Dancing Under the Red Star (31 page)

In full view of the guards stood a wretched outhouse, which hadn’t been cleaned for months. It was filthy, rank, and foul smelling. Only the most desperate prisoners would use it. The guards, we already knew, would not go near it. Even in an extreme emergency, going inside would be a challenge. I nearly fainted when one of the girls told me that my mother was waiting for me inside the outhouse.

My knees buckled. Then someone emphatically whispered, “Margaret, keep your head. You must keep your wits about you. This is no time for foolish mistakes!”

Trying not to breathe, I acted as though I needed to go to the outhouse, and I managed to squeeze inside the door and into my mother’s loving arms. The very instant my eyes met Mama’s, the disgusting stench seemed to flee, or at least it could be forgotten, dismissed by the power of the moment. She held me tightly, fervently kissing my face, my forehead, my cheeks, and I was doing the same. “Oh, Mama, I love you so much. You don’t know how much I’ve missed you!”

We had to be cautious, quiet, and quick, making the most of these brief and precious moments together. There was so much to say but so little time in which to say it. I couldn’t stay in there for more than three minutes, because it would raise suspicions. Any carelessness or stupidity at this moment would have spelled disaster for both of us. But this was a moment of the heart, and words were strictly optional. So we just stood there inside the nauseating outhouse—oblivious to the smell—hugging each other for dear life, while Mama repeated, “How are you? Are you okay? Are you all right?”

Although I was silently standing with Mama in a vile Siberian toilet, it could have been Solomon’s palace. Being with Mama was all that mattered—looking deeply into her eyes, deep into the past, both of us wondering our many what-ifs. We spared no tears. They seemed to say it all. Oh, Mama’s eyes—how I missed them! Hers looked into mine, through mine, and deep into my heart.

“Have you any word about Papa?” I asked her.

“No word, Maidie,” was all she replied. And no other words were necessary, because I got to touch her, if only for a moment.

There wasn’t much time left, and Mama sensed it. She placed her cold hands on my cheeks, kissed me sweetly again, and said, “Maidie, do you see the goodness of God? We will make it. We will be all right. Now go!”

I knew it was impossible for me to stay another instant. Someone diverted the guards’ attention momentarily, so I bolted out the door and back to the group.
We made it!
My poor mama had to stand in that foul place the rest of the day, until the assignment was finished and the truck left. But she was undetected. I was grateful to the rain for washing away the ocean of tears I spilled that day and even more grateful that God had allowed this most joyous and blessed reunion to take place.

The following day my mother made her way to the camp’s main guardhouse. She tried to see me again, to give me some food and clothes she had brought from Gorky. Her request was flatly denied; I was not allowed to see her, nor was she allowed to leave me the package. But I was still exceedingly happy for our brief moments together the day before. Mama had traveled nearly sixteen hundred miles, from Gorky to Inta, just to see me for three minutes in a rank-smelling outhouse. But I was eternally thankful to God that we were able to pull it off. Her love and persistence strengthened my own courage and hope.

The kind and selfless help of my many friends had made our meeting possible. I knew the attempt could easily have ended in disaster. Had only one of them changed her mind or changed her heart, had she decided to cash in by selling us out, that would have sealed our fate. Soviet camp officials were not people to mess with; they took such offenses seriously and sometimes eliminated such problems permanently.

Later on I was shocked to hear that my mother nearly lost her life that day while boarding the return train to Gorky. A crowd stampeded, trying to get on the train at the very last minute. Mama had to run after the train, which had already started to pull away from the platform. She was just barely able to grab the railings, with nowhere to place her feet, as the train began picking up speed. Just in the nick of time, a very strong man grabbed her by the forearms and pulled her to the safety of the car’s platform. Mama told me that if he had not pulled her up precisely when he did, she would have fallen under the train. As it was, the crowd was so large that she had to travel outside on the platform for several miles before she could make her way into the car.

Eventually Mama pushed her way in, where it was terribly crowded and uncomfortable, but everyone was grateful for the warmth. Immediately she tried to find the man who had saved her so she could thank him. But he was nowhere to be found. She wanted him to know how grateful she was for his saving her life. She thoroughly searched that train, up and down, looking everywhere possible, and still she could not find him. Mama said it was just about the strangest thing she had ever experienced. Where was the man? Was he a man? Or did something else happen? The train had not made any other stops since that station where she boarded.

I remember my mama saying to me, “Maidie, I knew I was done for. I felt myself slipping and falling. And where those hands came from, I’ll never know.” She said, “Maidie, just moments later, when I tried to find him and thank him, he was nowhere to be seen.”

Nineteen

GOOD-BYE JOE

O
n March 5, 1953, Russians everywhere heard the news that Joseph Stalin had died. There was no great sorrow when we prisoners learned he was dead. Instead, throughout the land, mass jubilation and joyous and drunken celebration were the order of the day, even among his own supporters. Stalin had ruled as absolute dictator of the Soviet Union throughout World War II and right up to his death. It is said that twenty-seven million Russians perished during this period of unrivaled inhumanity. Joseph Stalin, whose name I had hated and feared more than any other, was finally no more.

Things soon began to change for the better. We could feel it in the air and all around us, a noticeable season of change. Most refreshing indeed! It felt as if the master of the house had suddenly died, and all of his grateful servants were beginning to celebrate their new lives. Stalin’s death marked the end of an era of unparalleled wickedness.

