Leaving the U.S.S.R. Part 6

From Rome to Iceland to Rome to Newton

By: Yuri Tuvim - Apr 03, 2007

Irene Ilovaiskaya was the daughter of a famous Russian historian Ilovaiskii who left Russia after the Bolshevik coup. Irene was born in Yugoslavia but her Russian was impeccable. She was in charge of a ALI –Association Literature International in Rome. In reality it was a CIA affiliated warehouse filled with books which we used to call Tamizdat (printed abroad). Among them were forbidden books of Russian writers and translated books of Western historians and political scientists. The business of the library was to use every opportunity to smuggle books into the USSR. They used tourists, sailors, diplomats – anybody who would be willing to take a few volumes. When I mentioned that a friend of my sister would be departing from Iceland to work for the Icelandic embassy in Moscow, they sent my sister dozens of books for her friend.

I spent hours in ALI rummaging and reading previously inaccessible treasures. Once I found a stack of books "June 1941" by historian Alexander Nekrich. The book was about Stalin's guilt for the initial collapse of the Soviet armies. The book was printed in the USSR but later was quietly banned and removed from libraries. Nekrich was expelled from the Party. Now hundreds of books were skillfully reproduced on bad quality paper so it would be impossible to distinguish them from the original and a traveler would not have any problems if the book would be discovered by customs.

My fellow-emigrants were frequent visitors to ALI. Don't think that they were leaving the premises empty-handed. Our book-hunger was immense. One mother would come with a daughter in a stroller and when she was leaving the daughter was sitting on the pile of books. I took some books too. Ms. Ilovaiskaya knew about our "borrowing" but she did not object. She understood us. At that time ALI was preparing for publication the book by a defector Vladimirov. When she learned that I had in my slow-speed luggage albums with photos of soviet posters, she asked me to bring them for copying.

I went to the warehouse, opened the box and tore several pictures from the albums. After a few days I found some of them scattered on the floor in ALI. The irresponsible staff lost part of my collection! Here are some I can remember:

"REMOVAL OF REFRIGERATORS FROM LENINGRAD IS FORBIDDEN"
"FIGHT BRAVELY FOR NEW TECHNOLOGY! THE STRUGGLE FOR IT IS THE NATIONWIDE GOAL!"
"TODAY YOU ARE A TRUANT AND A LOAFER BUT TOMORROW YOU BECOME A THIEF, A RAPIST AND A KILLER!"
"BREAD IS THE NATIONAL TREASURE! TAKE CARE OF IT!"
"THE FLATS ON THIS LANDING ARE FIGHTING TO BECOME THE EXAMPLE OF THE COMMUNIST DAILY LIFE!"
"THE LANDING OF COMMUNIST DAILY LIFE"

I became a friend of Ms. Ilovaiskaya. Together with a 7th Day Adventist Bresedden from Siberia we fixed and upholstered her sofa and she fed us with cheese ravioli. One day she told me that Solzhenitsin asked her to work for him as a secretary and I told her that she could not refuse the offer, but it would be a very difficult job.

Ms. Ilovaiskaya used her connections to obtain a Refugee Travel Document for me; my sister bought me a plane ticket from Luxemburg to Iceland and I boarded the train to Luxemburg. In my compartment there were three Italians returning to work in Germany. I asked them why so much junk was scattered along the railroad and why many historical buildings and monuments in Rome were covered with graffiti and the hammer-and-cycle. They explained that Italians were pigs but Germans were very clean and orderly people, they even washed sidewalks with soap; Italians are really badÂ…

"It was time to have a bite",- so they lined the floor with newspapers and started to clean vegetables and peel sausages. I produced Russian salted pork. They suspiciously observed a yellowish-white piece covered with salt and rejected my offer inviting me to join them. Fresh peasant's bread and smoked sausages were beyond imagination. Homemade wine made me to understand their German much better. After lunch they rolled the newspapers with the peels and opened the window. I screamed pulling the bundle of refuse from their hands. I disposed of it in a waste basket in the corridorÂ…

At the French border I was asked to fill out some form. The line "Nationality" threw me into confusion. So I finally answered like I used to in the USSR: "Jew". The border guard looked at me with pity, took the form and left.

I spent half of the day strolling through Luxemburg, saw how a woman washed the sidewalk with soapy water, spent the night in a small hotel and after three hours of flight my sister met me at the Reflavik airport. I was delighted to be with my dear mother and sister and her family. Back in the USSR I could only dream about it. When I was in graduate school, my sister sent me an invitation to visit her. I asked the management of the school for a character reference without which I could not apply for an exit visa. The answer was short: "The visit is inadvisable". My joy of being with my dear ones was doubled by the recognition of the fact that I would never again need a permission to see them.

My stay in Iceland was slightly complicated by the fact that my brother-in-law and his friends were espousing some left-leaning ideology and were participating in demonstrations against the American base in Iceland. I could not stand this parochial nearsighted mentality and besieged him to translate my diatribes against their stupid behavior. Being a gentle and polite man, he could not brush off my nagging but I could not stop defending America. Thirty years later the same people were upset when America removed the base from the country.
Returning to Italy was not without complications. Because the Icelandic airline strike grounded all flights I could not leave for Italy on time. My entry visa expired and I was not permitted to enter the city. This was Saturday and I suffered inside the airport until Monday because the advanced seats in Fumicino were made like deep spoons – comfortable to sit in, but try to lay down! Luckily I was befriended by a janitor who let me to lay down in his storeroom.
When I was set free I entered a very different Italy. I left the cold and wet winter Rome and now it was sunny and warm with fragrant wisteria hanging from balconies and fences. My room in Casa Santo Stefano was waiting for me and the sisters greeted me as the returned prodigal son. Everything would be absolutely perfect if not for a telephone call from HIAS:

* Mister Tuvim, the Jewish community of Akron, Ohio, is waiting for you. Be ready for the flight in two days.

