August 1993: It’s disorienting, waking up in a different place and not being able to remember where on the globe you are today. I don’t know how the frequent flyers ever get used to it. When I opened my eyes that first morning at home in Virginia, it took a moment to realize that I was no longer in Moscow. And, quite frankly, I was a little disappointed. I had grown quite fond of that extraordinary, exciting place and its people, and being home seemed a bit of a letdown.

But it took just one phone call to snap me out of my fog. The call was from Frank — FBI Frank — who was looking forward to receiving a first-hand report on my summer in Moscow, since all he had heard from me during those months was that I was alive and well. “How about lunch?” he offered. The unpacking would have to wait another day, but I was in no hurry to attack that anyway. And I hadn’t been to the grocery store for provisions yet, so lunch actually sounded pretty good.

And thus began a period of frenzied activity, bouncing back and forth between my own business interests and Shvets’ book chapters being shuttled from Moscow to me to translator, back to me and on to the publishers. There were meetings with Natalya at the Russian Embassy, phone calls and faxes to and from my potential partners in Moscow, correspondence and meetings with possible sources of funding, and all the while double-checking the translations of Shvets’ chapters, and somehow finding time to keep Frank up to speed on all of it. It soon became obvious that my early return from Moscow had actually been fortuitous — there was just too much to do here at home.

Then I received word from Shvets’ literary agent, John Brockman, that he was about to issue invitations to both Shvets and Aksilenko to return to the United States for further meetings with the publishers. Really? Did they seriously expect to be able to leave Moscow again, so soon — less than four months since their last visit? I didn’t know what cover story they had cooked up as their reason for another trip, but I hoped it was a good one, for their sakes. In any event, I was relieved that I hadn’t been asked to send the invitations.

By this time, I was becoming less and less involved with the publishing venture, which was to be expected. After all, they had a literary agent working for them. My work with them was winding down. Soon I would be able to just back out completely, wait for the book to be finished and released, and collect my small share of the royalties.

But once again, what had seemed impossible became a reality. Before I knew it, it was fall, and Valentin Aksilenko had arrived — this time with his wife. Not long afterward, Yuri Shvets managed to find his way back to the States; his wife and two sons were to come later.

Wait . . . WHAT???!!! The wives and kids were invited? That was news to me. But Shvets had left Moscow without his family, and assumed they would be able to join him later. Was he insane . . . or just colossally stupid? No — not for one moment did I believe he was either of those things. There had to be another answer to all of it, and I was being kept out of the loop.

To begin with, the two men found nice furnished apartments in Alexandria, Virginia, that offered short-term rentals. And when they asked for my assistance with things like car shopping, applying for Social Security cards and such, it became blatantly obvious that they had no intention of returning to Russia. They were defecting, plain and simple — though they later defined their situation as “seeking asylum.”

Defection, asylum . . . Potato, potahto . . . Semantics.

Back in Moscow — and throughout Russia — new passports were being issued to all citizens by the government of the young Russian Federation to replace the old Soviet documents. But it was slow going, and Shvets’ younger son had not yet received his. This was the explanation I was given for the delay in the departure of the rest of the family. Finally, though, they decided to leave anyway, with the boy using his old passport, and were somehow able to board a flight for the U.S. — despite Yuri’s already being listed among the “missing” at home.

Don’t ask me — I don’t know. I never knew. And I still don’t have a clue as to how it all came together. As I said, I was being largely sidelined. I only know they made it, and by the end of 1993, the two families had moved into town houses in Virginia, in a lovely suburban area farther away from Washington. If you’re interested in Shvets’ telling of the story, you might read his book, Washington Station . . . Oh, wait, you probably can’t. It’s no longer available. Hasn’t been since shortly after its release, except for a few used copies on Amazon and such. But I’m getting ahead of myself again.

*. *. *

Soon, as seems to happen every twelve months, we slid into a new year. What would 1994 bring? If I had been able to look into the future . . . well, let me just say that it’s a good thing I’m not prone to bouts of depression. At first, though, the year seemed to be going pretty well. After some unexplained delays, Washington Station was nearly ready to be released — though not for another few weeks. And I had plenty of work to keep me occupied.

Then one day, at a meeting with Natalya at the Embassy, she showed me a brochure for an upcoming conference on doing business in Russia, to be held on the island of Malta in the Mediterranean in mid-February, and suggested that it might be of interest to me. Hmm . . . let me see now: a Mediterranean isle, a lovely hotel, delicious food, new people, business opportunities, and let’s not forget the world-class shopping. Yes, I could probably be convinced. I took the brochure and told her I’d look into it.

