The execution began. With concentration, unhurriedly, and with sadistic leisure they went through every corner of my suitcases. The thoroughly and carefully packed things turned into a growing pile on the counter. My numerous, I must admit, souvenirs annoyed them. I tried to explain that I had many friends, I would be staying with them, I had to give them something for the hospitality. They’d be feeding me, driving me around; I couldn’t even afford to buy myself a sandwich. They knew how much money we’re allowed to bring out. “We don’t make the laws. And Soviet citizens aren’t allowed to speculate abroad,” one of the agents said, looking at the five-ruble earrings that wouldn’t buy a cup of coffee in America.
This is how the Soviet regime wished me a bon voyage, with accusations and humiliations. But I had no rights, and they could have easily thrown out half my suitcase, citing numerous complicated regulations. Gritting my teeth, I stuffed my things back into the suitcases. But then it was my turn to laugh. An agent saw a jewelry box in my carry-on. “Open the bag, and take out the box.” He was expecting a real show—diamond rings and gold bracelets rolling all over the counter. Now I didn’t hurry. I took out the box, opened it, and turned it over onto the counter—inexpensive costume jewelry, a wooden bracelet from India covered with yellow metal, fake gold chains, clip-on earrings, and other such stuff. Not believing his eyes, he
went through the trifles, hoping to expose me still. The show failed, I think, and his ardor died down. I was allowed to put my things back.
Then came part two—the painting. Here the customs agents were not sure, and to help them, they called in a young woman, a representative of the same glorious Ministry of Culture. In an iron voice I told her that I had a receipt from a salon and that the ministry had told me it was sufficient. My speech was a bit incoherent but convincing. I showed her the stamp the ministry had put on the painting while I was there. The stamp meant that I had been to the commission and that the painting had been valued. I naturally didn’t mention its price. So I confused the woman completely and, I think, persuaded her. She was sweet and inexperienced and probably hadn’t totally become one of those culture sharks yet. Moreover, I had the sensation that the ministry had one rule and customs another, as often happens here.
Now all I had to do was to stuff everything back in. I was sweating, and my nice clothes for the trip were covered with dust. My desperate attempts were unsuccessful. The things didn’t want to go back in. I had to struggle on the floor, since the counter was filled with the belongings of the next victim. So I took out a spare bag and put the overflow into it. I had no idea that this would lead to another fight.
At the ticket and baggage check-in I learned that I had an extra bag and would have pay ninety rubles. The ridiculous part was that once you were past customs you were allowed to have only thirty rubles, which you were supposed to bring back into the country. I thought of the American best seller Catch-22. My mother, who was watching all this, managed to get through
customs and gave me the money. Ten minutes later my bags were checked in. I went through passport control in a semiconscious state. As I made my way down the hall to the plane, I consoled myself with the fact that I was on my way to New York, not a Stalinist camp. If I had been born earlier, my fate could have been quite different.
Now Fm writing after a pause. After the horrors of the past few hours the plane is heavenly. After a rather edible breakfast for Aeroflot, everyone has quieted down. By the way, breakfast reminds me: I’ll never forget the greasy lamb pilaf we got after refueling in Tashkent during a twelve-hour night flight from Sri Lanka. The airline decided to please the passengers with an ethnic dish. You can imagine the reaction to the sight of that greasy food at six in the morning after an almost sleepless night.
The people in the plane are of all different kinds, but I don’t think there are any Americans. They prefer the Pan Am flight; it’s just eight hours nonstop, compared with our fourteen- hour flight with two stops. There are a lot of Armenian families with decrepit old people and small children, obviously immigrants. They’re not afraid to go that far even at their age. Of course, with the situation in the Caucasus being what it is, I can understand them. At least they’ll be safe in America. I was told of the inhuman cruelties the Armenians were subjected to by their “Caucasian brothers.” They would come into the house, tie up the old people, put an iron on their exposed stomachs, turn it on, and leave. . . . It’s hard to believe that people are capable of such things.
The liveliest group is made up of schoolchildren invited by Americans for two weeks. When I was their age, we never even dreamed of such a thing. The only ones to get to America
were the children of big bureaucrats. Ordinary people weren’t allowed. The privileged kids would come home and behave like conquerors, representatives of a higher Soviet race in blue jeans. I saw a lot of them in college.
A professorial man attracted my attention. He must be going to teach at some university. Half of Moscow’s intelligentsia are off at American universities. They are allowed out even with their children. The only problem now is not how to get out of here but how to live there.
I’m writing after yet another break. We had our first stopover in Shannon. It’s a different world. Everything is clean. There are lots of little stores with beautiful things and polite, smiling clerks. It’s like going from the hell of Sheremetyevo to paradise, yet this is not such a large airport in not the world’s richest country. The food on the plane was better, too, tasty and well presented. I’m in a pleasant, dreamy state. We have far to go. The Atlantic lies ahead. I think I’ll take a nap.
We’ve had our second stopover in Canada. I liked the healthy and colorful police. I felt closer to America. One of my romantic American images is the fearless, just, and brave sheriff. I chatted with a Canadian policeman about the strange time zone; it’s a half hour off. There are only a few hours left until we reach New York. They’ll pass quickly.
And here are the unforgettable and triumphant moments: the announcement that we are coming in for a landing and will be at Kennedy Airport in ten minutes. Everyone’s staring out the windows. All we can see is the smooth ocean. To my disappointment, we won’t see the Statue of Liberty because we’re coming in from the other side. We’re very close, but where are the skyscrapers of Manhattan, the ones from my dream? This
looks like the suburbs. Won’t we even see New York’s famous skyline? The plane is on the runway, and the wheels have touched down on the continent of North America. What does it have in store for me? How will my stay in America go? I don’t have time to worry about it now. I’ve gathered my things and will head for the exit—to meet the country I have been dreaming about for so long. Soon there will be new entries in my diary.
Epilogue
After the last lines of this diary were written, great changes occurred in my life and in the life of my country. I got married and now live in California. My husband, Joe, wisely and patiently helps me get used to living in a new land, which is not as easy as it seemed from afar.
Russia beckons as never before. Real hope appeared after the events in August 1991, and people understood that this was the end of enslavement and of the old system, rotten to the core. But it will take many years, perhaps decades, before the country will be rid of the inheritance of the so-called Communist system. I feel a twinge of envy for the young generation, for God willing, their lives will not be distorted and ruined the way ours were and they will not need to go abroad to find freedom. But how do you reimburse those people who did not live long enough to breathe freely, who were destroyed morally or physically by their homeland?