The Soviet system of ruthless oppression, however, had not suddenly ended, but a new hopefulness began to emerge. Perhaps it marked the beginning of a somewhat kinder and gender Russia. We all wondered how this monumental event would affect our lives in the camps. We waited, wishing and praying for a better day on the horizon, with more hope than any of us had experienced in a great many years. At the pronouncement of Stalin’s death, our entire camp enjoyed a three-day respite from work. We used those three days to recuperate, to wash and mend our clothes, and to relax and read. We were not allowed to celebrate outwardly; instead, we did so quietly within.

After Stalin’s death the Gulag population was reduced significantly, and conditions for inmates improved somewhat. Forced-labor camps continued to exist, although on a considerably smaller scale, into the Mikhail Gorbachev period, and the government even opened some camps to scrutiny by journalists and human-rights activists. With the advance of democratization, political prisoners and prisoners of conscience eventually all but disappeared from the Russian camps, but such was not the case for me—not yet. I was still an American political prisoner, held against my will in a Siberian labor camp that was still very much open.

A few improvements to our lifestyle were most welcome. We were now allowed to write unlimited letters, which everyone quickly took full advantage of. And a true miracle occurred when we began to be paid for our work. Moreover, a store was established within the camp confines where we could buy fabrics, canned goods, white bread, sunflower seeds, cheese, candy, and cigarettes. None of these items had been available to us before. The identification numbers we were previously forced to wear were removed. No more C-219.

We were astonished to find radishes, peeled onions, and garlic on the tables for the first time in many years. Also sliced bread in lovely, unlimited quantities. We felt like a God-given food bank had just opened for us, and we began to gain weight, which was a good thing. As a rule, any change in the camps was positive. I had always tried to see the cup as half-full, but now I felt as if I was slowly beginning to see the end of my pain, the light at the end of this perpetually dark tunnel.

Our daily menu suddenly became varied, an exciting alternative to the dull sameness. We began to see bits of meat and fat in our daily servings, a wonderful new thing. A small restaurant even opened, where we could purchase tasty meals if we saved enough money. Of course, our pay never lasted the full month, but at least now we had plenty of bread. I considered bread to be the essential and most-desired food item of all.

Another blessed new freedom was the creation of a communal kitchen, converted from a small wooden shack. We could now cook meals from the food we received from home or purchased in our store. What a pleasure that was. So many people applied for cooking time that a sign-up schedule was strictly enforced. We were also happy when a young woman from Moscow with an education in nutrition made a suggestion to the camp authorities. We had forever been served a kind of little salted fish, one large bowl per table. They weren’t very appetizing and were frequently discarded. We knew there were several large barrels of these fish in the kitchen, and we would have to face them every day. This woman proposed that the fish should first be smoked, promising they would be ten times better. She constructed a makeshift outdoor smoker from wooden boards and rocks, and she was right. Smoked, those fish became downright tasty.

Eventually, we smoked all these thousands of fish, and we didn’t want to run out of them. Though the fish was delicious, I was glad I wasn’t the one who had to sit there day after day stringing them on wires to be cooked. This same woman was subsequently appointed to manage our kitchen, and the camp was treated to some nice diversions from our regular menu. She basically used the same ingredients as before but in many new and exciting ways. These new creations became the spice of our lives.

Another important new privilege afforded our brigade was the opportunity to travel, under guard of course, to the men’s camps to perform our repertoire. Our visits were received with overwhelming appreciation. Our shows included several operas, such as
The Queen of Spades, Carmen, Faust,
and
La Traviata
. We also did many Russian-authored comedies and dramas and full-length ballets, such as
The Stone Flower
and
The Red Poppy,
and some ballet excerpts such as the Polovetsian dances from
Prince Igor
and
Swan Lake.

We staged many wonderful variety programs as well, featuring musical, dancing, dramatic, and comic performances. We received many presents, including money, from the men in the audience. We rarely had a day off, because when we were not performing, we were rehearsing, building sets, and sewing costumes. All in all, things seemed to be truly improving.

Most of the guards were tolerable, especially the men, but their leader stood out as a wicked little man, whom we loved to hate. In fact, we detested Lieutenant Igor in a multitude of ways. And our feelings were reciprocated by this weasel on a daily basis. Igor held us in great disdain, with a loathing he never tried to hide. He was one of the most sadistic men I had ever met, constantly abusing his position of power. This was his camp. We were inferior; he was far superior. Every time this little grunt of a man was on duty, we knew that he would concoct some new plan to hassle or humiliate us. I believe that’s what he enjoyed the most—thinking of new and better methods to ruin our lives.

One of Igor’s favorite routines was to get us out of bed in the middle of the night and make us stand outside in the torturous cold. He and his crew would then examine all of our things, ostensibly seeking forbidden items such as knives, razors, scissors, notes to men in other camps, and the like. This process normally lasted at least two hours. He and his guards would wait inside, where it was warm, while we all stood outside in the icy cold, waiting for them to finish. When they finally let us back in, it would take us the remainder of the night to put things back in order. Igor made sure the guards scattered everything we had from one end of the barracks to the other. In such predictable ways, he declared his ultimate control over us, reminding us of his power.

We couldn’t wait until the so-called movie nights came around. Anything good that would break the routine, the monotony, was a treat. There were never enough seats, so we just sat on the floor. Whenever we could get away with it, we would sit through several showings at a time. I remember seeing
The Hunchback of Notre Dame
and a few other American movies—those judged suitable for our viewing—but the vast majority were the typical, safe Russian propaganda movies. Never were we shown a film offering even a hint of a non-Soviet point of view nor one dealing with such forbidden topics as religion, freedom, or democracy.