Since I was still in contact with Aksilenko and Shvets, though, and since the conference would be putting me in touch with Russian officials and entrepreneurs, I thought I’d run the plan past Eric — the newly assigned agent at the FBI following Frank’s recent retirement. I had also checked plane fares, and found that for just $300 additional, I could fly round-trip between Rome and Moscow, giving me the opportunity to touch base with my friends and business contacts there as long as I was already going to be on that side of the Atlantic. And a call to Gil Robinson confirmed that I would be able to stay in the Foundation’s apartment — my old home-away-from-home — for free. (I figured he owed me at least that much.) It seemed there was no downside to the plan, and Eric agreed that it appeared to be a good opportunity for me. I quickly registered for the conference, made my travel reservations, set up some meetings in Moscow for the second week, and let Olga and Lena know I was coming. I was about to hit the road again.

When I told Shvets and Aksilenko about my travel plans, Shvets — ever the opportunist — immediately said he’d like me to take a few gifts to his mother, whom he had left behind in Moscow. I had had no direct contact with him during the previous summer, and certainly had never met his mother. In fact, I didn’t even know he still had one. And I was frankly not thrilled at the prospect of meeting the woman he described as a “simple Russian grandmother” who spoke no English, but who I suspected was anything but simple. After all, look at the son she had spawned. Also, because I was to spend one week in the springtime weather of Malta, and a second week in the frigid winter weather of yet another Moscow February, I would have to bring clothes for both seasons, in addition to the planned gifts for my own friends. I already had as much as I could handle.

But I told him I would try to find room for just a couple of small items, and before my departure date, he came to my apartment carrying . . . seriously??!!! . . . a shopping bag filled with clothes, photographs and other items that couldn’t possibly fit into my airline allotment of one large suitcase and one carry-on. He was not amused when I told him I would do my best, but that I could probably only take a couple of things and he would have to send the rest to her later by international courier. So I chose what seemed to be the most important items, and left at home the bulk of what he had brought in the bag, to be returned to him later. But if he was unhappy that day, it was nothing compared to the way he was going to feel when I got back.

Traveling from Dulles Airport to Malta would turn out to be a little more complicated than I had anticipated. There was a change of planes in Rome, which I knew. But on top of that, the flights in and out of Rome first went through Milan, where all of the passengers had to disembark with their carry-on bags, claim their checked bags, go through Security in a distant part of the terminal, re-check their checked bags, and re-board the same plane with their carry-ons. Boot camp would have been easier. But I didn’t know all of that in advance. Sometimes ignorance truly is bliss.

So all of my reservations were made and confirmed, and I was scheduled to leave on February 10th, arriving in sunny Malta in plenty of time for the first day of the conference.

And then . . . as it tends to do in Washington in February . . . it snowed. And sleeted. And snowed some more. And the entire D.C. metropolitan area went into panic mode.

To be continued . . .

Brendochka
5/18/23 (re-posted 12/10/23)

The last goodbyes had been said, the last hugs exchanged, the last promises made to keep in touch. And a couple of days earlier I had made my final pilgrimage to Red Square, which — much like tossing a coin into the Trevi Fountain in Rome — had become my personal superstitious ritual, hopefully ensuring that I would some day return to this place. It had worked so far.

Last, but far from least, my portrait of Vladimir Lenin, still protected by its rickety wooden frame, had been carefully packed between layers of clothes in my biggest Samsonite suitcase. It just fit, thanks to Mr. Pivovarov’s having found a slightly smaller one for me than the one still hanging on his office wall. Now all I needed was a good cover story for the Customs people at the airport the following day, where the wooden frame would surely be caught on x-ray. It wasn’t an antique; but it was, technically, Russian government property.

Sleep eluded me that night as I lay staring at the ceiling, my mind a hopeless jumble of memories from my time in Russia: evenings at the ballet and opera, train rides to Kyiv, armsful of peonies, lunch at Militia Headquarters, burnt-out cars by the side of the road, caviar and ice cream (no, not eaten together), the KGB, the Russian Mafia, little girls with big hair bows, monasteries, the Fourth of July concert . . . and on and on and on. But most of all, there were the people I would miss: Olga, Lena, Vitold, Tamara, and even Maya. They had become my second family, and I had grown to love them.

On the other hand, I would of course be happy to be back with my first family and lifelong friends, and in my own apartment with all of its comforts and familiar surroundings. Little did I know, however, that life would not be calm and peaceful for some time to come. By inviting Valentin Aksilenko and Yuri Shvets to the U.S. in April, I had inadvertently opened a gigantic Pandora’s box of tsuris (Yiddish for “grief”). But for now, I just had to concentrate on getting back home.

