That morning—February 24, 1971—I woke up with a heavy feeling. Something difficult and unpleasant lay ahead of me that day. Making a mental effort, I tried not to remember what it was and decided to go back to sleep. I pulled the covers over my head—and remembered clearly.
No, I won’t go!—a categorical protest screamed inside me. I won’t go, I’m not obliged to, no one is forcing me. I won’t go, they’ll manage perfectly well without me. I won’t go, I’m scared, and it’s all pointless, nothing good will come of it, only risk... And it could affect my family, I don’t have the right... no, I won’t go. I’d rather sleep.
I was riding the metro, pretending to myself that I was heading somewhere else entirely. But when I came out onto the street and saw the massive, dark building of the Lenin Library, I finally woke up completely and walked straight—there. As if someone were pulling me on a rope—yet no one was pulling me, no one persuaded me, and I myself didn’t want to go. Strange, isn’t it?
There—meaning, to the reception office of the Supreme Soviet of the USSR.
I am about to tell a story about an event that has been told and retold many times—mostly by those who did not participate. With pathos, with heroism, with lofty Zionist ideas. So why do I want to talk about it again? I’m not going to engage in myth-busting. I am unlikely to add anything substantially new. That is, from a grand historical perspective. However, little in life actually happens according to a grand perspective. It is only in retrospect, with the benefit of hindsight, that we wittingly or unwittingly inflate our assessments of ourselves, of others, and of the entire event. The event was, of course, significant for me, but over time, much of the pathos has evaporated, and the heroism has begun to appear in a slightly different light.
For me, this event remains in memory not as a stage of the Jewish liberation movement, but as my own personal experience, on a small, personal scale. With all its accompanying minor and insignificant details, which keep it from becoming fossilized in the amber of history, but rather living and real.
Nevertheless, before writing about our sit-in at the reception office of the Supreme Soviet of the USSR in February of 1971, I tried to secure a reliable testimony about it, one recorded soon after the events. My own. One I gave to the state security officers shortly after my arrival in Israel. The officers were young, nice, and spoke poor Russian. But they questioned me meticulously, as they knew very little here about Jewish life in the Soviet Union, and their understanding of Zionist activity often made me laugh. Or maybe they were doing it on purpose, maybe those were their professional techniques. Nevertheless, I answered willingly, even with fervor—after all, these were not vicious KGB agents, but our own, native security organs.
These records were classified and remain classified to this day. I was unable to obtain them. So I will have to rely on my own, not always reliable, memory.
First and foremost, I must note what I remember precisely. What our action was n o t.
In some places, particularly on the internet, there is repeated talk of a “seizure” of the Supreme Soviet’s reception office by a group of Zionist Jews. I feel it necessary to dismiss this immediately. “Seizure” implies violence, weapons, a struggle. There can be no talk of any seizure. We simply came and sat down.
According to some other accounts, it was a “hunger strike” in the reception office of the Supreme Soviet of the USSR. It sounds nice, but it was by no means a hunger strike. I myself had half a pack of cookies in my pocket. Someone, I think, had sandwiches. Not to mention the fact that the entire event lasted barely half a day. You can’t get very hungry in that time, though you would certainly want to eat.
But there really was a sit-in. Although here too—why, exactly, a “strike”? To strike, from the Italian word “basta,” means to stop doing something, most often work. We were not “on strike” at all; most of us were already unemployed. Twenty-four Soviet citizens with “Jew” stamped in their passports gathered in the reception office of the Supreme Soviet, brought a petition to the authorities demanding that the procedure for emigration to Israel be legally regulated, and requested a meeting with the Chairman of the Supreme Soviet, Podgorny. And they declared that they would not leave the reception office until they received an answer. There was no strike of any kind; it would be more accurate to call it a demonstration—a demonstration of our resolve.
