Tag: ussr

Jazz with Ella

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off a stool lightly for one of her advanced years, and beckoned them. She opened the cage door, then the elevator door, and ushered them in. She waited patiently while Jen, Lona and Maria assembled their baggage. Three persons plus operator appeared to be the elevator’s capacity. Then she closed the doors carefully and pulled a brass lever. Grunting with effort, the box lifted. “Three into seventeen,” Maria calculated as the box jerked upward. “How many trips will this thing make, do you suppose, before we’re all upstairs?”
Ordinarily, I would find this hotel an intriguing anecdote, thought Jennifer, something to tell the folks back home. Right now, I just find it all an intolerable delay. She was becoming quite adept at all the procedures. As she exited at the fifth floor, she went immediately to the dezhurnaya’s desk and rapped smartly on the table. The clerk, another septagenarian, was nodding off in an easy chair. “Key to room 503,” she said briskly in Russian, and proffered her card. This woman could be someone’s grandmother, she thought, and though it’s difficult to view her as the enemy, a nosy floor clerk who noticed that Volodya was Soviet, not Canadian, would be a nuisance or even fatal.
Jennifer opened the door to her room. It was dark and close but not what she would have picked for a briefing session. There was a private bathroom, she discovered with relief, and opened the door thankfully. It held a square, chipped, pedestal basin, a small bath, and gigantic toilet that sat lordly on a dais. Its tank was secured onto the wall above the bowl and there was a chain to pull that worked the flush. Either the last guest had pulled too enthusiastically or the fixture’s age had rendered it incontinent. It had overflowed onto the floor.
“I’d better start working on getting this cleaned up right away,” she muttered. “I don’t want staff in the room while Volodya’s here—that is, if I could even get staff to clean it up.” Once again she was talking to herself—problems, delays. And underneath it all—fear.
Consequently, it was nearly six o’clock by the time Jennifer finally left the hotel, walked briskly along the riverbank, and turned onto the same bridge they had driven across on her way to Red Square. Possibly there was another telegraph office than the one she had already discovered near the east wing of the Hotel Rossiya, but it would save time to head directly toward the familiar one. As she walked, she thought how to word the telegram: “Returned to Moscow. Hotel Bucharest.” That part was easy. Then what? “Jazz with Ella” and maybe she’d better add…

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Jazz with Ella

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Was he not getting on this very plane to Moscow looking like one of the foreign tourists and wearing a handsome leather jacket? On the other hand, what if they had tricked him into doing something illegal? The authorities could revoke all his travel privileges. Normally, he wouldn’t have any qualms about sidestepping the authorities but it was just so important that he go to Moscow right now.
All these thoughts and more passed through Sergei Ivanovich’s brain as the group from Canada traipsed slowly across the tarmac.
★
“The first thing I’m doing when we reach the hotel is to find a telegraph office and send a message to Volodya,” said Jennifer, seated behind David and Maria on the tour bus, her chin hanging over the headrest. The teacher-student wall had completely crumbled; they were her friends. She was grateful for their help.
“I thought you’d already done that,” answered David. Maria’s head was nodding, more concerned with sleep than planning. “You mean you didn’t wire him from Kazan?”
“No. You saw how Chopyk dogged us the whole time, plus I couldn’t confirm anything. What if, all of a sudden, they’d decided to take us out of the country through Kiev instead of Moscow? You know there’s no logic to the itinerary.”
“It’s always Moscow. I told you that,” David said. “We’re here for less than two days. That’s not long enough to get Volodya from Leningrad and up to speed.”
“There’s the rest of today…”
“Oh, no, not at all,” interrupted Maria suddenly, her eyes still closed. “According to Natasha we have an action-packed evening ahead.” She looked around quickly as if expecting their tour guide to hear her name. But while the group had been given a late lunch in the airport dining room, Natasha had gone on ahead to make arrangements and would meet them at the hotel. “After check-in, we’re to squeeze in dinner and some of us have tickets for the ballet. And remember when we were in Moscow last time you said that the juniors would be having a last lesson here and maybe taking a guided tour of St. Basil’s Cathedral?”
David’s grin waned. Jennifer sighed.There was another thought nagging at her.