I was dressed, packed and ready in the morning when my very own personal KGB escort, Vladimir Bragin, arrived as promised to whisk me out of town. With him was his sidekick, Militia Officer Kostylev, who apparently was to be the designated driver that day. And parked outside, waiting to transport us to Sheremetyevo Airport, was a late model Jeep Cherokee — a far cry from the broken-down truck that had brought me from the airport to my new home on my arrival in Moscow back in May. I was leaving in style, and for perhaps the hundredth time had to ask myself why. Yes, our little humanitarian aid organization did good work, but we didn’t bring millions of dollars into the Russian treasury. I wasn’t a government official, a movie star, or CEO of a major U.S. corporation. What was it that made us, or me, so special? I didn’t know the answer then, and I don’t know it today — not for certain. But it was great fun while it lasted.

There was one more goodbye to be said: to the lady at the little desk in the lobby. She wished me well, but I had the distinct feeling she was relieved to see me go. With the number and variety of people coming and going over the past months, I’m sure she was convinced I was running more than just a humanitarian aid foundation upstairs. And today, with this uniformed Militia officer and the other quiet guy and their big Jeep Cherokee . . . well, she wouldn’t be likely to miss me. And I couldn’t blame her.

Then there I was at last, seated between the two men in the front seat of the Cherokee, headed . . . in the wrong direction!!! What the hell?!! Why were we going south? The airport was north of the city. Was this my worst nightmare about to come true — the long drive to oblivion?

Well, no . . . it wasn’t. These guys had access to the “special lanes” reserved for top government officials, law enforcement, and the like. And they were headed for those lanes on what we would call the beltway, the nearest access road being slightly south of my apartment building. Once they were on the highway’s reserved lanes, where there were apparently no speed limits, they delighted in showing me what their vehicle could do, which — the last time I opened my eyes and looked at the speedometer — was registering 145 kilometers, or about 90 miles an hour. So, since apparently they weren’t going to take me out and shoot me, maybe they were just going to scare me to death instead. I began imagining my obituary in the Moscow Times , , ,

The fact that I am here today, writing this story, tells you that we made it to the airport without bursting into flames, and in plenty of time to get me, and my multiple pieces of luggage, through Customs. And now the suitcase with the Lenin portrait was about to pass through x-ray, and my two guardian angels were still standing behind me, watching over me to the very last. As the picture frame revealed itself, the Customs agent stopped the conveyor belt, studied the x-ray image, and said to me:

Him: “You have picture in suitcase.” (Duh!)

Me: “Yes.” (Brilliant comeback.)

Him: “What is it?”

Me: “It’s a souvenir.” (The absolute truth.)

Him: “Where you get it?”

Me: “The art market across the street from Gorky Park.” (Hmm . . . )

Okay, so that’s where I veered from the truth, just a teensy bit. But there was an art market across from Gorky Park, and I had been there, and maybe — just maybe — there could have been a Lenin portrait there at one time . . .

And that was when I observed the Customs agent looking past my shoulder, obviously at Bragin and Kostylev behind me; and I had a clear mental image of them gesturing with their hands to “let her go, let her go.” Or perhaps it was more like “get her the hell out of here already, we’re tired of babysitting her.” In any event, the agent looked at me — did I imagine the expression of respect, or maybe fear, in his eyes? — said “Hokay,” and passed my bags through, stamping my passport and handing it back to me. I turned around, said one more quick goodbye and thanks to my two bodyguards, and headed toward the departure gates.

Once again, I lacked the ability to see into the future; I had no idea that I was not to have seen the last of Vladimir Bragin. But that’s a tale for another time.

After my elegant transport to the airport, my airline reservation was, to say the very least, disappointing. Trying to save a few more dollars at my expense, Gil Robinson had booked me on Aeroflot all the way from Moscow to Washington, though as a concession I was at least seated in what was laughingly called “first class.” All that meant was more leg room. There was no division between the sections of the plane, and smoking was allowed in coach. It seemed that all Russian men smoked, so the thick gray cloud from the back of the plane easily found its way forward. The seats were incredibly soft, which may sound like a good thing, but they were hardly ergonomic. And when you stood up, the back of the seat flopped forward onto the seat itself. It wasn’t that mine was broken; they were actually designed that way.

As for the luggage rack, it was just that: an overhead rack, with a rope stretched across the front to (hopefully) hold the bags in place — no doors. If we encountered any turbulence, I guess we were just supposed to cover our heads and duck. I found myself wondering which century had given birth to this incredible flying machine, and who had cleared it for today’s flight — Mr. Magoo?

There was one other American passenger aboard, a man in the row ahead of mine, who pointedly ignored me and buried his face in a book or some sort of paper work throughout the flight. Interestingly, the flight attendant correctly spoke to him in English, but when she approached me, she immediately switched to Russian — even though she knew perfectly well I was also American. I felt as though everyone in Moscow knew me and I was always being watched, or watched over — and frankly, it was getting on my nerves.

