Self-fulfilling prophecy
It was three in the morning when a hard knock on the door made my roommate and me jump in bed. Two men burst into the Embassy hostel room. One of them beamed a flashlight in our faces and demanded to see our passports.
‘Where were you last night?’ he asked.
‘In the movies.’
‘When did you return?’
‘At about ten.’
‘Why haven’t you signed for return in the departure and arrival log?’
‘We forgot, sorry.’
‘Forget again and both of you will be sent home.’
We lied. That night we secretly escaped to the Eldorado restaurant exotic dance show at the New Delhi Rajdoot Hotel.
Gardelina, a beautiful Philippine dancer swirled across the small dance floor gradually getting rid of her colorful clothes. Down to her garter and a flower garland, she danced towards our table, put her foot on my knee and offered me to roll down her stocking.
‘Where are you from, Blue Eyes?’ she charmed me with a seductive smile.
I was twenty-one and over a year on the strict ‘no foreign women’ abstinence pledge that I had to make at the briefing at the Communist Party Central Committee prior to my departure to India. At the briefing I was warned, ‘Stay away from foreign women. All of them are agents provocateurs.’
It would have been unthinkable to mention the USSR.
I froze stiff mesmerized by the slowly rolling down stocking and then blurted out ‘Canada.’ She threw the flower garland over my neck and ran away.
I never saw her again. But Canada, twenty years later, surfaced in the Perestroika fog.
‘In the movies.’
‘When did you return?’
‘At about ten.’
‘Why haven’t you signed for return in the departure and arrival log?’
‘We forgot, sorry.’
‘Forget again and both of you will be sent home.’
We lied. That night we secretly escaped to the Eldorado restaurant exotic dance show at the New Delhi Rajdoot Hotel.
Gardelina, a beautiful Philippine dancer swirled across the small dance floor gradually getting rid of her colorful clothes. Down to her garter and a flower garland, she danced towards our table, put her foot on my knee and offered me to roll down her stocking.
‘Where are you from, Blue Eyes?’ she charmed me with a seductive smile.
I was twenty-one and over a year on the strict ‘no foreign women’ abstinence pledge that I had to make at the briefing at the Communist Party Central Committee prior to my departure to India. At the briefing I was warned, ‘Stay away from foreign women. All of them are agents provocateurs.’
It would have been unthinkable to mention the USSR.
I froze stiff mesmerized by the slowly rolling down stocking and then blurted out ‘Canada.’ She threw the flower garland over my neck and ran away.
I never saw her again. But Canada, twenty years later, surfaced in the Perestroika fog.
⸎ ⸎ ⸎
Much has been written about the gradual collapse of the Soviet system and Perestroika of the late 80s that put the final nail in the system’s coffin. The Soviet media, however, continued with creative tales of how to make it more (sic!) efficient to better meet the needs of people. In those days, a popular joke read ‘If you are hungry don’t open your fridge, instead turn on your radio or TV.’
Chronic food and consumer goods shortages was nothing new to the citizens, especially in the province. In the 70s the slogans all over Moscow read ‘Let’s turn Moscow into an exemplary communist City.’ Back then I was in the military and stationed not far from Vologda, the city traditionally associated with its butter and lace. Lace was available only in the ‘Berezka’ hard currency stores in Moscow and I had never seen butter in the city’s groceries.
Officers could buy half a kilo (about a pound) of butter at the Base’s Post Exchange once in two weeks and it was the best gift we could bring to the romantic dates with the city girls.
In the 80s and early 90s food and even manufactured goods practically disappeared even in Moscow stores. ‘Food tourism’ prospered – hundreds of buses carrying so called ‘art and monuments lovers’ from Moscow region and beyond flocked to the capital, parked in adjacent to shopping centres streets and released angry passengers to scour the store shelves. In order to cut off nonresidents from the already scanty food supplies, the Moscow government introduced a ‘Buyer’s Card’. The Card, a sort of voucher, had the buyer’s photo, address and passport number; on the reverse side it listed the quantity of the deficit goods, like cheese and butter, one could buy per family. Muscovites had to carry passports so that their registration could be verified in the stores.
Soon, the innovation boomeranged the Muscovites and vouchers were introduced in other cities and towns of the country.