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Jazz with Ella

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“High school days, right? Bunch of guys all pull up at the stop light, jump out of the car, run around, jump back in again in different seats.” Jennifer continued to shake her head. She felt as if it was frozen in the position. Lona stared as if she were seeing Hank for the first time. “We do the same…” finished Hank, as if the point was obvious.
“The same what…?” Maria and Jennifer asked simultaneously.
“Get off the boat, mill around, come back in again, confusing the count. Chinese fire drill. Make crowds of people milling around, so that no one can take roll call.”
The ensuing silence was probably one of Jennifer’s lowest moments. So this was the adolescent prank on which two lives depended. Not only would it have to do the job, but she realized that she was grateful for any plan at all.
MORNING JULY 20, 1974
Sergey Ivanovich, the machinist from Novizavod, had sat in the Kazan airport all morning. You never knew how long you might wait for a flight, or even if there was any point in waiting, he thought. And even after you were allowed on the plane, they might bump you so that your seat could go to some senior bureaucrat who had only just wheeled up in a sleek black car.
He badly wanted to visit his sister in Moscow. That’s all. But they didn’t give much respect to people like him with their simple needs. In fact, he had already been told that the flight was fully booked, but he had not given up because, long ago, he had acquired those most valuable aids to survival in the modern Soviet Union: friends who did favours. This particular friend was part of the airport administration. That the friend had first listened to Sergey’s tale and then had produced an extensive shopping list for the Moscow stores was not unusual. Sergey had simply tucked the list away, along with the five other shopping lists from neighbours and family, and had promised to do his best. The friend had also slipped him some crumpled bills in a foreign currency, acquired from international visitors at Kazan Airport. This was fine, too. Sergey was not even sure what type of currency it was, but he had tucked it away in an inside pocket. If he could locate a buyer—a friendly tourist—to go to the deluxe Beriyozhka, the foreign currency store in Moscow, and purchase some of the rarer commodities, he would be a winner.

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Jazz with Ella

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ILLEGAL INTENT
ULYANOVSK, JULY 18, 1974
Maria’s eyes were dreamy and romantic as she twisted her own “first promise” ring. “They were such a cute couple,” she sighed. “Did you see how he looked at her—with so much love?”
“I only hope she feels the same way,” Jennifer said.
“I can’t believe he just walked out of that park without a backward glance,” said David. “I couldn’t do it. Leave my life behind, my family back in Canada…”
Jennifer, Ted, Maria and David had gathered at a dinner table aboard ship where they were reasonably sure there was no bugging device. They had determined this the day before by the simple expedient of dousing the table “accidentally” with a pitcher of water. A waiter had immediately stripped the table and replaced the cloth while they watched.
“We have to be cautious,” said David, indicating the room at large. Only a few other diners were present and the dinner had been delayed once again. “Our first item of business…”
“Excuse me. Have we elected you leader?” Ted asked.
“Could you at least listen to me? Our first item of business is how much we tell the others—here’s Hank now and he looks as if he wants to sit here. And then there’s Lona, who some of us mistrust, and we should decide that before she arrives.”
“Everyone’s got to know,” pointed out Maria, “except Natasha, of course. Don’t you think people are going to miss Paul? Though maybe not everyone needs to know about the second part of the plan, about Volodya…”
“Agreed,” replied Ted. “But there will have to be a few of us who know about the second part so that we can help.” Jennifer thanked him …

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Jazz with Ella

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“You too,” she said sincerely. “We’ll miss you.” She smiled at Vera who nodded. “There’s something I’d like to give you.” She reached into her purse and removed her wedding ring from where she had tucked it. “You might need this. Please take it. It brought me happiness for a while.” Paul nodded. Vera took the ring wordlessly. Her eyes filled with tears.
“Uh, aren’t you forgetting something else?” asked David.
“The leather jacket? It’s in my cabin—for you.” They all laughed.
“Hey, thanks. But I was actually thinking about what we should say to people back in Canada. Do you have any family at all, Paul?”
He shook his head.
“Any friends who might report you missing?”
“Not any who’d really care. Jen’s been my best friend. Oh, but you can tell Dr. Sommer at the Russian department what happened and tell her that she’s an excellent teacher. I couldn’t have done this without her. But otherwise, no, there is no one. My mother’s been dead a long time now, and so has my grandmother who was my guardian. My dad disappeared—probably because of gambling debts.”
By now Vera was crying openly. “You have family now,” she told him, and Jennifer was overjoyed to see how eagerly he hugged her.
★
Just three blocks away, their tour guide, Natasha Alexeyevna Kuchkov, was sitting on the warm cement buttress of a public fountain. Two other women dressed in sarafani, light cotton dresses, were dipping their bare feet in the fountain’s pool and giggling. Such behaviour was not for her. In any case, the telegram recently received from her director had induced a cooling effect right to the bone. Phone me directly you reach Ulyanovsk, it had ordered. They don’t know what it’s like in the field any more, she thought. When we arrive, I have visits to organize, vouchers to fill in, local staff to supervise. How much time do they think I have?
Thus she had been almost relieved when the rebellious students asked for some afternoon time off, though she wouldn’t admit as much to them. It had given her an opportunity to find the nearest postal and telegraph office where the long distance phone booths were located. She dialled her director on his personal private line and after some buzzing, whining, and several hang-up clicks, she was finally put through.

