Armed with this paper, which would at least demonstrate that I intended to visit a genuine relative and would undercut any arguments based on the regulations, I decided to take the plunge and risk making an application on my own.
The first thing was to get a “character reference” from my bosses at the publishing house. Whenever anyone in the Soviet Union wants to travel outside the country, the state places on the shoulders of his employer a large part of the responsibility for ensuring that the traveler will come back. The employer must send a character reference. This is in reality nothing more than an estimate by the employer as to whether or not the traveler will return. If the employer recommends the applicant for travel abroad, and the traveler subsequently jumps ship, then there will be a very rough time for the employer. So such character references are not given out lightly.
In my case it was not given at all. Rather, they sent the character reference, all right; that was mandatory. But it concluded that I was “not recommended for travel abroad.” I guess they knew which way my toes were pointed. In any case, my application was rejected.
So I applied again, this time for permission to visit my sister in Vienna. A trip to Austria would, I reasoned, seem less politically complicated than one to the U. S., and besides I thought that an appeal to visit my full sister would carry more weight than one to visit an aunt.
I waited eight months. In the meantime, at Stella’s end, her unceasing efforts with the pen were at least beginning to get some humane replies, and in February of 1969 a letter from the U.S. consul in Vienna indicated that action might have begun. What the nature of that action was the consul did not disclose, but the letter did say that “... we hope that with persistence and steady effort the Soviet authorities can be convinced to grant your brother exit permission.”
Did that mean persistence on my part? Or their part? Did it mean anything? Stella was not sure, but at least for the first time someone in Official America was saying something that had a positive note.
The reply to my request for a visit to Austria was answered by a telephone call from a woman named Ivanova of the visa department.
“In respect to your visa application, Comrade Doldzhin, you are rejected.”
“Well,” I said, “I would like to know the reason.”
“No reason is given.”
I said testily, “Under the law you are required to state the reason!”
“Yes. The reason is that you are attempting to visit a distant relative. Only visits to close relatives can be approved.”
I barked into the telephone!
“I beg your pardon, Comrade Doldzhin?”— “Did you say ‘distant relative’? The application was for a visa to visit my sister!”
There was a pause. Then she said, “I see. Please wait a moment. I’ll have to check.”
It was considerably more than a moment. I was getting madder and madder as I waited. Finally she came back to the phone.
“Well, I have checked, and you are right. But it does not matter. You’re still rejected. You will have to wait one year before you can reapply.”
Before I could expostulate anymore she hung up.
In September of 1969, Senator Hugh Scott of Pennsylvania, whom Stella had approached through a friend, wrote that State was still claiming I had dual citizenship. If they thought that was going to slow Stella down they had another think coming.
She simply increased her badgering efforts.
She sent a Pakistani friend to see me. He was in Moscow on U. N. business, and diplomatically protected. We met in a hotel bar, and of course we were watched. I indicated to him that nothing important should be said in the hotel, and I knew that if we spent much time together outside it would look bad. We sauntered to the front door of the Rossiya like the most casual acquaintances. As we went down the steps I said in a fast whisper, “Let Stella know that I am making applications through proper channels and they’re throwing a lot of roadblocks. I’ll keep trying. So should she.”
He said, “She’d like a formal indication from you if you want her to step up her efforts. She’ll send you a tie. If you feel the time is okay to pull out the stops, write that you like the tie. If you think she needs to coast, tell her it doesn’t suit.” He saluted with his newspaper and walked off into the night. We had not talked for sixty seconds. I was not harassed by the police.
A month later a gaudy tie arrived. I wrote Stella that I loved it.
And now, as Stella’s nonstop campaign increased in intensity, there were signs that the long-dead machinery of State was beginning to stir. “We’re trying to move this case off dead-center,” wrote one official.
“Good,” Stella said to herself, and wrote more letters.
Finally, in December 1970, a breakthrough. A letter from State admitted that my case was unique, as Stella had maintained from the beginning. No more of this “one of a number of dual nationals” stuff.
But Stella was fed up with the letters going back and forth, and she decided to personally approach some high U. S. official. Ambassador John P. Humes had arrived in Vienna, a Nixon appointee. Since he had a political appointment and was not a career diplomat, Humes probably had fewer fetters than anyone she had approached yet. He gave her a personal interview, listened in awe as she told my story, and said when he had heard it all that he was “outraged.”
“We’ll do something about this,” he said. Evidently he meant it. He promised Stella he would pursue the case at the highest levels. He urged her to let him know about any new developments. Within a few weeks he told her that he had arranged to talk with Secretary of State William P. Rogers, and that he would urge Rogers to take the matter up with the top Soviet leaders. He also told Stella to get word to me that I should apply for a permanent exit visa. Ambassador Humes was shrewd and well advised. He knew that to move the Soviets now I would have to appear very serious and very bold.
The treugolnik at the publishing house were dumfounded when I told them why I wanted a new character reference. They stalled, of course, in true bureaucratic style. I called every week. They kept stalling. Finally they tried a very strange strategy. I had an interview with the director of the publishing house, Mayevsky.
