Leaving the U.S.S.R. Part Five
Exploring Freedom in Rome
By: Yuri Tuvim - Mar 28, 2007
Actually, it was not Rome but a small station in the suburbs. Several stern men observed our relocation from the train to busses. The rumor was that HIAS enlisted mafia to protect us from Arab terrorists.
It was late evening when our bus stopped in front a five story building. In the office on the first floor we were told that we might stay here only one week during which we must find and rent a place to live somewhere in Rome or in suburbs. On the second floor were several rooms with a dozen beds in each. From ceilings hung bare light bulbs burning in half incandescence.
Several Russian speaking people were scurrying through our confused group asking if we had something to sell. I had nothing. I showed my suitcase under the bed and went out seriously worrying about its future. The poorly lit street launched me into despair. Crumpled cans, shreds of plastic and dog excrement were scattered on the wet sidewalk. And this is Europe?! The Eternal Rome??
A young man approached me and inquired if I had something to sell. We struck a conversation; he happened to be a former Muscovite Denis Pekarev. We found the common acquaintance – Volodya Albrekht whom we used to call Ded Moroz (Grandfather Frost) because he collected money to help families with small children whose fathers (or mothers) were arrested. Denis bought me a cup of coffee and said that I have to come tomorrow morning to the Radio Vatican Station where he was an announcer. He would try to help me to find a place to live. After that news and the cup of real coffee my mood brightened and early in the morning I set out on the explained route.
I called Denis from the reception room and in a few minutes he appeared with a small old lady who did not speak Russian. After a long travel by bus and tram we arrived to The Pilgrim House of the Catholic Hungarian Church. My benefactors spoke a few words in Italian to the Mother Superior and a nun led me to a beautiful room on the second story with a large window overlooking an orchard.
The room had a wardrobe, a desk, a sink and a crucifix above the headboard. My address became Casa Santo Stefano, 481 Via del Cazaletto. The Casa was a four story contemporary building with marble floors, a gallery on the third floor and a large chapel with an enormous stained glass window.
A couple of bathrooms stocked with all sorts of cleaning agents and utensils were two doors down from my room. The cleanliness everywhere was exceptional. In the cafeteria on the first floor a European breakfast (rolls, jam and coffee) was served from 7 to 9AM and dinner started at 6PM. And what a dinner!!! Hungarian goulash and other delicious concoctions were accompanied by unlimited consumption of white and red wines. And all this was free!!! Thus started my Rome vacation – the most memorable and happy time on my way to America.
After breakfast I started out to explore Rome. Because I did not have to pay rent, the money from HIAS allowed me a simple pizza for lunch, bus and tram fares, post stamps, museum tickets and even trips to Venice, Florence, Assisi, Siena, San Marino and Castel Gondolfo – the summer residence of the Pope. The most important thing was that I was not alone anymore. Thanks to me, my friend Sasha Gorlov's family moved to the Casa, and my institute co-student Boris Gommershtadt also arrived in Rome. There were other emigrants with whom I spent time in the Eternal City.
Two events deserve to be mentioned. The first one happened on Christmas Eve. After a grandiose dinner I decided to fix a little mistake made by Italian plumbers, who did not hang the sink horizontally: it was tilted a little to the right. I studied the situation and found that to eliminate this annoying flaw would be very easy: a piece of wood half an inch thick under one side would do the job. I already had that piece, so I pulled the sink's side up. It did not budge. I tugged a little harder and the sink moved, pulling the hot water tube from the nipple. I tried to push it back, but that did not work. I sprinted to the basement to turn off the water, but there was such an intercrossing of pipes of all sizes that I could not find the proper valve. In the meantime the puddle of hot water had already crept out of the room into the corridor and started to flow down the stairs. I lay my bedding across the door and ran to the cafeteria where the sisters were finishing their Christmas dinner. In a few minutes firefighters arrived, put a hose into my room through the window, sucked out the water, and fixed the sink… Efficiently, quickly, smartly. And nobody reprimanded me. The next day I set the sink properly – in compliance with the horizon.
The second event happened the next week. I was invited to celebrate the New Year with my Moscow friends who were now living in a rented flat near Termini. Around 10PM I went down the street to catch a bus. I waited, and waited, and waited, but no busses were in sight. The street was empty, totally devoid of any human activity. Suddenly there was a loud pop and hissing behind me: a firework rocket wildly spinning on the pavement. This was the beginning. As if on command numerous fireworks started to explode everywhere and from open windows pieces of furniture, dishes, toilet bowls, brooms, etc. began crashing on sidewalks. I ran back to the Casa down the middle of the street. And this, my friends, is how I met the New Year, 1976.
When I was photographing St. Peter's Cathedral a priest approached me and struck up a conversation in a mixture of Russian and Polish. He turned out to be a monk working for Missione Consolata,- a Vatican organization sending missionaries to many countries of the world. Padre Garbolino served in Africa, Poland and the US. He was very interested in Soviet affairs. Several times he invited me for dinner to his monastery and every time he managed to give me ten dollars. I wanted to do something for him. When he mentioned Master and Margarita I decided to record it on tape for him. Pretty soon I realized that to dictate was hard work. It took me two full days of reading, but Padre Garbolino was happy to receive it.
