It was a long hour, an agitating hour, as I, my wife and our two daughters waited patiently in the spacious lobby of the First City Hospital of Balti, a mid-size city located in the northern part of Moldavia, within the historical region of Bessarabia with which the city’s own history is closely intertwined.
Still three months until our departure for America.
I was nervous: they can always find a reason to prevent a family of ‘traitors’ from leaving the country. My daughters brought a book and read it together to keep their minds occupied by an imaginable world. Without the certificates of good health, based on which the Director of the Municipal Health department will decide whether he should or should not allow my family to board the shiny Boeing-747 bound for New York, we were doomed. With my eyes on a painting attached to the wall above the reception area, I sat between my wife and our quiet daughters, surely one of many who saw this painting before me. An old woman, tiny, gnome, her wrinkled shoes and her floppy hat were already far too big for her, so were her false teeth, a citizen fighting for a place in one of the termite-eaten old-age homes, had been in front of us, and I had promised to keep my fingers crossed for her, which I naturally forgot to do as soon as I was alone with my family and the eleven o’clock chimes, worried about our own future, while she was now sitting in front of the all-powerful Medical Officer, the tiny woman with false teeth and hair on her upper lip; she had been there ten minutes already. The eleven o’clock chimes would have been finer with the window open, more booming. I sat patiently, with a mask of obedience on my face, now thoughtless. All our documents were in order. What we needed now was a considerate soul, a Medical Officer with the understanding of our situation, great understanding as a matter of fact.
The eleven o’clock chimes have fallen silent.
‘Dad,’ asked my younger daughter Elvira, ‘why do they draw blood?’
‘To see if there are any invisible sicknesses inside our body,’ I said. ‘And then again: it’s always beneficial to refresh your blood once in a while, isn’t it?’
No response to that.
Yes, the Medical Officer would have to be very understanding.
Instead of the chimes, I now heard the tapping of a typewriter in the next room, probably to console the old woman by allowing her to give all her particulars over again, date of birth, the place of residence, the address of all her children, etc. Anyhow, something was being typed. Not without a beating heart, I thought over the answers I will give to this typewriter next door. It shouldn’t be a problem for my wife and daughters: they have never affiliated themselves with any secret societies or underground groups, lived peaceful, quiet lives, obeying the constitution and ground rules on the socialist country. Every now and then, I closed my eyes, to get the feel of the lobby without seeing it, to trust my ears instead. What always opened my eyes again, often after only a few breaths, was not curiosity as to what I could see, not primarily; I knew what the lobby of a local hospital office looks like. Perhaps it was already a sign of age that everything the eyes can see looks like a lobby. Nevertheless, we always open our eyes again. The retina is a protection against the time; we see what the clock is showing, and clock always shows now; a protection against memory and its abysses.
Once an official went through the lobby, a black file in his hand, without a word and without a nod, perhaps he knew already the traitorous family of four, anyhow, nobody nodded, neither the official nor I, and then I was sitting alone again, my daughters now sleeping or pretending to be asleep, thinking about advantages and disadvantages…
I decided to be simply truthful.
Another half an hour passed.
At last, the doctor sent for me.
My wife will go next, then our daughters.
Trubman, Lazarus J, born at such and such a place on such and such a date, it’s all in the passport, which the Medical Officer, after sitting down comfortably, looked at without curiosity. The passport seemed to be in order, to judge by the Medical Officer’s mute indifference.
‘I’m Dr. Klochkov,’ he introduced himself, ‘in time of war – Colonel Klochkov. We’ll have the certificates ready after all the procedures are performed to my satisfaction,’ he gave the secretary a sign to put the first form into the typewriter. ‘The tests will be taken in the observation room: blood, urine and saliva, as well as the ability of your lungs and the condition of your heart. Normally, it’s a free examination, but for people who made a decision to leave the country, the cost is thirty rubles, which you must pay today. Would you be able to fulfill your monetary obligation, citizen Trubman?’
‘Yes, Comrade Colonel,’ I said.
‘The nurse will show you the way. Good luck!’