In June of 1990, my wife Natasha, our ten-year-old son George and I ventured out on a river cruise into the wilds of what was at the time hungry and troubled hinterland of Russia.
Not to mention the Captain of the thirty-year-old Alexander Pirogov passenger ship, but even a cabin boy who checked our tickets on the ladder was three sheets to the wind.
‘Do you want me to cancel the trip?’ I asked my wife.
‘Please don’t,’ pleaded George.
We went aboard and the fun began.
The ‘Buyer’s Cards’ that limited the non-Muscovites in their shopping rights backfired on us during the trip.
The night of departure my son said that he had left his toothbrush home. ‘No worries,’ I said. ‘We’ll buy it at the first stop.’
The first stop was in Uglich, a one thousand year old town haunted by the terrible story of the stabbing death of an eight-year-old Tsarevich (Prince) Dmitry, the youngest son of Ivan The Terrible.
It rained heavily all morning. The town and the nearby coastal villages sprinkled in the uncharted Volga banks shrugged hiding under their tin roofs every living thing. The rain turned to drizzle only when our ship docked by the long squeaky pier. Was it the gloomy weather or the gloomy history of the place, but everything about it – the rain-washed path that led past the blue domed Church of St. Dmitry on the Blood and up to deserted streets lined with time-worn low houses with attics looked depressing.
We found a toothbrush in a small variety store. I went to the cashier to pay and she refused to sell it.
‘Are you local?’ She looked at us with suspicion.
‘We are from the ship.’ I said.
‘Muscovites?’
‘Yes.’
‘You won’t let us shop in Moscow and we won’t sell to you here.’
It took me about twenty minutes to convince the store manager that my ten-year-old son was not responsible for the Moscow government decisions. Finally an exception was made – George returned on board triumphantly holding a new toothbrush.
The victory was short lived. In a few days our ship made a sharp right turn into the Oka River, the largest tributary of the Volga, and soon moored in another history rich town of Murom. After a few hours of touring the ancient monasteries, we wanted to buy something to diversify our boring boat menu. Tough luck: stale bread and dusty fish cans in the grocery stores, lonely sunflower seeds and potato on the abandoned coarse wooden stalls of the farmers market. Next door to the pier we stopped at the ‘Vodnik’ (Water-Transport) store. Surprisingly, in the far corner, next to the shelves with Turkish tea in packets, we came across a counter with condensed coffee and milk, canned braised beef and Chinese ham. George wanted condensed coffee and Natasha was tempted by condensed milk. Amazed by such abundance, I was about to pay when I noticed a sign ‘Sold for special coupons only to boat crews.’ All our arguments failed to produce any effect on the sales girl and we left empty handed.
Back on board I tried to get help from our First Mate.
‘Forget it,’ he said. ‘It’s not for us either. It’s for the cargo ship crews, but even they need special coupons valid for one month only.’ He looked around to make sure that no one was listening and added, ‘Even if you want to live in Russia, you can’t.’
Chronic food and consumer goods shortages was nothing new to the citizens, especially in the province. In the 70s the slogans all over Moscow read ‘Let’s turn Moscow into an exemplary communist City.’ Back then I was in the military and stationed not far from Vologda, the city traditionally associated with its butter and lace. Lace was available only in the ‘Berezka’ hard currency stores in Moscow and I had never seen butter in the city’s groceries.
Officers could buy half a kilo (about a pound) of butter at the Base’s Post Exchange once in two weeks and it was the best gift we could bring to the romantic dates with the city girls.
In the 80s and early 90s food and even manufactured goods practically disappeared even in Moscow stores. ‘Food tourism’ prospered – hundreds of buses carrying so called ‘art and monuments lovers’ from Moscow region and beyond flocked to the capital, parked in adjacent to shopping centres streets and released angry passengers to scour the store shelves. In order to cut off nonresidents from the already scanty food supplies, the Moscow government introduced a ‘Buyer’s Card’. The Card, a sort of voucher, had the buyer’s photo, address and passport number; on the reverse side it listed the quantity of the deficit goods, like cheese and butter, one could buy per family. Muscovites had to carry passports so that their registration could be verified in the stores.
Soon, the innovation boomeranged the Muscovites and vouchers were introduced in other cities and towns of the country.