And there was resolve, that’s true. Many of the participants had already received a denial of their application to leave. Including me. True, my time as a “refusenik” was insignificant, three or four months at most. But I knew myself that I had a short fuse; I couldn’t endure a long wait and would either do something desperately foolish or give up on the idea of leaving altogether.
I had almost participated in one desperate action already. Fortunately, its initiator called it off in time. Otherwise, it would have inevitably been another “airplane affair,” or even worse.
He had planned to take a few people, sneak into the Sevastopol port, hijack a military cutter, and sail to Turkey. I was ready to join him. I had, of course, no idea how unrealistic such a plan was or how great its dangers. But I trusted Fima Fainblum, our leader, completely. He was (and is) a reserved man, with gentle manners and a quiet voice, but brave and resolute. And stubborn, too. While fighting for his exit visa to Israel, he was simultaneously fighting for reinstatement in the Party, from which he was expelled immediately after submitting his application to leave. And why did he need that? For justice. For legality. Out of stubbornness!
Now F.F. is a successful entrepreneur. A businessman. Or maybe he’s already a pensioner. I know for sure that he’s a grandfather. I find it hard to imagine him in any of these roles; I haven’t seen him in a long time. I remember him as active, thin, handsome, with a mustache.
He was one of the initiators of our action, as impatient as I was, only incomparably more experienced and authoritative.
The second one was much calmer and more methodical. A great deal has been written about him, and now his name, in the natural course of things, is beginning to be forgotten, especially since he has been gone for more than thirty-five years. Perhaps I can allow myself to mention him by name. If I misrepresent anything, he was not a petty man; he would have forgiven me, I think. His name is starting to become a legend, and it is permissible to embroider one’s own patterns on such a canvas, which many have done without any ceremony. I will do it carefully, although probably not entirely accurately either. Such is the fate of legends.
Meir Gelfond. This man inspired both admiration and awe in me. Admiration, because he was both intelligent and wise, and also loved classical music, and, by all accounts, was a very good doctor. And awe—because of the heroic past behind him. A camp, long-term Zionist activism. I am somewhat distrustful of heroes, especially those who acknowledge this virtue in themselves. There was no such heroism in him. What he did have was Zionism. As a character trait. Stubborn, consistent, fanatical. Right from childhood. At fourteen, the boy was already a member of a Zionist circle! I remember myself at fourteen… I had never even heard of Zionism, and my Jewishness was merely an annoying source of trouble.
Along with admiration and awe, this man also evoked a certain fear in me. Fanaticism of any kind has always repelled me. I have met many all sorts of Zionist fanatics; they didn’t frighten me, but only irritated and sometimes amused me. The blinders on their eyes irritated me; their high self-esteem coupled with deep ignorance amused me. Meir Gelfond was not like that. He was too significant a figure to be irritating, let alone amusing. A certain narrowness of views and interests is inevitable for a fanatic, but he could in no way be accused of ignorance. For this man, Zionism was becoming a profession, a goal, whereas for me it was only a means to get to Israel. I only became a real Zionist in Israel, when it was already practically out of fashion here.
These two legendary figures, Fima Fainblum and Meir Gelfond, were the main driving forces behind our action (there may have been others, but I did not know them). I remember heated debates about this plan. Was the moment right or not? How risky was it? Could it yield results, or would it harm the movement as a whole? Who would go, whom to invite. And I listened and thought, just let them agree, just don’t let them cancel...
That was before. And now I was approaching the beautiful doors of the reception office with terror in my soul. And with the hope that they simply wouldn’t let me in. And I could return home with a clear conscience.
At the doors, I met two or three comrades. Everyone greeted each other joyfully, cheerfully, and I greeted them just as cheerfully. The terror quickly sank to the bottom. I couldn’t show it. The others weren’t afraid! Let them think I’m not afraid at all either.
We entered without hindrance; the guards at the door barely glanced at our passports. No one even dreamed of searches with electronic wands and passing through electronic gates back then. Carefree times they were, terror-free!