In the observation room I went through the same process with a different secretary; I had to repeat again the truth about myself, and the young lady typed. Her tense concern was not whether it was yes or no, but not to make a typing mistake; only that. And of course, the reaction of Dr. Klochkov who came in a few minutes later; I could see that the all-powerful Medical Officer distrusted the secretary – not me. She typed slower when he was present in the room. A nurse and another doctor, a real one, had been waiting silently for an order to start the procedures. The room would’ve surprised me if I hadn’t seen an identical one before – a room of Spartan simplicity.
‘I’m finished,’ announced the secretary and heaved a sigh of relief.
‘We’re going to start right now, citizen Trubman,’ said the nurse, and the silent doctor approved. The clock on the opposite wall showed 11:35; 25 minutes till lunch. No one spoke while they were drawing my blood and the blood of my wife and daughters who were now also in the room. Once the phone rang, and one of the nurses responded accordingly. I tried, while breathing into a tube, to think about my plans for tomorrow and the day after, the tickets, but couldn’t: your mind cannot be everywhere at the same instant. I looked at the secretary who was getting ready to prepare the final certificates upon the completion of all scheduled procedures. She occupied the empty corner, rolled in a standard white sheet of paper into the typewriter and sat still and quiet like a deaf person.
No one went to lunch.
Some twenty minutes later, she was typing the medical certificates, slow as always, glancing around as if doubting that her presence was really necessary. I put on my shirt after the doctor had listened to my lungs and heart and stood next to the window, observing the outside view while both of my daughters and my wife had been checked by the nurse.
This was our last procedure.
Now everybody was waiting for Dr. Klochkov to come in to sign the certificates. He had just finished his sandwich and was drying his lips with a napkin. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘seems like we have gotten a healthy family of four, haven’t we?’
‘Some minor abnormalities in citizen’s Trubman’s heart, but that might be due to the circumstances related to his time in the correctional-working facility,’ reported the doctor. ‘Some aspirin and moderation in the daily diet would be my suggestions regarding this matter.’
‘Heart abnormalities, you said?’ asked Dr. Klochkov.
‘Minor ones,’ repeated the doctor, ‘due to the circumstances…’
‘How minor, doctor?’
‘A minimal arrythmia, I suppose, possibly a slightly blocked artery - not dangerous at this time.’
‘Is it possible that a long flight might put citizen Trubman’s life in danger?’
The doctor paused for an instant in order to come up with a convincing answer.
‘This is a very good observation, Dr. Klochkov,’ he decided to praise the Medical Officer before going into details, ‘on the other hand though, citizen Trubman is only forty years old, otherwise a healthy man, teetotal…’
‘So, I have your word then?’ Dr. Klochkov interrupted impatiently, glanced at his wristwatch and began signing the certificates, reading them first, drying his signature with an ink blotter, looking up suddenly, reading them again. Once, while waiting for the secretary to put the next certificate in front of him, he looked at me and smiled, and I didn’t like his smile.
‘I hope nothing will happen to your heart between now and the day of your departure, citizen Trubman,’ he said.
‘I hope so too, doctor,’ I said. ‘Thank you for being so considerate.’
‘You will regret your decision to leave your native land,’ said Dr. Klochkov after he signed the last certificate. ‘Many desire to come back, but not everyone is allowed back – keep that in mind.’
‘Thank you again for the appropriate warning,’ I said, but the all-powerful Medical Officer was already leaving the room, and my appreciation hit the door and fell flat on the carpeted floor. Everyone was standing still as though afraid that at some point he might return and ask for more services.
‘May we go now?’ I asked.
‘You better,’ said the nurse. ‘Colonel Klochkov is as unpredictable as tomorrow’s weather, and I won’t be surprised if he suddenly imagines your minor abnormality as a blanketed heart attack.’
‘Is that a joke?’ I asked.
‘Not at all.’
We disappeared as if blown off by a strong wind.
‘What’s wrong with your heart, dad?’ asked Elvira.
We were already at the bus stop.
‘Some minor abnormalities, I guess,’ I said, getting our monthly bus permits ready.
‘Minor is not really a bad word after what you’ve been through, right, dad,’ said Florida, my older one.
‘My thought exactly.’
The bus finally arrived and soon brought us home. We sat down at the dining-room table and toasted our certificates with a glass of young Cabernet. Then again. My daughters demanded more.
‘And why not?’ said my wife. ‘They’ll sleep better.’
