Dancing on Thin Ice

by Arkady Polishchuk

  With great pleasure I gulped down quite a portion. It tasted like diluted orange juice. My face clearly reflected surprise and Doris lowered her gaze, “I added a little.”

  I could not get angry with her.

  That evening Paul saw on local television the famous Russian dissident Vladimir Bukovsky speaking at the University of British Columbia. In forty minutes we found him delivering a talk to a group of experts in political science. When they had a break, I walked over to Vladimir, who was still at the podium. We hugged and he said, “Arkady, you’re on hunger strike, and, oh boy, you stink! How many days?”

  “Only three days so far,” I said modestly. The man who had spent twelve years in prisons, hard labor camps and psychiatric jails did not need a lengthy explanation. In two weeks, he said, I would smell like a vessel brimming with acetone. Thank God, that gathering lasted only six days.

  The next evening Bukovsky mentioned my vigil on a local TV station. The following morning, on the fifth day of my fast, a television crew was already waiting for me near Convention Center. Soon I was talking with some other reporters.

  A few months later, I flew from New York to Los Angeles again, and once more Paul Popov picked me up at the airport. On the way to Glendale, he said, “Why did you never ask what your position and pay in the Door of Hope would be? It’s very un-American.”

  This more or less mature boy, I explained, was going to be paid for what he did without being paid. Paul also kept in mind my past status. “From now on you’re the managing editor of our publication,” he said.

  “That’s great!” I exclaimed. “Just don’t forget to teach me to speak, read, and write in English.”

  When we stopped in front of the mission, Paul put his hand on my shoulder, “We have to talk. Just don’t take it too seriously. Olga H. called my father from New York the other day. She said that you were a KGB officer, and we’re making a serious mistake.”

  What would happen if Olga knew about Russian fake correspondents with whom I worked for so many years? This thought flashed through my brain.

  “You think people will believe her?” I said.

  “Some will,” he said.

  “What would you suggest I do?” I sighed.

  “Just ignore it. You don’t seem to be upset, that’s good.”

  “Oh yes, I am,” I said.

  He changed the subject. “We have to finish the translation of your documentary. Do you like the title Pharaoh, Let My People Go?”

  My 1977 samizdat report on the Christian Emigration Movement was already published by the U.S. government and served as a backbone of this documentary.

  “It might help Nikolai Goretoi,” I said.

  Recently, before the last trial, the KGB had summoned him to say that he could go with his family at once, but on one condition—that he asked for exit visas only for his family. Goretoi refused, knowing that it would lead to his imprisonment.

  “Oh, one more thing,” Paul patted me on the shoulder. “Yesterday the president of a big Evangelical mission called from Pasadena to say the same spy thing. As you know, my dad served almost fourteen years for being a Western spy in Bulgaria. So we welcome another spy in our mission.”

  “Does this president know Olga?”

  “Yes,” Paul said, “he does.”

  Finally, we stepped into the office, and I hugged my buddy Doris. In five minutes I was telling people about an incident that she witnessed, where an anti-Semite had confronted me in a New York supermarket. They had not heard the story before. Perhaps Doris felt uncomfortable talking about this. This time, the Jew in me wanted to see the reaction of these young Christian enthusiasts.

  Doris and I had been standing in line for a cashier when my shopping cart tapped a middle-aged man ahead of us. Turning around, the man shoved the innocent cart back at me and began cursing all the Jews of this world and beyond. He was becoming more and more furious, and the very presence of the Door of Hope representative concerned me; what if he hits me? I did not want to use the fighting experience of my youth. But the jerk was waving his fists, and all I could do now was to repeat, “Shut up.”

  With astonishment in her voice, Doris asked a strange question, “How did he find out?”

  This thirty-something American was unaware that the best way to recognize a Jew was just to take a quick look at him. That was such a surprise! In my part of the world every child could recognize a Jew.

  I looked at the people around us—many pretended that they did not hear a thing; some looked at me with sympathy. I breathed a sigh of relief when, after the man yelled what Jews have heard in Russia constantly, “Go to Israel where you belong!” a little woman in the line quietly asked, “Will you pay for his trip?”

