An American in the Gulag

by Alexander Dolgun

  I was able to visit Mother twice a week and take her food (without which she would have starved, by the way; that’s the way it works in Russia). The staff of the hospital soon became very fond of her and gave her the keys to the linen room, which was a responsibility that she loved; and I think, in a way, it kept her alive. She was very pleasant with me whenever I visited, but she told me that she was not fooled at all, that she knew perfectly well the so-called hospital was a KGB institution, and that I was of course a KGB myself, and no amount of protesting from me could shake her from this terribly ironic delusion. Despite this I found my visits with her a source of emotional strength. We talked about New York, and how wonderful it would be to go home, and about her dear sister Tessie in New Jersey, and all my cousins, and so, despite the madness, there grew a bond of warmth and affection that sustained both of us.

  One day I was asked to speak to the head psychiatrist of that hospital department. This woman sat me down and very gravely explained to me that my mother was a raving paranoid with monumental and impenetrable delusions. I said I knew she had some misapprehensions about things, but I did not feel they were quite so terrible as all that.

  “Oh, very, very serious, Comrade! She has told me the most vivid stories about living in New York City, can you believe that? She describes the streets and the buildings with such clarity that I find myself almost believing her. I have seldom seen such an advanced case. I am sorry to have to tell you that she is very, very far gone into a world of her own making.”

  I sat and listened to this recital for some minutes without giving the doctor any sign. When she had finished what she thought was a dramatic and convincing account of my mother’s terrible state, I paused for a minute and then told her the truth about my background, and the reasons why Mother was the way she was. I was annoyed enough to enjoy her discomfort. However, doctors don’t apologize, especially when they’re caught out by laymen. The psychiatrist showed me the door, in real confusion, and kept on making noises about how I would have to understand that my mother needed close supervision and the best of care and it was necessary that I visit regularly and so on. As if I needed to be told that.

  I was lonely in my little room. I occupied myself with work and with conversations with George Tenno on the subject of escape. At work my chief was impressed with my diligence, and the political bosses were more impressed than I would have wished. One day I had a visit from the Communist Party secretary of the publishing house, a man named Kudryashov. After chatting for a while about how well I seemed to be getting along with the development of my new branch, he came to the point of his visit.

  “It is time, Comrade,—that you undertook some public service work, and I have a volunteer assignment for you that I believe you will be very effective in.”

  I had been afraid this would come sooner or later. Everybody in the country is expected to do a certain amount of “volunteer” community work. Some of it is political, some not. My assignment was very political. Kudryashov wanted me to become an agitator! This meant that at election time I would have to canvass apartment buildings in my area, remind people that they had to get out and vote, take down everybody’s name, put up election posters, and generally assist the whole process of getting out the compulsory vote.

  I said, “Look, Comrade Secretary, I would like very much to oblige you in this but my health is really very poor, you know. I had a bad heart and blood pressure irregularities and a number of other problems from my prison experiences. It is all I can do to get through a day’s work here. I don’t see how I could take on any extra responsibilities.”

  Kudryashov was very frank. He said, “I don’t think you understand,, Comrade.

  While this assignment is, of course, purely voluntary, there is no way you can back out of it. It has been decided for you by the treugolnik.”

  The treugolnik, or “triangle,” is the ruling political triumvirate in every Soviet agency and bureaucratic establishment, factory, shop, hospital, and so on. It consists of the head of the agency (or factory manager), the local head of the union, and the party secretary. This trio had virtually absolute political authority within the publishing house, and I knew that unless I was prepared to jeopardize my position I would have to go along with it. At least elections occurred only once a year.

  So when the spring elections came, there I was, out in the streets with my notebook, signing up voters! I hated it. I particularly hated the election day itself. The streets were blaring with loudspeakers set up at every polling station, in schools and in libraries. I had to get. up early and harass all the people on my list to get to the polls before noon. This was allegedly to ensure an early report to the nation on the results of the vote. But since the vote was ensured anyway (there were only two candidates and you had to vote for both of them), the real reason for the early vote was to let the bureaucrats get away for some fun in what remained of their weekend. At the polling station there were long lines of tables with cards hung over them showing big letters, from A to M. You lined up at your initial, signed for your numbered ballot, and filled it out in front of the official. Constitutionally in the Soviet Union you are allowed to indicate on the ballot that you reject the candidate, and there is even a curtained-off booth where you can go if you wish to exercise your right to the secret ballot. Hardly anybody dares to take either option; the subsequent harassment is simply too unpleasant.

  The day after the election I began to worry a lot about having participated in it. Under American law, as I recalled it from my consular days, an American national who voted in a foreign election risked losing his U. S. citizenship. I could argue that my participation had been forced, but it bothered me anyway. I discussed it with George Tenno.

  “Al, All What were you thinking of, voting for those bastards!” George exploded. “Why the hell didn’t you do what I do? Just sign out of town for election day and tell them you’re going to vote in Zagorsk or Istra where you’re visiting your father or wherever you want to go!”

