had just now learned of. We all sat in the busy lobby while Roman checked into a room.

“When we get everyone settled in the room,” said Osip to me, “you and I will go call Xavier. He and Luc are to drive here with Zorin’s family and park out front. They are to wait until nightfall.”