  My new colleagues were unaware that in Russia, just like in Nazi Germany, being a Jew was a purely ethnic category, not a religious one.

  While we talked, a programmer in the back corner of the office was readjusting the position of his miniature computer. Almost effortlessly! The computers here were the size of an apple crate and even lighter to pick up. I was unaware that this paunchy paragon of beauty was just a monitor. When I said that in Moscow nobody knew the word “computer,” I nearly lost the trust of my audience.

  Now I could share with them one striking image I remember from the first day of my first visit here. A frivolous appeal hanging over the urinal: “Gentlemen, don’t miss the point,” was written by Paul’s pious seventy-four-year-old mother. I concluded that nobody here, in this place devoted to spreading God’s Word, would try to convert me.

  My first night in my Glendale apartment was sleepless. I thought of my eighty-year-old mother, about my cruel selfishness and her refusal to go with me. She said then, “Sonny, it’ll make your life harder. I’ll stay with your sister.” Her dry eyes could not hide the melancholy. I knew that she wanted to go with me. But who needed a Russian journalist in the West, much less the journalist’s family?

  Examining book proofs with staff member Arnie Derksen at the headquarters of Door of Hope International. Glendale, California, early-1980s. (Door of Hope International)

  Then I thought of my only sister and my friends whom I had left behind. Forever, what a cruel word! In the middle of the night, I mused, this stupid air-conditioner sounds like a plane engine stalled at night over the Atlantic. Why Atlantic? I thought. We’re near the Pacific. Where was I flying? Only G-d knew.

  After the morning began dawning behind the curtain, I thought of my first love. I still loved her. It was my fault, not hers. Still so many years after our divorce, I had stayed unmarried. Why did this fact make her nervous?

  AFTER WORKING in the Glendale headquarters for a couple of months, I had to travel to British Columbia once again, this time to speak in churches. To drive for a couple of days by the ocean and in the mountains with my battered car was quite an adventure, but the memories of it were quickly overshadowed by what I went through upon my arrival in Canada.

  At the doors of a huge Pentecostal Tabernacle north of Vancouver, I was welcomed by its imposing pastor. He said a couple of niceties in Ukrainian. I sprinkled my Russian with a couple of Ukrainian words. We both were satisfied with this promising beginning. Soon I found myself in the pulpit, ready to tell to two thousand Canadians about the suffering of their sisters and brothers in Christ.

  The pastor said that I came to his church to call Pentecostals to organize a letter writing campaign, demanding the release Christian prisoners and to allow Christian emigration. After that we both smiled at each other, with anticipation. A gentleman in the first row also kept smiling at me as if he had been missing me for ages. He even impatiently got up from his chair and sat back again. I anticipated shaking hands with him in seconds. Only after he stopped smiling, did it dawn on me—he wasn’t an interpreter, it was the minister who would undertake this job and who was nervously waiting for me to do the talking.

  And I spoke. Very, very slowly. After every sentence the pastor hesitated for a stretch of time,
and after that, stumbled and staggered through the sentences. Beads of sweat were shining on his forehead. We both got scared. Meanwhile, four or five people were coming to the front row, to the rescue.

  “We want to help you,” said an aged man in broken Russian.

  “We thought that for a Ukrainian it wouldn’t be difficult to interpret from Russian,” said another old man in an exotic mixture of Russian, Ukrainian and English. The man of God said that he had not exercised his Ukrainian since his grandparents were called by the Lord, “But you do speak English, Arkady!” he said, his deep mellow voice returning to him. “Praise the Lord!”

  A nice lady, while encouragingly shaking her shining gray hair, said in a motherly tone, “We’ll help you with words, don’t worry, go ahead! Speak in English! Yes,” she repeated, “In English! In English!”

  That was the kiss of death. My hour had struck. A very young fellow, with round metal glasses on a small nose, blushed and said in excellent Russian, “Farewell, comrade.” It sounded quite appropriate, like at the conclusion of a funeral, right before the burial.

