Love Is Never Past Tense...

by Janna Yeshanova

  We go into the restaurant. But the consul is not there. Then we go to the buffet on the second floor. We will eat quickly and then quickly return to embassy. Certainly, there is enough time before two thirty. It would be good to return, just in case, a little earlier.

  We buy some food, we eat, then we go to the room and I put on my shearling. And suddenly, there is a knock at the door. The first guy is surprised. “Who’s there?”

  “Open!” There are three men in grey coats. “Come with us! Your passports?” Oh God! What time is it? Our passports are handed to those men in the civilian clothes. I start TO SHOUT! “How dare you? I’m going to miss my flight!” One of them approaches the phone and dials the number of Moldavian KGB, reads the information on my passport … and gives it back to me. “There is nothing to worry about,” he says, “You are clean like glass. You can go.” The boy who went with us got his passport back too. “And you,” says the civilian to the tenant of the hotel, “We warned you. Stop speculating with Rolex. You remain.”

  The young man and I are taken down a corridor, tightly gripping our passports, afraid of some new unexpected stop. But everything is good. The main thing is to fly out of this building and catch a taxi. Goodness! If only we can be on time!

  We made it back to the embassy … “Has he appeared?” I asked someone who was tramping around because of the extreme cold. The negative answer calmed me and gave me the opportunity to catch my breath. And here is the car. My consul!

  Goodness! He silently approaches me, embraces my shoulders, and conducts me into the embassy. His assistant (or his bodyguard) follows us from the right side. Hooray!

  Freedom is almost gained? My partner in the incident hands a note to me containing his information. “Don’t doubt, my friend,” I say. “Everything will be as it should! I will pass him your note.”

  “What is needed?” the consul asks, once we’re inside the embassy. He removes my coat and offers me a chair across from his. He is already in his professional role, and he understands that I am not offering him a meeting in a cozy cafe.

  “An invitation,” I answer shortly and firmly.

  “Give me your information.”

  “My papers? Here they are. Please!”

  “ОK! What else?” the consul says coldly, skillfully playing the role of an important official.

  “Here is more,” and I hand the information for my friend Boris, his wife, and their two children.

  “OK! Give it here. In half a year there will be an invitation. What else?”

  “Here’s more,” I hand him a page containing the information of a young man, my new acquaintance. The page travels into the consul’s hands.

  Outside, a KGB soldier protecting the embassy asked at the gate, ”Your passport, young lady?”

  “I’m married,”46 I heard myself say before I had time to think of what to answer. The young, not so skilled brain of the soldier began to chew on my phrase, but time had been won, and I disappeared from his field of vision. Everyone outside asked, “So, how was it?”

  “Hа! Now, you are talking with me, dear men!” I go to a restaurant to have supper with the one who was most interested in my experience. Why does he need to know this when he already has the permission to leave? Who knows? I just want to eat …

  At the restaurant I tell him the details about the event. He listens. He asks a question: “When will the invitation come?”

  “In half a year,” I respond.

  “Half a year? Are you kidding! That’s too long! You do not know what can happen in this country during that time? With horror, I realize, “That’s true, I do not know …” We go to a pay phone near the restaurant, and we dial the number of the hotel Ukraine.

  “Please, connect me to room 245.” They connect me. The number is silent.

  “Maybe I should call that guy who lives in the Ukraine?”

  “Forget it. He is a provoker. Here everyone knows him.”

  “What does he provoke?”

  “He brings people, as though accidentally, to special services (KGB), and then they can use their limitless powers to shake people down until they find something.” I recalled the scene in the hotel: “But they did not really shake me down. They released me immediately. This means, once I was hooked, there was nothing to find. I guess I was lucky. Ooof!” I exhaled. In this country a dirty, sneaky trick can come from any direction …

  The next morning, I went down to a pay phone, wearing a nightgown, a coat, and boots with no socks. It wouldn’t have been good to call from Lina’s house—who knows who could be listening, and what kind of trouble it could get her into? Again, I dialed the consul’s number. “You may not remember me. I was talking with you yesterday …”

  “Of course, I remember. You are the teacher from Kishinev. Is there something wrong?”

  “I need to meet you urgently. I leave today.”

  “ОK! I’m going to the embassy. Can you be there at ten in the morning?”

  “I can’t make it in time. I am in Izmailovo. It is a long way, and I am not ready yet.”

  “That’s OK. Then will one o'clock do?”

  “Yes, but they won’t let me in. There are soldiers there …”

  “I will wait for you outside at one o'clock. Do not worry.” I arrived seven minutes past one. He stood outside waiting. The shoulders of his jacket are covered by snowflakes. He is a man. He came for a date. The consul—is now his minor role. He will do everything that I ask of him. This thought became firm in my brain. I easily follow him inside. Like yesterday, he removes my coat. I sit down on the familiar chair which has been kindly moved up by the man-consul.

  “What’s the problem?” he asks.

  “My mother is sick. Half a year is too long.”

  “OK!” replied the man. “Show me the information again.” I hand him the page.

