An Immigrant’s Story: Summer, 1978 Kiev, Ukrainian Region of the U.S.S.R.

Chapter 1
Summer, 1978
Kiev, Ukrainian Region of the U.S.S.R.

I do not recall the walk from my home, at Zhylyanksya 142, apartment six, to the vagzal (train station). I do not recall getting on the train. But I’ll always remember sitting in a seat, with the window on my right, looking out onto the platform. I see 100 or 200 people crying, waving, and turning their heads to the shoulders of people standing next to them. I do not understand why they are all so tragically sad.

But I am six years old. What does a six-year old know about tragedy?

I stand up, look to my left where my mom is standing. Suddenly the train made that forward motion, an indication of departure. I looked up into my Mom’s eyes and point to my throat.

“Mama, something here hurts right now.”

“Cry my baby, cry.” And I cried.

We took the train through Czechoslovakia. I sat with the window on my right, breezing through these mountains. I did not know where I was. I thought I was going on vacation. I ate my first banana. I did not eat bananas again for twenty-five years.

Somewhere, some place, we all had to get off the train and wait in line for what was, I later learned, the customs procedure. It was late and dark and cold. And all these people stood with crying kids and old people and all this jewelry around their necks. My sister had jewelry on as well. In fact, my Grandmother had recently pierced Masha’s ears, at home, with nothing but a needle and some alcohol. Masha was so scared after the first ear she walked around the apartment not wanting to get the other one pierced. But both are pierced now and she is wearing earrings and other items. I think she also had to hold a bottle or two of alcohol.

I didn’t understand what was going on. I was tired. I wanted to go home. I wanted to spend the night at my Grandparents’ in the living room where they also had their bed and listen to the radio as, in Russian, “Voice of America from Washington” would make itself known. I wanted a piece of black bread from the bakery that was near the home where, at four a.m., Grandpa would go and buy the freshest bread and Masha and I could have it, in the middle of the night. I wanted to go play with Gehrda, my Doberman Pincher. I wanted to play chess with my Uncle Borya, who took me everywhere and was my favorite. I wanted to go home.

But I stood there, asking questions and getting nothing but short irritating responses from Mom and Dad. This was no vacation. What is going on?

There was a man with an old woman who was his mother; she was sick and could not handle standing any more. There were people with all this luggage, way too much luggage for a short trip. There was no food. There was a strange jumping of train platforms and railings in the middle of a pitch black night. I began to get very scared.

I do not recall the arrival into Vienna, Austria. All I do recall is the hotel where we stayed. We had to be home by 10:30 or 11 in the evening as the hotel had lock down.  I finally recognized people I knew. Mark and Maya and their son Misha (later known as Mike) stayed in the same hotel as us. So did other familiar faces and another man named Mark who would later become my temporary father-in-law. But I could not tell you who they are. Life was a little more fun at this point. We had dinners together. But they were not cooked on any stove or oven, but on a burner. I also tried a new drink called “Pepsi-Cola.” And the boiled chicken, which I never liked, tasted so much better with something called ketchup.  The streets of Vienna were immaculate. People literally swept the streets. I have never seen anything like that before. I also rode a pony in Vienna. And had the most delicious oval white bread rolls with jam here. And could not understand the people because they did not speak like Mom and Dad and Grandma and Grandpa.

And just when I started to get used to Vienna, after one week, we were off again to some place called Rome, Italy.  In Rome, we shared a large three-bedroom apartment with two other families. The apartment had marble floors. My parents slept on one large bed, Masha and I slept on the other. I did not like the marble floors as they made my feet feel cold in the morning. I missed the parquet floors of my home. When is this vacation going to be over?

Well, in Rome, I finally felt like I was on vacation. To me, vacation meant the beach, and Rome in the summer time had the most beautiful beeches I have ever seen. I spent all day at the beech, swimming, sunbathing, and having my first taste of something called yogurt, coffee-flavored!  Can you imagine? The elevators in Italy were strange. You had to put ten lire in them to make them work. Here the people also spoke a different language than my family. I learned phrases like “Qunta coste?” “Mile lire.”  “Skonti.” “Bambino.”

