Voroshilovgrad (47 page)

The head of the Chicago Methodists greatly appreciated the
sisters' willingness to spread the teachings of their church among members of the Donbas proletariat and the German colonists of Northern Russia. So, upon receiving the assistance promised to them, the sisters began preparing for their tour.

Olga, who had seemed to be listening attentively, chose this moment to break in: “There's something I forgot to say. Don't you find it a bit strange how closely their little gang has stuck together, through the years? I remember back in the '80s, when we were still young, their whole crew—Injured, Ernst, all those guys—didn't want anything to do with me and my friends. They didn't want any more problems. For instance, I remember how Ernst got caught for selling contraband jeans once . . .”

“Contraband jeans?”

“Uh-huh. He would buy designer jeans, rip them in half, pack them up, and sell each leg separately. Actually,” Olga added, “business-wise, it was a pretty good idea.”

“So what happened?”

“Well, they paid off the cops. They didn't leave Ernst hanging. They stuck by him. And I think that's why they've always had so many problems . . . because they always stick by each other, no matter what. They stick together and dig in. Think how many of them are gone already—most of them didn't even make it to forty. I think that they'd be better off if each of them would just look out for themselves, you know?”

“Yeah, maybe we'd all be better off.”

“All right,” she said. “Sorry. Keep going.”

             
In March of 1914, the sisters set off on the Mesopotamia, a vessel owned by the Russian-Malaysian Steamship Company. Barbara Carroll, an Irish-American and one of their oldest friends, as well as Maria de las Mercedes, a fellow singer and church member of Mexican descent—and who had good reason to leave the country after the church administration accused her of embezzling donation money—joined the Abrams sisters on their religious mission.

                 
The steamship that took the quartet across the Atlantic Ocean was primarily used by Russian émigrés, living near the ports of Crimea and Pryazovia in the hope of securing passage to somewhere, anywhere, else. On the return trip from America to Eurasia the vessel would be half-empty, which naturally led to a spike in the number of contraband goods on board, and facilitated a close bond between the majority of the crew and various smugglers. Back in New York, the Mesopotamia, primarily operated by Greeks and Gypsies, would be partially loaded with canned meat, manufactured goods, and mail sacks. Phonographs, which were highly sought after in Europe at the time, would also be shipped across the Atlantic.

                 
The
Mesopotamia
happened to be one of the company's oldest vessels and was long overdue for repairs. It was designed to accommodate one hundred first-class passengers and roughly five hundred émigrés. The Abrams sisters were allotted a room in one of the empty holds; they rarely came out and had almost no contact with the crew.
One should note that the sailors, who received a rather hefty sum for agreeing to transport the women, were quite apprehensive about this particular venture, and even rather belligerent toward them at times.

                 
According to the younger of the Abrams sisters, Sarah, the voyage was arduous and interminable. The steamship sailed sluggishly through the green March Atlantic, its half-empty metal womb jangling. Scavenging seagulls had been trailing the ship all the way from New York. The Greek sailors would shoot them down with their revolvers, and they'd drop into the cold water like white roses. Terrified, the Abrams sisters locked themselves in their hold, which was as big as gymnasium, listening to the shots and quietly singing their spirituals.

                 
The steamship made its first stop off the coast of Newfoundland. The island was covered by its usual blanket of fog, and as soon as the crew found themselves surrounded by this flesh, thick, milky substance, they stopped, not daring to venture any further into that wet, churning haze, populated by whales and icy mountains. The next morning, the Abrams sisters stepped out onto the deck, and on seeing the glaciers all around them, they started singing hymns. The sailors, who were bewildered at first, eventually joined in. Shortly afterward, the fog rolled out to the west, and the
Mesopotamia
reached the coast safely.