  “You haven’t forgotten? I have a friend. He has a wife and two kids. For them, half a year—is like half a life …” The Consul called the secretary.

  “Send a fax, urgently!” and the consul immediately disappeared. In front of me sat the man with a pleasant exterior, similar to the prodigal son. Probably he’d reached his limit of official duties. He wished to go to his motherland. There, it is warm and cozy. But his motherland is far away. But near him, sits a woman who radiates warmth and internal security and calmness too.

  “Maybe we will go to a restaurant in the evening?” the man said clumsily.

  “I have a flight.” I softly answer and smile with the edges of my lips.

  “Yes, you told me, I forgot. Probably, I will find you in Israel.”

  “Certainly,” I answer with relief. “The country is small, and it won’t be hard.” But to myself I think, “In Israel, my dear, you will search for me for the rest of your life. I will not be there.”

  I had convinced myself that I needed to make my way to America. But that was my secret. I returned home, to Lina.

  “And where is the consul?” my inquisitive girlfriend asks.

  “What consul,” I ask. “I do not understand you.”

  “But I thought he would follow you. Everyone sticks to you eternally. Well, how did everything go?”

  “I think it couldn’t have gone better. Now only the waiting remains.”

  I fly home. On my door, the mail box is twisted into the shape of an eight. It’s scary! In one and a half months the invitation should come. These days will seem very long! I go to the post office. My former schoolmate works there. “When the invitation comes,” I ask him, “please give me a call. I want to take a vacation abroad, and will bring back a gift for you.” The invitation came in exactly in one and a half months. I do not know which played the bigger role—the decency of the consul or the testosterone in his blood. My post office friend received a gift before my departure.

  The time came to say goodbye to the city where I lived all my life. “The city,” I thought, “where I married for the first time for love—perhaps for the first and the last time. Where
are you, my fair-headed young man? Farewell! Now, you are only in my memory. Will I ever see you again? No, now is already never—all my resources are exhausted. Farewell, my magnificent, kind and sympathetic friends. No one will see me here again.” But the hope that they would see me did not abate. It lived in me, having hammered itself into a distant corner of my soul: weak, but still alive…

  ***

  At last, all the documents are ready. Visa support from Israel is the only way to cross the border. Boris’s idea to go to Israel does not sit right with me. It is a small country which is torn apart by religious contradictions, and an environment of terrible threats from the Arabic countries. What will I do there? It is unknown to me. You cannot live just anywhere. You can learn almost everything about Israel in just a few weeks. But I plainly do not know the language. Many Jews in the USSR speak exclusively in Russian and do not study their native language—why bother? No. America: this is my goal. I have to reach it, at any cost.

  The packing begins. Some things should be taken with us, and some things—sent in the container. It is good that a relative of my friend in New York agreed to accept my cargo. The rest—I give away to friends. Finally, everything is done.

  In the kitchen, on the radiator hangs Alla’s claret sweater with white patterns across the front. One sleeve, slightly twisted up, hangs down like a piece of ship rope. Perhaps the sweater guesses that its mistress will not pull it over her little body anymore to keep warm. The keys are given to Boris. He will distribute to relatives, friends and acquaintances as he is told: furniture, carpets, utensils, the remaining clothes—everything on the list. The sweater will pass to the wardrobe of the neighbor girl.

  The train from Kishinev leaves at three o'clock in the afternoon. A taxi is ordered for half past two. Everything is ready. But where is Mom? Doesn’t she remember that we need to leave at three? The hands on the clock inevitably move forward. We leave from the Soviet Union … forever. As long as nothing stops us.

  But where is mom? I cannot leave without her. She will die here by herself.

  Here she is at last, 25 minutes prior to the train’s departure. She gets in our taxi. Neighbors are all around us and it is clear to everyone that we are leaving to go abroad. To hide it any longer is impossible, but the truth is no longer dangerous: nobody can stop us!

  “I was at the October Palace at a big meeting,” Mom explains the delay. “I sat in the presidium. I am so glad that I was there! You should have heard how they welcomed me …”

  She wanted to relish the pleasure of respect for her once again. Leaving for another's society, she understood, meant no one would know her there. Maybe she wanted to strengthen herself for the future. “Before this,” she continued, “I went to the cemetery to your dad. In fact, I said goodbye forever.”

  At the station there are a lot of friends. They help to bring our suitcases and bags onto the train. They kiss Alla. They kiss me. Flowers. Smiles and tears. Someone speaks: “When you leave—you will grow foolish. There, is no need to struggle for life.” Naive. Everywhere you are, it is always necessary to struggle for life. But in some places it is a struggle for survival. And in the others work, though often difficult, is for the best life, for well-being and the feeling of your own dignity. Boris jumped into the train car—he was going to ride with us up to the border.