  So, I began speaking in my English, in a trembling voice, wobbling over words, letting out squeaks, sending pleading looks to the ad hoc panel, and asking my advisers to interpret some Russian words into English. I felt like a perfect fool mired in impassable mud. The panel would give me a word, often after lively discussion and only more or less settling their linguistic disagreements. Every so often they would ask me for another Russian word, to replace the unknown one. It was the longest hour of my life. The logical finale to my performance came when my vocabulary was fully exhausted. My physical and mental strength had been spent as well.

  But dare I say, the event nonetheless was a miraculous one. The miracle was performed by a middle-aged lady in a remote row and, to a degree, by me. The woman decided that the Holy Spirit had come upon this good man (me!) and enabled him to speak in tongues, as it is practiced in Pentecostal churches. She had logic made of steel: this good man, in order to proclaim the Gospel, has spoken in a language he never knew. And she was chosen by God to become a vessel of Grace and to interpret this unknown tongue into the language of the Christians, gathered in the tabernacle, so that all those present could understand the Holy message.

  At first everybody was frozen in awkward silence, but as the sweet lady continued to perform her exciting mission, people began to smile—some, shyly, some, openly. When she completed her task, many began applauding and laughing to everybody’s delight. The lady looked happy. We all sang hymns. I was happy, too. I was reading the words on a big screen and sang just like everybody else. Everybody loved me, and I loved everybody. The blushing fellow from the ad hoc panel, probably a university student, approached me again and said “thank you” in Russian. I said in English, almost sincerely, “Your Russian is excellent!”

  At the end of the gathering the pastor gave a spirited sermon about the persecuted Church, and in conclusion he read, possibly for my benefit, from the Biblical narrative of the Pentecost in the second chapter of the Book of Acts: “Suddenly there was a noise from heaven like the sound of a mighty wind. It filled the house where they were meeting. Then they saw what looked like fiery tongues moving in all directions, and a tongue came and settled on each person there. The Holy Spirit took control of everyone, and they began speaking whatever languages the Spirit let them speak.”

  Upon my return to Glendale, both Popovs decided that my English did not need crutches anymore. My entreaties about interpreters were rejected. Cruel Paul reminded me, “Remember, you asked me to teach you to speak and write in English?”

  I nodded grimly and he continued, “Now we are aware that you’re capable not only to get your message across in your English, you even can chat with the Holy Spirit.”

  “Sure,” I said. “This gift isn’t given to everyone.”

  And we laughed like only children can laugh.

  TWENTY-TWO

  My Russian Habitat in California

  THE JOY OF HAVING the undeserved title of managing editor for the Door of Hope publication did not last for long: the lack of donor money forced the DOH to temporarily slow down its activities. I lost my position of distinction for the second time in my life, although the only thing that the two jobs had in common was the fear of the unknown after losing them. Now came the time for some heavy thinking about boring things like food on the table and a roof over my head. On the other hand, being unemployed, I had more time for cooperating with human rights organizations, especially with the California branch of Amnesty International. Those guys did not pay a penny, but they paid for my travel to conferences and for the hotels.

  Fortunately, half a year before my move to California, a family of my relatives emigrated from Ukraine to Los Angeles. Faina Shvartsman was my mother’s first cousin. Once every two years, with her husband, also named Arkady, or, with their son Oscar, she stayed with my parents in Moscow. For hours they would queue in the Moscow department and grocery stores. I had more exciting things to do than to see those backward provincials whom I hardly knew and whose interests seemed foreign to me. What I was not aware of, however, was that neither of our families escaped a common destiny. I knew that my Aunt Donya, Grandma, and many other relatives were killed in Kiev soon after the Nazis captured the city in 1941. I did not know that in the same mass graves of Kiev’s Babi Yar laid the bullet-riddled bodies of Faina’s and Arkady’s relatives.

