Departing the USSR: Part 4

When Sakharov Learned of the Nobel Prize in My Moscow Apartment

By: Yuri Tuvim - Mar 07, 2007

One day Sanya Lipavski asked me to meet him.
- Yura, I know you have contacts with foreigners but I lost mine. I need your help.
- No problem, what's cooking?
- You see, I have friends, engineers. They hate the Soviet system and they want to help America. They work in a military plant, you know, in Zagoryanka. They stole some secret documentation and I promised to transfer that abroad but I lost my contact. You are my only hope .

When a friend is in need you must help, so I agreed, and a plywood case was transferred into my car. I drove to my garage sweating hot and cold alternately. One thing is to mingle with dissidents and spread underground pamphlets, another – espionage. Death penalty, no joke! Locking myself in the garage I opened the case. It was full of all sorts of technical documentation stamped "Secret". I leafed through and quickly understood that there was no technical value in them. I especially remember one: "The installation to determine degree of blackness of bodies". Luckily, that subject was very well known to me. This "secret" installation was on the level of a primitive school laboratory.
I remember another paper about how to weld a certain aluminum alloy. "What, - I thought, - don't Americans know how to weld?  Maybe they don't even have this particular alloyÂ…"
I called Sanya, we met and I told him that I could not help him and he should take the case back. He refused. I put the case into his car and left. I have never seen him again and his electric drill remained in my possession in spite of my several calls to him.

One week before the fatal day of my departure my wife Lara baked an apple pie and I called Sakharov and invited him for a cup of tea. He came with his mother-in-law Ruth Bonner; when I went to the kitchen to put the tea kettle on the stove the door bell rang. I opened; there were three writers – Lev Kopelev, Vladimir Voinovich and Konstantinovski. I never met Konstantinovski but Kopelev and Voinovich were familiar faces.
   - Is Andrei here? – Asked Kopelev.
- Yes, he is, but I did not invite you.
- You know nothing! He got the Nobel Prize!

So, I let them in; they entered, put on the table a bottle of vodka and three roses and Kopelev said:

- Andrei, I would like to take down your statement in your new capacity.

Andrei Dmitrievich started to talk and Kopelev standing was writing it down.

My friend and brother-in-methanol Naum Schmidt who came to see me said: - "Why are you standing like an idiot? Where is your camera?" I snapped this photo; the door bell rang; in the corridor was a crowd of foreign correspondents with movie-, tele- and photo cameras. Somebody thrusted a light into my son Misha's hand and he was holding it high amidst the pandemonium. Ruth was sitting imperturbably in an armchair with unlit cigarette in hand. 

Andrei Sakharov
First words said when he learned of being awarded the Nobel Peace Prize
Thursday October 9th, 1975, 20:00-20:15
The apartment of Yuri Tuvim, Dmitrov Road, 45B, #72

       I hope that this will be good for political prisoners in our country. I hope that it will support the struggle for human rights in which I participate. I believe that this award is not as much an acknowledgement of my personal merits, but the merits of all of those who fight for human rights, publicity, for the freedom of beliefs, and especially those who paid for this with the high price of losing their freedom.
       I hope that during this period of détente, the bestowing of this prize on a person who does not completely share the official point of view, will not appear as a challenge to the official view, but will be accepted as an expression of tolerance and breadth of spirit that must comprise the main part of the process of détente.
       In the past few months, starting from precisely this point of view, I have called for amnesty for political prisoners many times. And now, learning of my award, I want to repeat this call once more. And, it goes without saying, I feel extremely gracious towards the Norwegian Parliament.
      