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Jazz with Ella

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Paul shook his head and glanced up at the statue’s grim face. “It’s illegal to use a false passport.”
Jennifer didn’t believe she had heard the words correctly. “You’re talking to me about illegal! You’ve done lots of illegal things lately—jump ship, stay in non-permit areas…you don’t know how many Soviet laws you’re violating.”
“But, Jen, I’m the only one that gets in trouble for my actions—and I’m prepared to take that chance. You’re wanting me—and others—to take part in a conspiracy. Defrauding border guards, smuggling illegal aliens. And if he replaced me for the rest of the trip, then all the students would be involved. Is that fair to them?” He glanced over at Ted and Maria who returned his look anxiously.
“So that makes it worse than what you’re doing?” Jennifer found that her breath was coming in gasps. “You’re putting us all in jeopardy by leaving. They’ll ask us who knew and we’ll have to admit that we could have stopped you…or we have to lie about it.”
“No, you couldn’t have stopped me.”
“Keep your voice down. I understand now that nothing we say can stop you. I’m prepared to take that chance, too. Will you help us? Will you talk to Vera? I couldn’t in all conscience walk off with your passport if I thought it would get you in worse trouble.”
“As crazy as that seems, you may have come up with something. At least I wouldn’t be interrogated. If I can get a Soviet passport no one will ever know.” Jennifer could feel herself relaxing a little; this scheme was so right for everyone.
“I’ll talk to Vera,” he went on. “She’s supposed to meet me here—somewhere. She said she’d find me.” He glanced about nervously.
“Thank you, Paul, thank you. This could change my life.” As Jennifer said it, she knew it was true. She had cast her lot now—with the man who up until two weeks ago was a total stranger. Of course, there was still her marriage to Michael back home in Canada. The divorce would be inevitable. She resolved not to think too much about that until she returned.
“You can’t tell Natasha anything,” she said. “Just come on the tour today. Act normal. And we’ll have to huddle with the others who know you’re leaving. I’ll need their help.”
“Whoa…this is happening way too fast.” Paul staggered a little, then found his footing.

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Jazz with Ella

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“Who knows?”
Paul and Jennifer locked stares. “You still want to do this, don’t you?” she asked him.
“Yes,” he nodded. A minute passed.
Finally David spoke. “So Paul, if you’re really going to leave, can I have your leather jacket?”
★
Breakfast was chaotic. At first, Ivan Nikolaevich announced to the diners that their departure would be delayed while they awaited the delivery of food supplies. Almost immediately following his speech, the riverboat moved away from the dock and waiters appeared with an adequate spread of hard-boiled eggs, bread and sausages for the buffet table. Ivan Nikolaevich appeared untroubled by this contradiction, and after fourteen days in the Soviet Union, the guests also treated it as normal. Jennifer, Paul and David helped themselves to the breakfast and sat together, saying little, distracted by their thoughts. There was no doubt in Jennifer’s mind that Paul would do what he wanted. Apart from anything else, she realized how much she would miss him—and not just for his jacket, like David.
The jacket. Huh. It’s very distinctive, thought Jennifer. She visualized the maroon and white leather college jacket with the appliqued letters “UV” for University of Vancouver on the sleeves. Her thoughts were already leaping ahead to the day that she and the others would have to cover up the fact that Paul had left the group. If someone else were to wear that jacket—someone, for instance, like that American, Frank, there—with the same haircut and height, he could be mistaken for Paul from the back. David glanced up at that moment, caught Jennifer’s look and also stared at the young man from Tennessee. Thoughts swirled, cascaded, in Jennifer’s consciousness: the jacket, the view of the haircut, something she had to remember, something she had promised in a dream. What was it?
“You know,” David spoke, his mouth full of toast, “that pretty boy from Tennessee is a real nice guy. I think he’s got his eye on you, Jennifer.”
She silenced him with a glare and went on with her breakfast.

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Jazz with Ella

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Suddenly Jennifer turned cold. “Paul, we met that group two days ago. You’ve been with her ever since!”
He nodded. “And you didn’t even notice I was gone, did you?” He pulled on a t-shirt.
Guilt swept over Jennifer. Why hadn’t she noticed? She was supposed to be looking out for the students. The buck stopped at Professor Chopyk, but she was closer to the students, more in touch with their needs—or so she had thought. The answer came back quickly. Because she was too preoccupied with her own love life, that’s why. “But you could have been followed…the authorities….” she spluttered. “Dammit, even Soviet people can’t just go where they wish. Saratov and Toglyatti are closed areas to most Russians—much less to westerners.”
Paul continued to nod.
“How did you get back here?”
“I swam, remember?” It was his turn to laugh at her. “No, I hitched a ride on a farm truck. Vera arranged it. It wasn’t so far. The Volga twists and turns a lot here and the boat did a big loop. Really, we aren’t that far from Toglyatti or her father’s farm as the crow flies.” He pulled a sweater over his T-shirt. “I had a bad moment early this morning when I thought I wouldn’t be here early enough. I knew the ship usually steamed off at first light. But it’s not leaving early today.”
“A good thing!”
“There was another bad moment,” he went on, “when I discovered that I had arrived on the wrong side of the river.” He stopped attending to his wardrobe and studied her. “I appreciate your concern, Jennifer, but I’m a big boy now.” He moved toward the door.
“Wait a minute.” Jennifer stopped him and looked into his cool blue-grey eyes, so much like Volodya, she thought, same high cheekbones, same mane of dark hair. “So you’re not seeing her again?”
He didn’t reply.
“We’ll be in Kazan soon. Then you’ll be too far away to swim back to see her.”
He was silent.
Jennifer sensed that her words would make no difference but she continued. “You’re still thinking about her. She won’t be allowed to leave the Soviet Union, even for visits, unless she’s a model Communist. You know that?” A part of her brain registered the fact that he was packing.