That’s it, I’m inside, no more excuses or pretexts. It’s too late to retreat. And too shameful.
A spacious foyer with a clerk at a desk, leading into the hall, which was the reception office itself. A large hall, with people sitting tightly along the walls. All with some kind of complaints, petitions, and requests. Each on their own, not looking at their neighbors, not talking. Their faces were sullen and dejected.
There was no room for us to sit all together, so we scattered to different corners of the hall. Gradually, I spotted familiar faces. We began to gather in a small group. No one knew exactly how many people would come. First one would arrive, then another. I say “one, another” because there were only two of us women. Closer to noon, we decided it was time to submit our petition. It had over thirty signatures; not everyone had come, but we decided not to wait for anyone else. As for who exactly held the paper and stood in line at the window where one was supposed to hand in their request or application, I can’t say with full certainty. I think it was Leva Freidin, now Aryeh Gilat (I have now learned for sure that it was he, together with Meir Gelfond, who submitted it). However, there are two or three other contenders. One of them, years later, directly recounted: “I stood up, I approached, I handed it over…” Apparently, memory failed him, it happens—but it’s curious that it happened in just this way. Or maybe he just really wanted it to have been him. And elsewhere, this action is attributed to another person, a rather famous writer, about whom I remember for sure that it was not he who submitted it. Memory plays such tricks on us at every turn, which is what I mean when I say that the pathos has somewhat evaporated...
One way or another, the petition was submitted. And immediately rejected. The people submitting it were told from the window: we only accept applications from private individuals here, we don’t accept group ones, take it back. Those who submitted it did not take it back; the paper remained lying in front of the official. And the official immediately grabbed the phone.
If you look at the matter impartially, our action was prepared rather poorly. Our main protection, the foreign correspondents who were supposed to inform the world about what was happening and thus restrain the punishing hand of the authorities, received the information late. Here, precise timing, down to the minute, was crucial: radio and television in the world had to report on our action not too early, so as not to prematurely warn those who shouldn’t be warned. But also early enough for the authorities to realize that the world knew everything—before we were thrown into the back of military trucks and taken to who knows where. For quite a long time, the scales were tipping against us. We, of course, found this out only later.
And another thing. The action was supposedly prepared in conditions of the strictest secrecy. But no one warned me, for example, not to say a single word to anyone… So, when I met an acquaintance on the street the day before, a fellow Zionist but not a close one, I enthusiastically started to recruit him. After asking about the details, the acquaintance immediately agreed to join. How was I to know where he would go after we parted? I heard that many who were asked refused. That in itself is normal, but this way the circle of initiates kept expanding, and the secrecy was melting away before our eyes…
But miracles happen. The world press still managed to come to our aid at just the right moment. The acquaintance I had met joined us, as he had promised. Of all the initiates, not one—not a single one!—ran to snitch. Well, it can’t be that there wasn’t a single informant among us, can it?! It's simply not possible. And yet, our action caught the authorities by surprise. I have since heard a version that it was actually provoked by the authorities themselves. Something about the Soviets' desire to strengthen Israel with active Jewish forces in order to frighten the Arabs and thereby increase the Arab countries' dependence on the USSR... And so, they allegedly came up with this cunning way to do it... I don’t know, maybe there was something to it, but it seems a bit too Byzantine. And besides, would the Arabs really have been that scared of a few dozen, or even hundreds, of additional Israelis? And that there would eventually be hundreds of thousands—I don't think anyone foresaw that.
Most importantly, I find it hard to believe that such an elaborate spectacle was specially organized in advance. As it became clear later, hundreds of people from the opposing side were involved. That would have been a clear overkill, even for the Soviet authorities, who were generous with human resources. No, I don't believe in the aforementioned version.
We sat and sat, and nothing happened. The petitioners in the hall came and went, quietly submitting their applications, while the clerks in the windows spoke to them in low voices. It was surprisingly quiet. And in this semi-silence, you could clearly hear telephones ringing throughout the enormous government palace. There was a distinct feeling that these phones were desperately crying out into the void: what should we do? how should we act? give us instructions urgently!
