“My David will be president,” he said a number of times as he lay on his back, stared at the ceiling, and dreamed of the future. But when the visa business dragged on and it became apparent that the child would be born in Russia, he remarked matter-of-factly one day: “Too bad. If it’s a boy, he can’t be president.” Later, when the child was born and was a girl, he said: “That’s all right. My son will be born in America. He can be president.”
It was Marina who suggested a name for the baby if it was a girl. Alik wanted an English, not a Russian, name, and remembering one of her favorite English novels, The Forsythe Saga, Marina proposed Fleur and Irene and then, finally, June.
Alik’s arms shot exultantly into the air. “That’s it! That’s the name for our daughter. Only I’m sure she won’t be a girl.” He counted back and pointed out that the child had been conceived in June. “Let’s name her June Marina. If we stay here, we’ll call her Marina. And if we go to America, she shall be June.” And that was the way they left it.
Politics scarcely intruded on their lives that winter, so taken up were they with waiting for the baby and with thoughts of leaving Russia. But in January an event occurred that, even though it was a carefully guarded secret, rocked the whole of Russia. An attempt was made on the life of Nikita Khrushchev, and it took place in Minsk.
It was the sort of thing that was unheard of in the modern USSR. In czarist Russia terrorism and assassination had been a way of life, a familiar form of political struggle. But because Lenin taught that individual terror was not acceptable, and because Stalin deported or slaughtered thousands for nonexistent plots against his life, the assassination of political leaders had faded out. Ordinary men and women were murdered, but if leaders disappeared from the face of the earth, it was done at the hands of other leaders and not of the led. Perhaps no one believed any longer that by taking violent action he could alter the course of history. Or perhaps individual Russians felt that they were so small, and the state so large, there was nothing anyone could do. Besides, if one leader died, there was always another, just as oppressive, to step into his shoes.
Then, in January of 1962, Nikita Khrushchev came to Minsk to do some shooting in the Belovezhskoye Pushche, one of his favorite hunting preserves. He was accompanied by Wladyslav Gomulka, leader of the Polish Communist Party, and there was the usual retinue of Soviet and Polish officials. He was staying in a government dacha outside Minsk and hunting in the winter forests when the unthinkable occurred.
Rumors of the assassination attempt swept the length and breadth of Russia, but to this day no one knows exactly what happened. Some said that Khrushchev’s entire bodyguard turned against him, others that a row of young men formed a roadblock and, as Khrushchev walked toward them, fired a single, dramatic volley into the air. But the account that seems least fanciful was that a young man from Khrushchev’s bodyguard tried to shoot him.[4]
The Oswalds heard about the incident in frightened colorful undertones from Marina’s Aunt Lyuba Axyonova, who was not a witness but had been present at the dacha in her capacity as bookkeeper of the Council of Ministers dining room. According to Lyuba, only one member of Khrushchev’s bodyguard was responsible. He missed, and Khrushchev escaped uninjured. No one knew what happened to the would-be assassin.
Lyuba was afraid to speak of the shooting in detail in front of Alik, a foreigner, since the incident was not made public and, for spreading “anti-Soviet propaganda,” or information the government does not want known, a citizen could receive seven to fifteen years. The would-be murderer had been a member of Khrushchev’s entourage, and Lyuba was also afraid that in a single, Stalinesque stroke all other employees who had been anywhere nearby would be summarily dismissed. She feared for herself and her job.
It was in this atmosphere of subdued hysteria that Alik first heard of the assassination attempt. He doubtless heard a great deal more talk about it from the men at the factory. Because such a thing was unprecedented at that time, and because it had happened right there, it must have created a tremendous stir in Minsk. And the incident may have been imprinted even more indelibly on Alik’s mind because Lyuba’s account was whispered and because she was so obviously terrified.
Marina had left her job at the pharmacy on maternity leave just after the first of the year. The last month of her pregnancy was a privileged time, and she enjoyed it to the full. Her legs and thighs ached. Alik rubbed and kissed them and said: “My poor, poor girl. You’re hurting yourself just to give life to our baby.” He curled up into a tiny ball in one corner of the bed so that she could have the rest for herself. Soon she got used to sleeping with her feet on his back for warmth, as well as for the relief it gave her aching legs. He came to like this and would ask, “Are your feet cold?” Even when the answer was no, he would tell her to “put your feet up there anyway.”
Alik had misconceptions about the birth of a child. He thought that an expectant mother produces milk from the beginning of pregnancy. Marina enlightened him as to the facts. Later, after the baby was born, Marina had too much milk and ran a fever. Alik offered to suck the milk. Marina was shocked, but he assured her that it was “quite natural.” She was more surprised still when, instead of spitting it out as she expected, he swallowed it. Why not? he asked. It was good milk, sweet and fat. If it was good enough for his baby, it was good enough for him. And he went right on drinking it.
By then, they ate their meals at home and made use of a communal trash can in the courtyard. One night Alik saw some stray dogs and cats bolting food from the trash can. After that, he put out a special meal for the strays each time he emptied the garbage. “My animals ate up everything I left them,” he would report happily to Marina.
They bought a secondhand crib for the baby, and Alik lovingly gave it three coats of white paint. Their friends came, as always, in the evenings, only now they brought sheets, which they had sewn for the baby; diapers, which they had also sewn; and toys. Alik’s friend Erich was corresponding with a pen pal in England. And so, from England, they got a copy of Dr. Spock’s Baby and Child Care. Well before the baby was due, Alik had the book nearly memorized.
On February 14 Marina woke in the middle of the night and told him the water had burst. Alik jumped out of bed, consulted Dr. Spock, and told her, incorrectly, that they had 14 hours to go. Marina went back to sleep, but Alik was too nervous. Finally, at seven in the morning, wild with anxiety, he insisted that they start for the hospital.
Outside it was cold and gray. Everyone was hurrying to work, and there was an early morning crowd at the taxi stand. Pale as a ghost, Alik tried to get to the head of the line by shouting that he was rushing his wife to the hospital. “Your wife’s no more pregnant than I am,” one man shouted back. “And I have to get to work.”
They took a bus, and Marina was in labor as they walked the last block or so to the hospital. Alik wanted to carry her, but she insisted that she could make it on her own. Each time she felt a thrust of pain, however, it was as if it were stabbing him, too.
It was over, by natural childbirth, in an hour. “Our day for foreign babies,” said the doctors. “We’ve had a Jewish one, a gypsy, a Belorussian—and now an American!”
The mother was disappointed. “A girl, when I wanted a boy,” she thought and did not even want to see it. But when she did see it, she felt a spasm of pity and love. “Poor, helpless little thing. No one on earth to love you. How can I not love you and take care of you?” A new feeling was born in Marina.
4
On February 6, 1962, the