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"So, even when desperate par- ents are forced by the ugly and inhuman circumstances to make a decision to part with their only child, they achieve nothing, as it is beyond their ability to change this ugly situation." I ou cannot tell me any- thing that can disappoint me," Abram said. "And I will not be telling you anything I have not already said to the authorities to their faces," he added. Abram is a compact, hand- some man with a well-trimmed, gray-streaked dark beard, the kind of beard Rabbi Berlin calls "a good stroking beard." Abram has published about 60 papers on mathematics in the so-called "open" scientific press. It soon becomes clear that his work is the first priority. He works hard at keeping contacts with fellow professionals around the world and has an elaborate system of letters — about 70 percent of his mail gets through, he estimates — and telephone callers keeping him in touch with developments. He recog- nizes the name of a British mathematician I know, identify- ing his field, biological statis- tics, immediately. It is not that Abram and his wife Svetlana are less cordial than the other refuseniks we have met — they are just as warm and friendly. But they are very experienced. They have perfected their communications strategies, they are "professional refuseniks." Visitors come to see them about once every two months. The former president of Israel, at a conference in the Soviet Union, had been barred from making such a contact. Still, it was important that he was seen to try, important that the world observed the Soviets blocking his path, Abram said. We mention that a group of Americans had been stopped and held outsde a refusenik's apartment in Leningrad a few weeks earlier by KGB agents. It might happen, Abram con- ceded. "If so," he instructs us, "you must be firm. Stand up for yourself. Don't panic. Don't cave in to them. You are doing noth- ing wrong." Abram asks for a few mo- ments of my husband's time, taking him aside to look over a highly technical paper he has written in English. He wants the grammar and punctuation double-checked. He does not ask us even to consider taking the document out for him. Svetlana, meanwhile, shows us the needlework she has been learning to do. Her daughter, Clara, 15, suffers from bronchial asthma, and Svetlana had had to give up her job as a computer teacher. Now that Clara was managing better, Svetlana hoped to return to her work. The sweaters, scarves and squares she had knitted and crocheted were exceptional. Someone had given her a Vogue knitting magazine, but she didn't have enough wool to com- plete any project it directed. In- stead, she had improvised with what she had. The results were remarkable, original, very at- tractive. Svetlana didn't men- tion the possibility of selling her handwork. The family still worries about Clara's health. They still don't understand why the son, Vadim, was dismissed from his institute after hospitalization for bleeding ulcers. Except possibly out of malice against his father. He works at a computer center now. Abram, who held onto his position at the Soviet Academy of Science when he was able to demonstrate before a peer re- view panel that his work had no "Don't call me a Russian," Misha insists gently but firmly. "A Jew, a Soviet Jew if you must, but I am no Russian." possible application to state secrets, dreams of someday working at the Weizmann Insti- tute in Israel. He has received scores of invitations to attend scientific meetings outside the Soviet Union. He has never been permitted to attend. He has been refused permission to emigrate to Israel repeatedly since he first applied in January 1976. He's still trying. t first Pasha was not sure that he wanted to see us on Purim. He suggested over the telephone that we visit the next afternoon. "But it's Purim," Rabbi Berlin said. Pash understood. His English is not as firm as his Russian, or his fluent Hebrew, but he un- derstood. Yes, he would meet us, and he `I would lead us. Lead us? "I think we're going to a < Purim party," Rabbi Berlin said. The metro stop was the last on the longest line. Then there was a long walk over snow and ice-covered paths into a large apartment complex. We rode up by by threes in a small, rickety elevator to the seventh floor. - "Welcome! Welcome!" Vla- dimir cried out to us, showing us into his apartment. There, women were carrying plate after plate of food to the L-shaped combination of tables that had been set up in the sitting room. Twenty-two of us crowded around the heavily-laden tables to hear Pasha read the megilla in Russian. "Does he have to read every word of it?" complained Ora, Vladimir's 18-year-old daughter, who had been seated next to me because her English is good. Norma Berlin teased Ora about