The hall gradually emptied. By five o'clock, no one was left but us. And we were sitting—and telling jokes. Some were very funny, we laughed out loud, and then the officers on duty in the foyer would peek into the hall and look at us with disbelieving surprise. Everyone was telling stories, and I really wanted to tell one too, but as usual, I couldn't remember a single joke. What a nuisance! On top of that, my back started to hurt. I already suffered from a chronic spinal condition, and it started to ache from the long sitting. The laughter only made it worse. I stood up, walked around, sat down—the pain didn't go away. And no one had any painkillers. They started urging me to go home. But now I didn’t want to go home at all. I had already overcome my fear, endured the stress—and for what, all for nothing? Now was the time to continue the action!
A team of cleaners barged into the hall—four brawny, middle-aged women with buckets and mops. They started chasing us from place to place, shouting angrily:
“What are you all sitting around for? What do you want? Get out of here! You’re just getting in the way of people trying to work!”
We didn't respond to their words, obediently moving from one wall to another, sitting down again and continuing to have fun.
“Look at them cackling! No shame, no conscience. Well, just you wait! You’ll get what’s coming to you!”
My back was hurting more and more. I took out a cigarette, lit it—it didn't help. And then I decided to go out and go to a pharmacy. Everyone approved of my decision, but they were sure I wouldn't come back. But I said I would, and I didn't doubt it for a second.
I went out. The first thing I saw to the right of the entrance was a huge gray-green vehicle. Not a tank, but something like it. I wondered what it was doing there. Where did it come from? And I went to look for a pharmacy. I rounded the building on the left and discovered that a line of gray-green, canvas-covered trucks, packed tightly with armed soldiers, stretched along its entire rear. Some kind of drills, I decided.
Drills? In the city center?
And then an absurd thought crossed my mind: what if this is for us? It even made me laugh. For us! A regiment of soldiers against us! (I don’t know how many soldiers are in a regiment, but there were clearly several hundred of them there). What would they do with us? If they were to remove us from the hall, a police squad would have been enough. No, it's nonsense, this has nothing to do with us. The authorities are foolish, of course, but surely not that foolish!
Finally, I found a pharmacy and bought "Pyaterchatka." It's a fairly strong remedy, but luckily, it was sold without a prescription. I swallowed a pill on the spot, chased it with a cookie, and went back. As I walked, the pain in my back almost subsided. On the way, I bought something to eat from a street vendor, either pirozhki or bubliki (some hunger strike!).
Neither my mother nor my brother knew anything about our action. I hadn't told them anything, thinking it was safer for them that way. But now I thought—maybe I should call and warn them after all? What if I disappeared, and they wouldn’t know anything for a long time, and would start to worry, to search for me? But by then, I was already possessed by a reckless, unfounded confidence that nothing would happen to me. And to call now, before it was all over, would mean making my loved ones suffer with anxiety for me needlessly. No, I decided, I’ll tell them everything later.
I walked and pondered with surprise: man is a strange creature. Here is a straight, open path home before me. Get on the metro and go! I had been so scared, so reluctant to go, looking for any excuse not to. And now the excuse is genuine, not made up; my back is really broken and painful. And I'm not ashamed in front of my comrades; they understand and insisted themselves. But where am I going? Right back there. And not even the slightest hesitation. Especially since my back hardly hurts anymore, and the Pyaterchatka is in my pocket. And, believe it or not, I even feel cheerful!
“Reception hours are over,” the officer at the entrance told me. Behind him, I could see that the foyer was full of military personnel, soldiers and officers.
“I know,” I replied. “But I need to go in there. I was there, I just stepped out for a minute. They’re waiting for me there.”
“Waiting? Who?” the officer turned around, exchanged a few words with someone inside. “Those people?” he jerked his head toward the hall.