I hadn’t been feeling particularly well that morning — probably from the excessive amount of food I’d forced down my gullet at Petrovka the previous day, followed by today’s terrifying ride to the airport. So when the attendant asked what I would like to eat, I told her I didn’t want anything because my stomach was a bit upset — which threw her into a frenzy. Her job description required her to take care of the passengers, and she didn’t seem to know what to do when something disrupted her routine. She did seem genuinely concerned, though, and kept trying to find some way she could be of help — offering me medicine, or even a doctor. (I had to wonder where she was going to find one of those at 30,000 feet, but no matter.) So I finally asked for a cup of tea, and she went away happy, returning quickly with an entire pot of a delicious Russian brew. It actually did make me feel a bit better, and she was satisfied that she had done her job.

The rest of the non-stop flight, I am happy to say, was smooth and uneventful. I even managed to catch up on some of the sleep I had missed the night before, and awoke feeling almost normal. When the plane touched down at Dulles Airport outside of Washington, D.C., I heaved a gigantic sigh of relief. I had not, until that moment, realized how stressful living in Russia really had been — my body, and my mind, both constantly on the alert for . . . what? Almost anything, really. I desperately needed a spa day, and as we taxied toward the terminal, I made a mental note to place that at the top of my new to-do list.

Making my way to the baggage claim area, I managed to locate and retrieve all of my bags — though not before reaching for one that was identical to mine but, as it turned out, belonged to a Russian TASS journalist (that’s a real thing, but it’s also frequently used as a cover for KGB officers in foreign countries). When I saw the large ID tag on his suitcase, I immediately pulled my hand back, just in time to see him grab the bag and shoot me a really nasty look. I muttered “sorry” in Russian, which threw him momentarily; then I took the pieces that actually did belong to me and piled them onto two airport luggage carts.

Wheeling one ahead and dragging the other behind — and feeling oddly like Dr. Dolittle’s “Pushmi-Pullyu” — I headed for the Customs area for U.S. citizens and spotted an empty lane. The agent, seeing me with two carts piled high with bags, looked around for another person who should have been accompanying me. Not finding anyone else, he asked, “Are all of those yours?” and when I said they were, he inquired as to where I had been and for how long. I told him “Moscow, for three and a half months,” to which he nodded, smiled sympathetically, said “Welcome home, ma’am,” stamped my passport, and waved me through. I could have been bringing home a Faberge egg from the Kremlin Armory Museum, and no one would have been the wiser. Too bad I didn’t know that in advance!

My sister was waiting to greet me on the other side of Customs, and seeing her made me realize I was really at home. When we arrived at my apartment, all I wanted was a shower and my bed. Most of the unpacking could wait until the next day, but I did pull out the gifts I had brought for her and a few others. And for myself there was the proud unveiling of the precious Lenin portrait, which had survived the trip undamaged. He had to be reframed, of course, and I had the perfect spot in which to hang him, directly over my desk in my home office. Within a few days, he had an expensive new frame, and he has resided above my desk for the past thirty years. In fact, as I write these words, he is still glaring down at me from my wall. I was once offered $1,000 for him, but I wouldn’t sell; his grim countenance helps to keep alive the memories of those days . . . and my brief career as a smuggler.

So now it was back to the real world of closing out my relationship with Gil Robinson’s Foundation, continuing my search for financing for my business school project, receiving and dealing with the chapters of Shvets’ book being sent to me from Moscow, and generally regaining some semblance of normalcy in my life. But that’s not so easy to do with the FBI knocking at the door. It all became a juggling act, which I will go into next time. ‘Til then . . .

Do svidaniye,
Brendochka
5/11/23 (re-posted 12/9/23)

August 1993. Petrovka 38 was one of several buildings in Moscow that no sane Muscovite would ever want to see from the inside — right up there with Lubyanka (KGB HQ) and the notorious Lefortovo Prison. They were sure that, once they entered Petrovka, they would never again see the light of day. That may have been an exaggeration in most cases, but there was always that possibility.

Our first meeting with Messrs. Pashkin, Bragin and Kostylev had been held in an auxiliary building around the corner; but our final gathering was to take place in the main building — a sprawling, dark, solid, forbidding structure fronted by sturdy iron gates. This was the headquarters of the Moscow Militia, and it was meant to be taken seriously.

Gil Robinson was not in Moscow at the time, so just Lena and I were on our way with our trusty driver Vitold — who wished us well and said he’d be waiting for us outside . . . when and if we came out. Lena really didn’t need his lame attempt at humor to add to her already obvious nervousness; but to her credit, she screwed up every ounce of courage she had and walked right into that building with me.

