The Godfather of the Russian emigration, Moses Yakovlevich Borodatykh himself – editor and owner of the paper – had allowed the article to be printed. He acted rashly: the desire for a pointed article to stir up interest in the paper, the search for commercial advantage, his own business sense got Moses Yakovlevich into trouble. Later he kicked himself, but it was too late.
Things got especially awkward for the Godfather on February 29, when Nedelya, the Moscow Sunday supplement to Izvestia, the USSR's government newspaper, in an anniversary issue dedicated to the Twenty-fifth Party Congress, came out with a full-page article called "The Bitter Word 'Disillusionment'" – about my article, and about me in particular. There was even a montage by V.Metchenko, with skyscrapers in the background and against them the head of a young man in glasses, homologous with the head of Eddie Limonov.
They were using my article over there for their own purposes, naturally, but that's to be expected, they all use us for their own purposes. The only thing is, we the people do not use them, the government. God knows what we need them for, the governments, if they not only fail to serve the people but also go against the people.
We talked for a while about the ill-fated article. The writer was cautious and did not get involved in political issues; party comrade Carol agreed with me, of course, in my critical outlook on America and the whole Western world, but overestimated the dissident movement in the USSR, considering it far more powerful and numerous than it really was.
It was boring for me to explain Russia's misfortunes, I was sick to death of them, but I had to. I halfheartedly observed to Carol that dissidence was a phenomenon exclusively of the intelligentsia and had no ties with the people; the movement was very small – all the protests were signed by the same few, twenty to fifty people. "And by now," I said, "most of the movement's more distinguished members are abroad."
I went on to say that I considered the dissident movement very right-wing, and that if the single aim of their struggle was to replace the current leaders of the Soviet state with others, the Sakharovs and Solzhenitsyns, then they'd better not, for although the views of said persons were muddled and unrealistic, they had any amount of imagination and energy and would obviously pose a danger should they come to power. Their potential political and social experiments would be dangerous for the populace of the Soviet Union, and the more imagination and energy they had the more dangerous it would be. The USSR's current leaders, thank God, were too mediocre to conduct drastic experiments, but at the same time they had bureaucratic know-how in leadership, they were pretty good at their business; and that, at present, was far more necessary to Russia than all this unrealistic nonsense, these schemes for returning to the February Revolution or to capitalism.
That was roughly the scope of our conversation. Masha, the writer's wife, suggested we have some more vodka, tried to get us organized, but we were too carried away. We stayed until almost two, although the next morning Carol the revolutionary would have to go from Brooklyn to her office in Manhattan, where she worked as a secretary. We left together.
"This is the first time I've met a Russian with such leftist views," Carol said.
"I'm not alone, I have friends who share my views. Not many, but some. Besides, everyone who comes over from Russia moves to the left here, without fail, especially the young people," I said.
"If you're interested in the leftist movement," Carol said, "I can invite you when we have our Workers Party meetings."
"Unfortunately I have a lot of trouble with the language, Carol, I won't understand it all; but I'll be happy to come, I need this very much, my whole life is bound up with the Revolution."
Then we got on the subway and she told me about her party, trying to shout over the roar. After digging in two bulky tote bags filled with magazines, newspapers, reprints, copies, and other papers – the bags of a genuine agitator and propagandist – she pulled out a newspaper, their party paper, and their party magazine, and gave them to me. Both the paper and the magazine told about the struggles of the different ethnic and party groups, both here in America and all over the world – in South Africa and Latin America, the USSR and Asia. I rode as far as Grand Central and got off, after arranging for her to call me the next day and tell me how things were going with the translation of the article, which she would try to do at work if her boss wasn't there.
She had the translation done in a day. I met her at her office; she worked for some prominent lawyer, the office was on Fifth Avenue. Luxurious chairs upholstered in genuine leather betrayed the wealth of their owner. Carol sat in a little pen enclosed by a fence, as is customary, behind a desk with an IBM typewriter and a bank of telephones. She handed me the translation; I offered her money, which she refused. I thanked her.
"Do you want to go to a meeting in support of the rights of the Palestinian people?" Carol asked. "Admittedly, it's a very dangerous meeting. I don't even think many of our own comrades will come to it. It will be at Brooklyn College."
"Of course I want to," I said with genuine pleasure. A dangerous meeting was just what I needed. Admittedly, if she had said, Come tomorrow to such-and-such a place, you'll receive a submachine gun and cartridges, you'll participate in an action, an airplane hijacking, for example, I'd have been a lot happier. I mean it, only revolution would have fully suited my mood. But I could begin with a meeting.
"I'll bring a friend," I said, with Alexander in mind. "May I?"
"Yes, of course," Carol said. "If your friend's not afraid. They usually watch us, we're all on their books. You've probably read in the papers that our party is suing the FBI because they've eavesdropped on us for years, smashed the locks on party premises, monitored our papers, planted agents provocateurs -"
"Yes, I've read about it in the papers."
"You know, when I became a member of the Workers Party, the FBI sent my parents a letter – they live in Illinois, my parents – informing them that I had become a member of the Workers Party. They always play mean tricks like that to sow dissension in families. My parents are Protestants, they're plain people, they don't like blacks, they don't like outsiders, they're racists, my brother is a rightist, this was a terrible blow to them. We were out of touch for a long time," Carol said.
"Your FBI has the same methods as the KGB," I said. "That's how the KGB behaves in Russia."
"And you know, the FBI has a list of twenty-eight thousand names all over America. These people will be arrested immediately, in one day, if any danger arises for the regime. They're the ones who are deemed to be personally dangerous, oh, for example, they have influence, can lead people. One of the names near the top is Norman Mailer's," Carol went on. "Do you know him?"
"I read him in Russia," I said, "he's been translated."
Carol's remarks did not surprise me. Back in the Soviet Union I had met and maintained close relationships with Austrian leftists; I had had several such acquaintances, and I knew better than other Russians how things stood in the West. They had told me a lot. Walking with me at the Novodevichy Convent, I remember, Lisa Ouivari had said, "You should leave the USSR only if there is an immediate threat to your life." My Elena had always drawn me to the right, now Elena was gone. And by now I knew this world well, I had no illusions.
The Soviet Union was left behind, and its problems too; I would have to live here and die here. The question arose, How to live and how to die? As shit, subject to the laws of this world, or as a proud man insisting on his right to life?
I had no choice, I didn't even need to make a choice. For me, with my temperament, there was nothing to choose. I automatically found myself among the protesters and the dissatisfied, among the insurgents, partisans, rebels, the Reds and the gays, the Arabs and Communists, the blacks and the Puerto Ricans.