“Yes.”
“And you want to join them?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I have to.”
The officer shrugged:
“Well, it's your business. If you want to, go ahead.”
And he let me pass. Just like that.
I squeezed past the soldiers. I passed like a ghost. They looked right through me.
The hall was already clean, empty, and quiet. Only the phones from all sides were still ringing. They sure are taking a long time to deliberate, they can’t make up their minds!
I was met with joy and astonishment. I told them about the trucks with soldiers.
“They’re for us,” Fima said confidently.
“Oh, come on.”
“I’m telling you, for us.”
“Deploying such forces for our sake? Are you kidding?”
“For intimidation. To make an example of us. So that people will be afraid.”
“Us?”
“Us, and everyone else. What if we have reinforcements prepared, a whole armed force? What if it's hidden somewhere nearby? Or what if—they drag us away, and passersby rush to defend us? And mass riots begin!”
This was another joke, we laughed, but somehow not as cheerfully.
“I feel sorry for the soldiers,” I said. “They’re being shuttled around for no reason.”
“Sorry or not, if they’re ordered to, those soldiers will tear you to pieces.”
The jokes were gradually running out. Well-meaning historians say about us that while we were waiting, we read the Bible aloud... How touching. Such authentic Jewish Jews. I don’t recall that. Maybe it was when I went to the pharmacy?
Some general (I’m not an expert on stars, perhaps just a colonel) peeked into our hall, and from the doorway, he strongly urged us to leave the premises. He spoke not rudely at all, but on the contrary, confidentially explained to us what an unpleasant fate awaited us. Or rather, he didn’t explain, he spoke in hints, but he made it clear. We particularly liked it when he said:
“So, why do you need all this? And it's so much extra trouble for us.”
Someone snickered. The general wanted us to sympathize with him!
“And you’re wrong to laugh!” the general said, offended. “For now, you can still freely walk out of here and go home. But later...”
“What about later?”
The general waved his hand and retreated back into the foyer.
He could still seem like a semi-comical figure.
But then, a truly serious person finally descended to us from the depths and heights of the palace. As it turned out later, a high-ranking official from Podgorny's office. He, of course, did not introduce himself, but it was clear that he was an important big shot.
The first thing he announced was that by being in these premises after reception hours, we were violating public order, and this was a punishable act. Not waiting for an adequate reaction from us, he continued:
“The submission of collective petitions is forbidden by Soviet law.”
There were enough know-it-alls among us; someone immediately shouted out the article of the Soviet constitution that promised the corresponding freedom.
“It's wonderful that you know our constitution so well. But you know your version, and we know ours.”
No one doubted this, and although indignant remarks flew from our side, there was really nothing to argue. And in general, it was ridiculous to try to prove anything to him, to convince him of anything. But we were still getting heated, speaking over each other, arguing, demanding. In the main thing, however, we seem to have convinced him—of the firmness of our intention to sit here until we got our way.
“Alright,” he said. “Let’s talk calmly. I will ask two or three of your leaders to come up with me to my office. We will discuss everything and see what can be done.”
We explained that we would only discuss with Podgorny.
“Comrade Podgorny is not in the country right now. I am authorized to act on his behalf. I ask you... you... and you,” he pointed a finger at three people at random, “to come with me to my office.”
“They are not leaders! They won’t go anywhere.”
“Then you tell me who will represent you.”
“No one will represent us. No one is going anywhere. Answer our demands here and now.”
“That is unrealistic, and you know it yourselves. And if you persist, this will not end well.”
With these words, the official turned and left.
We all felt that something was moving somewhere. Although the official had threatened us—how could he not!—he had still spoken to us. It was clear that he would return.
The time was approaching nine in the evening. The telephones inside the building were still ringing off the hook. It couldn't all be about us. On the other hand, who would need to call here after hours and why? Or do they always work this late here? And are they still receiving some kind of instructions from someone? Or, on the contrary, has everyone already left, and there is no one to answer the calls?
