“You will come with me,” repeated the lead militiaman, who was a sergeant.
“Are you arresting me?” I asked.
“No,” he replied, shaking his head.
“Then why must I go with you?”
The sergeant explained that until he verified who I was, I would have to obey him. I realized that I was on the brink of a possible “incident,” which the U.S. embassy always tried to discourage, and I urged him to call the hotel. I did not want an incident. I knew the hotel director would confirm that I was an American tourist (indeed, one with a diplomatic passport) and the sergeant would then have to let me go. But for reasons beyond me, the sergeant refused to telephone the hotel, telling me that instead he was going to call his immediate superior at police headquarters and tell him that he was holding a foreigner who had no identification and who, in addition, was taking pictures. A large crowd formed around us. We all waited while the sergeant called to get instructions.
After a few minutes he announced in rather somber tones that I would, in fact, be detained (he avoided using the word “arrested”) and brought to police headquarters. I knew that eventually, after his superior had checked with the hotel and learned that I was an American diplomat, I would be released. But by then I would likely have missed my flight and thrown my schedule into a mess, a situation that was not that easy to resolve in central Asia. I decided on the spot that I had no option but to stand my ground. I was guilty of no wrongdoing. I told him, and everyone who had gathered around us, that I was an American diplomat traveling through central Asia for pleasure and learning; that I had the permission of the Soviet Foreign Ministry; that the sergeant was in clear violation of international rules governing the treatment of diplomatic personnel; and that I intended to submit a formal protest to Moscow authorities.
“What is your name?” I demanded.
The sergeant, who had earlier conveyed an air of authority, seemed now to look uncertain and, I thought, afraid.
What would Ambassador Bohlen do? Try diplomacy, he would advise, and so I did. I suggested, with a gentle smile, that there was a way out of this conundrum—that the sergeant really ought to call the hotel, as I had asked him to do before, verify that indeed I was an American diplomat, inform his police superior what he had learned, and then let me catch my flight. I added, in a serious tone, that if he refused, I would definitely submit an official protest in Moscow and he and his superior would both be responsible for what I called “a gross violation of diplomatic norms.” The sergeant, trying desperately to reestablish his authority, especially as the crowd got larger by the minute, grabbed me by the arm and announced that he was going to take me to police headquarters, and that was final. I again pulled loose and refused to go with him. I urged him, please, to call the hotel. I understood that he needed a way to save face, and I had to catch a flight and wanted to avoid an “incident.” I decided to tell him in a loud but polite voice that I was “wrong” to have taken pictures without asking permission. Then I placed a cherry on top of my apology, telling the crowd that I had had a wonderful visit to Bukhara, that I loved the people and looked forward to my next visit. Many people smiled and applauded in Soviet style. A few actually shook hands with me. Whatever tension was accumulating seemed magically to disappear.
The sergeant, on his own, then called the hotel, learned officially of my diplomatic status, informed his superior, and, his lower lip trembling, told me that he was sorry and hoped that I would return to Bukhara. I assured him I would. At which point, my Intourist guide reappeared, rushed me into a waiting taxicab, which took us first to the hotel, where I recovered my passport and my bag, and then to the airport, where I caught my flight to Tashkent, but with not much time to spare.
Central Asia had been interesting and, on occasion, even compelling, but I was happy to leave. Because of Intourist’s uniquely idiotic way of arranging a travel schedule, I knew I would have to spend the whole afternoon and evening in Tashkent before my 1:35 a.m. flight to Baku—again, why 1:35 a.m., and not 1:35 p.m., a more reasonable hour?
I decided to attend a play—Sixth Floor, an amusing French production, even if translated into Russian—and I enjoyed three chance conversations. In Theater Square I met a Volga German. Since the outbreak of World War II, he had been forced to live an exile’s life in a small town on the Chinese border. Now, in the wake of de-Stalinization, he could move to Tashkent, but not back to the Volga region, where his family had lived since the time of the Catherine the Great, who had invited German colonizers to the area. He volunteered, without my asking, that in his judgment 60 percent of Volga Germans would return to Germany if given the chance.
I encountered a Jewish man from Kiev, who had been living in Tashkent since 1942. He operated a small shoe-repair booth—too small to be described as a store. He told me, “Here in Tashkent we all envy the baker. At least, he’s got his loaf of bread.” He estimated that 80 percent of European Jews living in central Asia would leave the Soviet Union, if given the chance. Most would go to Israel. He looked unhappy. After polishing my shoes, he held my hand and whispered, “Don’t ever forget us.”
At the airport I met a young Korean history teacher, a Soviet citizen born in Tashkent. When he learned that I had once taught Russian history, he said, beaming, “We historians share one thing: We both speak the truth. We both seek the truth.” The first topic on his agenda was how African Americans were treated in the United States. That was no surprise. The subject came up often, especially with Soviet citizens who were members of the Communist Party. I told him that after a recent U.S. Supreme Court decision banning segregation in state schools, the last barrier to genuine equality between the races had been blasted away. I said, “The issue of racial prejudice was a live issue only in some southern states. I think in time the issue will lose its significance even in those states.” (How wrong I was!)
He asked me, “Do you think true freedom exists in the Soviet Union?”
I responded, “No, in my judgment, it does not,” and added, “Communism has become a bloodless ideology, and it will wither away in time.” (How right I was!)
“But we have elections, free and secret, just as you do,” he said. “How then can you say that we do not have freedom at least equal to yours?”
I told him that where there was no choice, there was no freedom.
“I thought you would say that,” he said, “and, you know, I can’t help but agree with you. Our freedom is a paper freedom.” He looked around, wondering, I guess, whether he had been talking too much.
I was left with the impression from my visit to central Asia that de-Stalinization had had only a limited impact on the people. Life had eased a bit, but it had not really changed. I suspected I would find that it had had a much deeper impact on the people living in Tbilisi, the capital of Georgia, Stalin’s birthplace.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Where Stalin Is Still Worshipped
Bukhara was hot and dry. Baku was hot and humid, certainly on the day I got there. It was like Washington in mid-August. From the moment the plane door opened, I could feel the moist heat rushing in, and this mix of heat and humidity dogged me during my stay in Baku, the capital and commercial hub of Azerbaijan, then one of the fifteen Soviet republics. Intourist had assured me that “Baku” meant “city of winds,” and the temperature would never climb higher than 78.