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Jazz with Ella

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of his report to Department Chairman Hoefert, so it was important to convey just the right tone. For example, he would make much of the fact that this particular tour of western students had been allowed in to the philological library at the State Institute in Leningrad—a great honour usually requiring a permit from the Ministry of Education. He, Professor Chopyk, was actually allowed right into the stacks, to be surrounded by a rich storehouse of scholarly literature. So much for Professor Hoefert and his boast that he had been allowed into the stacks at the Lenin Library. This was a feather in Chopyk’s cap. Of course, he would not include in the notes that he had bribed the lowly assistant librarian (American dollars), the attendant (bottle of brandy) and even the security guard (flattery and a Cadbury’s bar) to allow him the brief two hours in the library’s inner sanctum. And that those two hours were ones in which the chief librarian was on her extended lunch hour or he would have stood no chance at all.
He set his pen down for a moment to relish the memory once more. The porthole was open a crack and a fresh morning breeze played across his face. Other wonderful events had crowded in since his time in the library: touring the art treasures of the Hermitage, attending the Kirov ballet, seeing the monumental statue of Mother Russia at the former Stalingrad, and cruising a stretch of the Volga where no other westerners had been allowed. Russia—no, the Soviet Union—was full of such grand experiences, though none could compare with those two hours spent among the ancient tomes of his linguistic mentors. The journal was filling up.
He supposed he would have to write something about the progress of the students—they would receive a grade, after all—and something about the leadership qualities of his second in command, Jennifer White. Chopyk frowned. It was difficult to write about Jennifer. On the one hand, she had done a miraculous job in bringing some of the younger students up to scratch with their Russian. Their verbal abilities had improved greatly during the trip. Of course, total immersion always did that. But they seemed to have more facility with the language, more interest in it. Their written skills had improved, too, if he could believe the mini-essays that Jennifer was assigning them. Even Linda Appleton, whose grammar was superb but who couldn’t string together a simple sentence, had improved. Last night she had actually delivered a brief oral report in Russian on the subject of architecture.

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Jazz with Ella

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“What do you mean by that?”
“Look, it doesn’t have your name on it.” She had the sensation of the floor moving away from her and decided to run for the door while her dignity was still intact.
Back in her cabin tears overwhelmed her. You give me hope. She missed Volodya more than ever. She sat on the bed and smoothed the crumpled paper, studying it, trying to understand what Chopyk had meant. True, it was not addressed to her but had been sent in care of Natasha Kuchkov as tour guide. A number followed—presumably that represented the bureaucratic Intourist agency’s official designation for the tour. If it had not been intended for her, then who? Did he really send it? Volodya was a very common name—and there was no last name. So how did Natasha know whom to check? And how did Natasha know the telegram was meant for her?
Her class that afternoon was conducted in a pall of discomfort. Most of the students had overheard the dispute in the dining room without knowing exactly what had transpired. She thought of having Paul lead the class instead of her but she couldn’t find him anywhere. The mood stayed with her through the formal dinner that evening, well into the hour of entertainment—several of the students had learned Russian poems or ditties and were amusing the Americans by reciting the translations—and it lasted on into the evening.
As she lay awake, she began to have doubts about her behaviour. Maybe Chopyk was only being a good guy, after all—meddlesome but showing genuine concern. Maybe Volodya was a dead loss. After some agonizing, she realized that Volodya must know Natasha. Of course. He must have known her when he had worked for Intourist. She had even said she was from Leningrad. They would have been colleagues. That would explain a lot. So maybe Natasha had known about Volodya and her all along. Could he have wanted Natasha to see the telegram—maybe to let her know that he was attempting to leave the country? Could it be that Natasha was helping? As Jennifer rolled on to her back in the cabin berth she felt the increased pressure from Volodya as if it were some live thing pressing on her chest. What a day! Even the strange comment from Hank in the hallway that morning. It all fit into the stew. She fervently hoped that sleep would give her some respite from her muddled thoughts.

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