We didn't have to wonder for long. The important comrade returned. In a quick, business-like tone, he announced:
“The decision has been made to satisfy your demands. A special commission will be created, which will review all your cases in the shortest possible time. Those against whom there are no serious contraindications will be given the opportunity to leave.”
For a moment, we were overjoyed. Victory! But we soon realized that in fact, none of our demands had been met. We hadn’t asked for ourselves personally! We were demanding a general solution to the problem of emigration to Israel (human rights activists rightly reproached us for the narrow, Jewish focus of the issue, but I believe that it's better this way than not at all, especially since others, non-Jews, followed our example) and an end to the persecution of those who had applied to leave.
We stood there indecisively. Personally, in a sudden rush of heroism, I insisted on continuing the sit-in. Agreeing to the official’s proposal seemed like a defeat to me. Many supported me, but without much enthusiasm. And to be honest, the prospect of spending the night here didn't appeal to me either. And when our “senior comrades” decided that it wasn’t worth pushing our luck, that we couldn’t achieve more right now and that we should leave, we all received it with relief, even though we knew we had failed.
On the other hand—what could we have actually achieved by sitting there longer? For this official to hand us a ready-made law on the unimpeded departure of Soviet Jews to Israel? For him to promise not to persecute those who apply? That they wouldn't be fired from their jobs, etc.? That is, something completely unrealistic.
So our failure was relative. Especially since others later followed our example, held sit-ins in the reception office, and also achieved some things. The only thing that still seems mysterious to me in this whole story is the fact that we immediately and unconditionally believed his promise about the commission and the review of cases. It would seem, where did such trust in the authorities come from? I swear, it’s just a mystery. The fact that they kept their word doesn't seem strange to me now. But we couldn't have known that in advance! Yet we believed, we didn’t doubt... Very surprising, I still don’t understand.
And when he promised us an unimpeded return home, we believed him too. And we went our separate ways—and no one touched us. I, like everyone else, had a personal guard in civilian clothes—he walked two or three steps behind me the whole way, rode the metro with me, and walked me right to my door, and never once spoke to me.
My mood was somewhat muddled. After the euphoria of the sit-in, an inevitable crash followed. I was almost certain that they would let us out soon. Well, I should have been happy. Exultant. That’s why I participated in the event, after all!
And I, probably for the first time, truly realized that I was about to leave everyone and everything—forever. Forever! Back then, we were leaving forever, with a vague hope that maybe, someday… And I became scared. A completely different kind of scared, not like before the visit to the Reception Office. Now it wasn’t an ordinary fear for myself. I wasn’t too worried about myself then. One way or another, I would surely settle in the new place. In the worst-case scenario, I’d get married. But—what if I really never saw my mother and brother again? And my friends? And everything familiar and dear?
And why did I even start all this! Was I so eager to live among Jews? Not at all, there was none of that. And my mother, who was born and raised in a Belarusian shtetl, often told me: “I don’t know how you’ll get along there. You don’t know Jews at all. You imagine them to be high-brow intellectuals, like your father and grandfather. You are greatly mistaken.”
/
Today, exactly fifty years ago, what I described above happened, and I will finish the description now. A group of 24 Jews gathered in the reception office of the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet of the USSR, demanding a resolution to the procedure for emigration to Israel.
Fourteen portraits of the members of this group then appeared in an article in the Israeli newspaper Maariv. Of the others, I remember Volodya Slepak, Volodya Prestin... they were among the last to leave, remaining “refuseniks” for a long time. There were also several other people—I confess, my weak memory has not retained their names, for which I deeply apologize. I also apologize if I made mistakes in spelling the names. If anyone knowledgeable notices, please let me know.
…my mother, who was born and raised in a Belarusian shtetl, often told me: “I don’t know how you’ll get along there. You don’t know Jews at all. You imagine them to be high-brow intellectuals, like your father and grandfather. You are greatly mistaken.”
