The most interesting thing happened to Lisa a month ago. Some sailors came around at two in the morning and said that they were coming home from a foreign voyage. They had spent all their money and wanted to sell imported cosmetics immediately. Naturally Lisa’s eyes lit up. She didn’t have any money with her, so she called a friend who lived nearby. The friend agreed to have Lisa and the sailors come to her house ten minutes later. Lisa took some pals, the local thieves, with her for protection. They went to the friend’s house, the girls bought a few cosmetics, and the group went back to the station. The sailors had lots of things, and their bags were still full of foreign stuff. They went to the toilet with the thieves, whom they now considered Lisa’s honest and kind friends. They entrusted one
of them, Petya, with their bags and went into the stalls. As Petya later told Lisa, he suffered through the greatest temptation of his life. Every day he risked being caught stealing a crummy five or ten rubles, and here he had thousands in his hands. All he had to do was slip out the door and get lost in the crowds. He’d become a millionaire by local standards. But his code of honor wouldn’t let him. He was Lisa’s friend and protector. How could he let her down? His legs were itching to go out the door, but some invisible force kept him in place. Petya told Lisa that he couldn’t bear to be tempted like that again, and she should never put him in such a situation.
Occasionally I wander through railroad stations, immersing myself in that strange and fortunately unknown life. I like the smells and sounds of train platforms. But the truly incomparable sensation occurs while you wait for loved ones on the platform. The announcement comes: “Train number forty on track two.” First the train’s head slowly floats in, and then the cars crawl past, and you quickly calculate where the car you want will be and run down the platform. In the window you see dear, happy faces. That’s where there is a mysterious abundance of life and emotion—beloved faces in a train window.
FEBRUARY 8. I didn’t notice that more than a month has passed since the New Year. It was always my favorite holiday, but every year it gets sadder. I’ve stopped writing my wishes on a piece of paper. I’ve given up hope of meeting “him.” In the last few years on December 31 I’ve wanted to hide far from my own life and its disappointments. How I’d love to get on a train
and go to Berlin to see my dearest friends. Dreamer! What about the passport from OVIR (the Office of Visas and Registration) and the train ticket that has to be bought a month in advance? No, the best place is bed, where you can cuddle up under the blanket and dream about Paris, Berlin, the moon, and Venus.
Lately Lve enjoyed lying in bed and recalling my travels, meetings with friends, marvelous friendly parties. My travels have given me many kind friends, some of whom have become part of my life.
The first time I went to Berlin I was in the middle of my divorce. We had made the decision and separated, but all the paper work lay ahead, and his things were still in my apartment.
It so happened in Berlin that I was living alone in an old, tiny apartment in the middle of town. In order to get to the entrance, I had to go under a dark, deep arch and then across a small tree-filled yard. During the day I walked around town, went to the museums and stores, and sat in cafes, but I’d hurry home before dark because I was afraid to come home late. The apartment was dark and gloomy, without a TV or a telephone. When the neighbors went up the stairs, the wooden treads creaked loudly, making me jump. I thought about Russian emigres in Berlin after the Revolution who had lived in houses like this. In the evenings I opened the window and looked in the neighbors’ windows in hope of seeing life and movement. It was quiet almost everywhere, the windows shut with thick curtains. I felt a bit like a prisoner. Old Berlin gave me a sense of the traditional German way of life.
One fine day my life changed magically. My friend, the owner of the apartment, was living somewhere else, but he dropped by to pick up things. I came home to find not only
Herbert but a stranger, who was smoking in the room. Herbert introduced us. Werner spoke excellent English, and he had just come back from Georgia with his son. He had brought a letter to Herbert from Georgian friends. He had never met Herbert before. We found a lot to talk about: the trip to Georgia, my impressions of Germany. Before leaving, Werner invited me to his house the next day.
I found myself with a marvelous, hospitable German family, and by the end of the evening we had become friends. In addition to everything else, we were united by our suffering in the socialist paradise. I told them about our problems, about the hopes and fears of our people. Werner exclaimed, “It’s just the same here. So similar.” I countered, “It’s better here. At least you have food, clothing, and comfort.” Our conversations went on all night.
Two days later I moved into my new friends’ house. I lay in my cozy room and wept tears of joy. God had sent me so much understanding, love, and warmth in this home. Werner’s wife, Renata, struggled with English, but we understood each other without words. Sometimes instead of “I am happy” she would say, “I am afraid.” Once, as we were heading into town, Renata said, “Go get undressed.” I asked if we were planning to go to a nudist camp. Their son, Stefan, spoke flawless English, and we told each other jokes. For example, a policeman with a book under his arm meets another policeman. “What’s the book about?”
“It’s very interesting; it’s called logic. I’ll explain it. For instance, do you have an aquarium?”
“Yes,” replies his interested colleague.
“Then you like animals, and if you like animals, you must like people, and that means you must have a wife.”
“Yes, of course, I have a wife.”
“And if you have a wife, then you’re not a homosexual.”
“Amazing,” the policeman says. “I think I’ll buy that book.”
An hour later he’s walking down the street with his book and runs into yet another policeman, who asks about the book.
“It’s a wonderful and useful book. I’ll explain it to you. Do you have an aquarium?”
“No,” replies his friend.
“Then you're homosexual,” the enlightened policeman declares.
For some reason in East Germany police are the butt of jokes.
I left Germany feeling that I was leaving home. I stood in the train and wept inconsolably. My new friends reached through the window, trying to comfort me and talking of our next meeting. A year later I was back in Berlin.
FEBRUARY 10. A real winter day: frost, bright sunshine, and clear, clean air. Ideal weather for cross-country skiing. I dressed warmly and headed for the nearest woods. I’m enchanted by the winter forest: snow-covered trees, ringing silence, air redolent of pine. I stopped every now and then, dissolving in the peace and quiet. It is always warmer in the woods, even on cold days; the wind doesn’t penetrate here, and the pleasant rhythm of sliding
warms me, too. I feel absolutely happy, and the noisy urban life seems ugly and meaningless at moments like this.
It got dark early, and it was time to go back. The quick run through a field on the way back reminded me of the treachery of Russian winters. A cold wind blew into my face, and my hands felt icy even in warm mittens. It was blissful to be home in a hot shower. I was ravenous and ate whatever came to hand. I stretched out on the couch and thought: Well, at least Soviet rule hasn’t taken everything away from us.
FEBRUARY 12. Today I signed up for ship tickets. If you don’t think about summer vacation now, it will be too late. This is one of the features of our life: We buy boots in the summer and sandals in the winter.