Already present, of course, were the Militia representatives, Mikhail Pashkin and Igor Kostylev. And with them stood my KGB watchdog, Vladimir Bragin, who seemed that summer to be everywhere, all the time. An early arrival was our local foodie, Mr. Pivovarov, who I was told was already in the kitchen preparing lunch. Lena and I were given a brief tour of the public parts of the building; thankfully, no one found it necessary to show us the cells or “interrogation” rooms. Pashkin told me I was only the second American ever to have visited Petrovka 38, the first having been a top (unnamed) U.S. Government official; but somehow I felt he might simply have been trying to make me feel important. True or not, though, it sounded good.

Then we were guided into the “dining room”: a large rectangular room, bare except for a very long, well-worn table surrounded by a couple of dozen chairs — obviously the lunch room for the lower-ranking officers. Seated and waiting patiently on one long side, facing us as we entered the room, were twelve of the biggest, scruffiest, meanest-looking, ugliest human beings I have ever seen gathered in one place. They stopped talking amongst themselves as soon as we entered the room, and were collectively introduced by Pashkin as undercover Militia officers (no names). They had obviously been chosen for their jobs based on their toughness and ruthlessness, and trained to deal with the worst of the worst of the Moscow criminal element — to whom they actually bore an uncanny resemblance. These twelve lucky winners had been selected to have lunch with their boss and the clearly crazy — for why else would she have been there? — American lady now taking her seat on the opposite side of the table.

As I looked at my luncheon companions, my first thought was: “Holy Mother of God! What have I ever done to deserve this?” On the one hand, I felt like Daniel in the lion’s den. But on the other hand, here was a truly unique opportunity to meet a radically different type of individuals from any I had ever known — a once-in-a-lifetime experience that I would surely never forget (and obviously never have). Unfortunately, I wouldn’t have been allowed to photograph them even if I had been foolish enough to ask. I still see them in my mind’s eye, though. And they’re still not pretty.

Lunch wasn’t quite ready yet, so it fell to me to try to make some sort of conversation with Moscow’s answer to the Dirty Dozen — none of whom, apparently, spoke English. Lena was there to translate, but what the hell do you say to these guys? “Where did you go to school?” “How’s business?” “Beaten anyone to death lately?” Not cool. So I started by telling them my name, where I was from, and what our Foundation was doing in Moscow, then waited for some sort of response. Nothing. Not a murmur or a spark of interest from any of them. I felt like a stand-up comic who had just bombed at the Comedy Club.

And just then, thankfully, the food arrived. There was Pivovarov, with a couple of conscripts from the kitchen, and a whole lot of veggie burgers and side dishes. The meal was actually quite well-prepared and tasty, and those twelve cops dug in as though they hadn’t been fed for days. Come to think of it, maybe they hadn’t, just to ensure their eager reaction to our food. In any event, they ate quickly, a couple of them belched in apparent satisfaction, and — on a silent signal from Pashkin — they all got up and left, still without a word. Had they been cautioned not to speak? Were they incapable of carrying on a normal conversation? Or had they simply forgotten how to say “thank you”? I considered calling out “you’re welcome” as they left, but decided it would be a waste of breath. Also, I wasn’t sure they’d appreciate the sarcasm — and I really didn’t want to annoy them! Any one of them could have snapped me like a twig.

*. *. *

At this point, I realized that I needed to use the ladies’ room, and asked if there was one. Yes, indeed there was . . . down the stairway and at the end of a long hall in the basement. Lena and I were not about to split up, so she came with me, whether she needed to or not. We found our way without difficulty, and were amazed to walk into a sparkling clean rest room in excellent condition. There were individual stalls, with doors and functional locks; and all of the plumbing was in perfect working order. Very impressive, indeed.

As we left the ladies’ room and retraced our steps along the hallway toward the stairs, I noticed an alcove in the wall that I hadn’t observed from the opposite direction. And in that alcove was something I certainly hadn’t expected: a pile of bones. A gigantic, perfectly cleaned and preserved, stark white . . . rib cage, lying on its back on the floor. I came to a screeching halt, at which point Lena saw what I had been looking at and clapped her hands over her mouth to keep from screaming. What — or who — was this??!!!

But a second look told me those bones couldn’t be human; they were much too large. And then of course I couldn’t resist. Placing the back of my hand dramatically against my forehead, and in my best Shakespearean voice (which admittedly is not very Shakespearean at all), I intoned: “Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him well . . .” And Lena laughed, also realizing by now that these could not possibly be the bones of a human being. Still, what were they, and what on earth were they doing there, in plain sight? But whatever the answer, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity. I had a small camera in my purse, and Lena stood watch while I hurriedly snapped a couple of pictures. Then we headed back upstairs, giggling like a pair of schoolgirls, before someone thought to ask what was taking us so long.

