Swimming in the Daylight: An American Student, a Soviet-Jewish Dissident, and the Gift of Hope
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Swimming in the Daylight: An American Student, a Soviet-Jewish Dissident, and the Gift of Hope
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Overview
Inna reveals an indomitable spirit as she endures a perverse reality as a citizen of the Soviet Union—she must deny invitations from countries in the West to receive life-saving cancer treatment due to her inability to receive a visa from her own government. This refusal, Inna explains to Lisa, is the Soviet authorities’ way of persecuting her and her husband Naum, a member of the Moscow Helsinki Watch Group fighting for human rights in the USSR. Spurred by outrage and the desire to help her friend, Lisa returns to the United States, vowing to do all she can to get Inna out of Moscow. Lisa stages a hunger strike, holds a press conference, and galvanizes American politicians to fight for Inna’s freedom. All these efforts eventually succeed in pursuing Mikhail Gorbachev to issue Inna a visa in December 1986, and she finally steps foot on American soil. At a time when international strife seems insurmountable and worries at home seem to paralyze, this story will teach people everywhere that it is the courage inside that defines a person and can change the future.
Contains a new foreword by Natan Sharanksy.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781628736717 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Skyhorse |
| Publication date: | 08/05/2014 |
| Pages: | 304 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.00(w) x 8.90(h) x 1.00(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
The Barter System
We all live with the objective of being happy; our lives are all different and yet the same.
— Anne Frank
I bought a jar of Nescafé coffee for Andrei Sakharov. I really did. Not that I had any idea when I bought the jar in a foreigner-only store in Moscow that it would end up in his cup 250 miles away in Gorky, a city where Soviet authorities had banished him and his wife, Elena Bonner, four years earlier. Rather, as I stood in line waiting to pay for the Nescafé, all I knew was that it would pay for one Russian-language lesson with my teacher, Inna Kitrosskaya Meiman.
The day that I brought the two jars of Nescafé to Inna, she smiled and said in a hushed voice, "Oh, excellent, Leeza, I will send one to our friend in Gorky." Could she actually be referring to the famous Soviet dissident Andrei Sakharov? I wondered, taken aback. While I did not want her to think I was too naive to understand her reference, I had to ask if she actually meant Sakharov.
Inna, in a manner that seemed ordinary rather than peculiar — and clearly intended to keep "Big Brother" from listening — turned on the television behind her, cranked up the volume, and only then whispered, "Yes, that's exactly who I mean."
Swiftly and deliberately changing the subject, she said, "Let's begin your lesson." Returning both the television and her voice to a normal volume, she asked, "Did you prepare your assignment for today?"
I began taking Russian language lessons from Inna in September 1984, just a few weeks into my second year living in Moscow, where I worked as a nanny for an American family. This was at a time when the Cold War between the United States and the Soviet Union was as chilly as ever. Tense political disputes and confrontations between these two global superpowers and archenemies had raged since the end of World War II, against the backdrop of an ever-escalating nuclear arms race. In such a hostile climate, it was rare for an American college student to actually live in Moscow — even those, like me, who were studying the Russian language and about the Soviet Union. When the opportunity arose for me to work for Joan and Paul Smith in Moscow (Paul ran the Russian office for Caterpillar Tractor Company) as the nanny for their two young daughters, Laura and Kjirsten, I jumped at what I considered a chance of a lifetime.
The Soviet government did not allow American families living in Moscow to hire local Russians to watch their children. While there had been some progress since the pre-World War II days under Joseph Stalin, when Soviet citizens who engaged in unauthorized contacts with foreigners were actually arrested, imprisoned, and sometimes shot, Soviet officials' continued distrust of foreigners had not radically changed. The half dozen or so American families in Moscow who had nannies in the early '80s recruited them through contacts in the States. I heard about the job with the Smiths in my Russian-language class at the University of Minnesota, where Paul studied ten years before I.
As for meeting Inna, Michelle Lynch — my friend and also a nanny for an American family — gave me her telephone number. She studied with Inna the year before, during my first year in Moscow. Michelle arranged for me to take her place as Inna's student when she returned to the States in June 1984.