  Days after the Luftwaffe bombed Kiev on June 22, 1941, Faina and Arkady, already doctors, were drafted. Throughout the war they served in front-line hospitals and medical trains, performing operations under bombardment and fire.

  We stood on their small balcony in West Hollywood, overlooking the mountainous skyline, and Faina told a story about a wounded soldier in war-ravaged Stalingrad. She was twenty-four years old then and burst into tears after that soldier—“just a little boy,” she said—was killed by a shrapnel ball seconds after she tightened the last stitch on his ruptured chest. In Stalingrad, the combined casualties on both sides, including Russian civilians, were close to two million. And in that charred shed she cried over this soldier killed less than a foot away from her after a successful operation.

  I thought, it could have been you, not the soldier. Faina pointed at the orange trees under the balcony and said, “The neighbors say you can pick oranges any time.”

  She looked absently at the enormity of the world-famous HOLLYWOOD sign on a hillside maybe a mile away and continued talking about “this snub-nosed little boy.” There was something unreal about orange trees and torpid flowers under bright California sun. She felt comfortable talking about this bloody battle that lasted for almost seven months, but she refused to talk about Babi Yar. Only once did she say, “Why do you keep asking about this killing? It wasn’t a war. It was just a killing of Jews, nothing new. It will always be happening.”

  A month later, in response to the same stubborn question she said, “Did you ever ask your Papa about Babi Yar?”

  Faina Shvartsman in the first days of the war.

  Arkady Shvartsman in military uniform. (Family archive)

  “Papa didn’t want to talk about it,” I said.

  “Your father was a wise man,” Faina said. “His heart always had the final say. I felt so bad when he came from Moscow and I wasn’t able…” she gave a deep sigh, “Cancer.”

  They didn’t have enough painkillers in the richest city of Russia, and he died a painful death. I did not tell her about that.

  After I lost my job at Door of Hope, they invited me without a sign of hesitation to stay in their small apartment. They lived below poverty level, receiving Supplemental Security Income, and never complained. Their son Oscar and his wife Sophie, who were studying English, worked as engineers and rented a place in Cerritos, a small but fast-growing town south of Los Angeles. They were surprised by the number of Filipinos, Chinese and Koreans in America.

  Finally I found myself living with immigrants and smiled bitterly, r
ecalling my own advice given to a young woman from Odessa—to move out of Brooklyn to America. About half of the Fuller Street inhabitants in Los Angeles were recently arrived Ukrainian Jews. My understanding of the neighborhood came at a price. Two or three days after moving in with Faina I had to meet with a teacher from a Santa Monica high school—a member of Amnesty International, she wanted to get acquainted with me before my upcoming talk at her school. I asked her to pick me up at the corner of Santa Monica Boulevard and Fuller Street and described myself: gray hair, glasses, a white short-sleeve shirt, and black shorts. Two minutes before the agreed time I was on the corner. In seconds a car of the wrong color stopped at the sidewalk, a man opened the door and waved me in. He looked kind of suspicious. I shook my head, and he immediately drove away with indifference in his face. When the next client parked at the same spot, with the same clearly expressed intentions, I was shocked and hid behind the nearest house corner and from time to time cautiously perused the sidewalk where this woman promised to stop. When she came, I ran to her car and told her the story of my success. She was surprised about my choice of the place and quoted Shakespeare: “My salad days, when I was green in judgment.”

  My life with two old doctors was not boring. Their son Oscar warned that I needed to be ready to help his mother in her many endeavors and to obey her orders. Faina proudly showed me several heavy cheese blocks in her refrigerator, about eight or ten pounds each, and guaranteed me a steady supply of such cheese as soon as I decided to move out to my future place. That evening Oscar dropped by to see how his parents accommodated me. He immediately was forced to take “just a couple” of those blocks to Cerritos. His shaky argument that the children and his wife disliked this particular kind of cheese did not impress his mother. When she was in the kitchen, Oscar explained in a low voice that the cheese was coming from some military depot, tasted like raw brick, and no hungry Russian soldier would eat it. Needless to say, I also would not have dared.