Our apartment had a vast veranda that extended around the corner of the apartment. Sometimes, when the nights were warm and breezy, everyone would pull out their beds outside and sleep under the stars. We lived on the fourth floor, but it was a super-tall fourth floor and we were high above the street below.

One night, Misha and I decided to play some game, maybe doctor, who knew? We were six and we had no idea when this vacation would end. So we both laid in the bed together. Our moms and dads thought this was funny and made us get out of the bed. Misha and I did not know why.

Our other set of neighbors were the Katzes. We did not know them from Kiev, at least I did not. Gala Katz was the Mom, I forgot her husband’s name and Igor was the name of her son, who was older than Masha. Gala made the best grenki (French toast) ever. Sometimes, on evenings when my parents traveled to other parts of Italy, Gala would feed Masha and me. Our favorite meal was grenki and cacao, especially when we could eat outside, on the veranda and watch the sunset.

The sunset in Rome was incredible. It was like a Monet rainbow, with shades of pinks, blues, oranges and purples. It would drape itself as far as the eye could see. I have never seen a sunset as beautiful as the sunsets of Rome. I have never had grenki and cacao as delicious and sweet as I did on our balcony.

Some evenings, I would join my father on the street corner for what was known as “talkoochka.” “Talkat,” the root of the word, means to push. Thus, talkoochka involved the barter and trade of various goods that other Soviets brought with them from their native cities. My father seemed to have this large supply of cameras. I do not recall the brand, but I think it was in demand. My father went back to the talkoochka frequently. Maybe he was a good salesman. Maybe he, like the other men who were also lost in the transition from old world to new and who had to protect and provide for their families used these evenings to smoke cigarettes, commiserate, talk sports and listen to their new favorite Italian singer, Cilintano, playing on some fortunate soul’s cassette player.

In Italy, in addition to marble floors and coffee-flavored yogurt, I was also introduced to a food that in some odd foreshadowing way would become the trademark of a city I was actually en route to in this mirage of a vacation.  One sunny afternoon my parents, Masha and I were all walking on a plaza and my Dad says “Sasha, you have to try this food, it’s palled peetzah.” “Pteetzah?” I questioned, thinking I misheard my father saying the Russian word for bird. “No,” he replied in an annoying manner, as though he was now the professor resident on this new dish, “Peetzah.” So I took a bit out of his slice and chewing on this unfamiliar substance gave me no appetite pleasure at all. I miss borsch. I miss mashed potatoes. I want bread and butter.

The streets of Rome were busy with all kinds of hustle and bustle. Masha and Mom were totally smitten by the young police officers. I was not sure what the big deal was. I miss my Borya. None of these police officers came close. There was also the smell of leather in Rome that I have never been privy to before this trip. Little did I know that Italian shoes were legendary, in terms of quality, design, stitchery and reputation. My Mom purchased Masha and I each one pair of Italian loafers for fall. But she also purchased us platform cork tie-ups that eventually became all the rage in the United States – about twenty-five years later.

In Italy I also saw the statue of Moses, as sculpted by Michelangelo. I did not know who Michelangelo was, although I did read about Aristotle when I was four. I did not know who Moses was, or what religion was or that I was Jewish or even the concept of a god. I just knew that front of me was a beautiful sculpture of a man but some reason he had horns. This appeared odd to me. But so many things were odd, new, different and bizarre to me that to begin to ask questions would seem ridiculously overwhelming. So I stopped asking questions. I did not ask why we were here. I did not ask where we were going. I did not ask why my parents would disappear on excursions all over Italy and not take me with, even though Masha was allowed to go on some of them. I did not ask why my Mom was always so sad after calling her parents in Kiev.

Sometimes, in addition to phone calls my Mom would also write letters to her parents and to Maya, my dad’s sister. I loved to write, even back then, and would also write to my relatives. It never occurred to me how odd it was to write continuous letters to relatives when, after all, we were “on vacation.”  Having learned to read by age four and to write by age five, writing came naturally and with great ease. Somehow, somewhere, I overheard that in Italy there is a young marrying age. So I wrote the following: “In Italy, girls get married at age fourteen. Masha is almost twelve, so she could get married soon. But Dad would not be very happy about this.”  Apparently my letters became a hit with the family back home because many years later I would still hear about them.

