A Man of Two Superpowers by Grinshpun Yakov;Rosenfeld Inessa;

Author:Grinshpun, Yakov;Rosenfeld, Inessa;
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
Published: 2022-05-23T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 22

On November 10, 1982, I arrived at school worrying. In place of regular programming, radio and television broadcast sad classical music. What’s going on? There would be changes, and they may be good or, most likely, bad. I sat quietly in the small windowless room adjacent to my physics classroom. Would they allow, whatever happened, Jewish emigration? If I had a daisy, I would tear off the petals—allow, allow not—hoping that the last one would be an allow.

The door opened and my fellow teacher and trusted friend Mikhail, with a cigarette in hand, entered the room. His pocket as usually bulged with a pack of Sever—a Russian style cigarette. He immediately lit up the unfiltered cigarette and took a long draw. He exhaled, and his bald head with spectacles propped on it was shrouded by cigarette smoke. Baldness was not the main thing that we had in common. We were kindred spirits and saw the situation in the country not as the Party wanted us to see. He was not only the right stuff, but he had the right stuff—smart, educated, and quick-witted. Trusting each other, we discussed problems honestly without fear of being reported to the school’s Party organizer. He was fifteen years older and had a big influence on me. One maxim of his I still try to follow: 95% of all problems solve themselves. The remaining 5% don’t have a solution; nothing to worry about.

“It’s a good time if you like classical music,” he said.

“Yeah, I listened till late and this morning.”

“The last time they played this long was if I remember right when Stalin died.” He lowered his voice, “Someone important kicked the bucket.”

“Yeah. Do you think it’s Brezhnev?” I touched my chin. “Despite what you taught me, I am worried.” I fell silent. “I am about forty years old, give or take, not a dumb kid anymore, but not yet an old man either. And I’m not getting any younger. And Brezhnev is not getting any older. I’ve been thinking it’s not too late to start a new life somewhere.” Now, he fell silent.

“What could happen? Would it help me? Could I leave?” I fired a string of questions.

“You’re asking the wrong questions.”

“What’re the right questions?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who will be our new boss?”

“I don’t know. But if it would be Andropov, forget about leaving.”

The habitual caution, humiliating fear, and all-pervasive insecurity made him pause and look over his shoulder even though we were alone. He tossed his smoke into a garbage can and lit another.

“Looks like it will be another septuagenarian.” After a pause, he said, “His life may have ended, but I doubt yours would change.” I looked at him. “Of course, there will be changes, but I guess the next boss wouldn’t allow Jewish emigration. Don’t count on it.”

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