	San Diego Jewish World 'There's a Jewish story everywhere'

Today's Postings

Dora Klinova in La Mesa, California: "America? Just a joke"

Editor's Note: Instead of running several articles today, we are fortunate to have the occasion to run one moving magazine-length article. Should we run such lengthy stories again? Perhaps even Jewish fiction? Please let us know your opinion. Write to us at sdheritage@cox.net

The week in Review
(click on dates to see back issues)

Wednesday, October 17, 2007

Sherry Berlin in San Diego: "Sammy Spider's webmaster coming to SD Jewish Book Fair"

Peter Garas in Gordon, Australian Capital Territory: "Jewish Memories: Australian BBYO activists designed intensive Jewish camp experience"

Donald H. Harrison in San Diego: "Whistling right up to the bully"

Tuesday, October 16

Garry Fabian in Melbourne, Australia: "Shul accuses cab companies of charging elderly exorbitant fares" ... "Jewish youths attacked in hate crime" ... "Wife charged with murder of missing Israeli"

Donald H. Harrison in San Diego: "Study shows Jewish schools pay female principals less than male counterparts"

Dora Klinova in La Mesa, California: "The first Americans in my life."

Fred Reiss in Winchester, California: "Christian afterword sours analysis of Torah and Book of Joshua"

Monday, October 15

Donald H. Harrison in San Diego: "Sentimental short stories depict men living up to Judaism's tenets"

Shahar Masori in San Diego: "The Land of Milk and Honey: the film, the song, and the country"

Susie Meltzer in San Diego: "What skill level will you choose for a raft ride through Judaism?"

Photo Stories

Three Agencies, One Building—Agency for Jewish Education joins the United Jewish Federation and the Jewish Community Foundation in common quarters in San Diego.

Sunday, October 14

Donald H. Harrison in San Diego, California: "Jumping rooftops over the streets of Pop"

Joe Naiman in Lakeside, California: "How MLB Jews performed in 2007"

Sheila Orysiek in San Diego: "Malashock Dance presents Let’s Duet, a studio series, at the Dance Place"

Michelle Rizzi in Coronado, California: "Ghosts, hiding places, U.S. Presidents: Growing up at the Hotel del Coronado"

Saturday, October 13

Ellen B. Graber in Palatine, Illinois: "Never again: Why I signed the petition to remove JewWatch from the Google list."

Donald H. Harrison in San Diego: "Temple Solel bar mitzvah student wins big on TV's Jeopardy show"

Joel Moskowitz, MD and Arlene Moskowitz, JD in La Jolla: "A genetic detective story to be told at San Diego Jewish Book Fair"

Friday, October 12

Donald H. Harrison in San Diego: "Movie poses question when a Jew should stay or leave a country"

Rabbi Baruch Lederman in San Diego: "Gentle art of Jewish persuasion."

Rabbi Leonard Rosenthal in San Diego: "Excellent occasions to daven mincha"

Photo Stories

Gevatron in San Diego..... Photos from Eyal Dagan

All Together, Grandma .... License Plate Photos from Melanie Rubin

Archive of Previous Issues

Jewish memories
America? Just a joke…

To my dear Zhenya and Fiana and their families, on the tenth anniversary of residing in the United States, I dedicate this recollection.

By Dora Klinova

LA MESA, California—On January 1, 2002, sitting in a comfortable chair in my home in California, I picked up the telephone to send warm New Year’s wishes to some of my dear friends. I first called New York. Fiana wasn’t at home. Her answering machine politely asked me to leave a message.

No, I wasn’t interested in a machine; I wanted to speak with Fiana personally. I dialed Zhenya’s number. Her happy voice on the telephone was filled with the music and laughter of the New Year.

“Do you have company?”

“Oh, yes, Fiana and Boris are here. I wish you were with us today.”

Wonderful! Great! For how many years do Zhenya and Fiana cherish their friendship? When and how did their relationship begin?

***

At the beginning of February, 1991, Fiana invited me for a cup of tea. No, it was not in America. We still lived in the USSR, in our native city of Odessa, on the Black Sea. It was the last evening before her thrilling journey to New York.

