But Jana actually struck the first blow herself. She had confided in the wife of Colonel Prozukhin, the division zampolit who had tried to stage the alcohol-free wedding. His wife, Nadezhda, another chunky matron with even tighter ringlet curls than Jana’s mother, was the head of the division officers’ wives’ committee. This was a powerful position, which gave her as much authority over family matters as her zampolit husband had over our “political maturity.” In addition, Nadezhda was a close friend of Jana’s mother.
One evening when I returned from the base I found Jana serving tea to Colonel Prozukhin and his wife. Obviously they had hatched a plot, because for the first time in weeks the bed was properly made, the apartment was neat, and the kitchen was actually clean. From all appearances, Jana seemed the perfect young wife.
Colonel Prozukhin came directly to the point. “Are you serious about this divorce, Zuyev?” He tried to sound like a real officer, a man used to confronting troops and making hard decisions. But his voice broke into a squeak.
Prozukhin’s wife glared when she saw me smile.
“Yes. I am serious.” I had not invited these people to my home, so I neglected to add the courtesy of “Comrade Colonel.”
“Alexander Mikhailovich,” Prozukhin’s wife said, her voice more authoritative than her husband’s, “how can you talk of divorce after all of us witnessed that wonderful wedding only last summer? That was a tribute to the Socialist Military Family.”
Only a zampolit’s wife would still use such brazenly false terms.
I shrugged. “People get married. People get divorced. Jana and I are going to get divorced.”
Nadezhda Prozukhin scowled at her husband and nodded. He had his orders.
The zampolit sighed and visibly braced himself. “Captain Zuyev,” he recited from memory. “If you persist in this matter, I’ll see that you rot in some lost desert in Central Asia.”
He had made his speech. We all knew it was not an idle threat. Prozukhin’s wife sneered openly as I pondered his words. The division zampolit did have the power to cripple any officer’s career. That spring, Major Ivan Matushkin, an able pilot in the 2nd Squadron, had run afoul of the zampolit and his wife. Matushkin was moving dishes from his apartment to the officers’ dining room for the Air Force Day party. But he had broken the rules by driving his old Zhiguli right up to the door of the podyesd. It was a weekend, and no one cared except Prozukhin. On the urging of his wife to reestablish his “authority,” Prozukhin came down the staircase, grabbed Matushkin’s car keys, and ordered him to report for a reprimand on Monday morning.
“You bastard,” Matushkin had sworn, “I’ll show you some authority.” He snatched back his keys and threw the colonel against the side of the car.
Prozukhin had written a report that the major had attacked and beaten him. The VVS grounded the major, reduced him in rank, and ordered him reassigned to Central Asia as a GCI officer.
Like my mother, this honest pilot had also been sent for a psychiatric “evaluation.”
“My personal life is my own affair, Colonel Prozukhin,” I finally answered.
“And your professional kharacteristika is my affair, Zuyev.” He had gotten his full nerve and spoke with real menace now. “If you persist in this, your career is dead.”
I shrugged. How could anyone want a career serving officers like this? But if Prozukhin acted quickly on his threat, I might find myself isolated in some Asian outpost where it would be difficult, if not impossible, to petition for a discharge.
Finally I answered him. “Let me consider this matter carefully, Comrade Colonel.”
Word of the divorce spread quickly. Two days later I was ordered to Lieutenant Colonel Antonovich’s office to discuss my marital problems. I stated my case as best I could, and added that giving in to the division zampolit’s threat might preserve the marriage, but certainly would not resolve the conflict between me and Jana.
“You can’t force people to be happy, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel.” I said. Antonovich nodded sadly. “That will just put more stress on me, and flying with stress is dangerous.”
Antonovich sighed loudly. “At least try to work things out, Shurka. I’ll keep you on the ground for a while.”
“Like you did Major Matushkin?”