I had wondered why our hosts hadn’t eaten with us, and I got my answer when Pashkin announced that he had a little surprise for us. We were led into what was apparently the “executive” dining room, with a somewhat smaller table nicely set with real china, where we were presented with yet a second repast: huge servings of tender, perfectly-prepared steak with all the trimmings — and of course, vodka. This was indeed an honor. But why, then, had they let Lena and me eat all that other food? It’s not as though either of us looked malnourished. But eat, we did; and this time Messrs. Pashkin, Kostylev, Bragin and Pivovarov happily joined us. I found myself wishing I could ask for a to-go box so I could bring my portion to poor Vitold out in the car, but . . . well, no. That would have been unspeakably rude.

(Hey, wait a minute! Could those bones have been from the steer that gave its life for our steak dinner? Hmmm . . . )

*. *. *

As our second feast was winding down, and we were all basking in a warm, vodka-induced glow, I found a moment to quietly ask Pivovarov about the Lenin portrait. He smiled and inquired whether I had a car and driver with me. When I said I did, he requested that we drive him to his office — he had the portrait ready for me. I was thrilled, and had made sure to bring along enough cash, just in case. It would have been simpler if he’d brought the picture with him; but I understood that he wouldn’t have wanted any witnesses to his little transaction, which was most likely against one or more laws regarding the “liberation” and sale of government property for personal profit — and especially not here, in Militia Headquarters.

Then as we were saying our farewells, Bragin asked what time my flight was scheduled to leave the next day, and said that he would pick me up at my apartment and drive me to the airport. I thanked him for the offer, but told him that Vitold was available to drive me . . . but he insisted that it was no trouble, and told me what time he would be there, around two hours before flight time. It was not a question. And when in Russia, it’s seldom a good idea to try to argue with the KGB. So I thanked him again and said I’d see him in the morning . . . and then spent the rest of the night wondering why I continued to warrant such royal treatment. Again, my mental meanderings led me to question whether it might have anything to do with Valentin Aksilenko, and if so, what was going on that I didn’t know about.

Vitold, of course, was waiting patiently in the car across the street when we left the building, and was clearly relieved to see us. I explained that Pivovarov needed a ride to his office as he had something for me there, and we took off across town once again. Lena and Vitold waited in the car while I went upstairs to the office, where I found the Lenin portrait still hanging on the wall above the desk. But there was another one, slightly smaller, that he had probably scrounged from another office or a dusty basement somewhere and had carefully wrapped in newspaper and twine. He pulled back a corner of the wrapper to show that it was the real thing, and I paid him, thanked him profusely, and headed downstairs with my bounty. When Vitold saw me, he asked how on earth I planned to get that thing home; and I realized I hadn’t figured that out yet. Oops. But I knew I’d manage it somehow; it was just too good to leave behind.

And so we finally headed back to the office. I still had some packing to finish, a framed portrait to deal with, several dear friends to bid farewell, and an early flight to catch. I could make up for the sleep I would miss that night, on the plane tomorrow.

*. *. *

But even leaving Moscow was to prove out of the ordinary — yet another tale for the next chapter. And until then, dear readers, I remain faithfully yours . . .

Brendochka
5/4/23 (re-posted 12/8/23)

August 1993. I was preparing for my departure from Moscow, and I was — to put it mildly — pissed.

I was supposed to have had a two-week hiatus at home, then returned to Russia for the remainder of the year; but I had just been advised by Gil Robinson that the Foundation’s budget had somehow suffered a shortfall and I was to be the sacrificial lamb, to be replaced by Maya — who worked (more or less) for a much lower salary, of course. I knew where the money had gone — nothing illegal, certainly, but definitely wasteful and irresponsible. Obviously, I was not a happy camper. And there was the fact that our American Foundation would be left without an American on-site administrator. However, fighting it would have proven divisive and counter-productive, so I chose to shut up and suck it up. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!

But enough grumbling. The fact is, I was preparing to pack it in within the next couple of weeks. And first there were things to be done: a good bit of Foundation business . . . and a couple of personal matters.

With the end of my time in Moscow approaching, I began thinking about some of the small but memorable incidents of the past months. Like the day I went for a walk in the neighborhood and saw two young women approaching with arms full of gorgeous pink peonies — one of my two favorite flowers (the other being lilacs). I stopped them and asked where I could buy some of the blooms, and they smiled, saying they hadn’t bought them, but had picked them somewhere. When they saw my disappointment, they asked where I was from, and when I said I was an American from Washington — remember, this was a time when we were much loved in Russia — one of the girls just handed me half of her armful of peonies and insisted that I accept them as a gesture of friendship. Those flowers filled my apartment with their fragrance for days, and the memory still fills my heart with joy. The world could use more peonies.

Made you smile, didn’t they?