He said, “Look, none of us can understand why you would want to leave the Soviet Union, but since you seem to be so determined, we will of course give you a character reference. All you have to do is take a medical examination, to show that you are physically fit.”
I was so eager to get on with it that I did not even ask what difference it made to my character whether I was healthy or not. Mayevsky offered to send his own car to take me to the doctor. Seemed generous to me. I accepted. The next thing I knew we were pulling up in front of the. State Asylum for the Mentally Ill beside the Red Army theater. I thought, That’s a funny place to go for a medical examination.
I was right. They kept me for three weeks. All I got in the way of an examination was regular blood pressure readings. The chief psychiatrist, when I asked what the hell was going on, simply said that the treugolnik had asked her to keep me under observation for a while. I was able to have my work brought to the hospital. The hospital was mostly filled with dissidents, not madmen: naive guys who had reported on a corrupt treugolnik, for example. I began to guess at the pattern.
Discredit by association with an asylum.
Back at work three weeks later I reminded Mayevsky that I had fulfilled his conditions and that he had promised me my character reference. But he was not through with obstruction.
“I will issue the character reference right away,” he said. “All you have to do now is bring your wife in for an interview with the treugoinik.”
“Why?” I demanded. “She doesn’t work here. You have nothing to do with her. You have no business demanding anything of her!”
He kept very cool. “Do you want the character reference or not?”
I said, “Do I have your word that you will issue it after the interview?”
“You do.”
We came at five the next day. I had briefed Irene carefully. She has a very short fuse. I knew that she was dying to see these bastards and throw their own crap right back at them, so I warned her.
“Everything may depend on this. You must keep yourself in control, Irene.
You must.”
She laughed a hard little laugh she has when she is angry. Her dark lashes and her beautiful gray eyes looked very confident. “Don’t worry!” she said.
And she was magnificent.
I was with her during the interview. At first they tried to get me to discuss my reasons for wanting to go to the United States.
“Why ask me? Ask your own foreign ministry—they’ll tell you everything you want to know,” I answered, knowing they didn’t have the authority to make such a call. They gave up on me and turned to Irene.
The triangle members had all their questions prepared on pads of paper. I could tell from the set of Irene’s jaw muscles that she was working awfully hard and that the fire was close to the surface, but she gave them no satisfaction. When it got really abusive, as it did, with all kinds of questions implying her lack of stability for wanting to go to such a terrible place as America, and suggestions that her fine Soviet son would end up as a gangster and probably take his own life, she just lowered her head and looked at the floor while she struggled for control.
They told her she was treacherous for not talking me out of going. She answered in monosyllables. They said millions had been spent on her education and now she was virtually stealing all those millions from the USSR by taking off for the United States. She lowered her head again. If I tried to intervene on her behalf they cut me off. They kept it up for three abusive hours, and when we finally made it out to the street, Irene said, “If you don’t buy me a bottle of wine right now, I’ll go crazy.”
We drank two.
And then, within a surprisingly short time, they gave me an excellent character reference. A marvelous character reference! I was an excellent worker, a dedicated fire chief, a first-class translator and editor, a diligent member of my team, a good leader.
And, oh yes. “On numerous occasions he has been hospitalized in mental institutions. This person is not recommended for travel outside the Soviet Union.”
This was sent to OVIR, the visa office. I never saw it. But I had good friends in the ministry who did.
I probably should have kept quiet but I could not. I sought out the official I believed responsible for drafting the reference and confronted him. “Why do you lie!” I said. “Why tell them I have been in mental institutions on numerous occasions.”
He waved me aside. “Listen, what’s it to you whether it’s once or several. We put it that way just for safety’s sake!”
I applied at the visa office. The refusal was immediate. “There is simply no possibility that the United States will give you permission to go there, so forget it,” they said.
By now I was a mixture of frenzy and cool. Sometimes, after another refusal or rejection or piece of highhanded effrontery like the asylum trick, my blood pressure would quite—literally go right off the instrument. At other times I was philosophical, resigned to the likelihood that this would all take time, and confident that with Stella’s help it would come out all right. Irene and I decided to take a holiday. In August we packed the car, took Andrew with us, and drove to the Black Sea.
September 2, 1971. We came back to the apartment refreshed and good-humored and ready to tackle bureaucracy all over again. And there was a wonderful piece of paper in the mail. A letter from the Embassy of the United States of America, Moscow. They wanted to see me regarding departure from the Soviet Union. They had been informed by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs of the Soviet Union that “appropriate authorities will not impede your visit to the Embassy.”
There was a copy in Russian, which I could show to guards at the embassy gates.
Unknown to me, my case had begun to move at a very high level. I would soon get direct word about it in an alarming way. In the meantime, as requested, I phoned the man who had signed the letter, Peter Swiers, the consul, and made an appointment. He said he would meet me at the gates. It was a good thing he did. They did not want to let me in. Three KGB in militia uniforms closed together to block my way. They refused to look at the letter. But the senior man had clearly been given my photograph to study, because he scrutinized my face very carefully. “Where are you from?” he said finally.
I pointed at the embassy. “There,” I said. He turned and looked at Swiers standing inside. Swiers nodded. The KGB then nodded at me. “Pass,” he said.