Antonovich squared his shoulders. He had no doubt received direct orders from Division. “Zuyev, you will withdraw this divorce request, or I’ll ground you permanently. What’s your decision? Can you try to work things out with your wife?”
“I’ll try,” I finally conceded.
A week later I told Antonovich that Jana and I had withdrawn our divorce petition.
But we had not. The lie was just a ploy to gain breathing space in which to make some concrete plans.
So I told Jana that we should both think about our future carefully. The next divorce counseling session at the ZAGS was not scheduled for a month. At least this gave me time to think.
But instead of thinking clearly, I sank into a numb lethargy, an ambulatory depression that seemed endless. I skipped the scheduled meeting with the ZAGS counselor. This suspended our divorce process. But I had no intention of canceling it. Jana became a distant figure, even though we still shared the same small apartment. She knew she had lost, that I was willing to sacrifice my future in the Air Force to be free of her. We hardly talked to each other; it was as if we had both witnessed some terrible accident and were too stunned to speak.
With my divorce proceedings in limbo, I was able to reach a truce with Lieutenant Colonel Antonovich. He put me back on flying status. But I still felt deep revulsion at wearing this bloodstained uniform.
Then, in December, the somber weather broke for a few days. The southern sun flooded the green valley, and the air was fragrant with the blooming citrus groves. Instead of returning home from the flight line one afternoon, I walked up the slopes of Senaki Mountain alone, trying to break the black vise that had seized my emotions by exercise in the sunshine.
Time disappeared. I trudged through the orchards and beside pastures full of bleating sheep and goats. The sun was almost down and long shadows hung in the valley below. I heard the sweet chime of bells. At first I thought they were from the livestock. Then I realized I was walking beside the fieldstone wall of a church. I entered the courtyard beneath the high wrought-iron gate and stood just outside the door of the vestry. Inside there were old women and a bearded priest. I could see the yellow glow of candles and smell incense. Soft chanting echoed from inside. Again the bells rang. Birds flew through the sunset and landed on the gilded, onion-dome steeple.
All at once, I stood upright, feeling the muscles of my legs and back unclench for the first time in months. The weight of depression had been lifted.
My life as a Soviet Air Force pilot was finished. But now I saw that there were other careers, other lives, to live. And, I realized, there was another country to live in, America, the nation of refugees and immigrants. For almost two years I had been listening to the American shortwave station, Radio Liberty, and to the Voice of America. That exotic country now seemed more hospitable to me than my own nation. After I somehow found a way to resign my commission and leave the Air Force, I would find a way to leave the Soviet Union itself.
State Security would never approve an exit visa for a former fighter pilot, especially one with my background. So I would have to “emigrate” unofficially. Everyone I knew thought this was impossible. But I knew our borders were hardly airtight. There had to be a way to escape to the West, where I could live in freedom.
I stopped in the twilight, halfway back down the mountain. Unconsciously I had been marching straight toward my apartment, as if preparing to simply pack my bag and leave. Once I had made my decision, it seemed absurd to remain here, wearing this uniform, living this false life. But it was obvious my future would not unfold so simply.
One thing was certain: I could never simply slip out of the Soviet Union while still an Air Force officer. Almost every minute of my d
ay, every day, week, and month of the year, my movements were officially noted. So a discharge was my first priority. Then I would consider the safest way out of the Soviet Union.
For the next two weeks the problems of a discharge and an escape route were constantly on my mind. I soon realized that leaving the country would be easier than resigning my commission. I had once shared a train compartment with some KGB border guards, traveling from Sochi to Tbilisi. Over a bottle of cognac, they’d revealed that the entire mountainous southern frontier of Georgia was a warren of smugglers’ trails. The Turkish tribesmen on both sides of the frontier crossed the border continually, with donkey trains of contraband. I knew from my training in Azerbaijan that the same porous frontier existed with Iran. A determined man with a few thousand rubles to spend could easily escape to the south. Then there were our “fraternal” Socialist allies of the Warsaw Pact: Czechoslovakia, Hungary, and East Germany. Each of those countries bordered the West. And my friend Sergei Salamov who had served in Hungary told me that a handful of dollars or deutsche marks would see you across the border into Austria. So escape from the country would not be impossible.