Walking in the street and fighting a heavy snowfall, I anticipated the pleasure of our meeting. Fiana and I had met each other at the University when we were seventeen. Now, almost forty years later, we, mature women, still valued our friendship.

Shaking snow off my fur hat and coat, I knocked at her door.

“Hello, my American Lady!” I hugged her.

“Not yet! Don’t rush! Hold your horses!”

“OK, OK. You are my almost American lady!”

She introduced me to another woman who was sitting at the table. The three of us sipped aromatic tea and enjoyed delicious food. Visiting America was really an exciting adventure; jollity reigned at the table. We, isolated from the entire world by the Soviet Iron Curtain, knew so little about distant, powerful and enigmatic America. Our fantasies flowed freely.

Gorbachev had slightly opened this Iron Curtain. Tomorrow, one of us, Fiana, would make a huge leap into the gap in the impenetrable wall around the Soviet Union. Next morning she would fly into a different world, another dimension. I watched Fiana.

Is this our good-bye tea? Will she come back? Oh, yes, sure she will. There is no doubt. Her son and grandchildren are still here, in Odessa; she only has a visitor’s visa. She cannot stay in the United States long.

No, no! It is stupid to come back! She is not a fool. Will I ever see her again?

I couldn’t ask Fiana this question. She didn’t know the answer herself. It was a chaotic time in the Soviet Union; everything was falling apart. We didn’t have the slightest idea what the near future would bring us. We laughed, but our eyes, including Fiana’s, expressed our worries and uncertainties.

The United States had pressured the Soviet Government to allow Jews to emigrate. Several countries had flung the door wide open for Soviet Jews, especially Israel. We, Soviet Jews, tried to find the most reasonable and secure way to get out of the Soviet Union. Certainly we did it secretly because we could lose our jobs. It was better not to ask too many questions.

The clock showed 11p.m. Our meeting was over. I said good-bye, hugged and kissed Fiana. At the door she joked: “Oh, if you have the American applications, I will send them to Washington from New York!”

“Dreams, dreams, useless dreams!” Whispering this in her ear, I kissed her again and left. (jump to continuation)

America? Just a joke....
(Continued from above)

It was a beautiful, frosty night. The snow had stopped. A full, bright moon shone in a clear sky, a fresh carpet of snow glittered with myriads of diamonds. A night like this was so rare in Odessa; our sunny city doesn’t have much snow in wintertime. My lungs welcomed the fresh air; it was so peaceful and quiet. Only the crunch of snow under my shoes disturbed the night’s serenity.

I lived a twenty-minute walk from Fiana. I walked, watching this beauty, but the thoughts in my head danced their own dance, and I couldn’t stop them. American applications… The American government had established a special immigration-processing center in Washington. This center accepted applications from every Soviet Jew who wanted to emigrate to America. Applicants were put on a long waiting list. Those, who had close relatives in the United States, such as children or parents, brothers or sisters, had preference in getting permission to come to America.

Cousins, uncles, aunts, etc. didn’t count as close relatives. Anyway, to be on this waiting list gave some hope. It would be a good idea for me to send the application to this processing center.

American applications were available only at the American Embassy in Moscow. We could get them in Odessa too, but for a lot of money.

What is the matter with you? What is the difference: more money, less money. How can you get these applications now, in the middle of the night? Forget it and admire the fresh sparkling snow!

At that period of my life, emigration was a most painful problem. I had a big burden on my shoulders: an eighty-two year- old, handicapped Aunt Rachel. Ten years before she fell and broke her hip. She had several surgeries, but the hip never healed. She was unable to walk or to live by herself. An old maid, she never had any children.

I loved Rachel. Nevertheless, at the time she broke her hip, I was also recovering from a recent serious surgery, I took her to my apartment. She lived with me for ten long years and I cared for her all that time. It was impossible to leave her alone in the USSR.

My married daughter also had a hard time. Her mother- in- law had recently left for Israel. My daughter’s father had left for the United States. She had two choices: Israel or America. She and her husband decided to go to America. I could join my daughter and immigrate with her, but Rachel, as an aunt, was an indirect relative and not eligible to go with us. This relation’s link was not for her.