We got our hands on an interesting camera in Italy. Not one of the ones that my father was trying to sell in the evenings, but a magic one; one where you could take the photo and out came this square and if you wave it enough times, an image would appear. Yes, this was the Polaroid and to use it, was pure magic.

I did not know I was born into Communism. But I did know that I liked Pepsi-Cola, ketchup, coffee-flavored yogurt, pizza and Polaroids.

My Mom has a favorite photo of Masha and me. We are each walking down a street, in front of her, with our bikinis on and each one of us was wearing a t-shirt on top and our platform shoes. She had us turn around and snapped a photo of two young glam girls walking down a Roman boulevard, sunglasses and all. In yet another favorite photo, we each sat on the side of a fountain. In my mom’s own state of uncertainly and confusion, she was able to capture this element of a Riviera Summer Holiday. No one, really knew, where we would be tomorrow. But for today, for one day, Mom preserved an ideology of a hopeful future, one that she had envisioned would include the Sorbonne education, rich husbands and continuous European leisure travel for her daughters.

But this vacation, like all vacations, had to end. As the summer came to a close, and sunsets would come earlier and cooler, I recall finding myself on an airplane. A large airplane. I never flew on an airplane before and this one was giant. I recall dark blue carpet. I think we flew TWA as I got a TWA button, silver and in the shape of two wings, from the pilot. I and other kids would run around the plane when we could. Sometimes I slept. But mostly I was in awe on this plane, this giant boat in the sky.

After what seemed like forever we landed in New York City. My parents’ friends Mark, Maya and Misha were already there and the plan was for us to stay with them for one night. But when we arrived at the airport, my father, who didn’t know a word of English, went to ask someone some questions and upon return it turned out that our next flight was coming right up so we could not have dinner with Mark and his family. This was disappointing, at the very least. I thought I would finally have some borsch.

Instead, we got on another plane, a smaller one and within a few hours landed on what was called Cheecagoh. It was late, dark and cold. Uncle Yury, my mom’s first cousin, and his son Tony came to pick us up. As we stood outside, waiting for the old station wagon to come get us, Uncle Yury pointed to the cars driving by and said “Look at all the cars. Not one of them has any damage. They are like new here.”

I slept through the drive to the apartment. The excitement of the new city was underwhelming. I was tired. And while no one said to me that we’re not in Kiev anymore, this new place Cheecagoh was a place I knew I had to get to know quickly. As we arrived in a high-rise apartment building, I didn’t notice the dirty lobby, the black tile, the poverty in the people’s eyes or the cockroaches. I just needed sleep. I could sleep forever and then, perhaps, I would wake up and be home on Zhelyanskaya with Grandma and Grandpa and Voice of America from Washington and eat black bread at four o’clock in the morning.

Aunt Zhenya opened the door and welcomed us into her apartment. My cousins Vicky and Alyosha greeted us as well. Then my Uncle Petya and his wife Lyooba and their son Slava came. Lyooba came right up to me and bent down her legs as she embraced me. There was a lot of food on the table but I do not remember what was actually there. That night Masha and I slept with Vicky in her room.

And so, on September 20, 1978, we arrived in the United States. We were Soviet immigrants who left Kiev, U.S.S.R. Our original documents slated us for Israel, but mid-stream, in Italy, my parents, along with hundreds of other parents, changed the documents for America, instead of Israel. All the while my family’s birth certificates and my parents’ marriage license were still en route to Israel, forever separated from the people bearing the printed names on these legal pieces of paper representing identities of four people who found themselves far from any kind home, comfort or security that they once knew. That we once knew.

No one ever told me that we were permanently leaving Kiev. No one ever told me that I would never see some people ever again. No one ever told me that Vienna and Rome were not a vacation but a transition to a new world. No one ever told me that Chicago was a new city for us and that we’re not going to leave it anytime soon. No one ever told me that I am Jewish. No one told me anything about any of this, assuming that withholding the information was best for my own protection. I guess two generations of Communism, Fascism and Antisemitism will make people hesitant to speak.

By this time I stopped asking any type of questions and I also barely spoke. On the journey to alleged freedom, the articulate chess-playing young girl known as Sasha became a fragile, sickly mute. And within me she lived this way for twenty-seven years.

This is a selection from An Immigrant’s Story and was first drafted in 2006.