There was no inherent risk to an American who engaged in contact with a Russian, as long as the purpose of that contact was legal and not anti- Soviet. The Russian, however, faced the definite risk of being watched, questioned, and threatened by the KGB (the Soviet national security agency) for such interactions. Therefore, Americans were necessarily discreet about their contact with Russians, and thus the information Michelle initially gave me about Inna was sparse. I knew that Inna had received her doctoral degree in English education from the Moscow Institute of Foreign Languages and taught there for many years until she was forced to quit her job soon after applying to emigrate from the Soviet Union in 1979. The government denied her a visa, and thus she became a refusenik, Russian slang for someone who had been refused permission by the Soviet government to emigrate. Michelle told me Inna had an operation in October 1983 to remove a tumor on the back of her neck and that she didn't believe Inna was receiving any additional medical treatment. When I met Inna in late August 1984, she was teaching Russian to a half dozen Americans, including journalists, the wife of an American diplomat, and teachers at the Anglo-American School (the school for children of Americans and other foreigners living in Moscow).
"Oh, yes, Leeza, I have been expecting your call," Inna said in a friendly, spirited voice when I contacted her about taking Russian lessons. She asked if I understood Russian and I replied nemnoshko — a little — not wanting to overstate my Russian-language ability and then disappoint her if she took me on as her student. Then Inna, speaking in English, suggested we should meet. "It is important for a teacher to know a student's ability before teaching an actual lesson," she explained.
We agreed to meet at eleven o'clock the following Saturday morning at Inna's apartment. She said she would be at the Osepenko Street trolley stop waiting for me, a twenty-minute trolley ride from my apartment on Serpukhovsky Boulevard. She began to describe herself, then stopped and said, "Not to worry, Leeza. I will recognize you, an American."
I set out to meet Inna on a typical Saturday — my day off. When I woke up just before eight o'clock the girls were already happily watching a Bugs Bunny cartoon on a video sent by their uncle in the States. Laura, who was five years old, had long, fiery, light red hair and a cluster of freckles on each cheek. Kjirsten, older by a year and taller by an inch, had long, golden-wheat blonde hair and as many freckles as her sister. They were sitting together on a recliner like two peas in a pod, eating their Rice Krispies, shipped as part of the family's grocery order from Denmark.
After promising Joan and Paul that I would be back that evening to babysit the girls, I caught the number 32 trolley at 10:30. It took me directly north toward the center of the city and into the slender streets of one of Moscow's oldest districts, Zamoskvorechye, which means "behind the Moscow River."
At least a dozen people were standing on the sidewalk when the trolley approached the Osepenko Street stop. At first, I didn't see a "short woman with dark hair, wearing a black coat and white scarf," as Inna had described herself, but as I stepped down off the trolley into a slight drizzle, my eyes connected with the sparkling brown eyes of a middle-aged woman who smiled at me and spoke quietly in Russian: "Are you Leeza?"
"Da," I replied, saying the easiest word in the Russian language. "Yes."
"And I am Inna. It is very nice to meet you."
Inna was just an inch or two over five feet and stocky. Her black hair was sprinkled with gray and was short, brushed back off her forehead and in place behind her ears. The damp air created round, ruby-like circles on each side of her wide and square face. She looked pleasant, healthy.
"Please, follow me. My apartment is just around the corner from here," she said, turning away from me and walking north on Osepenko Street.
Short and to the point was the standard routine when meeting a Russian in public. The objective was to blend in and go about your business rather than calling undue attention to yourself, since you never knew whether anyone was watching.
We crossed a small bridge over a canal and then turned right. Had we continued walking north a few blocks, we would have come to the Moskvoretsky Bridge, which arches over the Moscow River and reaches into the east end of Red Square, which is anchored by St. Basil's Cathedral.
As we crossed the street at the middle of the block, Inna spoke for the first time since leaving the trolley stop. She quietly instructed me not to say anything until we were inside her apartment building. Two elderly women sitting on a bench next to the entrance stopped talking and took notice of us as we walked by. I looked straight ahead to avoid making eye contact with them.
Inside, we took an elevator to the fifth floor and then stepped out into a dim hallway. Her apartment was just to the right. She opened the door and made sure I had followed her in before shutting it behind us. Then she hung up her coat, took mine, and hung it on the hook next to hers. She gave me a pair of slippers as she put on a pair of her own, a gesture with which Russians greeted guests to their home. Just then a man with white wispy hair, who appeared to be much older than Inna, at least in his mid- to late-sixties, walked into the hallway, which was illuminated only by the light of day coming in from an adjoining room.