Rachel’s brother had lived in California for a long time and had a large family. He refused to give Rachel an affidavit concerning relationship, even though we were very close with him back in Odessa.

I walked; my feet sank in the soft snow. During this twenty-minute walk, my entire life flashed through my mind. The reality was too sad for me; I didn’t have another choice except to surrender to it.

Because of Rachel, I cannot emigrate. Why do I need these applications? Forget it! No! Do I want to bury myself with an old handicapped aunt in the failing Soviet Union? Noooo!!! I need these applications! They might be the first step on my road to America. I must find a solution. I must get out of this prison and take my aunt with me! Where can I find those damn applications now?

Being absolutely unreligious, but too frustrated, I looked up at the sky…

God, dear God! I am so helpless and powerless; I cannot do anything on my own! Please, be with me, please, hear me. Help! Please…

I walked, looking at the cold, clear sky with its stars. My feet slid on the ice hidden under fluffy snow. The windows were dark. People slept.

Where are you, God?

Exhausted and hopeless, I approached my apartment. Abruptly I stopped, rooted to the ground.

I do have the applications. I couldn’t throw them away. I have them! They are somewhere in my home!

(Jump to continuation)

America? Just a joke...
(Continued from above)

Two years before my friend had brought me two American applications. “I am going to Israel. I don’t need them anymore. Keep them just in case. Who knows, they might be useful to you,” he said.

I ran into my apartment, threw down my coat and boots, and rushed to the drawers where I kept all my papers.

Chucking all contents from the drawers onto the floor, I looked thoroughly but couldn’t find the applications. I searched my bedroom. Nothing.

I came to Rachel’s room, turned on the light.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Don’t talk to me now, sleep!” I ordered.

The apartment became a mess of papers, but I didn’t see applications. I became angry with myself.

Calm down and look through the papers again! Look under furniture and behind it! Take the drawers out!

There they were! I found the papers! I did! I couldn’t believe it! Something impossible had happened, a miracle! Two American applications, for Rachel and me, were in my hands, in front of my eyes. I held them!

They were thick. I needed to answer hundreds of questions and to describe our background fully. It was two o’clock in the morning. Who cared? In my kitchen, I made a big pot of hot tea, put a warm shawl on my shoulders, took the pen, and started to answer all the questions.

At 7:00 a.m. I called Fiana.

“I will come in twenty minutes! Wait for me, don’t leave!” and hung up.

Not having a car, I ran. The snow was melting. Splashing through the water and mud, my boots slid on the slippery road. I didn’t care. I rushed.

I came to Fiana’s apartment on the eighth floor and rang her doorbell.

“What happened?” her face looked frightened.

“Here are two applications for me and Rachel. Take them to my relatives in New York. Their names are Zhenya and Sam. Here is their telephone number and address. If they want to, they will help. Try. Listen to me carefully now! Don’t dare come back! Do you hear me? Don’t come back! Your son will find his way to America! And God help you, my love!”

Exhausted, I went home and took a shower, trying to get a bit of energy. I arrived at my job late and could hardly move a finger. But I felt that I had started something tremendously important in my life.

On February 8, 1991 Fiana went to New York. Several days later she appeared in Zhenya’s home with my papers.

“I will try my best! Tomorrow I will call Washington,” Zhenya said.

Washington sent Zhenya a package with detailed instructions, asking her to fill out an affidavit about our relationship. She put the two thick applications in a big envelope, added her affidavit and sent it to the Washington Processing center.

The first brick in the foundation was laid.

In March, 1991 the clock started ticking.

Two weeks later Zhenya called Washington to see if the package had arrived. They promised to inform her by mail within a week. Time passed without any reply from Washington. Zhenya called them, and again they asked her to wait. Several weeks later, the Washington center informed Zhenya with apologies that they had lost the applications and asked her to reapply. Two blank applications were enclosed in the envelope.

