I don’t go anywhere and wait for J-P in Moscow. I’m going crazy. I’ve lost several pounds; I can’t eat; I just cry. Besides, J- P has vanished. He hasn’t called in several days. And I thought that I’d never be stupid again, that it was all behind me. Yet every time it’s the same thing: This is the real thing, and all the rest has merely been a preparation for him.
JULY 2 6. Things are still unclear in Paris. So I’m going to Munich, going to Wolfgang, and giving myself up to fate. I’m trying not to think about anything. I don’t have the strength.
Moscow-Munich-Moscow or My First Trip to the West as a Free Person
Your betrayal suits her more than caresses. Do not forget, as you press her to your chest, That she will tell all that you are For as many years as there are ahead.
—Bella Akhmadulina
JULY 30. Apparently I have the strength not only to pack but to go to the beauty parlor and pull myself together, and once again I want to go to Munich.
All the customs and passport procedures went amazingly quickly. It was even boring. I wanted obstacles; it’s the first time I’m going to the West without an accompanying eye.
The plane takes off, and I cry, an unoriginal thought coming to mind. Neil Armstrong said that a small step for man was an enormous step for mankind. And I’m thinking that a small step for mankind (only a few thousand kilometers) is an enormous step in my life. This is my first trip to the free world as a free person. Before this I traveled to Eastern Europe and on typical Soviet tours to the Mediterranean and to India. I’m experiencing a mix of triumphant and sentimental, sorrowful and joyous feel-
ings. And wild curiosity—what will I see? As usual, anticipation is always stronger and sweeter than the moment of arrival.
JULY 3 1. I was bewildered by the airport—so many passageways, escalators, halls. Following the crowd, I got ready for my meeting with Wolfgang. He must not see me confused and frightened. I prepared an American smile on my face, exhausted by Soviet worries. I picked up my suitcases and waited.
Wolfgang appeared in my life in April. Late one evening the telephone rang, and my old pal Peter said that he was calling from Munich and that he had a friend with him who was inviting me to spend my vacation in Germany. Of course, this kind gesture had been prompted by Peter, who knew how much I wanted to go there. A few days later there was another call, this time from Wolfgang. He asked me to send a letter with my photograph and to tell him a little about myself. His calls gradually became more frequent and eventually became daily. We began the classic romance by letter of the soldier in the Soviet army, but this was the foreign version: calls between Moscow and Munich instead of mail between Pribalkalye and Kostroma. Soon he had persuaded himself that he was practically in love with me, and more interestingly, I had done the same. I liked talking with him on the phone. I liked his voice, his frankness, and his obvious interest in me. His photograph, which came a few weeks later, made me wary. He was too handsome and looked too young to be forty-two. But the photograph did not interrupt our telephone romance. I think we even set a record for the Guinness Book of World Records : the longest telephone
conversation between Munich and Moscow—three and a half hours. Too bad no one could register it.
That evening a friend had tried and tried to call me. She later said that she thought I was probably making love by phone. That was almost true. The phone was by the bed, and the calls often came at one or two in the morning. In July Wolfgang flew to New York, and J-P arrived in Moscow. . . .
I searched for Wolfgang in the crowd. There he was, looking like his picture, but older and somehow different. I think he was also bewildered and frightened—so many words and promises. What if he had rushed things? But now we had no choice. There I was. I set my suitcases on the floor and hugged and kissed a man who was practically a stranger. There was no time to think about what I was feeling. I was in Germany. Here it was—wide autobahns, small roadside cafes that have everything your heart could desire, ancient cities with churches, flowers everywhere, and once more the road through tended fields, small woods, and hills. I forgot to say that I had landed in Frankfurt. I couldn’t get a ticket to Munich.
There didn’t seem to be love at first, or second, sight, but there was no sense of disliking either. At last we were in Munich, walking around the city. It’s cozy, calm, a bit provincial, and not in the least foreign. I think I’ll like it here.
AUGUST 3. I wasn’t mistaken. I like it in Munich. First of all, I’m growing accustomed to the sense of physical comfort I already knew from East Germany. No one shoves me; I don’t have to be prepared to fight back. The cafes and toilets don’t
have that horrible Soviet smell. You can eat, sit down and rest, drop into a store any time and place you want; you can see an illustration of that “radiant future” which I have been “building” along with my compatriots. I’m trying not to stuff myself with architectural and artistic values. I’m wandering around the city, looking at the passersby, at the store windows. Marienplatz and the surrounding streets are a tourist’s joy. You can spend day after day there without tiring. And all my independent trips around the city start and end there for now.
But I’m not one to be calm and happy if there’s an excuse to do a little suffering. My relations with Wolfgang are strange— both good and not good. I can’t really tell yet. A romance should be developing, but it’s not. Our relationship resembles what usually comes after an affair. Maybe it is the fault of our “telephone love.”
AUGUST 5 . For a Soviet, “abroad” and “border” have special connotations. “Going abroad,” “being allowed abroad,” “crossing the border” are signs of something unusual. I can’t refuse myself this “being abroad” game, even though my desire to spend ten minutes on Austrian soil and have a cup of coffee in a roadside cafe may seem strange. Peter understands me because at one point a risky crossing of the border changed his entire life. Once he found himself in the “other” Germany. He patiently tried to persuade the border guards to let his “American girl friend” who had forgotten her passport back at the hotel come into Austria with him. I nodded and used a few English words. As it turns out, we could have driven across the border
without a passport. They rarely check. The coffee was like coffee anywhere, and the Austrians aren’t any different from the Germans, but at least I’ll have a story to tell back home. After all, I can’t tell them about how beautiful it is in the Alps and how marvelous views from the mountain roads are. I don’t have the eloquence for that.
But I can’t resist showing off to my mother. “I’m ca llin g you from a phone booth by the road. I’m surrounded by the Alps. It’s rather nice.” She can’t see the Alps from her small Moscow apartment, but she was happy for me.
AUGUST 7. Wolfgang is glum and silent and says it has to do with his worries. I’d like to believe that, but I can’t. At last we had it out. One evening he went out (for a bit!) and didn’t come back for more than a day. It turned out that a few days before he left for New York he had fallen in love with a girl who was sharing his apartment until her own became available. He ran into her and realized that he was still in love with her. In revenge, I tell him about J-P. We end up trying to call Paris at two in the morning, and I fall asleep at dawn.