Escape from the military itself was another matter.
A few weeks later Gorbachev himself offered the solution to this problem. It was early on a Friday evening, and most of the regiment’s pilots had gathered in the sauna to mark the end of another training week. I was in the duty-alert dayroom completing some paperwork when the announcement came over State television. Gorbachev had addressed the United Nations General Assembly in New York, but I had not paid much attention. Now the Moscow newscaster read a summary of the speech. The Soviet military, Gorbachev had pledged, would be reduced in strength by 500,000 men and 10,000 tanks. The reductions would begin “immediately” and continue over the next two years. The announcer stated that this force reduction would apply to “all ranks and services.”
I saw my opportunity. Clearly officers who no longer wished to serve would be allowed to resign.
I went to the sauna to spread the news of this sensational announcement. The men looked up from their benches, some grinning broadly, others wary. A friend of mine, Roman Kravchuk, a dissatisfied senior lieutenant, actually bellowed loudly with pleasure.
“Enough of this shit,” he yelled. “This time next year, I’ll be running my own electrical shop.”
Colonel Prozukhin scowled at the young pilot. But in the sauna, everyone was allowed to speak his mind without direct recrimination. And Roman Kravchuk had clearly voiced the feelings of many of us. Gorbachev’s announcement had come like a reprieve to condemned men. The younger lieutenants and captains who had not yet invested their most vital decades in the Air Force obviously wanted out. Glasnost had shown us another life could exist; perestroika, although halfhearted and deeply flawed, had revealed that we could live independent of the rigid Communist economy.
When the whoops and bellows stopped echoing, Colonel Prozukhin got to his feet and adjusted his thick white towel. “Maybe Gorbachev thinks this is a good idea,” he said in his best political-lecture voice. “But he’ll lose the support of the Army, that’s for sure. And one day, if all this glasnost continues, he’ll need the Army to defend him from the masses.”
As the other young officers toasted their future with brimming beer glasses, I sat alone in the corner, thinking soberly.
Obviously the Air Force would not allow all those who wanted to resign to do so. The VVS would lose their rank-and-file pilots in the process. But the force reduction would certainly present the opportunity for those with medical problems to resign.
Amid the steamy laughter and clamor of the banya, a plan was forming in my mind. Perhaps a pilot disabled in the course of a high-performance training flight would be granted a medical discharge. That would be my exit, my escape hatch to freedom.
PART THREE
CHAPTER 11
Central Aviation Hospital, Moscow
March 21 — April 6, 1989
The late morning sun dimmed as the thick, rolled cloud bank of a sudden spring cold front swept across the city. Lieutenant Colonel Frolov’s office grew dark, and he switched on his brass desk lamp. I had been talking for over two hours, but had almost completed my story. For the past ten minutes I had been treading a minefield. I had to lie to an experienced and highly skilled psychologist. But if I had risked admitting the truth — that I had faked the mysterious, disabling affliction on that last training flight in February — I would have confessed to a serious criminal offense.
Instead, I had emphasized the corrosive physical effect of the months of stress that had sprung from the conflict of my marriage and the bitter anxiety over my mother’s unjust treatment in Samara. I was trying to present Frolov with rational reasons to recommend my medical discharge. But this, too, was tricky ground. By implying I had been pressured into an unsuitable marriage with the daughter of a senior Air Force officer, I was criticizing honored Air Force traditions. By raising the specter of my mother’s unjust psychiatric persecution by “the Mafia,” a corrupt cabal that had to include both Party and KGB officials, I was involving Frolov in serious matters that went far beyond VVS personnel policy. My hope was he would want to quickly dissociate from this mess, and the easiest way to do so would be to recommend my quiet medical discharge.