  “But I happen to know you spent the weekend in town.”

  “Sure.” George laughed at me. “Sure I did, but I signed out first. I said I was going to visit my relatives in Tallin. Then I stayed right here. They never check!”

  And so that is what I ultimately did, although I did have to work as an agitator for two years before that obligation was discharged.

  One night a few months after my mother had been hospitalized I was working late on my translation of the gynecology and obstetrics book when there was a knock on the door of my room. I had few visitors and I assumed it must be a neighbor needing some kind of help. I opened the door and stood there dumfounded to see a familiar face from camp, complete with MVD uniform: Lavrenov, the hospital supervisor.

  I was not very glad to see him, but he threw his arms wide and stepped into the room before I could say a word. He overwhelmed me with a huge embrace. “Dear old buddy!” he exclaimed over and over again. “How marvelous to find you at last!

  I’ve been searching and searching for you. You have no idea how marvelous it is to see you. I don’t suppose you have anything to drink in the house?”

  As it happened, I had been saving a bottle of wine for the next meeting of the Trade Union. But I thought perhaps I could use it to placate Lavrenov and get rid of him. The bastard was sorry it wasn’t vodka, but he accepted a glassful anyway and glared disappointedly when I filled my own glass. He sat back in his chair and loosened his tie and drank his wine and offered his glass again. I refilled it. He drank half of it off. Then he sighed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. A long sigh.

  “Well, well,” he said sadly. I said, “What’s the matter?”

  He said, “Dear friend, you would not believe the injustices the world is capable of.”

  I just stared at him levelly about that one. He was altogether unaware of the irony of what he said. “Listen,” he went on “listen to the terrible thing that has happened to me. After all my years of service, they’v
e kicked me out of the MVD!”

  “No!” I said, trying to sound shocked and sympathetic. I just hoped he’d finish off the wine and stagger out. I poured my glass into his. He took it absently and drank it off.

  “Not only that, but they took away my party membership, isn’t that terrible? They said it’s because I drink too much. I don’t drink too much. I like to drink. Who doesn’t? But that’s no reason to punish a man like this. Know why I think they really did it?” He held out his glass for more. The bottle was empty. Lavrenov crinkled his brow in disappointment. “That all you got?” he asked.

  I nodded. I said, “Why did they fire you?”

  “Well, I’ll tell you the truth, because you’ll understand it. Nobody else believes me! It’s because I always did so much to help the political prisoners. That’s why!

  They thought I was too soft on you guys. The bastards. You don’t have any vodka in the house, ha?”

  I had a little but I was damned if Lavrenov was going to have it. Anyway he was the kind of drunk who gets well away on a half-bottle of wine and he had already finished most of a whole bottle, so I got up to show him the door. He made no move.

  “It’s back home to Byelorussia for me, you know. I’ll work as a common feldsher, that’s all I can do. I leave tomorrow. Nowhere else to go. Lost my room, lost everything.”

  He was getting maudlin. He looked morosely around the room. I just stood there. “Listen, dear old friend,” he said after a while. “I’ve nowhere to sleep. You’ve got an extra cot here. Please let me spend the night? I’ll be gone in the morning.”

  I thought, Oh well, then I’ll be rid of him, and after all he was decent to me in camp and gave me a break. I said, “Sure.”

  He took off his boots. He threw his jacket over himself like a short blanket and was snoring in five minutes. I was awake half the night with the snoring, and in the morning I had little resistance when he asked for 600 rubles to help him get to Byelorussia. He promised to send it back when he got his first pay, but of course I knew I would never see the money, or Lavrenov, again. And I never did.

  I did get another call from Aleksandrov of the KGB, however. He told me that the U.S. Embassy had another sum of money for me, and we arranged to go there together to pick it up. Aleksandrov’s manner was quite affable, and after we came away from the embassy with the additional $270, in dollars as he had suggested, he took me to a special hard currency shop where you could buy all kinds of manufactured goods-export models, so you knew the quality would be good—at very low prices. Together we looked over the refrigerators, and I chose a huge automatic model which was available right away and for which I paid $140 U.S.

  I explained to Aleksandrov that I had my name in for a standard model refrigerator. He said, “Well, you won’t need it now. If your card ever comes, would you consider giving me a call? I could certainly use a refrigerator.” It seemed terribly strange to be doing anything helpful for an officer of the KGB, and yet I liked Aleksandrov; I could not help it. I agreed that I would turn over my refrigerator card to him when it came.

  In 1958 the periodicals division was moved from Petrovka Street to the huge Ministry of Health building on Rakhmanovsky Lane, and not long after we had settled in there Kudryashov came to see me again. I wondered what the hell it would be this time. He wanted me to join the party!

  In the eyes of a dedicated Soviet, of course, the invitation would be a great honor. To me it was an obscene insult, but I could hardly say that. I wondered how I could refuse without courting harassment.