It was a marvelous feeling to be inside now, with so much promise in the air.
Swiers was the most amiable young man. Before I could say anything he excused himself, wrote on a card, “Do not speak here. Bugged. Safe only in Ambassador’s office.”
He began the formalities of drawing up a passport. Then, when the routine paperwork was done, we went in for a long friendly talk with Ambassador Beam. When I left, I had a To-Whom-It-May-Concern letter, testifying that the United States was prepared to issue an entry visa to me and my family. It felt like a piece of pure gold.
Soon after that, I got the news that I was being dealt with at The Top. It came in a form that made me sweat. The phone rang. It was Stella, in Vienna! I could feel my blood pressure soar. I knew that my phone was listened to, and now that we seemed so close to success I could not imagine why Stella would take the slightest risk of jeopardizing what seemed to be in motion, even if it was slow motion.
But Stella knew exactly what she was doing. Ambassador Humes had briefed her. She said, very distinctly, pronouncing the Russian words with perfect clarity, “Alex, dear, I want you to know that your case is now being discussed at the highest levels on both sides!”
I nearly dropped the phone. How could she do this to me? I yelled, “Stella!
Stella! What are you saying!”
She said calmly, “You have nothing to worry about. Secretary Rogers has had a personal conversation about you with Mr. Gromyko. Do you understand that?”
I could not answer. My mouth hung open. I stared at Irene across the little apartment. I suddenly saw clearly what Stella was doing.
Stella called out, “Alex? Alex?”
“I’m listening, Stella. You bet I’m listening!”
“Well, I’ll say it again then. Secretary of State Rogers ... the Secretary of State ... of the United States..
“Yes! Yes! I hear you!”
“Has personally discussed your case ... with Mr. GRO-MY-KO!” There was a pause.
“He has also had conversations about you with Ambassador Dobrynin. He says that these conversations have given him good reason to think the outcome will be favorable. Is that clear, dear?”
It was wonderfully clear. If there was any doubt in the minds of the KGB who monitored my phone, they would never act now without checking very carefully at the highest level. Stella would never have told me these things if they were not true. When my KGB monitors confirmed it all, they would be very careful about me from then on.
My heart raced wildly. I was dizzy. I could hardly talk to Irene. We took Andrew and went for a long walk, and when I was sure we were far away from any possible tail I told her what I thought was happening. Her eyes were like gray fire.
When I applied for our visa this time, OVIR demanded a 10 per cent deposit from each of us, against the ultimate total cost of 800 new rubles. Within about a week, a postcard came advising that the visas were ready; the letter from the U.S. Embassy and the conversations at the top seemed to have done the trick. I gave silent thanks to William P. Rogers that was almost a prayer.
But my harassment was by no means over. It was kept up until the very end.
For example: To qualify for the temporary Soviet passports that we had to have in addition to the visas, we had to turn in all our papers and get a certificate showing they had been submitted. When I went to turn in my military ticket (�
��Untrained Soldiers. Graduate in Obstetrics and Gynecology,” etc.) I was told that they could not issue the certificate until I showed my passport.
“But I don’t get my passport until I show proof I’ve turned in this ticket!”
“I’m sorry, Comrade. That’s the rule.”
“Let me see the major.”
The major came. I beckoned him, very confidently, to a place in the room where we could talk confidentially. I said, “Major, I’m sure you’ll understand. I’m going abroad, to the United States in fact, on uh ...”
I looked furtively to make sure nobody was listening. “... On very important—uh—business. I’m sure you understand me?”
The major immediately caught my conspiratorial tone. He loved it. He dropped his voice and said, “Of course, Comrade. What can we do for you?”
I said, “Well, this man told me that he cannot issue the certificate for turning in my military ticket. And I’m just not sure how I could explain to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs that the military are placing obstacles in the way of this mission. It could get very Well, I’m sure you understand the need to keep things very... uh... You understand?”
The major was marvelous. “Don’t worry about this at all, Comrade. I’ll sign for your ticket on my own recognizance.”
And he did so forthwith.
When I went to the United States Embassy with the Soviet passports, to confirm officially that we would be able to leave, the “militia” KGB at the gate tried to take me away to lock me in their holding booth and might have done so if Swiers had not yelled and screamed and pulled at the man’s arm. They hate a scene.
In the meantime, in Vienna, totally unknown to me, of course, Stella’s impatience was almost running over. She simply could not believe, after the Rogers intervention, that there would be any more delay. She concocted an elaborate plan to “kidnap” me, by coming to Moscow, dressing me and my family in the latest American clothes so we would look like Americans, driving us to the embassy, where she would show her own passport and demand admission. Then, if there was any obstacle, she would have a photographer in the street opposite taking pictures of the scuffle or the capture or whatever happened, and three correspondents from major Western publications standing by with the story ready to blow if we weren’t all immediately released. If we were allowed in we would immediately claim asylum. It was a bold, crazy, wonderful, Stella-like plan. But when she warned Ambassador Humes that she was contemplating “independent action,” he begged her not “to sabotage what was already under way,” and finally persuaded her that the end was very close.
An American in the Gulag Page 53