When my fiancée Pippy and I went to Italy ten years after my arrival to America, Pippy got the idea that Padre Garbolino would marry us in Rome. That did not happen because I was a divorcee. The Catholic Church does not recognize divorces. We invited Padre for dinner. He came but could not stay because of a draconian rule: he had to be back to his residence before 8PM! No excuses were accepted. We were very upset.
Shortly after my arrival in Rome, Elena Bonner was released from the hospital after an eye operation. The Nobel Prize to Sakharov immensely increased demands on her. Several times I accompanied her to press-conferences and dinners. I remember one in a fashionable club where I was not permitted to enter because I did not have a tie. The solution was quickly found: a coatroom attendant produced a soiled tie from under the counter and I put it over my turtleneck. It was ridiculous but the rules were observed and I entered a medieval parlor were the hosts and translator swarmed around Ms. Bonner.
Nobody paid attention to me except a waiter in tails serving champagne. For half an hour I kept him busy filling my glass. Dinner was served at an enormous round table large enough to sit double the number of invited guests. I don't remember what we ate because my remaining mental abilities were mobilized not to make a faux pas using an improper utensil. Too many were in front of me on the table. Frankly, I could not enjoy the multiplicity of dishes because all my attention was spent mimicking sophisticated members of the club in their handling of utensils. The only person who helped me survive that torture was the very attentive waiter who kept filling my glass.
Elena Bonner was ready to depart for Oslo to accept her husband's Nobel Price. She worried because his statement still did not make it to Rome. You have to understand that it was sent not by regular mail (in that case it would never have arrived), but through foreign journalists in Moscow. When the statement finally arrived, Lusiya gave it to me to read; I found that some phrases were long and cumbersome and I volunteered to fix it. Lusiya agreed and I set to work. Pretty soon I realized that the task was beyond my ability: Sakharov's text was awkward but monolithic as a rock. The next day Lusiya showed me her editing. It was a miracle! The message and the tone were preserved but the whole document become light and coherent. I asked Lusiya and she gave me the document with her cuts and inserts. I kept it for many years and later gave it to Brandeis University Sakharov's Archive receiving an affidavit for a tax return in the sum of $3000.
Thanks to Lusiya I got acquainted with Irene Ilovaiskaya-Alberti, Asya Busiri-Vizi, Doctor Nina Kharkevich, and Journalist Lia Weinstein. I still have very fond memories about all of them and I would like to recall some.
Asya Busiri-Vizi was a daughter of a count Olsufiev who took his family out of Russia after the coup d'etat. She was born in Russia but her sister Maria was born in Italy. Maria became a successful Russian translator. Among many books she translated was Gulag Archipelago. Asiya was different. She did not like to talk about politics, she preferred painting and vodka. She specialized in pastel portraits of children of nobility; heir to the throne of Shah of Iran was one of them. Asya lived on Via Julia – a fashionable area like Mt.Vernon St. in Boston.
Her flat was full of old Russian relics and ancestral portraits. There was also a pantry which served as a bathroom and bedroom where I used to sleep. Ten years later we paid a visit to Asya. She demonstrated perfect memory and cordial hospitality. After a serious lunch with Polish vodka she decided to paint Pippy's portrait which turned out to be without the slightest resemblance to the model. Nevertheless all of us received great pleasure from the encounter.
The eye doctor Nina Kharkevich lived in Florence with her big fat black and white cat Paolino. Nina was born there. Her grandfather was a priest in the Russian Orthodox Church established in Florence well before the Bolshevik coup. She spoke Russian without the slightest accent, wrote poetry and painted. I stayed in her flat for several days exploring the wonderful city. One day the soup which she left for me seemed a little strange. At the dinner the puzzle was solved: the soup was Paolino's.
Lia Weinstein worked for a prestigious newspaper La Stampa. She was the daughter of wealthy parents who made their timely escaped from Russia in 1917. She lived in a three story mansion on Via Piedmont, not far from the American Embassy. The main rooms of her house were filled with antique furniture. Museum quality paintings hung on silk lined walls. I spotted a silver vase with a bent leg and set to straighten it. The leg broke off unexpectedly easily. Disaster!
When ten years later I introduced to Lia my fiancée she also demonstrated perfect memory: the first thing Lia mentioned was the broken leg! She invited us to dinner which was served in the dining room furnished with 17th century fixtures. Incredibly beautiful porcelain plates were flanked by the Faberge silverware. A middle age redheaded Clara, Lia's friend-secretary and professor of English literature, served fantastic trout with polenta. Another disaster: my vegetarian fiancée did not eat fish. Lia was devastated. The professor left the table to scramble eggs and salad, but I got a double portion of trout which satisfied me immensely. When Lia learned about our plans to marry, she suggested her jeweler from whom we bought a narrow band with a strip of rectangular diamonds. Seeing this ring a couple of days later Lia shrugged shoulders and said that it was not a bad gift for the birthday.