Our family was given a clean bill of health. The director of the Municipal Health Department shouldn’t have any problems to sign our permission to live the country. The day when everything would seem like a long bad dream had just begun. Thanks to God. We drank to him, too.
A week later I stood in the lobby of the Municipal Health Department, four certificates in my hand, dressed as if for a diplomatic reception. The line moved faster than I expected and half an hour later a thin woman, a skeleton in a long, black dress, escorted me inside the office and left. The wait wasn’t long. As soon as the director of the department walked in, he introduced himself as Comrade Bitov, asked me to sit down and began reading the certificates, and for a while it was dead quiet. I would’ve moved if I could. Suddenly the twelve o’clock chimes. He smiled. I smiled, too. My mind was occupied with only one thought: this man held the fate of my family in his hands.
‘So, professor,’ he asked, putting aside the certificates, ‘decided to try a better way of life, I presume?’ He was a man of fifty, a bit overweight and balding. ‘Very convenient, don’t you think?’
‘What do you mean by that, if I may ask, Comrade Director?’
‘What was so bad about your life in this despicable country of ours? You got your education, the best education a man could possible get – and now you running away at a speed of light, full of hatred,’ he paused for an instant. ‘Unjustifiable hatred, I might add.’
‘I’m really sorry,’ I said, unable suddenly to come up with any sensible explanation that would satisfy the Director of Municipal Health Department. ‘On the other hand, though, wouldn’t it make sense if all Jews, Lithuanians, Estonians and others leave the country? The way we were treated…’
‘Persecution of Jews was always highly overrated!’ he interrupted. ‘And you, if I recall correctly, were not a humble sheep.’
‘My reason is much simpler, Comrade Director: to reunite with my sister and my mother.’
‘Everyone I talked to before you had a simple reason.’
I wasn’t sure what to say to that.
‘But every single one of them was full of hatred… What about your family?
‘I can assure you, we’re not, Comrade Director.’
He turned the pages of every certificate, then put them together in a short stack and said, ‘I can hold you and your family way beyond the date of your departure, without feeling guilty. Your minor heart problem is a good enough reason for my superiors to agree with that decision – you believe me, don’t you, citizen Trubman?’
‘I do.’
‘But I am not an animal, I am an educated and an intelligent man.’
‘I’ve no doubts, Comrade Director. As a matter of fact, I have never, despite…’
‘I’m familiar with the theory that totalitarian system, which creates merciless cruelty, is attractive to people because it is a direct measure of power. Isn’t that what you believed in? You can’t deny it. You have told millions – risking your lives and freedoms – that we were cruel to our own citizens because we had unlimited power over them… you wish to say something, Lazarus? Go ahead, it won’t affect my decision regarding the permission.’
‘You overstating our abilities by saying millions, Comrade Director…’
‘Andrey Pavlovich, if you will.’
‘Andrey Pavlovich… But isn’t it the truth?’
‘For some period of time – yes, but let me ask you a question: isn’t cruelty a common factor in human relations – regardless of the system?’
I kept quiet.
‘Here,’ he said, getting the pen and the ink blotter ready, ‘I’m signing your permission – you can speak freely.’
‘May I answer with a question, Andrey Pavlovich?’
‘I’ve already gotten used to that.’
‘Why does an opinion of someone who is about to leave his country matter to you?’
‘It doesn’t. I just wish to understand why are you so anxious to leave now, when things seem to get normal finally.’
‘I can think of dehumanization, which could explain – conventionally – that people are able to do terrible things to other people only after having dehumanized them. In other words, when you fail to appreciate the humanity in other people, all sorts of evils show up, and suddenly there is no time to put on the breaks.’
‘I see,’ he said, ‘I see.’
‘But it lasted more than 60 years, Andrey Pavlovich, and I’m still unsure that the last evil had been destroyed…’
‘You cannot destroy an evil forever,’ he interrupted, ‘but you’re mistaken, Lazarus. You’re referring to communists and people they had given orders to. The truth is though, that anyone is capable of being cruel under the right circumstances. Tell me: why do we do plenty of awfully bad things to people?’
‘Because you don’t see them as people.’
‘I agree… But there is another side of that coin: a whole lot of horrible things we do precisely because we recognize them as people. And the unlimited power and Communist ideology have nothing to do with it. It’s not even required.’
‘What about mass killings: GULAG, Babi Yar, etc.?’