Having no clue about our personal information, Zhenya called Rachel’s brother in San Diego. He was curious that a distant relative would ask him questions about his sister and was reluctant to give the information. Zhenya tried her best to explain to my uncle that it would be a good deed (a Mitzvah) to get us out of the Soviet Union and asked him to help her complete the forms.

She filled out two new applications and sent them back to Washington.

In early May, the Washington Processing Center notified Zhenya that they had accepted the applications.

About two weeks later, my daughter received a letter from Washington with a computer number for their case. Washington also informed her that on August 22, 1991 she and her husband must come for an interview to the American Embassy in Moscow.

Any delay of this date could mean an additional year of waiting. There was no doubt that my daughter must be in Moscow on time, no matter the situation with Rachel and me. Our position was hazy and theirs was clear.

They had only three months to prepare the necessary papers which must be signed and notarized according to the Soviet law of emigration. To go through thousands of formalities and long lines in three months was a daunting task.

Unable to change anything in my situation, sick and tired, I gave up. I knew that processing the papers in Washington usually took over two years. I knew it would be impossible for me to emigrate with an old handicapped woman. I wasn’t able to do it by myself. I also knew that I would never desert Rachel.

It is my fate. I must accept the situation as it is. My daughter will go away, I will live in Odessa forever in a failing country, missing my children and spending dreary days and nights near an old aunt. My life doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to my old aunt. No! I don’t want it! I must find a way out.

How? I had no clue.

My neighbor Zhanna, who was also my coworker, was making her own preparations for emigration. We shared the news with each other.

“How is your case moving?” she asked me.

“There is no hope for me. My daughter has received the invitation to Moscow for an interview.”

“Really? It means that she already is in the computer. Do you know her computer number?”

“Yes, I do. So what?”

“It is crucially important. What are you waiting for? Washington can coordinate your case with your daughter’s. Call your relatives in New York immediately.”

(Jump to continuation)

America? Just a joke...
(Continued from above)

How did we call America in 1991? It was a special adventure. Phone calls had to be ordered in advance. If we placed an order today, we would be able to talk tomorrow. To make it happen we must dial “07”, International Service, which accepted orders from 9AM to 1PM. This number was always busy, so people spent hours dialing “07” without any result.

Next morning, I bravely made my stand near a telephone that kept shouting busy beeps in my ear. Without interruption, I dialed 0 and 7. My finger didn’t stop for a moment. Finally, persistence was rewarded; I broke through, ordered the conversation and next day talked with Zhenya. She was not enthusiastic.

“There is no time left. I am not sure if it is possible, but I will try. I will call Washington.” Zhenya said.

It was the middle of June already; I had no news from America. Fiana’s son, who was still in Odessa, called me: “I talked with New York. Mama said that everything is fine with your papers. Washington accepted them.”

I thanked him for the good news, but it was not clear to me. What did “accepted” mean? Did they put my papers into a general waiting list or did they take into consideration my daughter’s situation? I had no idea, but didn’t feel comfortable about bothering Zhenya again.

In the meantime, almost every day one of my dear friends emigrated and called me to say “Good bye.”

Emptiness in my life increased. How sad to feel this growing vacuum around and to wave “Good bye” to friends. I told them “See you.” Will I?

One of my dear friends, Luba, was going to New York shortly. I asked her to call Washington as soon as she arrived in America.

“Why do you need me to call?” she asked. “You can call yourself. Here is the telephone number of Washington Processing Center.”

“But I cannot speak English!”

“You don’t need to!” she retorted. ”They have a Russian department.”

From then on, I could handle the situation myself. Again I endlessly dialed “07”. Again I succeeded and the next day talked directly to Washington Center. A man answered:

“You don’t have a computer identification number yet. I can try to ask permission to join you to your daughter, but I am not sure about your aunt.”

“She is old and handicapped, she cannot live by herself.”

“I understand. But we have certain rules about relationships. It could be an obstacle. Does she live with you?”

“Yes.”

He looked at the computer.

“I see. She has the same address. It might help. I cannot tell you anything now. I will write a letter about your situation to my supervisor. Please, call in two weeks.”

“What are our chances?”

“Fifty-fifty. But I will try my best.”

