The news that “Voice of America” reported about the fate of our war captives terrified me. When my father was sharing his war experiences, he said that he had never used up all his bullets, because he kept the last one for himself. He was planning to shoot himself, if he was ever surrounded and in danger of being taken prisoner. He knew that any prisoners of war would be considered traitors to Russia, with all the ensuing consequences.
At that time, a soldier who had been taken captive made it back to our village. He told us about the extensive horrors of Fascist captivity, but preferred to remain silent about the conditions in our camps, which were equally atrocious. Each month he went to the regional center to confirm that he was still residing in his native village and hadn’t gone off anywhere. He was released from the Soviet camp for former prisoners of war, only on this condition. A few men from my village served ten-year sentences of hard labor in the Donbass mines in Ukraine, and they remained there forever. They were guilty in the eyes of the Motherland, because they had been freed from the Fascist camps by British and American troops. These were our allies, who then handed them over to the NKVD (People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs). Later, it became clear they had returned to their country only to be sent to the Siberian gulags.
I can’t help noting the shameful role that Winston Churchill played in all that. In 1945, he betrayed millions of Soviet war captives, by ordering that they should be forcibly sent to the Eastern zone of Germany occupied by the Soviet troops.[5]
An acquaintance of mine, a Tatar who now lives in New York, was in German captivity at that time and he knew what to expect in his Motherland. He told me that a lot of people had committed suicide to avoid the Stalinist camps or had crippled themselves, cutting off their hands or even their whole arms. According to him, that caused quite a stir in the West, for example in the U.S. in 1945-1947, and it helped a few lucky men avoid being dispatched to the USSR.
Soon I found someone to talk with, who shared my interest. He was an accountant at the boarding school, where my father had started working as the director. My father bought a radio-set for the boarding school, and it turned out that this accountant had also been listening to “Voice of America” at night. He warned me very sternly that I must not tell anybody about this obsession of mine, because it could result in my imprisonment and a severe penalty for my parents.
I kept my word. Now I am writing about it, when the man I was talking to and my parents are no longer alive, and it seems that “Voice of America” is breathing its last breath, due to the evil scheme of some American politicians.[6] Isn’t it too early to dismiss Communism, when millions of believers in this flavor of Fascism openly want to take revenge, not only in Russia, but also in other countries devoted to the ideas of the free market and the pluralism of opinions?
My discovery of America didn’t set me against the Soviet regime, nor did it make me a partisan of the West. When I was young, I believed that everything would be fine in our country. We only had to follow Lenin’s guidelines. I thought that the enemies of the Soviet state deliberately set people against the party, to return them to their dark past. Nevertheless, the seeds of doubt remained in my soul for years to come, after listening to “Voice of America”.
I think it already influenced me, when I was summoned to the regional department of the KGB, during my last year in high school. They suggested I go to their school for Chekists, but I refused. It is difficult to say what prompted me to make that decision then, but I think mostly I was encouraged by the “enemy’s” influence, as it was called by officials, “Voice of America.”
My refusal to be recruited was a bolt out of the blue for Lieutenant Colonel Nasirov, the regional head of the KGB. At that time, I was the top student not only in my high school, but also among all the high schools in the region. I was the secretary of the Komsomol Committee at my school and a member of the bureau at the Komsomol Raikom (regional committee). Nasirov didn’t show any emotion; he only asked me not to tell anybody about our conversation.
The lieutenant colonel was sitting under the portrait of his leader, Lavrentii Beria, and he severely cautioned me about the possible consequences of my insubordination. He added that this was the first time he had met anyone who refused such an honor to serve the party by being a member of the KGB. All of this happened in the middle of March of 1953, soon after Stalin died.
CHAPTER 3
My Student Days
Can Your Russian Language Take You Everywhere?
Before I had this first contact with the KGB, I had studied for three years in Tatar High School N 1, in Djirtjuli. I am very proud of my school and I remember the names of all my teachers. I am sure that they were really highly professional people. They devoted their whole lives to bringing up students who came from the surrounding villages for their education. That was a very difficult time, when even a single piece of bread was precious.
My favorite subject was mathematics, taught by Gali Zilyaev, a graduate of Kazan University, but the other subjects were not a burden for me. I think this was mostly because of our teachers. When I was sitting in my Tatar literature classes taught by Sag’dat Aglyamova, who masterfully read the verses of Gabdulla Tukay, Khadi Taktash, and other Tatar poets, I even found myself dreaming that I wanted to become a writer.
My Russian literature classes taught by Maria Grigorievna Filippova with the poems of Pushkin, Lermontov, and other famous Russian poets were no less thrilling! She was a brilliant, democratic, and beautiful young lady from Ufa, and an idol for all the boys. Many of us were simply in love with her. Unfortunately, most of us were not at all skilled at writing essays in the Russian language, which was foreign to us and not related to Tatar, which falls into the Turkic group of languages. Still, it didn’t discourage anyone from taking Maria Grigorievna’s classes. I am grateful to her, because she introduced me to classical music, by encouraging me to listen to concerts that were broadcast on the radio, and tenderly cultivating in me such a love of music as she had herself. At that time, I didn’t have a record player, or even records, so the loudspeaker of the local relay system was my only source of this music.
Now, when I listen to masterpieces of opera, artfully performed by the world-renowned singers Anna Netrebko, Ildar Abdrazakov, Placido Domingo, and others, at the New York Metropolitan Opera House, I always remember my teacher with gratitude and admiration.
My other teachers were also very talented, and I owe them a lot. I was especially fond of the headmistress of our school, Gaishagar Gabbasovna Sharipova, who took me under her wing like a mother hen, though she was very young at that time. She protected me from many troubles that I faced, at times when my success made me dizzy.
For a long time, Faina Lvovna Levina, who had been evacuated from besieged Leningrad, was our thoughtful class supervisor. She worked hard so that we country villagers could develop polite manners and receive a good education. When the war was over, Faina Lvovna remained in remote Djirtjuli forever, never returning to her native Leningrad.
I have kept in touch with my school over the years, visiting it on vacations, sending different letters on many occasions. Over the course of time, this connection weakened slightly, but fortunately, it never broke, even though a few generations of teachers have changed over.
5
On the fate of Soviet prisoners of war, see Nikolai Tolstoy,
6
The Tatar version of Radio Liberty – Radio Azatlyk right now is broadcasting from Prague (Czech Republic) paid for by American taxpayers’ dollars, but its journalists are working under the supervision of the Russian Government and this radio has nothing to do with its very title and the distribution of real information about American democracy and American values.