In June of 1990, my wife Natasha, our ten-year-old son George and I ventured out on a river cruise into the wilds of what was at the time hungry and troubled hinterland of Russia.
Not to mention the Captain of the thirty-year-old Alexander Pirogov passenger ship, but even a cabin boy who checked our tickets on the ladder was three sheets to the wind.
‘Do you want me to cancel the trip?’ I asked my wife.
‘Please don’t,’ pleaded George.
We went aboard and the fun began.
The ‘Buyer’s Cards’ that limited the non-Muscovites in their shopping rights backfired on us during the trip.
The night of departure my son said that he had left his toothbrush home. ‘No worries,’ I said. ‘We’ll buy it at the first stop.’
The first stop was in Uglich, a one thousand year old town haunted by the terrible story of the stabbing death of an eight-year-old Tsarevich (Prince) Dmitry, the youngest son of Ivan The Terrible.
It rained heavily all morning. The town and the nearby coastal villages sprinkled in the uncharted Volga banks shrugged hiding under their tin roofs every living thing. The rain turned to drizzle only when our ship docked by the long squeaky pier. Was it the gloomy weather or the gloomy history of the place, but everything about it – the rain-washed path that led past the blue domed Church of St. Dmitry on the Blood and up to deserted streets lined with time-worn low houses with attics looked depressing.
We found a toothbrush in a small variety store. I went to the cashier to pay and she refused to sell it.
‘Are you local?’ She looked at us with suspicion.
‘We are from the ship.’ I said.
‘Muscovites?’
‘Yes.’
‘You won’t let us shop in Moscow and we won’t sell to you here.’
It took me about twenty minutes to convince the store manager that my ten-year-old son was not responsible for the Moscow government decisions. Finally an exception was made – George returned on board triumphantly holding a new toothbrush.
The victory was short lived. In a few days our ship made a sharp right turn into the Oka River, the largest tributary of the Volga, and soon moored in another history rich town of Murom. After a few hours of touring the ancient monasteries, we wanted to buy something to diversify our boring boat menu. Tough luck: stale bread and dusty fish cans in the grocery stores, lonely sunflower seeds and potato on the abandoned coarse wooden stalls of the farmers market. Next door to the pier we stopped at the ‘Vodnik’ (Water-Transport) store. Surprisingly, in the far corner, next to the shelves with Turkish tea in packets, we came across a counter with condensed coffee and milk, canned braised beef and Chinese ham. George wanted condensed coffee and Natasha was tempted by condensed milk. Amazed by such abundance, I was about to pay when I noticed a sign ‘Sold for special coupons only to boat crews.’ All our arguments failed to produce any effect on the sales girl and we left empty handed.
Back on board I tried to get help from our First Mate.
‘Forget it,’ he said. ‘It’s not for us either. It’s for the cargo ship crews, but even they need special coupons valid for one month only.’ He looked around to make sure that no one was listening and added, ‘Even if you want to live in Russia, you can’t.’
⸎ ⸎ ⸎
In the fall of 1989 the imminent economic collapse, rampant crime, premonition of civil war made immigration the talk of the day. Most of our friends had left or were about to leave the country, some to the States, and others to Germany or Israel. Concerned, mostly for our son’s future, we too decided to explore immigration opportunities. Both my wife and I were fluent in English and the obvious choice would have been America or Canada.
We had neither close relatives nor friends who could sponsor or help with a job offer.
My mother once mentioned that her cousins moved to Canada in the 30s, but all she knew was the surname and she showed me a few old photographs of the family.
At the time my only contact and friend in Canada was Al Purdy. Back in 1975 I was his and Ralph Gustafson’s interpreter and travel companion in their trip to the USSR on the invitation of the Soviet Writer’s Union. Al and I corresponded for many years and exchanged gifts. Al sent me pipe tobacco and I reciprocated with Cuban cigars, but Al was a poet not a researcher and he failed to find my great uncle, a needle in the Canadian listings haystacks. Our prospects to start a new life and provide our son with a better future looked hopeless.
We had neither close relatives nor friends who could sponsor or help with a job offer.
My mother once mentioned that her cousins moved to Canada in the 30s, but all she knew was the surname and she showed me a few old photographs of the family.
