When They Come for Us, We'll Be Gone: The Epic Struggle to Save Soviet Jewry (30 page)

On February 19, Butman got on the flight to Riga; he sat in the first row, a bottle of wine in his lap. As the plane began descending, Butman got up, took two steps, and pulled the handle of the first door, which opened. He walked another four steps, counting in his head how much time it took, and tried the cockpit door. It opened. Butman found himself facing the backs of four crew members' heads. He could see the shimmering lights of Riga at night through the cockpit window. As he closed the door behind him, one of the crew members jumped up and grabbed him. Butman quickly handed him the bottle of wine, proclaiming with a wide grin that it was a gift from the passengers.

Butman knew only two people in Riga: Aron Shpilberg, from his days in Leningrad, and Sylva Zalmanson. Butman thought Shpilberg, the hothead who was circumcised in the dacha, would second-guess every aspect of the operation. Sylva, however, was a good candidate, and she knew all the young Zionists in Riga. He called her up and said he was in town and had something urgent to tell her. She had some news of her own. She had just gotten married.

They sat at a café, gossiping about their mutual acquaintances. Sylva told Butman about Kuznetsov. Though he kept it to himself, Butman was concerned about the suddenness of their marriage. He wondered if Kuznetsov might be taking advantage of her to get an exit visa. Only when they left the café and began walking through the darkened streets did Butman reveal his own surprising news. Sylva didn't know how to respond but she immediately told Butman he should discuss it with her new husband. He would know whether this was a plan worth pursuing. But she wanted to prepare him.

That night, Butman paid a visit to their apartment. Sylva had not yet spoken to Kuznetsov about the hijacking. She wanted the men to meet each other first. Like most of the local activists, Butman was impressed with Kuznetsov's intelligence and straightforwardness. As soon as Butman left, Sylva sat her husband down and told him everything she knew. Kuznetsov's first reaction was that he couldn't believe Butman had discussed such a serious and sensitive subject with a woman. He also wanted more details.

The next day, with snow covering the ground and a strong sun reflecting off the blinding whiteness, Kuznetsov and Butman, eyes squinting, visited Rumbuli. As with any stranger, Butman remained vague about the details of the illegal escape. But Kuznetsov was a veteran dissident and he knew when a man was hiding something. Butman seemed nervous and fidgety, constantly glancing over his shoulder for men in leather coats. Kuznetsov demanded to know more. And as soon as Butman began expounding, Kuznetsov was filled with dread. If there was already a list of fifty people, as Butman claimed, it was too late. Kuznetsov knew from his own experiences and all the stories he had been told in the camps that secrets did not exist in the Soviet Union. The KGB had too many ears. Kuznetsov eventually recorded in his diary what he told Butman that day. "Just you listen to me," he said as they sat on the edge of a wet wooden bench.

You'll have to give me the opportunity of having a chat with every one of those taking part now—right at the beginning—before it's too late ... We must take each one by his collar, drag him off into a corner, knock his vanity out of him, give him a good shake-up and make sure he knows just how much the fate of a dozen people is going to depend on his being able to keep his mouth shut. You have to understand, it's not the intentional treachery that scares me, although this cannot be discounted either ... No, if on the night before our projected escape, someone should let his imagination get the better of him, and start bragging about his escapades of the morrow; if his girlfriend were to wound his vanity in some way or other, he may take offense, "Come now, who do you think you are? Never mind, just you wait until tomorrow!" And this could be just enough to put a spoke in the wheel! You know what this country's like? You've got to talk to each of them until his eyes pop out of his head—and then, and only then, can you be sure of him.

Butman swore that he could vouch for his people, a notion Kuznetsov found laughable. If there are two people involved in an operation, he said, you can be sure that one of them is an informer. But despite his reservations, Kuznetsov committed to the plan in principle. He was curious mostly about Dymshits, the pilot. Butman charged him with looking for a few others to take part, and Kuznetsov mentioned two of his friends from the camps who were feeling hounded by the KGB and might be willing to try an escape. Butman left that night and promised he would call soon.