I thanked him and hung up.

(Jump to continuation)

America? Just a joke...
(Continued from above)

July began. I called Washington again. The same man came to the telephone.

“My congratulations. You are both on the list. You and your aunt. You have a computer number. Here it is, write it down. When your daughter lives in America for two years, she will be able to send you an invitation with an affidavit about your relationship and you will be able to come to the United States.”

“No, I will not. I cannot do it alone, especially with an old handicapped woman. It would be impossible for me to emigrate, handling my aunt by myself. No, if the children leave without us, it means that I will never emigrate. Can you, please, try to join us to my daughter’s computer number due to these circumstances?”

“ I am not sure that it is possible. Two people: mother and aunt. I need to talk to my supervisor. Can you wait, please?”

“I will.”

In a moment or so, this man would tell me Washington’s decision that could change my life completely. Every muscle in my body was tense, waiting for his verdict: life or death. Impatiently sitting in the chair with the telephone at my ear, I tried with utmost effort to calm myself.

Again I prayed to God, repeating like a mantra: “Help me, God, help, please, help.”

Holding the telephone a minute, two, five, ten… I listened… there was no sound. I reset it. It didn’t give any echo, any squawk. My telephone was disconnected, dead. It had never happened before. Did I pull out the plug accidentally? No, everything looked fine. I tapped the telephone, knocked it, yelled into it - nothing. I was ready to break this machine that failed so shamelessly at the most important moment in my life.

Neighbors? Our telephones were on a party line. Maybe they had talked? No, it was impossible. If I was talking, they could not. The neighbors were Zhanna’s family; they knew how important the conversation with Washington was.

They lived two floors above me. I ran up the stairs.

“Something is wrong with my telephone. Is yours OK?” I asked. They lifted it.

“It sounds normal.”

I grabbed their telephone and listened. Nothing wrong.

“Did you talk recently?”

“No, we didn’t.”

“Please, don’t touch it for a half hour. I was talking to Washington and was somehow disconnected. I must finish this conversation.”

“Okay.”

I ran downstairs to my apartment. My telephone was still dead. Like a wounded animal in a cage, I flung myself about the room trying to understand what had happened. Finally, forty- five minutes later (!!!), my telephone became alive again. I called the International Service, asking to connect me back to Washington.

“I cannot do it now. We have only two hours communication time with America and it is over,” a woman – the operator explained.

“Something was wrong with my telephone line and it is not my fault. This conversation is vital for me. Please, reconnect me. Please, do whatever you can. I promise, I will send you a special gift. Please, try.”

“Yes, I heard your conversation with Washington. They put you on hold. I cannot promise, but I will try my best.”

She did it! She connected me to Washington! An American woman, speaking Russian with a heavy accent, asked me to whom I would like to direct my call.

“I spoke with a man an hour ago. I cannot tell you his name.”

“Did he speak Russian with an accent?”

“No, he spoke very well.”

“I will try to find him. Wait, please.”

Wait… Again… I looked nervously at the telephone, holding it like a crystal ball. I was afraid something would happen again.

“I tried to reach you. You disappeared” the same man said to me. “There is very good news for you. Your request was accepted. You and your aunt have permission to emigrate with your daughter. You can come together with her for the interview at the American Embassy in Moscow on August 22.”

“What? We can go together with my daughter for the interview, can we?”

“Yes, you can. You must. You have been accepted.”

Good news can be as stressful as bad. All the tension and pressure of the last several months blew up inside of me. I lost control of myself and… burst into hysterical sobs. It was like a volcanic eruption. My body refused to hold onto my emotions. I could not stop this explosion and sobbed loudly into the telephone.

“Please, don’t cry. Everything is fine. You will come to America. You will live here. Please, believe me. I swear to you, you will. Please, dear Dorochka, don’t cry! Please… I am telling you, you are fine, Dorochka, please…”

“There is no time left. I don’t know how to make it. I have no proof, no invitation, they won’t even let me enter the Embassy,” I sobbed.

“The American Embassy will have all the information.”

“I need to do tons of paper work, to fill out all the forms, I have nothing.” I wept.

