It wasn`t fear but curiosity that was devouring me. Why was I suddenly traveling in a civilian vehicle with a civilian escort? Maybe they were taking me to speak to their director in Perm? One of the men had radioed to his boss, and recalling my arrest and the drive to Lefortovo, I said, ”Hurry up and report that the operation for the release of Sharansky from camp has taken place successfully.”
My companions failed to react to this little joke; they just sat there and stared straight ahead. I enjoyed the view. The last time I had ridden in such a car, the streets of Moscow sped past me. Now it was forest scenery.
We soon came to a village and stopped near the police station. Parked in front of us were three vehicles, a police car followed by two black Volgas. When they told me to take a seat in the first Volga, I assumed we were driving to Perm, four hours away.
”What about my things?”
”Don`t worry, they`ll be coming.”
I stopped short: Possessions were possessions, but what about my Psalm Book? Who knew what lay ahead? There might be new interrogations in Perm, new threats, new pressures. My Psalm Book had to be with me. ”This is robbery!” I said. ”You were supposed to give me all my things. At least let me have my Psalm Book.”
When they tried to lead me to the car by force, I sat down in the snow and started shouting. I knew there were dwellings nearby and that the KGB wouldn`t want to attract any attention. After a brief conference, the leader of the group asked me, ”What kind of Psalm Book? Where is it?”
I explained, and the car that had brought me to this spot tore off. I stood among the KGB men, breathing deeply in the frosty air.
The car returned, the driver handed me the Psalm Book, and I quickly took my place in the Volga.
I couldn`t stop wondering: What does this all mean? Where are they taking me? Nothing like this had happened in nine years. Could it really be? No, don`t fall for illusions. Then what was it? Of course, they were taking me for a talk with some KGB boss, and they wanted to keep it secret even from the Interior Ministry.
While this theory had a number of flaws-it didn`t explain this special car, for example-I clung to it like an anchor and tried to stop guessing.
I naturally tried to hide my anxiety from the KGB men, but it came out in the form of a sharp pain in my chest and a terrible headache. The pain was so intense that it filled my entire head and closed my left eye. I kept my right eye half-open until I could no longer bear it.
”I need a pill for a headache,” I said.
We had been on the road for four hours and seemed to be approaching a large city. There was a huge sign marked ”Perm,” but what was this? Did we really turn by the arrow marked ”Airport,” or did it only seem that way?
There`s probably a prison down this road, I told myself, but at that moment we were driving up to the airport.
Suddenly we were in the midst of the long-forgotten bustle of passengers, taxis, buses and waiting rooms. My headache prevented me from grasping whatever was going on, but I could see that we drove straight onto the field at the farthest end from the terminal, where they suddenly told me to get out of the car and sit in the plane. They brought me pills for a headache, and I took two and quickly regained my spirits.
So a special plane was sent for me. Why? Perhaps the highest ranks of the KGB wanted to talk with me. Or for some political reason they urgently had to give me a meeting with relatives in Moscow, as they once gave Edik Kuznetsov a meeting with his wife. Enough guessing, I told myself, afraid of letting hope enter my heart. We`ll see soon enough.
Suddenly I was in Moscow, close to Mamma . . . and all my friends. Perhaps I would see them even today? So many extraordinary things had already happened, why not one more miracle?
We left the airport-I could see it was Vnukovo-and drove to Moscow. I chuckled cheerfully as the police officers along the ceremonial route saluted me as I rode by with my honor guard and bodyguards. Wasn`t this reason enough to be happy and to laugh at this idiotic Soviet world? But I was quickly losing my sense of humor, which was replaced by exhaustion and a growing sense of disappointment, for we were approaching Lefortovo.
Slowly, just like nine years ago, the double iron doors opened. Deep disillusionment prevailed over everything else. No matter how hard I had tried to push the hope for a miracle out of my consciousness, it had been with me all day. What, specifically, was I expecting? A meeting with my family at the airport? Immediate release? A flight to Israel? I don`t know, but after being so suddenly torn away from incarceration, once the plane had lifted me above the world of the Gulag, everything had seemed possible. After my intoxication with the pure air of the heavens, landing back in this world was a real letdown.
During the first two or three days some hope still crept in, but when five days passed, and then 10, with no interrogations and no explanations, I was soon drawn back into the normal Lefortovo routine.
On the moring of Feb. 10 I was reading when the food trap opened: ”To a summons.”
So they had remembered me after all! But instead of leading me to the investigative section on the second floor, they took me instead to the buffer cell. What was this, another transport?
They undressed me, took away everything I had acquired in camp and gave me civilian clothes. This was really something new. I tried to hide my excitement as I put on the fine underwear, blue shirt and a gray suit whose pants were enormous.
”Give me a belt; the pants won`t stay up.”
”Belts are forbidden.”
After a brief consultation, one of the guards brought me a short piece of string, and I somehow managed to tie my pants. Even so, I had to hold them up all the time.
When they led me to the exit of the prison, I saw the same four KGB men who had taken me from the camp to Moscow. I stopped abruptly. ”What about my things, both in camp and here in prison?”
”You`ll soon get your things.”
”I want my Psalm Book with me.”
They tried to take me out by force, but I raised my voice, which echoed sharply in the deadly silence of Lefortovo. The prison chief gave some kind of signal, and one of the officers left and returned with the Psalm Book.