‘It won’t happen again – you, of all people, should know that!’
‘Memories never die.’
He finally signed the permission, dried the ink and said, ‘Here you go, it’s official now.’
I thanked him.
‘I was only ten years old when Stalin died,’ he said. ‘I haven’t killed anybody and, thankfully, never gave an order.’
All I wanted was to get the hell out of his office.
‘As far as mass killings? I actually think that people who did mass killings didn’t believe they were killing anyone. They’re been giving orders to achieve something, and people were in the way. It was sometimes as simple as that. No one questioned the high authority…a cigarette?’ he offered.
‘I quit, thank you,’ I said.
‘You lived through sixties, seventies and eighties and you survived the colony,’ he said exhaling a cloud of smoke to the side. ‘Why leave now? Today, we need educated people more than ever before.’
I had no answer. It was possible that the worst evil had been defeated; I felt that intuitively after 1985. It didn’t take long though to realize that I was too sanguine about human nature. Change of that magnitude takes time and patience. Gorbachev did make a few good decisions after he came to power, but pretty soon things slowed down to a speed of a turtle on a sunny August day. Then I thought that our intuitions are wrong in just about every way they can be. Cruelty hadn’t died; it had changed its face, became more sophisticated, modern, because it’s not an accident or an aberration, it is always central to who and what we are, and there is no way anyone can fix cruelty quickly and harmlessly.
‘Here’s your permission, Lazarus,’ said Andrey Pavlovich in a suddenly tired voice. ‘Hopefully, some far away day, you’ll realize that our abilities and desires to help a suffering soul had been heavily restricted,’ he poured himself a glass of water. ‘My best and really only advice: don’t try to be a hero until your departure, don’t try to prove anything to anyone, don’t try to make anyone feel guilty; it will only hurt: in the eyes of this proud nation, you are traitors, always will be. Good day.’
He stood up, giving me a sign that the meeting was over.
‘None of us ever thought that all party members were the same, Andrey Pavlovich,’ I said. ‘I’ve known quite a few who are enjoying their lives in France, United States and Germany…’
‘Good day, citizen Trubman!’
I tried, but director’s bravery had its boundaries.
I was nervous: they can always find a reason to prevent a family of ‘traitors’ from leaving the country. My daughters brought a book and read it together to keep their minds occupied by an imaginable world. Without the certificates of good health, based on which the Director of the Municipal Health department will decide whether he should or should not allow my family to board the shiny Boeing-747 bound for New York, we were doomed. With my eyes on a painting attached to the wall above the reception area, I sat between my wife and our quiet daughters, surely one of many who saw this painting before me. An old woman, tiny, gnome, her wrinkled shoes and her floppy hat were already far too big for her, so were her false teeth, a citizen fighting for a place in one of the termite-eaten old-age homes, had been in front of us, and I had promised to keep my fingers crossed for her, which I naturally forgot to do as soon as I was alone with my family and the eleven o’clock chimes, worried about our own future, while she was now sitting in front of the all-powerful Medical Officer, the tiny woman with false teeth and hair on her upper lip; she had been there ten minutes already. The eleven o’clock chimes would have been finer with the window open, more booming. I sat patiently, with a mask of obedience on my face, now thoughtless. All our documents were in order. What we needed now was a considerate soul, a Medical Officer with the understanding of our situation, great understanding as a matter of fact.
The eleven o’clock chimes have fallen silent.
‘Dad,’ asked my younger daughter Elvira, ‘why do they draw blood?’
‘To see if there are any invisible sicknesses inside our body,’ I said. ‘And then again: it’s always beneficial to refresh your blood once in a while, isn’t it?’
No response to that.
Yes, the Medical Officer would have to be very understanding.
Instead of the chimes, I now heard the tapping of a typewriter in the next room, probably to console the old woman by allowing her to give all her particulars over again, date of birth, the place of residence, the address of all her children, etc. Anyhow, something was being typed. Not without a beating heart, I thought over the answers I will give to this typewriter next door. It shouldn’t be a problem for my wife and daughters: they have never affiliated themselves with any secret societies or underground groups, lived peaceful, quiet lives, obeying the constitution and ground rules on the socialist country. Every now and then, I closed my eyes, to get the feel of the lobby without seeing it, to trust my ears instead. What always opened my eyes again, often after only a few breaths, was not curiosity as to what I could see, not primarily; I knew what the lobby of a local hospital office looks like. Perhaps it was already a sign of age that everything the eyes can see looks like a lobby. Nevertheless, we always open our eyes again. The retina is a protection against the time; we see what the clock is showing, and clock always shows now; a protection against memory and its abysses.