She was right; in my circle, there were very few Jews, and almost all of them were of the highest caliber. My impression of ordinary Jews was drawn mainly from the semi-farcical stories of Sholem Aleichem and the much more serious and grim works of David Bergelson. I highly value Bergelson as a writer, but his characters did not inspire a desire to interact with them. And I was even more repelled by the works of the semi-classic of Soviet literature, Isaac Babel—I could clearly feel a fakeness in him. A brilliant, extremely clever and talented fakeness, but—created to cater to and please non-Jews. Jewish exotica, so to speak, at its best.
Thus, my literary acquaintance was not very favorable to Jews. However, I never forgot that I was a Jew myself. By that time, I understood well that Jewishness is something that cannot be separated from oneself in any way, and any attempt to do so is undignified and humiliating. But to live with this distinction in Russia also seemed humiliating to me. Especially after the so-called “press conference” of Jewish artists. Fifty renowned, popular, beloved actors, writers, and artists sat in front of a television camera and publicly covered themselves in shame, cursing the Zionist aggressors.
I was not surprised by their behavior. Thank God, I grew up in this country myself. No, I was not surprised and did not even condemn them—but I was horrified. This is what they could do to me too. Not on such a high level, of course. But suppose they organize a meeting on this topic in my group committee—what then? Wriggle out of it, plead illness? Possible. But far too humiliating. And the next time? And the next?
By that time, I had fully matured to the understanding that I had and would have no opportunity in this country to maintain my own dignity—to avoid one humiliating situation or another related to my fifth point. One or another—sometimes crude and direct, sometimes hidden and stinging from the shadows—as had happened in my life more than once. The only possibility was to live where this fifth point does not exist, or rather, where everyone has it.
By the time I reached home, my thoughts had come full circle, and I again had no doubt about the correctness of my decision. Not happy, no. Just grimly gritting my teeth, knowing that I would follow this path to the end.
The authorities kept their word.
Very soon, on March 2, I was summoned to OVIR (Department of Visas and Registration). They told me that I was permitted to leave. I was given until March 10. They told me to bring money for the visa and for the renunciation of citizenship (my usually very thrifty uncle generously gave me the money for all this). They also informed me that I had to go to a certain room in the same building, on the second floor. I had an idea of what kind of room it was, and I was about to refuse, but my comrades, who had also been summoned to OVIR and were waiting downstairs for their turn, said it was better not to anger them, not to risk it.
A man with a pleasant, manly appearance, dressed in a civilian suit, met me. It later became known that this was KGB General Minin. He didn't introduce himself, of course, and didn't stand up to greet me. But he offered me a seat. The conversation began in a cordial, complimentary tone.
“Yulia Meirovna, we know you as an intelligent, cultured woman. What is pushing you to take this rash step?”
They know me! But I don’t know you! And I don’t want to. But I kept silent.
“Are you really so unhappy in our country? Any problems? They can be solved.”
“Thank you, I have no problems.”
“And what about housing? We can really help.”
My housing situation was bad, and they knew it. What if they really did help? My head knew I couldn’t give in to this, but my heart skipped a beat.
“Thank you, no need.”
“Well, as you wish. We’re coming to you with an open heart, and look how you are,” the man looked at me with a hurt reproach. “Oh well. So, you’re leaving. But you have your mother and brother remaining here. We know you are very attached to them. Have you thought about how they will feel here without you?”
“Will you persecute them?”
The man laughed:
“Why are you all so scared? You see persecution everywhere, all sorts of fears, God knows what... Who’s going to touch them?”
Yes, why on earth are we all so scared? What grounds could we possibly have for fear!
“That’s not the point. But they will miss you very much without you, it’s hard to know that they will never see you again. And you, them.”
“Why never? In time, when I get settled, they will move to be with me too.”
“Oh? Are you sure of that?”
