22' Friday , June 29, 1984
THE DETROIT JEWISH NEWS
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peak" filling our ears, and it was that
rotten, gloomy, starving and chained
country which proclaimed a million
times a day: "the freest and the hap-
piest."
We didn't talk. But we knew
what escape we would choose. We'll
leave Russia. Forever. We'll slam the
door, we'll kick it, we'll curse the life
we had to live, and we'll walk away
from it all without looking back.
A month later I was sitting in an
express train which was taking me
and my five-year-old son from Mos-
cow to Leningrad, to visit my parents
and to let them know that we would
try to leave Russia. It was not just a
plain notification of our intentions:
first of all, we all had to start prepar-
ing for the fact that we'll never see
each other, that physically it would
equal death, if they choose not to fol-
low"us. At that point I was sure they
would stay.
Secondly, they had to give us a
notarized letter that they didn't have
any objections to our leaving and we
had no material or financial obliga-
tions toward them. I knew they
would give us the letter, but how
would I be able to spell it out?
I was looking out of the train
window trying to figure out how to
say it but as usual, I couldn't keep my
eyes off the green hills and distant
dark forests. Like always, I wanted to
get off the train and stroll there in the
high grass, along the winding narrow
roads, between the spruces. It was
home. I could anticipate its sounds,
its smells, its comfort.
But as always, an ugly face of
poverty or ever-present propaganda
would appear just in time to break
this spell of beauty and to remind me
about the reality: aged gray, shabby
huts; stern looking gloomy men and
women wearing gray shabby clo-
thing and dirty rubber boots; party
slogans made out of rocks, painted
white, spreading along the railroad
track: "Long live the Communist
Party!" "Glory to the Village Labor-
ers!"
They were not peasants, those
gloomy looking people, dressed in
gray. No way. They were Village
Laborers. Orwell. Everywhere.
My son Mike, meanwhile, was
entertaining passengers. He was
very uninhibited at that tender age.
People around Mike were laugh-
ing and patting him on the head. "I
love my grandfather" he went on
encouraged by a warm reception.
"We walk and talk . . . He taught me
a poem. Listen: 'Lenin didn't die.
Lenin is alive. His cause will never
die . . " My son's eyes sparkled, his
cheeks got rosy with excitement.
Some people from his sympathetic
audience offered him cookies and
candies.
I wanted to hide under the seat. I
recognized my father's choice of
poetry. He was stubborn and loyal.
He refused to listen to the Voice of
America, which we managed to
squeeze through all the jamming be-
cause it was the only source of infor-
mation for us. He didn't believe BBC,
which was a criteria of credibility for
us, and he was convinced that
capitalism was morally evil.
He lived through the times when
people around him, including his
friends and relatives, were disap-
pearing without leaving any traces,
as if they had never existed. Every
night he himself could expect a knock
Every night he himself
could expect a knock on
the door. Did he wonder
why? Or was it one of the
questions he didn't want
to answer?
'
on the door. Did he wonder why? Or
was it one of the questions he didn't
want to answer?
The train was going on, and the
closer we were to Leningrad, the
more formidable my task seemed: to
make my father understand that in
1984 I don't want to live according to
Orwell. Was it realistic?
How could I believe then that in
1984 my son would be an American
teenager, bright and slightly skepti-
cal, getting any of his questions an-
swered?
How could I imagine that my
father would suffer through a painful
realization that his values were
wrong and his life was wasted, and in
1984 I would be going to a small, old
Jewish cemetery in Inkstqr, Mich.,
where a gravestone would have my
father's name carved in three lan-
guages: English which he never
managed to master; Hebrew which
he was forced to forget; and Russian,
the language of the country which
deceived him.
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Singer Tony Bennett wins Israel award
Washington (JTA) — The
natural wonders of Israel,
as depicted in the colorful
paintings of artist Philip
Ratner, set the stage for the
Ambassador's Ball at the
Washington Hilton Hotel
Sunday night where the
popular entertainer, Tony
Bennett, was honored with
Israel's Friendship Award.
The inscription on the
plaque presented to the
singer by Israeli Ambas-
sador Meir Rosenne, cited
Bennett for "his unique ar-
tistry and special talents"
that "have captured the
hearts of men and women
everywhere" and "in appre-
ciation for his friendship for
Israel and indentification
,
with its humanitarian
ideals and its aspirations for
peace."
The Ambassador's Bali'is
an annual event under the
patronage of the Israeli
Ambassador in Washington
and his wife, coordinated by
the State of Israel Bonds.