Once an official went through the lobby, a black file in his hand, without a word and without a nod, perhaps he knew already the traitorous family of four, anyhow, nobody nodded, neither the official nor I, and then I was sitting alone again, my daughters now sleeping or pretending to be asleep, thinking about advantages and disadvantages…
I decided to be simply truthful.
Another half an hour passed.
At last, the doctor sent for me.
My wife will go next, then our daughters.
Trubman, Lazarus J, born at such and such a place on such and such a date, it’s all in the passport, which the Medical Officer, after sitting down comfortably, looked at without curiosity. The passport seemed to be in order, to judge by the Medical Officer’s mute indifference.
‘I’m Dr. Klochkov,’ he introduced himself, ‘in time of war – Colonel Klochkov. We’ll have the certificates ready after all the procedures are performed to my satisfaction,’ he gave the secretary a sign to put the first form into the typewriter. ‘The tests will be taken in the observation room: blood, urine and saliva, as well as the ability of your lungs and the condition of your heart. Normally, it’s a free examination, but for people who made a decision to leave the country, the cost is thirty rubles, which you must pay today. Would you be able to fulfill your monetary obligation, citizen Trubman?’
‘Yes, Comrade Colonel,’ I said.
‘The nurse will show you the way. Good luck!’
In the observation room I went through the same process with a different secretary; I had to repeat again the truth about myself, and the young lady typed. Her tense concern was not whether it was yes or no, but not to make a typing mistake; only that. And of course, the reaction of Dr. Klochkov who came in a few minutes later; I could see that the all-powerful Medical Officer distrusted the secretary – not me. She typed slower when he was present in the room. A nurse and another doctor, a real one, had been waiting silently for an order to start the procedures. The room would’ve surprised me if I hadn’t seen an identical one before – a room of Spartan simplicity.
‘I’m finished,’ announced the secretary and heaved a sigh of relief.
‘We’re going to start right now, citizen Trubman,’ said the nurse, and the silent doctor approved. The clock on the opposite wall showed 11:35; 25 minutes till lunch. No one spoke while they were drawing my blood and the blood of my wife and daughters who were now also in the room. Once the phone rang, and one of the nurses responded accordingly. I tried, while breathing into a tube, to think about my plans for tomorrow and the day after, the tickets, but couldn’t: your mind cannot be everywhere at the same instant. I looked at the secretary who was getting ready to prepare the final certificates upon the completion of all scheduled procedures. She occupied the empty corner, rolled in a standard white sheet of paper into the typewriter and sat still and quiet like a deaf person.
No one went to lunch.
Some twenty minutes later, she was typing the medical certificates, slow as always, glancing around as if doubting that her presence was really necessary. I put on my shirt after the doctor had listened to my lungs and heart and stood next to the window, observing the outside view while both of my daughters and my wife had been checked by the nurse.
This was our last procedure.
Now everybody was waiting for Dr. Klochkov to come in to sign the certificates. He had just finished his sandwich and was drying his lips with a napkin. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘seems like we have gotten a healthy family of four, haven’t we?’
‘Some minor abnormalities in citizen’s Trubman’s heart, but that might be due to the circumstances related to his time in the correctional-working facility,’ reported the doctor. ‘Some aspirin and moderation in the daily diet would be my suggestions regarding this matter.’
‘Heart abnormalities, you said?’ asked Dr. Klochkov.
‘Minor ones,’ repeated the doctor, ‘due to the circumstances…’
‘How minor, doctor?’
‘A minimal arrythmia, I suppose, possibly a slightly blocked artery - not dangerous at this time.’
‘Is it possible that a long flight might put citizen Trubman’s life in danger?’
The doctor paused for an instant in order to come up with a convincing answer.
