JUNE 10. My neighbor seems to be created especially for the pages of this diary. The famous accountant Berlaga in the novel The Twelve Chairs by Ilf and Petrov hid out from Soviet authorities in a mental institution. Our neighbor Petya hasn’t reached that point yet, but he does have a certificate from the psychiatric and neurological clinic. As soon as he has a problem, he shows his boss the paper: “I’m not completely healthy, so leave me alone.” That way Petya avoided the army and other unpleasant things. He actually is a danger to our society; he thinks too much and understands too deeply. He once told me jokingly, “I think they should pay me money to stay home and not bother anyone. I’d be much more useful that way.” To tell the truth, Petya is very lazy and likes to stay home and read. He and his wife have lived in their apartment for five years, and they still haven’t set up the furniture or hung curtains. That’s not important; it’s even exotic. I like going to their place, for we can certainly talk there
about everything. Petya, by the way, is a parapsychologist; he predicts the future and has healing powers. He predicts many things accurately. It’s always a pleasure spending time with Petya. Sometimes he puts on a show, especially when he’s been drinking. Once, when I was still married, the doorbell rang at two in the morning. Petya, barefoot, in white trousers and a light shirt, stood in the door. Not unusual except that there was snow in the street. He said that his wife was visiting relatives and he was bored and wanted to chat. It was Saturday, no work the next day, and we were happy to see him. He said that he’d been fasting for several days, cleansing his body. Petya was obviously chilled, and my husband suggested a little medicinal alcohol to warm up. As a doctor my husband knew that this was a daring thing—pure alcohol on an empty stomach. Petya gulped back about one hundred grams and followed it with a piece of chocolate. In five minutes he was groggy. He arranged himself in the armchair and said, “Ask me any question, I’ll answer anything.”
What questions can a Soviet ask? When will this nonsense end and a normal life begin? Especially since this was in Chernenko’s time, everyone knew that we were in a ridiculous situation that had to change soon. Petya disappointed us. He said that Chernenko would rule another eight years until his death. “Lucky Chernenko, he’ll die soon,” Petya said, “but I have another hundred years or more to go. I’m sick and tired of it all.”
My husband had his own question: “When will we be allowed out of the country freely?” Petya didn’t cheer us up there either. He said it wouldn’t be soon and might not ever happen. He was a gloomy forecaster that night.
There was nothing to do but to open the champagne and get drunk like Petya. Once we were tipsy, the conversation perked up. Petya started telling historical jokes. He was very good with ones about Stalin since he could do his Georgian accent very well. Petya went home at five in the morning. Those predictions of his, fortunately, did not come to pass. The poor and ailing Chernenko died soon afterward, and a few years later it was easy to go abroad.
Perestroika suited Petya, and he decided that he could apply his knowledge. Now he works in a joint venture, is greatly respected, and makes a lot of money. He even set up his furniture.
JUNE 12. I’ve been spending too much time on the “psychos”; I must enjoy them. But it’s time to finish up about them. Just one last story, this one about real psychos. Many years ago, in the Brezhnev era, a friend of ours was suffering from insomnia. Nothing—no medicines, not even hypnosis—helped. After much vacillation he decided to go to a hospital. It was almost impossible to get into the division he needed, so a doctor friend said, “If you can stand two days in a critical ward, we’ll transfer you to a good one.” Aleksandr Nikolayevich had no choice. He came home in three days, cured, so to speak. He never got to the “good ward”; he simply ran like hell from the hospital. A mixture of comedy and tragedy cured him. He was in a real psycho ward. The windows were barred. Knobs were only on the outside of the doors, the lights were on around the clock, and the crazies wandered around all night. But there was democ-
racy and freedom of speech. It was fun watching TV and the official programs. Brezhnev was giving one of his speeches. And what those nuts said to the TV! They swore and cursed, spit at the screen, and threw their slippers at the leader. No one even tried to stop them. What can you expect from a crazy person? For the first time in his life, Aleksandr Nikolayevich felt almost like a free man in a free society. He began doubting that they all were crazy. Then they started playing the Great Patriotic War, as World War II is called in Russia. Aleksandr Nikolayevich’s intellectual looks and good manners elicited great respect from the ward’s denizens. When they found out that he was a scholar and assistant professor, they unanimously elected him supreme commander and showed him more respect than he ever saw in his lifetime working in a Soviet institute. Aleksandr Nikolayevich sensed that the new life, so to speak, was tempting him, and that was when he ran off. Once he got home, he slept for two days straight, and he almost never suffers from insomnia anymore.
To America, to America!
JUNE 15. There is a mass exodus from Moscow to the West. All my friends have scattered to Paris, Amsterdam, Rome, and other capitals. I think my turn is coming. This time Til go farther, cross the ocean. Everyone says that Europe is fine, but it’s really good only in America. It’s time to get to that promised land at last.
Now I have to gather my remaining strength and prepare for the great battle for tickets, visas, dollars, and other “ingredients” of the trip. I’m glad that I have the invitation in hand, that my American friends have not forgetten me. It’s been so long. I really want to go, but at the same time I’m scared. How will things turn out, where will I live, what will I eat? After all, the $320 I’m allowed to exchange rubles for won’t last very long. I heard that you’re allowed to bring $50 of your own now, so my little savings will come in handy. I have to go to customs and find out what presents you’re allowed to bring with you. To tell the truth, I’m not in very good shape. I’m tired of fighting, I don’t have the strength. But it’s too late to retreat now.
JUNE 18. Today I went to the American Embassy to find out about visas. It’s crazy there! Luckily most of the huge crowd has been waiting there for days to get applications for permanent
residence. You can receive a guest visa in a day or two, but you have to come early in the morning. There are crowds at all the embassies now, especially the West German one, for many Soviet Germans are going home. It’s a very symbolic homeland for the young, who don’t even know the language. But they’ve put up with so much here I can understand their desire to get away. Of course, their eyes are not looking at the poorest country in the world. But it’s still a tough deal—strangers in both lands. Here they’re called Fascists; there they’re considered Communists. Our friend in Berlin has been there for ten years, and people still call her Russian, even though she’s pure German. The nurses at the hospital say, “Go to that office, to the Russian doctor.” And their families are friends mostly with other former “Russians” because the “real” Germans don’t want them too much. But still they are leaving, entire big families, and I would go, too, if I were German.
But I have no other homeland, even though no one seems to needs me here.
This is the wrong mood for travel preparations. The Americans don’t give political asylum now, and what if I want to stay?
JUNE 2 1 . So I’ve been to customs. The picture is pretty grim. There’s almost nothing you can take with you. Hanging on the wall there is a long and complicated list of instructions which are almost impossible to understand. I waited my turn and spoke with a stern woman. It feels as if you were being instructed before being put away in prison: no metal objects, nothing that can stab or cut, cigarettes enough until the next time the cart