  Boris is tall. He stands near me at the end of the train car trying to wipe my tears. My eyes—are level with the woven deer on his sweater. Soon the deer become wet. Apparently, they cry too. The train carries us away from the city where I grew up, from the city which I will never see again. The only thing that I have done lately is to make a huge effort to leave it forever. But here in the depths of my soul, something stirred. It is a weak hope that has had an effect: and maybe, sometime I will visit the places precious to my heart? But that hope is empty. Soon you too, hope, will fall asleep forever … Tears do not dry up: I know that a huge distance will separate me from my dear people. From youth, these people become you, and you become them. And no one can ever replace them …

  I start to think about what I desire most of all at this moment, where I am freeing myself from the country where I grew up, the country that is my motherland. Is or was? I heard somewhere: the motherland is the place where you feel good. And for me it can only be good where my dearest people are. But they, these people, are not going, not the least bit, to where I go. I—go to the West. They remain far away, in the East. It means, all the same, that I am losing my motherland.

  Suddenly a dream is born, to calm me somehow. It is not natural for a person to grieve for a long time. It is natural for him to be happy. He does not come into this world for grief …

  In my imagination appears a big oval table. It will stand in my new kitchen, in my new house in the new country. All my friends will gather around it. They will come together at least one time. If only I could celebrate with them like I did in earlier times and tell them everything that happened to me that I can now only guess.

  What is actually going to happen is full of uncertainty.

  Only the hope for the best moves me. Only hope justifies my responsibility for my mom and daughter. Where am I taking them? Will it be good for them? Yes, it will! I have to believe in this! Though, really, there is nothing else left to be done …

  ***

  In my memory, shimmers my last evening of swimming laps in the open air pool. It is dark outside. Piles of snow are all over. My trainer, Nina, is shivering in her winter coat. She looks down at the swimmers. Suddenly, I feel like sharing with her my decision. “Nina, I am leaving tomorrow. Today is my last day.”

  “Where are you going? You like this swimming pool so much. You won’t find a better one. This one is so close to your home.”

  “Nina, I am not changing pools. I am changing countries.”

  “What will you do there? Where will you go? You don’t know anyone in the world.”

  “Nina, I will train and teach, same as I do here.”

  I knew I would not betray my hope!

  ***

  But the damn tears are rolling again. “Boris, we will never meet again! We will be in different countries. On different continents! You have said it is necessary to leave. I am leaving, but you still remain.”

  “Jaaannnnna, do not roar,” he always says my name long, stretching out the N. “I told you: all of us should go to Israel. Together, it would be easier. But you chose your route. This is your decision. Don’t cry, goodness! In five years we will meet. You will see. Well, stop, wipe your tears.”

  ***

  Here is the boundary city of Chop. To enter the city a special permit is needed. The Soviet country liked to create closed cities—reservations where only specially selected people could live and work. And it is possible to visit such cities only with sanctions from special entities.

  Boris does not have a permit into this city. At this station, everyone on the train has to disembark and wait on the platform while the train cars are lifted and put on narrower pairs of European wheels. The whole procedure takes a couple of hours. Sometimes days—it depends on the railway workers. But not everything depends on pure mechanics.

  According to the rules, all emigrants from the train cars must leave with their luggage and go to a building in the station to stand on the cold concrete floor, where customs officers check everyone who was on the train. They will wait for the next train, which will come in two days. This is most likely arranged to enable the customs officers to have plenty of entertainment. They take away from the people everything that was most dear and treasured for years, and passed from generation to generation.

  With no declaration of export, it is not allowed to leave the country? Goodness knows what kind of reasons can be created when the power is on your side. Defenseless people potter about below. As for laws, there are few. The country is on the verge of disintegration. And here are traitors, fugitives who drag off with themselves “treasures of the country”…

  To stay for two
days on a cold concrete floor is a gloomy prospect. My mom falls ill. So far, she only has a cold, but she is 76 years. If I remove her from the train car, then pneumonia is inevitable. In my pocket is $126 that I am allowed to exchange. We have bags—too many to count full of canned food, blankets, and other things. I carry everything with myself that can compensate for money. Bags with canned food are very heavy. I have no citizenship. I had to pay the government 700 rubles to sell my citizenship back to them so that I would be allowed to leave the country.

  Boris grabs the trunks and carries them to the door. I go to the conductors. “Guys! What can be done, not to make us leave? My mom is sick and I have a child.”

  “Nothing,” the boys say. “We have been on this route for several years. Everybody leaves. The visas are already collected. We gave them to the customs officers.”

  “Boris,” I shout. “Put the trunks back into the compartment!”

  “You are out of your mind,” Boris was taken aback. But he drags the bags back. Then he takes off from the train car and hides behind a night train, so as not to be caught by the frontier guards. A person without the special permit is, at the minimum, sent to a prison cell with a long time to figure things out. For us, especially for him, this is not needed.

  Everyone leaves. I come back to the compartment. Mom’s and Alla’s eyes are wide open in astonishment. “Mom,” I say, “Where is your jacket with the medals? Well, lie down. I shall cover you.” The medals spread everywhere up to her shoulder. “Where is the Valerian?47 Where is the Corvalol?48 Now! Quickly? I need to sprinkle the medication around,”—it has a very distinctive smell. I have to show that my mom is not well. “The suitcases—let’s put them on the top shelf.”