‘This is a very good observation, Dr. Klochkov,’ he decided to praise the Medical Officer before going into details, ‘on the other hand though, citizen Trubman is only forty years old, otherwise a healthy man, teetotal…’
‘So, I have your word then?’ Dr. Klochkov interrupted impatiently, glanced at his wristwatch and began signing the certificates, reading them first, drying his signature with an ink blotter, looking up suddenly, reading them again. Once, while waiting for the secretary to put the next certificate in front of him, he looked at me and smiled, and I didn’t like his smile.
‘I hope nothing will happen to your heart between now and the day of your departure, citizen Trubman,’ he said.
‘I hope so too, doctor,’ I said. ‘Thank you for being so considerate.’
‘You will regret your decision to leave your native land,’ said Dr. Klochkov after he signed the last certificate. ‘Many desire to come back, but not everyone is allowed back – keep that in mind.’
‘Thank you again for the appropriate warning,’ I said, but the all-powerful Medical Officer was already leaving the room, and my appreciation hit the door and fell flat on the carpeted floor. Everyone was standing still as though afraid that at some point he might return and ask for more services.
‘May we go now?’ I asked.
‘You better,’ said the nurse. ‘Colonel Klochkov is as unpredictable as tomorrow’s weather, and I won’t be surprised if he suddenly imagines your minor abnormality as a blanketed heart attack.’
‘Is that a joke?’ I asked.
‘Not at all.’
We disappeared as if blown off by a strong wind.
‘What’s wrong with your heart, dad?’ asked Elvira.
We were already at the bus stop.
‘Some minor abnormalities, I guess,’ I said, getting our monthly bus permits ready.
‘Minor is not really a bad word after what you’ve been through, right, dad,’ said Florida, my older one.
‘My thought exactly.’
The bus finally arrived and soon brought us home. We sat down at the dining-room table and toasted our certificates with a glass of young Cabernet. Then again. My daughters demanded more.
‘And why not?’ said my wife. ‘They’ll sleep better.’
Our family was given a clean bill of health. The director of the Municipal Health Department shouldn’t have any problems to sign our permission to live the country. The day when everything would seem like a long bad dream had just begun. Thanks to God. We drank to him, too.
A week later I stood in the lobby of the Municipal Health Department, four certificates in my hand, dressed as if for a diplomatic reception. The line moved faster than I expected and half an hour later a thin woman, a skeleton in a long, black dress, escorted me inside the office and left. The wait wasn’t long. As soon as the director of the department walked in, he introduced himself as Comrade Bitov, asked me to sit down and began reading the certificates, and for a while it was dead quiet. I would’ve moved if I could. Suddenly the twelve o’clock chimes. He smiled. I smiled, too. My mind was occupied with only one thought: this man held the fate of my family in his hands.
‘So, professor,’ he asked, putting aside the certificates, ‘decided to try a better way of life, I presume?’ He was a man of fifty, a bit overweight and balding. ‘Very convenient, don’t you think?’
‘What do you mean by that, if I may ask, Comrade Director?’
‘What was so bad about your life in this despicable country of ours? You got your education, the best education a man could possible get – and now you running away at a speed of light, full of hatred,’ he paused for an instant. ‘Unjustifiable hatred, I might add.’
‘I’m really sorry,’ I said, unable suddenly to come up with any sensible explanation that would satisfy the Director of Municipal Health Department. ‘On the other hand, though, wouldn’t it make sense if all Jews, Lithuanians, Estonians and others leave the country? The way we were treated…’
‘Persecution of Jews was always highly overrated!’ he interrupted. ‘And you, if I recall correctly, were not a humble sheep.’
‘My reason is much simpler, Comrade Director: to reunite with my sister and my mother.’
‘Everyone I talked to before you had a simple reason.’
I wasn’t sure what to say to that.
‘But every single one of them was full of hatred… What about your family?
‘I can assure you, we’re not, Comrade Director.’
He turned the pages of every certificate, then put them together in a short stack and said, ‘I can hold you and your family way beyond the date of your departure, without feeling guilty. Your minor heart problem is a good enough reason for my superiors to agree with that decision – you believe me, don’t you, citizen Trubman?’
‘I do.’
‘But I am not an animal, I am an educated and an intelligent man.’
‘I’ve no doubts, Comrade Director. As a matter of fact, I have never, despite…’
‘I’m familiar with the theory that totalitarian system, which creates merciless cruelty, is attractive to people because it is a direct measure of power. Isn’t that what you believed in? You can’t deny it. You have told millions – risking your lives and freedoms – that we were cruel to our own citizens because we had unlimited power over them… you wish to say something, Lazarus? Go ahead, it won’t affect my decision regarding the permission.’