I lost heart. My spirit plunged. Such beauty around and I had nobody in Akron. All my acquaintances were in Boston. I went to the library and learned that Akron is the center of the tire industry. In my CV was written that I worked in the synthetic rubber plant, but that was my first job right after college. I knew nothing about tires. So I decided to call Victor.
Victor was a translator in the American embassy. He translated during my interview with the consul.
The interview was the final step in a long process of obtaining a visa to enter the US. All the questionnaires were filled, VD tests passed and X-rays done.

- Are or were you a member of the Communist party?
- No, but one time I was a secretary of a Komsomol, i.e. Communist Youth League at the plant after graduation. 

At that moment Victor (I did not know his name then) looked at me somewhat strangely and said something which could not be the translation of what I said. The corpulent redheaded consul rose up, shook my hand and said something in his incomprehensible language. In the purest Russian Victor told me to follow him. Descending into bowels of the embassy I was shaken. Who is this guy? His Russian is perfect. Is he a KGB man? In his office the translator told me that I should not spill the beans if not being asked. Did I know that America was closed to communists? Youth league or otherwise – it did not matter. It is the law. The bureaucrats don't see the difference. He was asking me some questions but I was confused and suddenly tears and snots started to pour out of me. I was overwhelmed. Victor gave me glass of water. I calmed down and out of the blue I told him that in Moscow a KGB provocateur Sanya Lipavski was working among refusniks. Victor gave me his business card and told me to call in a couple of days.
When I called he invited me to dinner at his apartment. He was living with his grandmother and daughter. They accepted me like one of their own. They fed me and made me talk. I felt like I was among old friends. Victor took me under his wing. One evening we went into Night Club Discotheque La Prugna were a fat black lady sang. There he bought me my first drink - Gin & tonic – which remains my best after thirty years in America. Several times Victor took me for trips around Rome. In short – I had a friend in the Embassy.

I called Victor with the news about Akron. He did not like it. Next morning the call from HIAS informed me that Americans withdrew my visa but I should not worry, everything would be straightened out in a few days. So, I received three more weeks of spring in Rome. What could be better?! Together with my friend Boris we explored Rome far and wide, we walked on Old Appian Road paved with huge flat stones, we saw equestrian jumpingÂ…

One day an Italian hugged me on the street: "Komrado Kommunisto!" I was perplexed. Yes, I was dressed poorly but "kommunisto"? The puzzle was solved in no time: I wore a belt of a Soviet army officer's uniform. The Hammer-and-Cycle on the belt buckle revealed everything. I freed myself politely from the embrace of an ideological enemy and said: - "Mio anti-kommunisto, kapish?" Boris was rolling laughing, the Italian lost his wits.

The belt buckle was really good. One of Victor's friends offered me a black Omega chronometer with three small faces but I declined the offer. It was great bait for local communists. One happened to be a barber in a small shop into which I went one day. He was trying to tell me what good life Soviet workers have. Because I couldn't speak the language I drew a chicken with a price on it then the salary of a worker. Two other barbers were listening to our long debate without interfering. After the battle was over they gave me a free hair cut and said that I would always get one free because I devastated their red adversary.
Three weeks flew like one happy dream. The call from HIAS informed me that Boston was ready to receive me. The Boeing 747 was full of emigrants and after 9 hours of flight America appeared under the wings of the plane. To me the view was incredible: such an industrial country and so green!
Now I would like to finish the story of Sanya Lipavski. In 1977 Izvestiya published a big article. The article was about the spying activity of Sharansky who was arrested at that time. Lipavski was also mentioned. It was said that he was sorry for his contacts with foreigners. That he repented and decided not to leave the USSR.

Later I learned that after my departure Sharansky and Lipavski were roommates in a newly rented room. In 1986 Sharansky was freed and deported to Israel. When he was in Boston I asked him how Lipavski set him up. He answered: "They would have arrested me even without him but he helped".

WARNING! 

The readers might think that my story is typical. Very far from it. I was extremely lucky. And not only during the times described above but throughout my whole life. My parents survived the Great Terror of Stalinism. My father was arrested but the prison was so full that he was told to go home and not to leave the city. They never came again. I was shot at and the bullet missed me, I drank a mortal dose of methanol and even that did not blind me, I survived a motorcycle crash on a mountain road at 50mph.
Even the story of my second marriage should be considered as sheer luck with roots from my past. Judge for yourself: I met Pippy Giuliano because I asked Richard Lourie to introduce me to an American woman. Richard translated into English the book of my friend Vladimir Voinovich. When Voinovich was expelled from Russia, another friend, poet Naum Korzhavin, had a party for Voinovich where I met Richard. Where I met Voinovoch? In the Sakharov's flat when he was describing how KFG thugs poisoned him with contaminated cigarettes.

So, these are the links: Sakharov – Voinovoch – Korzhvin – Lourie – Giuliano…
If it is not the luck, what is it?