Love Is Never Past Tense... (20 page)

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.”

“Let them stay there.” What else? What else can I think of to obtain security that they will not send us to this parade-ground for offenses?

The conductors approached again, trying to convince me that we need to leave for the platform, and do the same as everyone else has done. Behind the window, it is already November 30th, 1989. Cold, fierce. Dirty snow.

Into the open door of the train car comes a huge customs officer, or a frontier guard. With him is some white-headed witch with dirty hair. They check to see if everyone has left.

“What are you doing here? Do you need a special invitation?”

“I have a sick mother, an invalid of the war. She cannot leave.”

“Well then! …” opens the mouth of the white-haired witch.

“If something happens to her, the
Pravda
⁴⁹
will learn of everything. Tomorrow, in fact, there will be an article in it. She is a war hero, and a famous person. If you do not know her—that is your problem …”

I didn’t actually have any friends at Pravda, and no article would have appeared. But the small wicked creature stopped.

“Open the suitcases,” she shrieked.

“You open it. It is your job.” I told her with easy confidence, although I understood that I was asking for trouble. In this, there was power.

The “lady” stretched out her hand to the top shelf but … decided not to get involved with the suitcases.

“Well then! Open your cosmetic bag.”

“Please.” I said as I opened the bag.

She grabbed some gold earrings from the bottom of the cosmetic bag which were not identified in the customs declaration. One of my friends put them in my cosmetic bag at the station. They probably thought I could save them for a rainy day.

“And what is this? Why is it not written down?” she says.

“Well,” I’m thinking, “now she will send us back.”

“Ohhh!” I say, “It is not in the declaration? OK!” A sharp movement of my hand—and the gold earrings fly out the train window, previously left open by Boris, who always knew everything in advance.

The male customs officer demands that I lift my hands and place them on the wall above my head. He impudently digs through the pockets of my pink Finnish jacket. Then both of them exchange glances and leave the train. After a while, I hear rustling under the open car of the compartment. But to me, it was already uninteresting …

The compartment still keeps the smell of Valerian and Corvalol. Mom lays in the pose of a fatally wounded fighter. The medals, of a
Participant of the War
and the
Order of the Patriotic War First Class
, contemplated that they performed their service with honor. The conductors look at me, their faces stunned by such an unexpected turn. One of them approaches and says: “This is the first time I have ever seen this happen. We have a bottle of wine.” The train was put on the European rails. The people who vegetated at the station for two days come through the doors. Hungry, tired, sick, dirty.

Then, years later, someone asked me: “What is emigration like?”

“Emigration,” I said, having thought about it a little, “is like war without the bombing. People behave as if they ran away from the front line. Emigration is the same as evacuation. Not in the depths of the country, but from the country itself …”

The train car is filling up with the voices of children. The old people are being helped to get up the abrupt steps. They are bringing their battered suitcases. The train takes off. “And the visas? Where are our visas?” I suddenly thought. They were still with the customs officers on the platform! They took them away when the previous passengers left from the platform. And my mom and I are without documents!

“Our visas are with the customs officers!” I scream to the conductors.

One of them sharply pulls the brake lever, and the train stops, not having had time to speed up. The conductors inform the engineer. The train car opens, and the white-haired woman appears with our visas. With shivering hands, I take them and check whether they are OK, re-reading them several times. Yes, everything is in order.

The train gets back under way. Mom tries to fall asleep. I hug my daughter. “My precious! Forgive me for all the difficulty which I put you through. Forgive me, my little girl! Later, everything will be good. Tolerate, my little big friend. After all, you trust in me. This will all be over soon. I do not know precisely when, my daughter. This will end, and you and I will laugh again. We will again tease everyone who comes across our path. I love you, you know …”

Ahead, is the night. Soon, Czechoslovakia. We will successfully cross the border where the soldiers will admire and welcome us, and where the gloomy faces of the Soviet frontier guards will never be seen again.