“Your daughter received the papers from us. Make copies from them and put your information on the copies.”

“The Soviet authorities won’t sign any form without official papers from America in my name.”

“I will mail the package to you immediately, right now.”

“It takes a whole month or more to get the mail from America,” I panicked.

“You will receive it on time, trust me. Now go to the mirror, wipe your tears and sing the happiest song you know, OK?”

I cried.

"Please, don’t cry, give me a good smile. Never cry anymore. Promise?” he talked to me as if I were a baby…

“Yes….” I whispered through tears.

“See you in America.”

My dear man, I didn’t even ask your name. Please, forgive me. I think I didn’t remember my own name at that moment. Thank you for your consoling, encouraging words. The sympathy and support you sent me from Washington, your kindness that flew to me from another continent across the Atlantic Ocean, through half of the world, I will remember forever.

I sent a gift to the woman who connected me to Washington when time was up. I also paid a fortune for this telephone conversation. It was the best investment I ever made.

(Jump to continuation)

America? Just a joke...
(Continued from above)

Exhausted and in tears, I came to Rachel’s bedroom and sat on her bed.

“We’re going to America.” I whispered.

“Together?”

“Yes, I got permission for you. I will take you with me. You will see your brother!”

I looked at my Aunt, at her crutches. She will accompany me to my new American life. It was not promising to come with an old helpless woman to a new country. How to get her to the United States?

Don’t think about this now! You succeeded in getting permission for Rachel! This is most important. You won’t leave her alone. You will bring her to her brother. He has a big family. You won’t need to carry this huge burden alone anymore. You will breathe! You will finally live your own life!

I had hope! I felt fresh air. At that time I didn’t realize how tremendously difficult this journey would be. I was too naive.

Only a month left before the interview in Moscow. My daughter was busy with her own things. My head boiled. First, I must prepare all the papers. and get hundreds of signatures from Soviet officials. I must start the conveyor with the papers immediately. So many copies, for me, for Rachel, and endless lines at endless offices. I never knew of their existence before. Now they showed up in our huge bureaucratic machine. A torrent of unpredictable details needed immediate attention every day.

All family members were required to come to the American Embassy for a medical examination, no exceptions. The Embassy had only one reason: if a person was unable to come to Moscow, it meant he or she was unable to go to America. That is all. How could I get Rachel to Moscow? She hadn’t left the apartment for several years.

A wheelchair. Yes, she needed a wheelchair. Where to get it? It wasn’t easy to find one in Odessa. I made endless calls, additional appointments at many offices, waited in lines to get the required signatures. Finally I got a wheelchair for Rachel.

I needed to ask doctors to prepare her for this trip, so I invited several doctors to visit Rachel and watch her. Every week they prescribed new medicines that kept me running to pharmacies. The number of pills she must take per day increased to twenty-seven.

I told the doctors: “It is too much for an 82 year old woman. How can she take so many chemicals?”

“She needs all of them” they told me. “Tell her take them separately.”

I hate pills myself and always have a pharmaceutical reference book in my home. I read all Rachel’s prescriptions carefully especially, about their side effects. After this investigation, I asked Rachel to skip some of the pills.

But Rachel, being a disciplined woman, took all the pills according to the doctors’ orders. Several days later, I heard a sound in the corridor. I ran there and found Rachel on the floor, unconscious. Walking to the bathroom, she had fallen. Thank God, I was home. I called emergency and then my daughter.

“Don’t waste a second, come immediately, even if you are naked,” I shouted into the telephone. I was scared to death myself.

Emergency recognized it was medicine poisoning. They made Rachel regurgitate. This saved her.

How could I manage all these worries, endless lines, care for Rachel and my work as an engineer-designer in the movie industry? Now it is a big puzzle for me. Perhaps, if we have a goal, our resources are infinite.

Finally, all papers were prepared. The last step was to notarize them. In such a huge city as Odessa, only one law office notarized emigration documents. At that time, thousands of people emigrated; they had to stay in the line almost all night to enter the office in the morning.

This law office had a strict rule: only people with an official invitation from the United States could have their documents notarized. The package from Washington for Rachel and me hadn’t come yet. There was no more time to wait.