*. *. *

Then there was the woman in the Metro with a little girl around five or six years old and two big bags of groceries, but only two hands when she clearly needed three. As I was approaching the top of the escalator to head down into what looked like a quick ride to the center of the earth, the woman walked up to me, nudged her little girl toward me and demanded, rather than requested, that I help her child onto the escalator. With a crowd of people close behind us, there was no time to think, much less quibble; so I took hold of the girl’s hand, jumped with her onto the fast-moving escalator, and saw the mother jump on behind us, still clutching her groceries. They both were apparently expert at this maneuver.

The little girl was adorable, with two big bows anchoring her pigtails in the old Russian style, and was obviously shy. In my most friendly voice I told her my name and asked hers, but she just stared down at her feet. I said I was from America, far away, but still no response. When we finally reached the bottom, we both jumped off, her mother following close behind. The little girl then ran to her mother’s side and they hurried off — without so much as a “thank you” or “goodbye.” Nothing. I assumed she had mistaken me for a Russian woman (which happened from time to time), and that this was just how things were done there; I really don’t know. But can anyone imagine an American mother entrusting her child to a stranger that way? “Hey, you, take my kid.” I must have a really honest face.

*. *. *

Another incident that has stayed with me had to do with an ice cream vendor in a kiosk located along our usual route home from the city center. Vitold introduced me to it, and I decided to stock the freezer with the yummy treat to share with my co-workers. There wasn’t much of a selection; actually, there was none at all. You either liked vanilla or you were out of luck. And it was sold by the “brick,” which as I recall weighed about a fourth of a kilo, or just over half a pound, each brick wrapped in some sort of butcher’s paper. So one day we stopped there, and while Vitold guarded the car, I stood in line at the kiosk. When it was my turn, I asked the lady, in my best Russian, for eight bricks, and held up eight fingers to be sure she understood me.

Oh, she understood, all right. But what she didn’t understand was what anyone was going to do with four and a half pounds of ice cream. So she demanded, in a voice resembling my fourth-grade teacher’s, “Eight?! What for?” Knowing that it would be the height of rudeness to brag about having the luxury of a freezer at home, I came up with a quick answer I thought would satisfy her: “For my friends at work.” And for probably the first time that day, she smiled. In fact, she liked my answer — and me — so much that when I came back again another day, she greeted me like an old friend and handed over my eight bricks of ice cream without even being asked.

By the way, there is — or was then — no such thing as low-fat ice cream in Russia. To hell with calories and cholesterol; you may as well die with a smile on your face — and a few extra inches on the hips.

*. *. *

I could have gone on daydreaming, but it was time to begin wrapping things up. Unbelievably, one of the first things on my to-do list was taking Maya to the American Embassy to obtain her visa in order to fulfill one of her long-time dreams: a visit to the United States. Yes, that’s right: somehow money had been found in the budget for her plane fare and a one-week stay for . . . I believe it was called on her visa application . . . “training,” or perhaps “orientation.” She was supposed to develop, in just one short week, the skills it had taken me thirty-plus years to hone. It doesn’t matter what you call it — it stank. But as the manager of the Moscow office, I had to vouch for her to our State Department. So we spent a couple of hours in the visa office, being grumped at by an American Consular officer who clearly wanted to be anywhere but where he was, until finally he was satisfied that Maya did not pose a threat to U.S. security, and approved her application.

On leaving the Embassy and heading toward the nearest Metro station, we had to cross a popular cut-through street that ended in a “T” at the busier road and had only a stop sign — which was mostly being ignored by the frazzled drivers turning onto the main road. Pedestrian right-of-way appeared to be an unknown concept in Moscow, despite the presence of crosswalks, and we stood on the sidewalk for a full five minutes, waiting for a break in the traffic that never happened. Predictably, I finally lost patience. With Maya shouting for me to stop, I decided to take my chances with an oncoming black Mercedes — a rarity in those days, and obviously belonging to someone of the criminal persuasion. It appeared to be slowing for the stop sign, so I stepped off the curb, walked to the middle of the street, stood my ground, and held out my right hand in what I hoped was a good imitation of a Moscow traffic cop. All I needed was a whistle.

As I looked more closely at the driver and the other occupants of the approaching Mercedes, I saw four rather tough-looking men, well-dressed, and sporting aviator sunglasses: clearly Mafiosi. I heard Maya screaming, “Brenda! Are you crazy? Do you know who they are???” Well, sure, I knew who they were — but I couldn’t back down now, could I? The car stopped; the driver looked at me for a moment with an angry scowl; then he unexpectedly broke into a huge smile, bowed his head toward me, and dramatically waved his arm from left to right in a gesture inviting me to continue across. I smiled back, bowed my head in return, mouthed “spasibo” (“thank you”), and continued on my way to the opposite curb. Once again, I had proven that you have as much power as you can make others think you have. Armed border guards, KGB officers, Mafia dons — no difference, really.