  I said, “Comrade Secretary, you forget I have served eight years as an enemy of the people. I have not been rehabilitated. I am out on conditional release. It is inconceivable that such a great honor would be given to someone like me!”

  “Nonsense, nonsense, dear Comrade!” Kudryashov boomed. “Utter nonsense. That is no deterrent at all. There were many serious errors made during the Stalin era Many innocents have been wrongly imprisoned. You must not give it a thought. I will gladly sponsor you for membership. I will gladly find the second sponsor, and believe me, we know your worth, dear Comrade. I won’t have any trouble finding a sponsor. You can be sure of that. Now, what do you say? Aren’t you pleased to be invited?”

  “I am flabbergasted,” I told him truthfully. “It comes as a complete surprise, Comrade Secretary. I am sure that you will understand that I need a few days to think it over.”

  “Of course! Of course!” he said jovially. “I’ll come back and see you early next week.”

  When he came back I put a sorrowful look on my face and told him, “Look. I have been studying the literature to prepare myself for this great honor. And I have come to the conclusion that I am really not yet politically mature enough to join the prestigious ranks of the Communist Party. So with great reluctance I will have to decline your invitation.”

  There was nothing he could say to that.

  Everything in the Soviet Union seems to be part of a campaign. Soon there was a campaign to recruit police assistants, or druzhinniki, to do “voluntary” street patrol three evenings a month. The inducement was three days’ extra leave with pay, but I said the hell with it. I got a certificate from the mental hospital saying that my mother was mentally ill and I was her only support, and that let me off the hook for the druzhinniki. I spent my evenings with my mother twice a week, with my friends, or working on my translations.

  With the promise of the fee for the gynecology book, against which I was able to borrow a considerable sum, and with the money I was saving from other free-lance work, I soon had the equivalent of the roughly $4,000 necessary to buy a used Opel Olympia, which had 56,000 kilometers on the odometer. Gas was only about thirty cents a gallon, and I was able to drive to Istra on weekends and get my father to help keep the car in shape. Unfortunately I had to sell the car again because the loan was called before the fee for the book came through, but later I got a very good used Pobeda for about $5,500, and for the rest of my life in Moscow I was never without a car.

  A car, I thought, would be a useful escape tool. I knew that security was rigid, but to get anywhere near a sea coast or a border, with appropriate survival kits and whatever else would be needed to get across that border, a car seemed an essential.

  Escape was the first order of conversation between George Tenno and me most of the time.

  From time to time when we met with other members of the Trade Union there were always two mandatory toasts. The first was to “those still at sea”—an old sailors’ toast—referring now to those still in prisons and camp. The second, dedicated to the Soviet rulers, was “May they die a dog’s death.” We would talk solemnly sometimes, recalling friends who had, not made it. But the mind needs relief from such memories, and mostly we tried to deal in the funny and successful episodes of camp life. It was a sad fact that for some survivors there was really no other topic of conversation. What had been the worst time in their lives was transformed by an ironic alchemy into the best time, the most meaningful time. The future for them had been killed; they could look only to the past for meaning; that was when the best in them had been demanded by the most terrible challenge to survive, and now they were exhausted. Throughout the Soviet Union there are thousands, and maybe millions, for whom work and days are just spaces between those times when you gather to reminisce with the old gang from Taishet or Kingir or Kolyma or Dzhezkazgan or any one of thousands of Stalin’s slave camps. George Tenno and I found the spectacle of such people discouraging.

  We were determined not to fall into that trap. We had compassion for those people, but for us the business of life lay in the future, and the future meant getting out of Russia.

  We took leaves together and drove extensively, looking for routes that would bring us closest to the border with the minimum of harassment from border guards, whose job is to prevent the willing departure of Soviet citizens. At one point we even bought scuba gear and fixed up a compressor with a special valve working off my car engine. We thought
we might take a scuba holiday near a Black Sea port such as Novorossisk, put on the tanks, swim out at night, intercept an outbound Western ship, climb aboard and claim asylum. We had to give that idea up when a navy friend of George’s told him that there were elaborate detection devices installed in all such areas to defeat precisely our kind of plan. So I guess we were not all that original, or all that unique in wanting out.

  One of George’s perfectly legitimate trips to Estonia triggered off a series of events that for a while looked like the end of my escape plans and indeed the end of my freedom. I got a call from the chief investigative officer of the MVD. I was required for a little talk at their central office in Moscow. I had no illusions about any such “little talk.” I said to myself, Well, it’s happening again, isn’t it. I tried to recapture the Old Con emotional posture. I bought a dozen packs of cigarettes and lots of matches and stuffed my pockets with them. I called all the Trade Union friends I could reach and warned them that this might be the start of a new campaign against former political prisoners. The past was dotted with such campaigns, and in camp I had met all kinds of povtorniki; “repeaters,” the victims of such campaigns.