“I can’t be sure. But I hope so—unless you don't let them go.”
“There you go again. You’re making us out to be some kind of monsters again. You’re wrong to think that, Yulia Meirovna, I swear you are.”
“Or what?”
“Nothing. Why wouldn’t I let them go? Are you sure they will want to?”
I wasn’t sure of that either. My brother wasn’t ready yet, and my mother said outright that there was nothing for her to do in Israel, she wouldn’t find work, wouldn’t make new friends, and would certainly not learn the language. And the general seemed to have overheard my thoughts:
“What about you, do you know Yiddish?”
“Yiddish? No, I don't.”
“How will you manage there without the language?”
“I’ll learn the language. Just not Yiddish.”
“Not Yiddish? What then?”
Later I found out that the general knew both Yiddish and Hebrew, and why he was putting on this act is not entirely clear. Apparently, it was a way to relax me, to put me in a calmer mood, to convince me that this wasn't a cat-and-mouse game but a normal human conversation. He asked me about Hebrew, expressed his admiration for the Jews reviving the ancient language of the Bible and speaking it.
“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” he said, thoughtfully tapping his pencil on the file lying in front of him, probably mine. “How could such a dignified, intelligent woman get mixed up with this rabble.” He nodded his head, presumably referring to the people waiting downstairs. “We know what kind of people are there, not your circle at all.”
This, I suppose, was another compliment to me. I don’t know what reaction he expected from me, but I decided it was not worth answering that question.
He was silent for a moment and, getting no answer, sighed sadly:
“I feel sorry. I just feel sorry for you as a human being. It’s hard to let you go to a country you know nothing about. Where you will be unhappy and have a hard time. I just can’t think of what to do with you.”
“Do nothing. Let me go.”
“Well, letting you go is easy... But... I’m worried about you. And I think: how can I help you.”
Well now, how caring of him. And what’s funny is: you want to believe it! You have to give him credit, the bastard knows his stuff!
“You know what? Maybe you should first go there for a couple of months, for half a year? To look around, get acquainted… how does that prospect sound to you?”
“Yes, that would be great.”
“Well? So what's the problem? Go there on a tourist visa, find out everything. If you like it—you’ll come back and formalize your permanent departure, and if you don’t like it—you’ll stay here.”
“Is that even possible?”
“Would I be suggesting it to you otherwise?”
“But that's wonderful! I had no idea! I’ll go tell my friends right away! So many will want to, if not all.”
“But that’s exactly what you shouldn’t do,” the general looked at me with a true KGB, piercing gaze. “That is exactly what you should not do! I am offering this to you personally, as an exception, and the others must know nothing about it. Do you understand me?”
“I understand.”
“I’m asking, do you understand me?”
“I understood you.”
“Did you understand me well?”
“I understood you well.”
“And I’m giving you a day to think about it, I’ll be waiting for your answer tomorrow.”
I ran down the stairs like a madwoman. As if someone was chasing me. The KGB agent’s tempting offer was chasing me. I understood that he could fulfill it. And I understood it wouldn't be for free. There would be a price to pay. I didn’t know how, but there would definitely be one. I was afraid of myself, so I needed to tell the others immediately to cut off my own path of retreat.
Fima listened to my excited story and said calmly:
“That bastard. He knows what to bait you with. Well, what about you?”
“I didn’t answer. I said I’d tell everyone right away that it’s possible to go like that. But he told me not to tell anyone.”
“You did the right thing.”
“He told me to come back tomorrow and give him an answer. I’m afraid of him.”
“Don’t be afraid of anything and don’t go anywhere. He’ll now try to hook others with the same bait. And he’ll know what’s what with you anyway.”
I listened to Fima and didn’t go back to the KGB agent.
And after a week of frantic packing, I left. And for many years now, half a century, “yovel” in Hebrew, I have been living in Israel. Among Jews. And it’s fine, I’ve gotten used to it.