Once again, my four traveling companions and I were alone in a huge plane. Two of the tails sat behind me, while the intellectual and the boss went into the rear section.
”Where are we going?”
”I don`t know,” replied one of the tails.
Takeoff and ascent. Where`s the sun? Almost behind and to the side. So we`re flying west? I squeezed my Psalm Book and recited my prayer several times.
More than two hours had passed, and we were still flying west. We must be abroad, I decided.
”What`s going on?” I demanded again.
The boss appeared from behind a curtain. In a solemn voice, he announced, ”Citizen Sharansky, Anatoly Borisovich. I am authorized to declare to you that by order of the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet of the USSR, for conduct unworthy of a Soviet citizen, you have been stripped of Soviet citizenship and as an American spy you are being expelled from the Soviet Union.”
It`s over.
I took the Psalm Book and turned to Psalm 30, which I had long ago decided to recite at the moment of my release. ”A song of David at the dedication of a house,” it began. Now I was reading these words en route to my own house in Jerusalem!
–
I stared at the approaching airport, trying to catch sight of Avital. We landed. The planes we passed were marked ”Interflug.” The word meant nothing to me, but next to it were the letters DDR. My God, East Germany? Then Avital won`t be here. The plane was surrounded by cameramen, uniformed policemen and a contingent of men in civilian clothes. Looking at them, I was struck by how closely the German secret police resembled their Soviet counterparts.
It was dusk when we drove up to a house where a man greeted me with a handshake and introduced himself in English: ”Lawyer Wolfgang Vogel.”
After he escorted me inside, leaving my companions in the car, the atmosphere immediately became less official. I was greeted by Vogel`s wife and the American ambassador to East Germany and his wife. By now nothing could surprise me, so I listened calmly to the ambassador`s explanation that tomorrow there would be an exchange of spies on the Glienicke Bridge between East and West Berlin and that before the exchange I would be led across the bridge and released. The Americans had insisted that I be separated from the others, because I wasn`t a spy. The ambassador took a long time explaining the procedure, but I had only one question:
”Where is my wife? Will she be on the other side of the bridge?”
”No, there will be too much press and police there. Apparently she`ll meet you in Frankfurt.”
In the morning, after a breakfast of coffee and cake, I was led into the front seat of a minibus. Behind me were a Czech and two Germans who were also being exchanged today. When we reached the bridge, I saw the Soviet flag up ahead. ”How symbolic,” I said. ”This isn`t really the border of East Germany but the boundary of the Soviet empire.”
On our side it was quiet and deserted, but a dull roar could be heard from the other end of the bridge. The American ambassador to East Germany introduced me to the American ambassador to West Germany, who took me by the hand. We slowly walked over the bridge.
”Where`s the border?” I asked
”Right there, that thick line.”
I joyfully leaped across it. At that moment my pants jerked down, reminding me of the thin string I was given in Lefortovo. Supporting my pants with one hand, and knowing I`d soon see Avital, I crossed to the other side.
Finally we left for Frankfurt, where Avital was waiting. I divided my attention between looking out the window and carrying on an urbane
conversation with the American ambassador. But the only thing on my mind was that soon I`d see Avital.
We landed in Frankfurt.
”Where`s Avital?”
We went from a military base to a civilian airport.
”Where`s Avital?”
Someone greeted me in Hebrew: the Israeli consul. We hugged.
”Shalom! Where`s Avital?”
We walked quickly. A corridor, elevator, corridor. Faces appeared and disappeared. ”Hello, hello.”
Then, ”Shalom!” ”Shalom!” A bearded young man with a kippah
(skullcap) on his head smiled at me, ”Shalom!” and pointed to a door. Another bearded man with a kippah came out, ”Shalom!”
I flew into the room-it was empty. I turned; Avital was sitting in the corner, wearing a kerchief and a dark suit. She whispered something, but I couldn`t hear. I took a step toward her, and another, and a third.
She stood up. Her lips were trembling, and her eyes were filled with tears.
Yes, it was really she, my Natasha-the same girl I had promised 12 years ago, at the Moscow airport, that our separation would be brief.
In a desperate attempt to swallow the lump in my throat and to wipe the tears from our faces with a smile, I told her in Hebrew: Slichah li she`icharti k`zat. Sorry I`m a little late.
I held Avital`s hand just as 12 years ago I had held her hand on our way to the airport. Through 12 years of struggle, longing and suffering, 12 years of desperate attempts not to lose hold of each other, I had been obsessed by the thought of how it would be when we finally met.
I squeezed Avital`s hand tightly for fear she would slip away and the dream would end. Only at night, in the Old City of Jerusalem, did I let go of her hand when the crowd carried us to different sides and I swam on people`s shoulders to the kotel, the Western Wall.
Holding our Psalm Book in my hand, I kissed the wall and said, ”Baruch matir asirim”: Blessed is He who liberates the imprisoned.
From the forthcoming book ”Fear No Evil,” (Random House, $19.95) by Natan Sharansky. (copyright) 1988, by Random House Inc.; distributed by Los Angeles Times Syndicate.
Natan Sharansky will speak in Chicago at 8 p.m. June 23 at the Anshe Emet Synagogue, 3760 N. Pine Grove Ave. The event is free and open to the public.