"Naum, this is Leeza. She is Michelle's friend. And Leeza, this is my husband, Naum."
"A pleasure to meet you," he said in English, which he spoke in a choppy, unsure fashion. "How is our Michelle?" His bushy, arched eyebrows moved up into his forehead as he smiled.
"She is back in Texas and just found a job. She asked me to give you her very best greetings," I replied. Inna and Naum smiled fondly, as would grandparents hearing news about their granddaughter. As we reminisced about Michelle, I was impressed by all they knew about her and by their obvious affection for her.
"Naum, Leeza is also a nanny for an American family," Inna said, changing the subject to me. "Are they diplomats?"
"No, I work for a businessman," I answered. This fact seemed of interest to them both.
"What does he do?" Inna asked.
"He runs the office for Caterpillar Tractor Company. He and his wife, Joan, are starting their fifth year here. They have two girls, Kjirsten and Laura."
We engaged in a few more pleasantries and then Naum reached for his coat, explaining he was going to the market. Naum shook my hand and said, "I look forward to seeing you again."
As he shut the door, Inna asked me in Russian, "Are you hungry? Let's have a bowl of soup. Come, follow me to the kitchen." I followed her a few feet through the hallway, which was narrowed on one side by floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with books, then a few more feet into the kitchen. A small and narrow room with a door leading out to a balcony, it was pungent with the smell of garlic and cabbage simmering in a soup stock on the stove.
"Would you like coffee or tea?"
"Coffee, please," I replied in Russian, aware she was assessing my ability to speak her language.
She took bowls and cups from the cupboard and set them on a small table. "Please bring the bread over from the counter and the sour cream from the refrigerator for the soup," Inna instructed. "Ah, my students like to bring me your American goodies," she explained as she noticed my eyes watching her scoop two spoonfuls from a jar of Nescafé into a cup. "I have been spoiled by the taste of this coffee. It is so much better than ours."
After we both sat down, she commented that I seemed to be very comfortable with my conversational Russian and asked how many years I had been studying the language.
I told her I had studied a year in college and then attended a summer Russian-language school in Middlebury, Vermont, before I came to Moscow in the fall of 1983.
"And your Russian accent is also good," she observed. I often received that compliment from Russians, even when I first arrived in Moscow. Perhaps it was because the melodic sound of the Russian language has always appealed to me. I feel an intuitive cadence whenever I speak it.
"Do you have any Russian ancestors?" Inna asked.
"No. My mom is one hundred percent Irish, and my dad is mostly German."
"Ah, interesting. Tell me more about yourself, Leeza, such as where you are from, about your family, why you came to Moscow."
I told her about my hometown, Appleton, Wisconsin, and about my two sisters and two brothers. Then she asked how old my parents were and if they worked.
"My father is fifty-five and works as a maintenance mechanic at a technical college and my mother will be fifty-four in October. She works as a teacher's aide at a high school," I replied.
Inna told me that all of her family lived in Moscow — her son, Lev Kitrossky, his wife, Marina, and their two young children; her two brothers; and a sister and her husband and their two children. She was very interested to know the reason I wanted to live in Russia, which was often the subject of fascination for many Russians who I met in Moscow; Inna was no exception.
I briefly told her the events that had taken place in my life the last three years, beginning with a class my sophomore year of college that sparked my interest to learn all I could about the Soviet Union, and about my studies and travels to Leningrad, Vilnius, Kiev, and Moscow that followed. I explained that I learned about the nanny job in my Russian-language class a year and a half earlier.
"And here I am," I smiled.
"You have been busy," she exclaimed, then paused for a moment. "So, you have not graduated from college?" she asked.
"I still have at least one year to go," I replied, "But obviously I can learn more about the Soviet Union living here than I can in a classroom in Minneapolis. Plus, it's an adventure."
Inna smiled. "Many of my students say they come here for the adventure. This is so funny to me. That is, you Americans consider Moscow an adventure. You can go anywhere in the world — Paris, Italy, Africa. Ah, yes, for you an adventure," she paused, and then reflected, "with a happy ending. You get to go home."
Inna cleared the bowls from the table, offered more coffee, and then took on the more formal tone of a teacher.
"What are your expectations of our lessons?" she asked.
I paused for a moment and then said, "I want to improve my reading and writing skills. I'd like to test into at least third-year Russian when I return and maybe even fourth."