                 
The ship set off again after a few days. The women divided their time between singing and chatting. They hardly had anything with them except for a change of
clothes, some psalm books, their anarchist pamphlets, and two canvas bags stuffed with American dollars. The younger two, Barbara and Maria, asked Gloria endless questions about what awaited them. Gloria said that she didn't know a whole lot about Russia, but she had heard that life in the cities they were going to tour differed significantly from life in the United States. According to her, the local women were all fantastic singers and had perfect pitch, while the men usually accompanied them on their instruments. Unfortunately, sharp class disparities and cruel exploitation of the masses by their capitalist rulers had kept these men and women from being able to perfect their musical talents by singing the Lord's praises. Barbara and Maria were excited, greatly anticipating their arrival and performances in faraway lands, but the younger Abrams sister, Sarah, was struggling with life at sea, crippled by seasickness and exhausting bouts of insomnia.

                 
She would roam the lower reaches of the ship at night, stepping into spaces forgotten even by the crew, stealthily edging down dark, metal hallways, opening secret doors, behind which she found chambers of stagnant gloom. When she discovered the cache of phonographs, she took those odd, elaborate apparatuses, placed them on the floor in a ring all around her, wound them up, and turned them all on simultaneously, catching a rhythm, as imperceptible as a draft, in the resulting cluster of sounds and songs, and slipped into a deep sleep at the very bottom of the ship's floating metal heart. She would take out new needles for
the phonographs, sharp and shiny, and pierce her palms. Her raspberry-colored blood would glimmer dimly in the dark glow of the lamp, dripping down onto the floor and attracting vulnerable ship rats.

                 
One night, as she was walking down the hallways in an insomniac haze, Sarah came across yet another hold, one that she hadn't seen before. She could hear some whispering and moaning behind the door. Frightened as she was, she mustered up all of her courage and opened it. The black metal room beyond was filled with terrified and exhausted sheep. They were all bunched together, standing completely still and murmuring relentlessly into the void. Turning on the light, Sarah saw sparks ignite in their eyes, and only then did the blood become visible—they were up to their knees in it. The room was awash in a sea of blood, which rolled back and forth with the boat's motion, and the sheep, convinced that they were doomed, just stared at Sarah, not even bothering to rush for the now open door. The girl dropped to her knees, hugged the nearest animals, and started singing them spirituals. Gloria only found her the next day, in among the herd. Her sister was whispering to herself, tears trickling down her face. Gloria tossed a heavy Scottish blanket over her shoulders and led her back to her bed. Sarah fell asleep immediately, and slumbered until their arrival in Liverpool, as if she didn't have a care in the world.

                 
The ship was halted in Liverpool and deemed a health hazard by the authorities. The captain, an old Bessarabian Gypsy, instructed his crew to raise the yellow and black
quarantine flag. Port doctors who came aboard diagnosed many of the crewmembers with syphilis, so the sailors were strongly encouraged to remain on the
Mesopotamia
. The crew was trapped. In the evenings, the whole choir would get together on the deck and sing quiet, despondent spirituals for them, making their hearts burn passionately and drop into their stomachs like golden stars falling into the emerald Atlantic. The sailors organized feasts and treated the women to contraband rum and pungent Turkish tobacco, telling them about their escapades in the brothels of Odessa and the yellow Bessarabian sun that sears the apple orchards white like a child's hair. After a week in the harbor, the
Mesopotamia's
crew mustered up enough courage to make their escape. The sailors raised anchor at night, and left the unwelcoming city of Liverpool behind, continuing along their planned route.

                 
The ship made its next stop in Marseille, where the crew got themselves into a rather unfortunate jam when they went to the local markets to refill their provisions and tried selling some canned buffalo meat that they had been hauling for a good month or so. Some customs officers happened to get their hands on the sailors' contraband and detained the men as smugglers. The crewmembers were quick on their feet, however, and so started a massive fight, which allowed them to make good their escape, carrying their injured friends back with them. The
Mesopotamia
was forced to vacate the port of Marseilles immediately. The voyage was quickly wrapping up; the Americans took to
gazing into the distance apprehensively, catching wind of the disquieting African heat.