       Recorded by L. Kopelev

This evening in Iceland my sister's family turned on the TV and they saw all of this: Sakharov, my flat, myself, MishaÂ…

A few days before my departure another brother-in-methanol Arkadi came from Leningrad. Late at night when walking with him on a dark alley I spotted a very shiny piece on the sidewalk. It was a ten kopeck coin issued in 1930 – the year I was born. The coin was in absolute perfect condition, as just from the minting press. I have no explanation to this. Coincidence? – Yes, but why did it not tarnish in 45 years? This coin is now in my desk in Gloucester, it lost its entire spark and I lost mine too…

The last hour in the airport was horrible. I don't remember any details except that Lara was wearing a black goat fur coat, Misha was pale like a ghost, Sakharov was taller that anybody and our little crowd was under observation by several unremarkable personas. Finally I tore myself from the rest and went thru custom where an officer grouped my jeans and thru passport control where another officer took me into a box and checked my jeans and the belt again. The plain was half empty. They started to play some soul tearing music, the ancient sobbing and bawling. I was ready to run back but at that moment to door was closed and I was saved from action.

VIENNA

My very first impression: shaggy soldiers with assault rifles at the ramp, something ridiculous for my eyes – the army permits such disheveled locks? In the airport all emigrants were separated into two groups. Those who decided to go to Israel were taken by Sokhnut and sped under guard to some remote location fearing Palestinian terrorists.  The rest, including me, were taken in by HIAS and brought to the city by bus. The second impression: very well organized racks with building materials and pipes – cleanliness and order along the road. The third impression – the hostel - did not answer my picture of the comfortable West. It was crowded and poorly lit. We were instructed how to use the toilet bowl (flush!) and also to use hot water very sparingly. I put my suitcase under the bed and went out. That was thirty years ago but I still vividly remember the small store with a fantastic selection of cheeses and sausages. I took the price list and wrote my first letter home on its back. This letter never reached my family just as many others on which I spent a fortune.

I stayed in Vienna ten days visiting HIAS a couple times to fill out various needed documents. That left me plenty of free time for exploring the majestic city and its superb museums. I walked far and wide, taking pictures and cursing myself for not bringing more film. Certainly, film was available but HIAS's pocket money was barely enough for post stamps, trams and some meals which I used to buy at the farmer's market. There I stole a knife with a plastic handle which I used every morning to cut bread and sausages in the hostel.  I also tried to sell a porcelain doll's head which was given to me by my nanny when I visited Smolensk to bid her farewell. This head was the only remaining part of my sister's doll. Antique dealers in Vienna were stingy and the head traveled with me to Rome and Boston where I finally sold it for $30 to some crazy woman whose house was jam-packed with a gazillion doll's heads.

One day when I was photographing Viennese architectural gems, a drunken Austrian struck a conversation with me. At that time my German allowed me to converse on a kindergarten level and I understood that an invitation was issued to go with him to his home. I agreed, he waived a taxi and we went. The short ride made him deadly drunk and the strain of carrying him to the second floor almost untied my belly button. His lovely wife immediately made him drink the strongest coffee and he become sober in a few minutes. Never again did I see such a sobering effect of coffee on an absolutely drunk person. The Austrian turned out to be a bartender but his wife was the daughter of the retired police chief of the Vienna. In a couple of days I found myself as the guest of honor at their family dinner. The dinner was followed by a film about Vienna's beauty taken by the chief.  After coffee, cigars and cognac I was delivered to the hostel in a police Mercedes. In the morning Monica - the wife of the bartender - came to the hostel with her daughter and we went to see the Schoenbrun castle and the park.  On the way back we stopped in a village for a delicious lunch with white wine. I think they had a big program to acquaint me with Viennese life but HIAS ordered "all aboard" the train to Rome. As a parting gift I received a magnificent Grundig with stretched diapasons of short waves. The radio needed some work but I was able to receive Deutsche Welle and Liberty. I brought the Grundig to America and it worked for 20 years more.

Two cars of the train Vienna-Rome were designated for Soviet emigrating Jews. I was put into a compartment with a family of five from Kiev – parents, frail granny and two small kids. The head of the family was "five feet with hat" and I could not stop wondering how he was able to manage their luggage consisting of ten huge suitcases. I helped him put everything into the compartment. After   that we realized that there was no room for people. Luckily, we found a rope and I made a hammock above the seats. It was impossible to stand but it was OK to sit. Twenty two hours later we arrived in Rome.