‘You overstating our abilities by saying millions, Comrade Director…’
‘Andrey Pavlovich, if you will.’
‘Andrey Pavlovich… But isn’t it the truth?’
‘For some period of time – yes, but let me ask you a question: isn’t cruelty a common factor in human relations – regardless of the system?’
I kept quiet.
‘Here,’ he said, getting the pen and the ink blotter ready, ‘I’m signing your permission – you can speak freely.’
‘May I answer with a question, Andrey Pavlovich?’
‘I’ve already gotten used to that.’
‘Why does an opinion of someone who is about to leave his country matter to you?’
‘It doesn’t. I just wish to understand why are you so anxious to leave now, when things seem to get normal finally.’
‘I can think of dehumanization, which could explain – conventionally – that people are able to do terrible things to other people only after having dehumanized them. In other words, when you fail to appreciate the humanity in other people, all sorts of evils show up, and suddenly there is no time to put on the breaks.’
‘I see,’ he said, ‘I see.’
‘But it lasted more than 60 years, Andrey Pavlovich, and I’m still unsure that the last evil had been destroyed…’
‘You cannot destroy an evil forever,’ he interrupted, ‘but you’re mistaken, Lazarus. You’re referring to communists and people they had given orders to. The truth is though, that anyone is capable of being cruel under the right circumstances. Tell me: why do we do plenty of awfully bad things to people?’
‘Because you don’t see them as people.’
‘I agree… But there is another side of that coin: a whole lot of horrible things we do precisely because we recognize them as people. And the unlimited power and Communist ideology have nothing to do with it. It’s not even required.’
‘What about mass killings: GULAG, Babi Yar, etc.?’
‘It won’t happen again – you, of all people, should know that!’
‘Memories never die.’
He finally signed the permission, dried the ink and said, ‘Here you go, it’s official now.’
I thanked him.
‘I was only ten years old when Stalin died,’ he said. ‘I haven’t killed anybody and, thankfully, never gave an order.’
All I wanted was to get the hell out of his office.
‘As far as mass killings? I actually think that people who did mass killings didn’t believe they were killing anyone. They’re been giving orders to achieve something, and people were in the way. It was sometimes as simple as that. No one questioned the high authority…a cigarette?’ he offered.
‘I quit, thank you,’ I said.
‘You lived through sixties, seventies and eighties and you survived the colony,’ he said exhaling a cloud of smoke to the side. ‘Why leave now? Today, we need educated people more than ever before.’
I had no answer. It was possible that the worst evil had been defeated; I felt that intuitively after 1985. It didn’t take long though to realize that I was too sanguine about human nature. Change of that magnitude takes time and patience. Gorbachev did make a few good decisions after he came to power, but pretty soon things slowed down to a speed of a turtle on a sunny August day. Then I thought that our intuitions are wrong in just about every way they can be. Cruelty hadn’t died; it had changed its face, became more sophisticated, modern, because it’s not an accident or an aberration, it is always central to who and what we are, and there is no way anyone can fix cruelty quickly and harmlessly.
‘Here’s your permission, Lazarus,’ said Andrey Pavlovich in a suddenly tired voice. ‘Hopefully, some far away day, you’ll realize that our abilities and desires to help a suffering soul had been heavily restricted,’ he poured himself a glass of water. ‘My best and really only advice: don’t try to be a hero until your departure, don’t try to prove anything to anyone, don’t try to make anyone feel guilty; it will only hurt: in the eyes of this proud nation, you are traitors, always will be. Good day.’
He stood up, giving me a sign that the meeting was over.
‘None of us ever thought that all party members were the same, Andrey Pavlovich,’ I said. ‘I’ve known quite a few who are enjoying their lives in France, United States and Germany…’
‘Good day, citizen Trubman!’
I tried, but director’s bravery had its boundaries.
Lazarus Trubman is a college professor from the former USSR who immigrated to the United States in 1990 after surviving four years as a political prisoner in a strict-regime colony. Assigned to a university in Arizona, he taught Literary Theory and Romance languages until his retirement in 2017.
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