Then, of course, I had to wait another five minutes for Maya to make her way across the street. But it was worth it, just seeing the fear on her face when I confronted that Mercedes. (Yes, I know that’s sadistic, but she wasn’t my favorite person at that moment, and sometimes you just have to grab your pleasure when you can.) When she asked what on earth I had been thinking, I told her that those men — regardless of who they were — undoubtedly had mothers, wives, sisters, and/or girlfriends, and wouldn’t be likely to run over a woman unless she was pointing a gun at them. Another calculated risk taken . . . and survived. Moscow was such fun.

*. *. *

We were scheduled to present a luncheon promoting our much-touted veggie burger at Petrovka Headquarters on the day before my departure from Moscow, so there were still preparations to be completed for that event. Co-hosting the luncheon, and instructing the “chef” at Petrovka, would be one Vladimir Pivovarov, then head of the Department of Alimentation (Nutrition), whom I had not yet met. I had a meeting scheduled with him a couple of days prior to the luncheon.

When I arrived at his office — a second-floor walkup in an old building on Leninsky Prospekt, away from the center of the city — the first thing I noticed was a portrait on the wall of Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov, better known as Vladimir Lenin. Those mass-produced portraits had occupied a place of honor in every single government office and every single shop and factory throughout the entire Soviet Union. But since the dissolution of the USSR at the end of 1991, they had rapidly disappeared from most of those walls. The fact that Pivovarov still had his copy proudly on display spoke volumes to me about his political leanings. Or perhaps he was just too lazy to take it down. In any event, I suddenly had another of my diabolical little ideas.

When we had finished our discussion of the arrangements for the luncheon, I stood up as though to leave, but then hesitated. Pointing at the Lenin picture, I asked, “Would you be willing to sell that, and if so, for how much?” Clearly taken by surprise, he said he had no idea, as he had never been asked that before. I told him I would pay $50 for it, and he could think it over until our next meeting two days later. In 1993, $50 in hard currency was a lot of money to an underpaid government apparatchik, and I was pretty sure I would be going home with Lenin in my luggage . . . somehow.

*. *. *

On the personal business side, there was also one more meeting to be held with Valentin Aksilenko before leaving. He came to my apartment on a Sunday, when none of my co-workers were there. We made small talk for a while about my departure, whether I was glad to be going home, etc. Then, pointing at the ceiling and placing a finger across his lips in the universal signal that someone might be listening, he handed me a plain, white, letter-sized envelope and gestured toward a desk drawer, indicating that I should get it out of sight. Finally he said out loud that he had to leave, and silently gestured that I should go outside with him. I replied that I would walk him out and we left the confines of the apartment, remaining silent in the elevator and as we passed the lady at the desk on the ground floor. I felt as though I was taking part in a really bad spy movie.

Directly outside the entrance was a rather busy parking area for residents of the building, so we walked around the corner toward the street. But he stopped along the side of the building and motioned to a specific spot where we should stand and finish our conversation. It was a rather odd place to stop, completely empty and exposed, and it appeared that he had pre-selected it. As I glanced at the neighboring building, just a driveway’s width away, I spotted a man standing on his second-floor balcony, leaning on the railing and making no secret of the fact that he was watching us — whether out of simple curiosity, or for some other reason, I had no way of knowing. I mentioned him to Valentin, but, without even looking up, he simply shrugged and said not to worry about it.

Not to worry? His nonchalance alone was cause for concern, especially considering his extreme caution just moments before. Did he already know the man was there? Had he intentionally chosen this spot to stand and talk? Who was that person? This was more than a little weird, and I was beginning to feel seriously creeped out.

We stood there and talked for ten minutes or so about Yuri Shvets’ continuing work on his book, during which time he also cautioned me to guard the contents of the envelope he had given me very carefully. I was to keep it for him until next we met, presumably in Washington. I didn’t like this at all. — Not. One. Bit.

Then we shook hands and said goodbye once again. He walked away toward the street, and I wondered whether that would be the last time I would ever see him. I turned in the opposite direction and headed back toward my building entrance, catching a glimpse in my peripheral vision of the man still watching from his balcony. It took every ounce of self-control I could muster to keep from looking directly up at him. I slept fitfully that night, dreaming that people were trying to break into the apartment, and waking several times in a cold sweat.

*. *. *

But despite the lack of sleep, I still had to survive my final appearance the next day at Petrovka 38, where — unbeknownst to me that night — I would be facing a dozen terrifying plain-clothes Militia strongmen, Officer Bragin from the KGB, and a huge surprise in the basement. Details to follow, next time.

TTFN,
Brendochka
4/27/23 (re-posted 12/6/23)