Oleg, my son- in- law, arrived at this law office with all the papers at 3 o’clock in the morning. My daughter took his post at 8 a.m.. He left for his university.

I was crushed. All the worries, efforts, friends’ help, conversations with Washington, sleepless nights, - everything seemed in vain and stupid. The papers won’t be signed, my daughter would depart for America and I would stay with Rachel in Odessa.

God, dear God, for what sins did you reward me with such a destiny?

Searing back pain put me flat in bed. Every muscle moaned; my body and mind, crushed by excruciating grief, failed to obey me. Helpless, hopeless, worn-out, I was even unable to cry.

At 2 p.m. my daughter called.

“Mama, Oleg must be at home already. Please, take a taxi there and ask him to come to the law office immediately. There is still a big crowd and the line will last for a couple of hours more. I will be late for work.”

Why did she call me and not Oleg directly?

Because the telephone line in their apartment building on their floor was disconnected. All the neighbors had a telephone, but they didn’t. (For half of a year the management couldn’t find a short piece of cable to repair the telephone line, and nobody cared.)

Can you imagine the “pleasure” of making all the preparations for emigration without a telephone?

My daughter asked me to take a taxi. Ha, ha, ha! Any small movement caused unutterable pain in my back.

Somewhere I had the telephone number of their neighbor. To find that number I literally had to crawl to another room. Fortunately, the neighbor was at home.

“Please, ask Oleg to call me back immediately. It is urgent.”

Oleg called.

“I will go right now, thank you,” he said.

Coming downstairs, Oleg checked their mailbox. What a fantastic surprise! A package from Washington with the official invitation and papers for Rachel and me waited for him there.

All our documents were notarized. With this news the pain in my back dissolved. (Jump to continuation)

America? Just a joke...
(Continued from above)

We had airline tickets to Moscow for August 20 in order to come to the American Embassy on August 22.

On August 19 all radio stations, TV and newspapers exploded with reports about a government coup in the Soviet Union. On the night of August 18,1991, outside of the ruling power and the law, President Mikhail Gorbachev was removed. No reasons were given to justify this. Tanks took up positions on all the bridges in central Moscow. A state of emergency had been declared and troops had been brought in to keep order.

Nobody knew exactly what had happened in Moscow. Contradictory statements, conflicting surmises, endless questions, danger warnings- all poured out from the radio and TV, assaulting our brains.

Was it the start of a civil war? We had no idea. We knew only that it didn’t matter what was going on in Moscow; we still had to go there.

We couldn’t. Moscow was closed. No planes were flying to Moscow until further notice. Nor were trains running.

On August 20, the second day of the coup, we ventured to Odessa’s airport. Rachel, in the wheelchair, led our parade. We showed our tickets and all our papers, explaining the urgency of being in Moscow on time.

“Wait…” they told us. How long? Nobody knew.

The first airplane that was allowed to fly to Moscow took us on board. Did we fly to the epicenter of the war? We heard the first reports of shots fired and troops and tanks concentrated in Moscow. The airplane’s radio informed us continuously. We knew that demonstrators had erected barricades around the White House in Moscow, using trash trucks, concrete blocks, benches, and trees.

(The White House in Moscow? Yes, in Moscow. It is a beautiful huge building where the highest Russian government offices are located.)

Concrete barriers were constructed on the main roads to prevent tanks from approaching the White House. Moscow hospitals were preparing to receive the wounded, particularly tear-gas injuries. People around the White House were advised to carry wet handkerchiefs with which to cover their noses and mouths in case of a gas attack. A mobile medical treatment center was established. The defenders had at their disposal automatic weapons and bottles of homemade incendiary liquid, boxes of which were standing near. Molotov cocktails— this is an American expression. We did know in Russia that Americans named these bottles Molotov cocktails)

Overwhelmed with this awful information, we arrived in Moscow. All highways were blocked. Instead of the usual forty-five minutes we drove four hours through Moscow’s suburbs to our relatives where we had arranged to stay.