At the time my only contact and friend in Canada was Al Purdy. Back in 1975 I was his and Ralph Gustafson’s interpreter and travel companion in their trip to the USSR on the invitation of the Soviet Writer’s Union. Al and I corresponded for many years and exchanged gifts. Al sent me pipe tobacco and I reciprocated with Cuban cigars, but Al was a poet not a researcher and he failed to find my great uncle, a needle in the Canadian listings haystacks. Our prospects to start a new life and provide our son with a better future looked hopeless.
⸎ ⸎ ⸎
The winter of 1990 was harsh and brutal and that February morning the weather was particularly bitter. I was working in my tiny study when the phone rang. Natasha answered the call. New Director of my Institute asked for help with interpretation at the afternoon meeting with two executives from the American Jewish Committee. I gestured that I wasn’t available.
‘Why?’ asked my wife when she hung up.
‘Too cold and I have work to do,’ I said. ‘And he didn’t like my recent article.’
‘So what,’ she insisted, ‘help not him, but the two Americans, they’ve come from so far away.’
‘It’s freezing outside. The car won’t start.’ I tried to shirk.
‘Try,’ she said, so I went.
The Institute of Sociology where I had been working for almost twenty years was falling apart. It couldn’t even pay its electricity bills and the remaining researchers worked in half empty offices with winter coats draped over their shoulders warming themselves up with hot tea, chess and political jokes like ‘what will be after perestroika – a shootout and then a census.’
The only heated floor was the Administration one. Two gentlemen, both named David, one from the AJCommittee Executive Branch and the other Director of its Institute of Human Research came with a hard currency lifeline. They offered to conduct a joint survey on Anti-Semitism in the Soviet Union. The topic had been a taboo since the establishment of the USSR in early 1920s.
The meeting went well and ended with signing of the Letter of Intent. We shook hands and the Americans left.
I went to our accounting to get the latest salary, and then stopped by my department to have tea and laughs with my colleagues.
In about forty or fifty minutes I returned to my car, dove around the Institute and having broken through a roadside snowdrift came to the street almost next to both Davids. Dressed New York style in light demi-season coats, their noses blue from the cold, they were still hoping to catch a cab. I stopped and let them in.
‘Where do you want to go?’ I asked.
‘Nearest subway station or the Embassy, if it’s on your way.’
‘No problem,’ I said. ‘It is half way to my home.’
We were close to the Embassy when one of them asked: ‘Victor, are you Jewish?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘What are you doing in this God’s forsaken place?’ asked David from the AJCommittee.
‘What are my choices?’ I asked. ‘One should have relatives or some kind of a hook to get out.’
‘All Jews have relatives somewhere in the world, don’t you?’ said David from the Human Research Institute.
‘I do, in fact,’ I said and I told them what I heard from my mother about her cousins in Canada and the photographs they gave her on departure.
In the rear view mirror I saw the two Davids look at each other.
‘What else do you know about them?’
‘Not much. My mother mentioned she heard that they had settled in Montreal and her cousin Joe had four sons.’
For a few moments there was silence in the car.
‘Look Victor,’ I heard one of them. ‘We think we may know the family and if they are your relatives consider your troubles over. Write a letter to Joe, make copies of the photographs and bring them tomorrow to our Hotel. We fly back day after tomorrow and we’ll contact the family. If they think you are related, they’ll get in touch with you.’ March, April and May passed and we stopped hoping when the letter ‘Dear Victor, I am Joe...’ came. It was filled with heartfelt emotions and had Joe’s mailing address and his Montreal phone number.
In mid June I was to go to New York to translate for a group of Russian businessmen looking for opportunities in the Promised Land. I called Joe from my room in the Barbizon Hotel. Joe said he and his wife would come to New York.
The cozy lobby was packed with tourists from the just arrived Montreal buses. In the midst of the noisy crowd I spotted a couple quietly sitting on a red velvet bench near a coffee shop. The old man’s face resembled the wrinkled face of my mother.
‘Joe?’ I asked approaching.
‘Victor!’ the old man rose and gave me a hug.
That June my four yearlong saga of relocating to Canada began.
‘Why?’ asked my wife when she hung up.
