since his parents had been so vocal in ordering him to remain inside that night when it seems so many other people were doing just the opposite. The crowd had their backs turned to him, in a semicircle, maybe one hundred in total; less like a crowd, he realized, and more like an audience. Those at the back and on the edges were holding burning branches, flickering lanterns, stage lights spitting red sparks into the night sky. They needed the lanterns since there wasn’t much moonlight, only a glimmer every now and then when the heavy clouds lumbered out of the moon’s way. Jess thought that this was a well-dressed group of people, considering they were in forest. There were women in crisp dresses. There were girls wearing matching outfits. The men wore shirts, tucked into their pants. It was like they were dressed for church, or the theatre. Some people were fanning themselves with straw hats, ladies were shooing away mosquitoes and flies with dainty swipes of their dainty fingers, but Jesse could see the sweat stains on their backs; they weren’t so different from him after all.
They hadn’t noticed little Jesse, standing silently behind a tree – his arms full of wood, his hair knotted with leaves, his clothes as scruffy as if they’d been knitted from the foliage on the forest floor. The audience were captivated by what was happening in front of them but Jesse couldn’t figure out what could be so entertaining this far into the woods. He was too short to see what was happening and he didn’t dare move from behind the tree for the audience was all white and it wasn’t wise to interfere.
As though a spell had been cast, every single man and woman and child in the clearing looked up into the trees at exactly the same time. Jesse looked up too, hoping to see a firework, a burst of brilliant stars. Instead, he saw what they had gathered to watch – it was a dance, two legs dancing in the sky; a jerky dance, not like one he’d ever seen before, a dance where the two black, shoeless feet didn’t touch the ground, a dance without rhythm and without music, a silent dance that lasted no more than a minute or two.
By the time those legs were done with their dance, Jesse had crushed all the twigs in his arms and his shoes were covered in ground-up bark. A man in the audience lifted up a bulky box camera and a bulb flashed, burning bright for an instant and exposing everything hidden by the night. To this day Jesse wondered why the man waited till the end to take his photograph. Maybe he didn’t want to miss a moment of that entertaining dance.
When the young Russian girl had asked him earlier why he’d sacrificed so much for Communism, when strangers and friends and families had asked him why he couldn’t shut his mouth about politics and enjoy the money, he’d never told them the truth. What had turned him into a Communist? It wasn’t the hatred his family encountered when they’d moved to New York, or the insulting things that anyone had ever said to him. It wasn’t the poverty, or the struggle his parents had faced just to make ends meet. On the opening night of his first major concert, onstage in a crowded auditorium, looking out at the well-heeled white people clapping as he danced and sang, he knew that they loved him only while his legs moved to a rhythm and only while his lips made song and not speech. Once the show was over, once his legs no longer danced, they wanted nothing to do with him.
Being loved onstage wasn’t enough. Singing wasn’t nearly enough.
Manhattan United Nations Headquarters The General Assembly Hall 1st Avenue amp; East 44th Street
It was an audience of the most important diplomats in the world – every United Nations envoy had been invited. The assembly hall was full. The concert was due to start. Like a child before a school play, Raisa stole a glance from backstage, wondering if her nervousness about tonight’s performance had manifested itself as paranoia. Her imagination had run away with her, drawing inspiration from her past when every ord was loaded with danger and intrigue. It was not her clothes that had revealed her as provincial but the way in which she’d panicked, unsettled at being given such a grand platform. She was embarrassed at the way she’d behaved. The successful dress rehearsal had steadied her, calmed her down, given her a sense of proportion and made her earlier outburst feel ridiculous.
She regarded the Soviet students: they’d lined up and were ready to walk out onto the stage. Her job was to reassure them, not to be flustered. Passing each one with a smile and words of encouragement, she approached Elena. Raisa had reluctantly relented, allowing Elena to sing, fearing that if she did not, Elena would blame Leo and hate him. However, they’d barely spoken since the argument and a sense of awkwardness remained. Raisa crouched down, whispering:
– This is new for me too. The pressure became a little too much. I’m sorry. I know you’re going to be amazing. I hope you can enjoy the evening. I hope I haven’t spoiled this for you – that was never my intention.
Elena was crying. Raisa hastily wiped away her daughter’s tears.
– Don’t cry. Please, or I’ll start.
Raisa smiled, to cover the fact that she was close to tears, adding:
– It’s my fault. Not Leo’s, don’t be angry with him. Just concentrate on the performance. Have fun. Enjoy tonight.
Raisa was about to return to the front of the students when Elena took her hand, saying:
– Mother, I would never be involved in anything that wouldn’t make you proud of me.
The use of the word mother had been deliberate. Fearful that she would not be able to control her emotions, Raisa uttered a quick response:
– I know.
Raisa hurried back into position, composing herself, ready to lead her students onto the stage. She breathed deeply, determined to succeed. This was a remarkable event. Many years ago, in the Great Patriotic War, a refugee, her only thought had been to survive. As a teacher in Moscow during Stalin’s reign, her only ambition had been to avoid arrest. Were she to go back in time and show that fearful young woman a glimpse of her future – a prestigious international audience in this remarkable hall with two beautiful daughters by her side – it would be impossible to believe. Her only wish was that Leo could be here with her, not because of any plot or treachery – she bitterly regretted putting the idea into his head – but because no other person understood the journey she’d made.
The musical cue was given. The orchestra was ready. The audience fell silent. Side by side with the American head teacher, Raisa led her students out. The applause was polite and she sensed not without an undercurrent of uncertainty. No one was quite sure how this unprecedented performance was going to turn out.
*
Walking onto the stage, Elena reassured herself that she hadn’t lied: her mother was certain to be proud when she understood what she was trying to achieve – a much-needed show of love and admiration for Jesse Austin, a man wrongly persecuted for his convictions, a brilliant man beaten down by state oppression because of his belief in fairness and love. Of course, Raisa would be angry at first, furious by the fact that it had remained a secret. She would be angry that she’d not been told. Once that anger faded, then surely she would understand, perhaps she would even admire Elena’s courage.
Regarding the hall, the decorations, the flags and the elitist audience, the political aristocracy dressed in fine clothes, Elena considered the spectacle artificial, disconnected from any real problems or issues. The concert carried no promise of social change or progress, sterilized, stripped of any anger or outrage to avoid offending their hosts. The protests on the street were not against one government or another, they would be universal, against intolerance and hatred, against inequity and an approach to human life that was inhumane. The world needed a second Revolution, a revolution of civil rights. Communism was the best vehicle for that Revolution. How could Raisa not be proud of what she and Jesse Austin were about to achieve? The applause came to a stop.
Harlem Bradhurst 8th Avenue amp; West 139th Street Nelson’s Restaurant
Reasonably priced and always busy, the restaurant was named after its owner, Nelson, a man much loved by those who lived in the area. He was fair to his staff and always knew whether to trade jokes with the customers or