Our appointment in the American Embassy was scheduled at 11 a.m. on August 22. We didn’t know if it was open or closed. On August 21, all day long we called the Embassy with no result.

In the early morning of August 22 we arrived at the American Embassy. Many people were already standing in a long, fenced in line along the building and there we took our place. American guards and Russian militia patrolled us. The American Embassy was located not far from the White House. It was a beautiful summer morning, but the atmosphere was oppressive. An armed military unit marched in the direction of the White House. Demonstrators appeared with their slogans. Military cars passed by.

After three hours of waiting, we finally entered the Embassy. Security procedures took a great deal of time. Then we waited inside. When we finally came to the registration window, showing our papers, a deafening siren rang out inside the American Embassy. In a minutes the entire building was empty; we found ourselves on the street.

Security forces checked the building and allowed people to reenter. Again the same thorough security control, interminable waiting inside and checking of papers.

The interview with the American representative was short. After several formalities he asked:

“Why do you want to emigrate?”

“Because as a Jew I face endless obvious and invisible obstacles here. It is impossible to fight them. It affects every area of our life, above all, health and career.”

“For example?”

“My mother couldn’t move well after a stroke and broke her hip. I put her in the hospital and paid all the nurses to keep an eye on her. One night a new nurse came. Turning my mother in bed, this nurse grabbed her broken hip and literally wrenched the leg. My mother died, after suffering unbearable pain. I don’t want to go through this myself.”

The American representative looked at me with sympathy. There were no more questions.

The interview was over. We must come back to the Embassy at 6 p.m. to get decision.

Since we had several hours to wander around, we walked as far as we could in the direction of the White House. A trolleybus, turned upside down, with a crumpled body and knocked out windows, exposed its wheels to the sky. Heavy stones, scrap metal, broken furniture, torn up signs were scattered all over the streets. Barricades barred the way.

We could go no farther, and I didn’t want to. For me it was too stressful and more than enough. I asked my children to continue their walk without me and turned into the first side street, trying to disconnect my senses from that horror. Calming down, I found a more or less peaceful place with a bench in the shade.

At 6 p.m., we returned to the Embassy and there got full permission to immigrate to America. In order to get this official permission, it usually took two to two and a half years. In our case only three and half months had passed since Washington accepted our applications in May. A miracle had happened.

Dear God, was it your work?

Who can dare tell me that it was just a coincidence? I knew that God was with me. After this, I, a woman who grew up and lived all her life in an atheistic society, started to believe in God. (Jump to continuation)

America? Just a joke...
(Continued from above)

We arrived in America on July 20, 1992. It took almost a year to detach ourselves from the previous life in the Soviet Union and be ready to start a new one.

Fiana didn’t come back to Odessa in 1991. She has been living in New York since then, happily married. The friendship with Zhenya and Sam grew warmer with each year. Fiana’s wonderful son with his family came to America later and became famous here.

Although nobody believed that Rachel would survive the flight to the United States- doctors told me I might lose her in the air- she lived for nine years in America and died at the age of 92 in the year 2001. May her soul rest in peace.

The end. The end? No, it was just a beginning. Before her departure Fiana joked at the door about American applications; I miraculously found them at my home. Now I am a citizen of the United States of America. I am an American. The cherished dream came true.

Ten years ago America showed us its generous hospitality. We got the many benefits this wonderful country offered to refugees and could enjoy our existence in this American paradise. But this paradise was only in our imagination before we landed in the United States.

The reality appeared crueler. First came the understanding that there is no perfect society in the world. Second, it was tremendously difficult to change everything in our life: country, home, language, friends, habits, customs. In

order to survive we must remodel ourselves.

A torrent of new events and a volcano of emotions, admiration and disillusion, trust and betrayal, ignorance and support, love and displeasure, appreciation of new wonderful friends and disappointment in old ones, suspense, frustration, perseverance – emigration means all of these, plus much more.

This is my feeling about emigration. The experience of these ten years might be enough to write an entire anthology, not just a book.

So, help me, God, to continue to write and to do it in good English.

Jewish memories America? Just a joke…

Jewish memories
America? Just a joke…