‘Too cold and I have work to do,’ I said. ‘And he didn’t like my recent article.’
‘So what,’ she insisted, ‘help not him, but the two Americans, they’ve come from so far away.’
‘It’s freezing outside. The car won’t start.’ I tried to shirk.
‘Try,’ she said, so I went.
The Institute of Sociology where I had been working for almost twenty years was falling apart. It couldn’t even pay its electricity bills and the remaining researchers worked in half empty offices with winter coats draped over their shoulders warming themselves up with hot tea, chess and political jokes like ‘what will be after perestroika – a shootout and then a census.’
The only heated floor was the Administration one. Two gentlemen, both named David, one from the AJCommittee Executive Branch and the other Director of its Institute of Human Research came with a hard currency lifeline. They offered to conduct a joint survey on Anti-Semitism in the Soviet Union. The topic had been a taboo since the establishment of the USSR in early 1920s.
The meeting went well and ended with signing of the Letter of Intent. We shook hands and the Americans left.
I went to our accounting to get the latest salary, and then stopped by my department to have tea and laughs with my colleagues.
In about forty or fifty minutes I returned to my car, dove around the Institute and having broken through a roadside snowdrift came to the street almost next to both Davids. Dressed New York style in light demi-season coats, their noses blue from the cold, they were still hoping to catch a cab. I stopped and let them in.
‘Where do you want to go?’ I asked.
‘Nearest subway station or the Embassy, if it’s on your way.’
‘No problem,’ I said. ‘It is half way to my home.’
We were close to the Embassy when one of them asked: ‘Victor, are you Jewish?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘What are you doing in this God’s forsaken place?’ asked David from the AJCommittee.
‘What are my choices?’ I asked. ‘One should have relatives or some kind of a hook to get out.’
‘All Jews have relatives somewhere in the world, don’t you?’ said David from the Human Research Institute.
‘I do, in fact,’ I said and I told them what I heard from my mother about her cousins in Canada and the photographs they gave her on departure.
In the rear view mirror I saw the two Davids look at each other.
‘What else do you know about them?’
‘Not much. My mother mentioned she heard that they had settled in Montreal and her cousin Joe had four sons.’
For a few moments there was silence in the car.
‘Look Victor,’ I heard one of them. ‘We think we may know the family and if they are your relatives consider your troubles over. Write a letter to Joe, make copies of the photographs and bring them tomorrow to our Hotel. We fly back day after tomorrow and we’ll contact the family. If they think you are related, they’ll get in touch with you.’ March, April and May passed and we stopped hoping when the letter ‘Dear Victor, I am Joe...’ came. It was filled with heartfelt emotions and had Joe’s mailing address and his Montreal phone number.
In mid June I was to go to New York to translate for a group of Russian businessmen looking for opportunities in the Promised Land. I called Joe from my room in the Barbizon Hotel. Joe said he and his wife would come to New York.
The cozy lobby was packed with tourists from the just arrived Montreal buses. In the midst of the noisy crowd I spotted a couple quietly sitting on a red velvet bench near a coffee shop. The old man’s face resembled the wrinkled face of my mother.
‘Joe?’ I asked approaching.
‘Victor!’ the old man rose and gave me a hug.
That June my four yearlong saga of relocating to Canada began.
Victor Pogostin was born in Moscow. He graduated from The School of Translators of the Moscow State Institute for Foreign Languages, worked as translator for the Soviet Trade Mission in India, taught Russian Language and Culture course at the Aligarh Muslim University, served in the Long Range Naval Reconnaissance Aviation of the Northern Fleet. After his return from military service, he defended his PhD dissertation on Ernest Hemingway’s Nonfiction. For many years he worked in the Institute of Sociology of the Academy of Sciences, while working as a freelance author/translator for national newspapers and literary magazines throughout the former Soviet Union. In addition to translating fiction and nonfiction into Russian, he has compiled, edited, and written introductions and commentaries for over a dozen books by North American authors, including the works of Ernest Hemingway and John Steinbeck. In 1993 he relocated to Canada with his wife and son. His non-fiction has appeared in The National Post (Canada), Canadian Literature magazine, Russian Life magazine (Vermont), The Epoch Times (US & Canada editions), and As You Were: the journal of Military Experience and the Arts (US).
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