                 
Shortly thereafter, the steamship reached the Black Sea, passing the golden Crimean coasts and winding up in the bitter, frothy waters of the Sea of Azov. At the beginning of April, the
Mesopotamia
arrived in Mariupol.

“My mom used to go to Mariupol all the time,” Olga said. “For work, mostly.”

“What'd she do for a living?”

“Something to do with the railroad. She was hardly ever home. I don't really remember her all that well. She died when I was real young. She was always running off somewhere, and I would get this feeling when she was just about to leave, knowing I'd have to wait and wait for her to come back again . . . I remember that real well. I'd always be running to the train station and looking at the trains, hoping I'd see her there. I was pretty young, obviously. From then on they've been these terrible things you can just find yourself in, but you can't ever seem to get out again. What were you most afraid of as a kid?” “Americans,” I answered after thinking for a bit.

“What's wrong with Americans?” Olga asked. “Americans are fine. They invented jazz.”

“Dunno. I didn't know anything about jazz as a kid.”

“I was scared of train attendants,” Olga said. “I still can't stand them. And conductors. And accountants too.” And then, after a bit: “Hey—can you take me home tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

“Just make sure you don't forget. That motherfucker over there”

“I won't.”

“Okay,” she said. “Okay.”

             
The port of Mariupol, which was always packed with Turkish and Moroccan vessels at the time, truly impressed the Abrams sisters with its celebratory hum. The outdoor bazaars and cramped shops were filled with high-quality, affordable goods from Asia Minor and Western Europe; the dock buildings concealed treasures that had been shipped there from all over the world. Right there, in a port restaurant, the Abrams sisters signed a contract to sing their spirituals at concerts for the workers of the Novorossiya metal works and the French-Russian Association's mines. The missionaries settled in at the Tsar David, an inexpensive yet cozy hotel in town. According to Sarah Abrams's personal account of the trip, the local promoters, who were most likely coming into contact with African-Americans for the very first time, did their utmost to ensure that the women's stay was as pleasant as possible. The sisters immediately got to work, truly embracing their new audience. Their first performances at the metal workers' clubs were wildly successful and allowed the sisters to win them over at once. They flocked to the sisters' concerts, terribly enthusiastic about the North American spirituals, while the Americans in turn began to pick up various local customs and church practices, though they found them rather strange, as they combined aspects of more orthodox Christian teachings
with paganism. The peculiar fusion of religions and literary traditions that had arisen as a result of a most fortunate confluence of circumstances and conveniently placed seaports provided the Abrams sisters with an abundant source of new inspiration. Within weeks, Gloria Abrams had written a few new songs that eventually became classics.

                 
At the end of May, the sisters moved from Mariupol to Yuzivka, which Sarah Abrams described as “mostly a city of one- or two-story buildings, most notable for its fabulous stores, offices, banks, and constant improvements. The first-class hotels, the Great Britain and the Grand Hotel, attracted a multitude of businessmen from Belgium and Britain seeking to get rich quick. Yuzivka was a real gold-mine for Western businessmen who were lacking opportunities in their native countries. We were housed in one of the Novorossiya Company's cottages, along with skilled workers, engineers, and the company's British specialists. The Coliseum and Saturn movie theaters were packed every evening with dynamic, boisterous crowds, happily showing off their new outfits from the ports of America and Japan. The workers, on the other hand, preferred teahouses, public libraries, and bathhouses, while on the weekends they frequented churches and numerous gospel halls. Our music was well received and the locals expressed their solidarity with the working class of the United States of America.”

                 
One can only guess why those unfamiliar African-American rhythms appealed to the Eastern European workers.
Possibly it was that the Abrams sisters sang about life in America's proletarian neighborhoods, about the working man and his daily struggles and concerns. The sentiments expressed by these North American vocalists were easily understood and shared by a large cross-section of the local working class. The sisters' popularity rose; they could always be found at union clubs and Sunday services. The Methodist Church had discovered an incredible tool for propagating their religion—the girls spread the word, and jazz would ultimately secure yet another convincing victory, winning over a completely new audience who had never encountered anything like it before.