"So you are a serious student," Inna observed. I nodded in agreement. Then she handed me a Russian-language textbook and asked me to read a couple of paragraphs aloud. "Go ahead, don't be nervous," she said.
I stumbled midway through the second paragraph, looked up at Inna, and said in English, "I don't feel confident reading out loud."
"But you are doing quite well," she said encouragingly. "Please continue."
After I read a few more minutes and she had sufficient time to evaluate me, she said, "Now, let's talk about the lessons." She described her format as follows: begin with reviewing homework, then on to a new lesson and assignment, and end with a discussion of topics of interest. She asked me to come prepared each week. "This is not always true of my American students, because they are so busy and have so many distractions here," she explained. "But you know it is better for both of us if you review the assigned materials. That way we will not waste our time."
I assured her I would prepare for each lesson. Then I asked her about her fees.
"There are many things money cannot buy for me here. I feel I can ask you because you are young and may not find my request an imposition," she said. "If and as you are able, I would like you to bring me a bottle of olive oil, which is sold in the Beriozka stores that only you can shop in, Leeza, with your American dollars. It is better for my health to cook with olive oil instead of lard. You can also bring me jars of Nescafé from the Beriozka. This you may consider a frivolous request, but as I told you, I have become accustomed to this coffee."
I considered her proposal for a moment, then told her it wouldn't be a problem for me to bring those items for her. Our barter system agreed upon, we made plans to begin the next Monday afternoon at two o'clock.
CHAPTER 2The Courier
Imagine how much good we could accomplish, how much the cause of peace would be served, if more individuals and families from our respective countries could come to know each other in a personal way.
— President Ronald Reagan, Geneva Summit, 1985
I lived two lives in Moscow that were completely separate from each other — my "American life" and my "Russian life." Like all foreigners in Moscow, the Smiths lived in a designated apartment building that was fenced off from the Russian apartments around it. You could only enter the gate after being approved by a Russian militiaman, who guarded the entrance twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. The official Soviet explanation was that the militiaman was there to protect foreigners who resided in the building from crime — a statement that contradicted the Soviet propaganda that no crime existed in the Soviet workers' paradise. Everyone knew, however, that the real reason for the fence and guard was to deter Russians from visiting anyone who lived there, as all guests were required to give their name so a record could be made and reported to the appropriate Soviet authorities.
This was part of the general Soviet policy to restrict its citizens from accessing information from the West. Soviet citizens were not allowed to subscribe to Western publications or radio broadcasts from the West. Thus, programming such as that provided by Voice of America and Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty were jammed. Foreign mail was also routinely opened, read, and sometimes not delivered. International telephone calls were guaranteed to be monitored.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Swimming in the Daylight"
by .
Copyright © 2011 Lisa C. Paul.
Excerpted by permission of Skyhorse Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Foreword by Natan Sharansky,
Part I Moscow,
Chapter 1 The Barter System,
Chapter 2 The Courier,
Chapter 3 I Wish I Had Your Worries,
Chapter 4 Irina Grivnina,
Chapter 5 All Because of a Book,
Chapter 6 We Must Have Change,
Chapter 7 From Russia with Love,
Chapter 8 George Orwell and the Writings of 1984,
Chapter 9 The Dirty Dog,
Chapter 10 The Feeling That You Cannot Breathe,
Chapter 11 The Moscow Helsinki Watch Group,
Chapter 12 An Average American,
Chapter 13 Swimming in the Daylight,
Chapter 14 The Interview,
Part II Minneapolis,
Chapter 15 The CBS Evening News,
Chapter 16 "Please God, Let Me Help Her",
Chapter 17 Faith, Hope, and Love,
Chapter 18 Ripple of Hope,
Chapter 19 Fruit Juice and Vitamins,
Chapter 20 Capitol Hill,
Chapter 21 Next Year in Jerusalem,
Part III Washington, D.C.,
Chapter 22 The Chautauqua Conference on U.S.–Soviet Relations,
Chapter 23 Uvidimsya — We Will See Each Other Again,
Chapter 24 Free at Last,
Chapter 25 Mrs. Meiman, Room,
Chapter 26 The Rainbow-colored Potholder,
Chapter 27 Human Dignity,
Chapter 28 "Babushka, Are We Going to Israel Today?",
Chapter 29 The Ring,
Epilogue,
Acknowledgments,