Swimming in the Daylight

An American Student, A Soviet-Jewish Dissident, and the Gift of Hope

By Lisa C. Paul

Skyhorse Publishing

Copyright © 2011 Lisa C. Paul
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-62873-671-7

Contents

Foreword by Natan Sharansky,
Part I Moscow,
Chapter 1 The Barter System,
Chapter 2 The Courier,
Chapter 3 I Wish I Had Your Worries,
Chapter 4 Irina Grivnina,
Chapter 5 All Because of a Book,
Chapter 6 We Must Have Change,
Chapter 7 From Russia with Love,
Chapter 8 George Orwell and the Writings of 1984,
Chapter 9 The Dirty Dog,
Chapter 10 The Feeling That You Cannot Breathe,
Chapter 11 The Moscow Helsinki Watch Group,
Chapter 12 An Average American,
Chapter 13 Swimming in the Daylight,
Chapter 14 The Interview,
Part II Minneapolis,
Chapter 15 The CBS Evening News,
Chapter 16 "Please God, Let Me Help Her",
Chapter 17 Faith, Hope, and Love,
Chapter 18 Ripple of Hope,
Chapter 19 Fruit Juice and Vitamins,
Chapter 20 Capitol Hill,
Chapter 21 Next Year in Jerusalem,
Part III Washington, D.C.,
Chapter 22 The Chautauqua Conference on U.S.–Soviet Relations,
Chapter 23 Uvidimsya — We Will See Each Other Again,
Chapter 24 Free at Last,
Chapter 25 Mrs. Meiman, Room,
Chapter 26 The Rainbow-colored Potholder,
Chapter 27 Human Dignity,
Chapter 28 "Babushka, Are We Going to Israel Today?",
Chapter 29 The Ring,
Epilogue,
Acknowledgments,

CHAPTER 1

The Barter System

We all live with the objective of being happy; our lives are all different and yet the same.

— Anne Frank

I bought a jar of Nescafé coffee for Andrei Sakharov. I really did. Not that I had any idea when I bought the jar in a foreigner-only store in Moscow that it would end up in his cup 250 miles away in Gorky, a city where Soviet authorities had banished him and his wife, Elena Bonner, four years earlier. Rather, as I stood in line waiting to pay for the Nescafé, all I knew was that it would pay for one Russian-language lesson with my teacher, Inna Kitrosskaya Meiman.

The day that I brought the two jars of Nescafé to Inna, she smiled and said in a hushed voice, "Oh, excellent, Leeza, I will send one to our friend in Gorky." Could she actually be referring to the famous Soviet dissident Andrei Sakharov? I wondered, taken aback. While I did not want her to think I was too naive to understand her reference, I had to ask if she actually meant Sakharov.

Inna, in a manner that seemed ordinary rather than peculiar — and clearly intended to keep "Big Brother" from listening — turned on the television behind her, cranked up the volume, and only then whispered, "Yes, that's exactly who I mean."

Swiftly and deliberately changing the subject, she said, "Let's begin your lesson." Returning both the television and her voice to a normal volume, she asked, "Did you prepare your assignment for today?"

I began taking Russian language lessons from Inna in September 1984, just a few weeks into my second year living in Moscow, where I worked as a nanny for an American family. This was at a time when the Cold War between the United States and the Soviet Union was as chilly as ever. Tense political disputes and confrontations between these two global superpowers and archenemies had raged since the end of World War II, against the backdrop of an ever-escalating nuclear arms race. In such a hostile climate, it was rare for an American college student to actually live in Moscow — even those, like me, who were studying the Russian language and about the Soviet Union. When the opportunity arose for me to work for Joan and Paul Smith in Moscow (Paul ran the Russian office for Caterpillar Tractor Company) as the nanny for their two young daughters, Laura and Kjirsten, I jumped at what I considered a chance of a lifetime.

The Soviet government did not allow American families living in Moscow to hire local Russians to watch their children. While there had been some progress since the pre-World War II days under Joseph Stalin, when Soviet citizens who engaged in unauthorized contacts with foreigners were actually arrested, imprisoned, and sometimes shot, Soviet officials' continued distrust of foreigners had not radically changed. The half dozen or so American families in Moscow who had nannies in the early '80s recruited them through contacts in the States. I heard about the job with the Smiths in my Russian-language class at the University of Minnesota, where Paul studied ten years before I.

As for meeting Inna, Michelle Lynch — my friend and also a nanny for an American family — gave me her telephone number. She studied with Inna the year before, during my first year in Moscow. Michelle arranged for me to take her place as Inna's student when she returned to the States in June 1984.

There was no inherent risk to an American who engaged in contact with a Russian, as long as the purpose of that contact was legal and not anti- Soviet. The Russian, however, faced the definite risk of being watched, questioned, and threatened by the KGB (the Soviet national security agency) for such interactions. Therefore, Americans were necessarily discreet about their contact with Russians, and thus the information Michelle initially gave me about Inna was sparse. I knew that Inna had received her doctoral degree in English education from the Moscow Institute of Foreign Languages and taught there for many years until she was forced to quit her job soon after applying to emigrate from the Soviet Union in 1979. The government denied her a visa, and thus she became a refusenik, Russian slang for someone who had been refused permission by the Soviet government to emigrate. Michelle told me Inna had an operation in October 1983 to remove a tumor on the back of her neck and that she didn't believe Inna was receiving any additional medical treatment. When I met Inna in late August 1984, she was teaching Russian to a half dozen Americans, including journalists, the wife of an American diplomat, and teachers at the Anglo-American School (the school for children of Americans and other foreigners living in Moscow).

"Oh, yes, Leeza, I have been expecting your call," Inna said in a friendly, spirited voice when I contacted her about taking Russian lessons. She asked if I understood Russian and I replied nemnoshko — a little — not wanting to overstate my Russian-language ability and then disappoint her if she took me on as her student. Then Inna, speaking in English, suggested we should meet. "It is important for a teacher to know a student's ability before teaching an actual lesson," she explained.

We agreed to meet at eleven o'clock the following Saturday morning at Inna's apartment. She said she would be at the Osepenko Street trolley stop waiting for me, a twenty-minute trolley ride from my apartment on Serpukhovsky Boulevard. She began to describe herself, then stopped and said, "Not to worry, Leeza. I will recognize you, an American."

I set out to meet Inna on a typical Saturday — my day off. When I woke up just before eight o'clock the girls were already happily watching a Bugs Bunny cartoon on a video sent by their uncle in the States. Laura, who was five years old, had long, fiery, light red hair and a cluster of freckles on each cheek. Kjirsten, older by a year and taller by an inch, had long, golden-wheat blonde hair and as many freckles as her...