When I finally finished speaking, I handed the psychologist a shiny photocopy of the official request for discharge, which I had formally presented Lieutenant Colonel Antonovich the week after my last training flight.
To: Commander, 176th Frontal Aviation Regiment
I hereby request a discharge from the ranks of the VVS due to my physical condition, and to the fact that I am not willing to continue service on the ground.
Signed: Zuyev, Alexander M., Captain
Frolov sighed as he fingered the photocopy. He seemed to be fascinated by my signature, as if he were examining an important piece of criminal evidence.
“Has this request gone forward through proper channels, Captain?”
“Yes, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel,” I replied earnestly. Maybe if he thought the process was already well along, he would endorse it.
Again Frolov sighed, drumming his long pale fingers on the copy. “Captain Zuyev,” he said softly after a long pause, “your ‘physical condition’ does not warrant a discharge. It’s unfortunate that you submitted such a request.”
“But, Comrade Colonel,” I tried to reason, “I can no longer fly fighters. The regulations are clear. When a pilot is disabled in the cockpit, he is permanently grounded.”
Frolov nodded decisively and began gathering together the documents that made up my thick personnel file. “Exactly. And I concur. Given your somatic reaction to stress, you are no longer suited for active flying duty in a Frontal Aviation unit. As you put it, Alexander Mikhailovich, you are indeed grounded.” We stared at each other in the dim office. “Permanently,” Frolov added for emphasis. For a moment I thought he was going to help me. Then a cold, sour clot formed below my throat as I realized the full meaning of his words. I was officially unfit to fly, but still medically qualified for ground duty. My emotional state and my bitterness toward the Soviet system were not grounds for a medical discharge.
I caught a glimpse of a document from my file that I had not seen before, the flimsy blue record copy permanently removing me from flight status. It had already been signed by my case physician, Lieutenant Colonel Merkulov. Now Frolov cosigned the document, writing carefully with a gold East German fountain pen.
“I am sorry about this, Alexander Mikhailovich,” he said, screwing the cap back on his pen. “But the matter is out of my hands. You yourself set this process in motion.”
Frolov did not go so far as to accuse me of faking illness during my last training flight. But he emphasized that my requesting a medical discharge had provoked the permanent grounding order. There could be no appeal of the order, once the hospital’s full medical-personnel board met to review it later in the month. Officially I
was still healthy enough to serve, but unfit for flight duty.
“Lieutenant Colonel Frolov,” I said, “perhaps I haven’t made myself clear. I do not wish to serve as a military officer defending a system I can no longer believe in.”
This was, indeed, dangerous ground. Frolov quickly stacked my records, closed the pale green pasteboard file records, and tied the ribbon, as if washing his hands of the unpleasant and sensitive matter.
“Captain Zuyev,” he said sincerely, “you are obviously under considerable stress. Have you taken the medication I prescribed?”
“Yes,” I lied. The bottle was unopened in the drawer of my bedside table upstairs in the ward.
“Good. That should help relieve your discomfort.”
He shifted the thick file to the corner of his desk, a sign that our long consultation was over.
“I cannot serve as a ground officer, married to that girl, Comrade Colonel.”
Frolov nodded sympathetically. “I agree. Get a divorce. It is not the end of the world. Obviously you married for the wrong reasons, and she is not the type of woman you need. Your life will be much better when you’re free of this marriage.”
“Comrade Colonel" — I tried to keep my voice even, one reasonable officer appealing to another — “we know the force reductions are about to begin. I can no longer fly. Why can’t I be one of the Air Force officers discharged?”
“You would lose your pension, Captain.” Frolov seemed astonished that I would risk the “generosity” of the State by seeking a discharge before my full twenty-five years’ service.
“I don’t need any pension, Comrade Colonel.” Again I tried to sound reasonable. “I’m too young to worry about that. How can a man live on two hundred rubles a month? Besides, there are many new opportunities in the civilian sector.”
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