Within a week, Sylva and Kuznetsov decided they would ask Mendelevich to join. Kuznetsov respected his patience, his ability to rise above daily frustrations. And he knew he could be trusted.

Mendelevich was busily working on what was already the second issue of
Iton
—Sylva had been helping him type up copies and had become a good friend. His second exit visa request had just been denied and he had been fired from his job. Without work or school, Mendelevich made the movement his life. When he arrived at the Zalmanson house to see Kuznetsov, the veteran political prisoner turned up the volume on the radio. He leaned in close to Mendelevich. "Would you be willing to try to escape from the Soviet Union even if it meant risking your life?" Immediately, without asking any questions, Mendelevich said yes. Kuznetsov laughed. He hadn't expected such a quick answer and he told Mendelevich to take some time to think about it, that the danger involved was great. "I've been thinking about it my whole life," Mendelevich said. "A few more days won't change anything."

***

In Leningrad, Butman, Dymshits, and Korenblit, the young oral surgeon sympathetic to the plot, continued to plan. They even had a code name: Operation Wedding. A group of fifty Jews traveling together would arouse suspicion, so they used the pretext of a wedding. Korenblit volunteered to be the groom, and his friend Polina Yudborovskaya, another
ulpan
student, agreed to be the bride. Dymshits decided that the hijacking should take place on May 2, the day after May Day, which was one of the most important holidays on the Soviet calendar. He hoped to take advantage of the fact that most officials would be nursing hangovers. They would board the last flight to Murmansk, leaving a little bit after four in the afternoon.

The group discussed how much violence they felt comfortable using in order to gain control of the plane. They knew that if someone was killed, the whole plan would backfire. Not only the authorities but the rest of the world would think of them as terrorists. They considered taking a pistol and hand grenades but quickly decided against such powerful weapons. Butman looked into using cotton soaked with nitrous oxide or throwing tobacco in the pilot's eyes—he had seen both done in the movies—but they finally settled on taking a weapon that would merely frighten the crew: a starter's pistol, loud but harmless, and Dymshits's old handmade revolver filled with blanks.

On March 29, in Leningrad, Kuznetsov sat on the floor of Butman's neighbor's apartment—a safe space, since the woman was not involved in the movement—and made final preparations with Dymshits and Korenblit. They decided that Butman would contact everyone on his list at the end of April and arrange a dress rehearsal of sorts. He wouldn't give anyone more than forty-eight hours to prepare so as to limit behavior that might draw suspicion. When they were done with their planning, Kuznetsov and Dymshits went off to the airport to look at the flight schedule. It was their first chance to talk alone. Dymshits was just the sort of person Kuznetsov liked to work with. He was serious and simple. He didn't overintellectualize things, but he was also not naive. The opposite, it seemed, of Butman. When they parted, as Kuznetsov headed back to Riga, the two exchanged information so they could keep in touch independently.

With a date set, a full list of passengers, and the details worked out, the plan was moving forward. But Butman had gotten ahead of himself. He was acting as if he had permission from the larger organization when he did not. Anytime he was asked about the "wedding" by anyone in the group, he would say it was not safe for him to speak openly about it. But the committee members had told him to investigate the
possibility
of hijacking a plane, not to prepare to do it. And yet it was increasingly clear that that was precisely what was happening. David Chernoglaz, the strongest opponent of the plan, became deeply worried. In Chernoglaz's eyes, Butman was dragging them all toward destruction. He began looking for ways to stop him.

The organization had never formally drawn up a charter or a list of bylaws. Chernoglaz realized that having one would be the best way to rein in Butman. He called a conference, asking that two representatives from each of the five cells take part. On April 4, all of them, including Butman, gathered at the apartment of one of Korenblit's friends, a woman who worked for Aeroflot and would never be suspected of housing an illegal meeting. If there were any suspicious knocks on the door, the secretary of the conference would lock himself in the bathroom and destroy all their papers. The others would claim they were there to toast the birth of Dreizner's new son.

The charter was quickly adopted. The bylaws, however, took longer. They debated who should be considered a Jew, whether a member of the organization needed to give up Communist Party membership, and, most critical, how decisions would be made. Without mentioning the hijacking plot, Chernoglaz introduced a rule that took away some of the independence of the individual cells, saying that a decision made by the committee was binding on every one of the groups. Just as they were wrapping up, the doorbell rang. They all froze. It rang again, long and insistent. Goldfeld, the secretary, quickly grabbed everyone's notes and ran into the bathroom. But when Butman opened the door, there was no one there. Two members went downstairs and saw a car with an antenna parked across the street.

When they settled back down, hearts still racing, Chernoglaz, clearly agitated, stood up and said, "Our organization now stands on the edge of destruction. If we don't take measures today, our organization won't survive much longer. This is because of the activity of a member of the committee, Hillel Butman. He is now preparing for a deed that could result in the arrest of members of the organization, searches, cessation of all of the organization's activities."

Not everyone present was aware of the hijacking plan. Those who knew looked around uncomfortably, not sure how much they could reveal. Those who didn't wanted to be filled in. With euphemisms, they discussed the "wedding" but never described it specifically, using their eyes more than their mouths. One member then exclaimed, "If Butman doesn't stop, I'll go to the KGB."

Then someone knocked hard on the door. Again Goldfeld gathered the papers and went into the bathroom. Butman opened the door to find his wife, Eva, doubled over and so out of breath that she could hardly speak. She said Dreizner had called her at home from a public phone—he had left the conference early to take care of his ailing wife. Dreizner had said only that he had been "poisoned by canned food" and told Eva to go to this address to warn them all. Butman knew what this meant: he had been trailed by a KGB agent.

The meeting broke up quickly without any further decision about the hijacking, but Butman realized what the new bylaws meant. If he wanted to continue, he would have to do so on his own, without the organization. The committee would never unanimously approve it.

A few days later, Butman was returning from a walk with Korenblit, who, though his staunchest ally, had been rattled by the conference. They were confronted by the rest of the committee, who'd been waiting in the dark outside Butman's apartment. They had all been meeting at Dreizner's and decided it was time to force the issue. Butman, Korenblit, and the rest of them started walking together, and the committee members—including Dreizner, who had turned on his closest friend—reiterated how detrimental they thought the hijacking would be to the organization. Butman kept trying to defend the plan, but as it got later his friends' opposition became more vehement, and he started to consider, for the first time, that maybe he was wrong.

It was after midnight, and they stood in a circle in an abandoned schoolyard. Butman suddenly felt the weight of responsibility. If his friends were right, he was going to put Zionists all over the country at risk. How could he carry that burden? There was, however, his pride. This was his operation, he had coordinated it himself, and many people had put their trust and hope in him. How could he call it off now? He would look like a coward.

Then one member presented a kind of face-saving compromise: ask Israel. If the Russian activists were Zionism's far-flung soldiers, then why not defer to the leaders? They would find a way to share details of the plan with Israeli officials. Whatever the Jewish State then commanded, they would do. Butman worried that this would throw off the timing of the hijacking. But he said he would consider it and they all shook hands. Only Chernoglaz remained angry. By this point he and Butman had stopped talking altogether. Everyone else was relieved. They walked away, leaving Butman standing alone in the dark.

Butman slept miserably that night. He had nightmares about a horrific plane crash, with flames leaping and charred bodies strewn about; he even saw the small form of his little daughter, Lilya. He woke up with tears in his eyes.

The next day, he agreed to the compromise. It didn't take long for them to find a liaison. On Passover, a few weeks later, the group contacted two bearded Scandinavian Israeli tourists—long-haired men in jeans—who were traveling through Leningrad. The two had just immigrated to Israel and were using their Swedish and Norwegian passports to get in and out of the Soviet Union. Butman met one of the Norwegians, Rami Aronson, and brought him to a Seder at Vladik Mogilever's house, where everyone watched dumbfounded at the ease with which the young man led the ritual dinner. The next day, April 23, they gave Aronson the details to pass on, making sure he emphasized that they were not out for personal salvation. The hijacking was for the good of the movement.