In 1984, I enrolled in an evening course at the local community college. My children were grown, and I found myself luxuriating in some quiet time in the evenings and on weekends. Watching what passed for TV entertainment was not an exciting option, and I’m simply not an artsy-craftsy person (no talent); so I decided on the next most logical thing to fill my free time: the study of a second language. Why not?

Actually, at the time, I was envious of some of my co-workers who were bilingual or multilingual. When I thought about studying a foreign tongue, I recalled high school French class, where I had learned the grammar and vocabulary but exhibited what any self-respecting Parisian would consider a truly insulting accent. So that’s when I came up with the obvious next choice: Russian. “Why obvious?” you ask? Well, it was a genetic thing. All four of my grandparents had emigrated in the early 1900s from what is now Ukraine but was then part of the greater Russian Empire, and their entry documents to the United States listed their nationalities as Russian. So I have always identified as a second-generation American of Russian descent, until recently; now I proudly introduce myself as a second-generation American of Ukrainian descent, for obvious reasons. But something about Russia stays with me: her history, her culture . . . even her interminable misery.

Our class, which met twice a week, started out with about 27 students. By the end of the first semester, we were down to a close-knit, hardcore group of 12 survivors. Some called us masochists, but we didn’t agree. Together with our amazing teacher — a delightful lady from Moscow named Ekaterina, who was now a citizen of the U.S. — we had a wonderful time exploring the intricacies of an impossible language, and delving into Russian history, literature, and politics on the side. One day, when Ekaterina learned of my Russian/Ukrainian ancestry, she shook a finger at me and exclaimed, “Aha! It’s in your blood” — thereby consigning me to a lifetime obsession with all things Slavic.

After three years, one of my classmate friends, a German woman named Gisela, and I decided it was time to get a first-hand look at the mysterious place we had been studying for so long. In 1987, we began planning and putting aside money for our trip, and in August of 1988, we were off. Which is just what our families and friends thought we were when we told them where we had chosen to take our big (and my first) overseas vacation. We didn’t care. We signed up with a tour leaving in mid-August, packed some clothes, walking shoes, and every over-the-counter medication we could think of, and headed into the unknown.

But first . . .

Oh, yes, first there was my boss Walter Surrey’s reaction. When I told him of my plans, his initial thought was, “Well, what am I going to do for two weeks?” Then, sensing a business opportunity, he remembered Viktor Akimov. And he also remembered a client who had been trying to sell his company’s product, an electric men’s shaver, in various parts of the world including Russia. And here was I, the perfect middleman. So, contrary to Russian law restricting foreigners’ business activities under tourist visas, two electric shavers also went into my luggage as “gifts” for Walter’s old friend Viktor.

We sent a telex — high-tech in those times — to Viktor, advising him of my impending arrival and itinerary. We did not hear back from him before my departure date, but I had his phone number with me, and instructions to ditch the shavers before coming home if I was unable to find him.

After an exhausting trip from DC to New York and overnight from New York to Moscow (an eight-hour time difference), we arrived at Sheremetyevo Airport looking like a bunch of . . . well . . . just what we were: bedraggled American tourists. We were greeted by Tamara, our official Intourist guide (one of a slew of government-controlled organizations directly answerable to the KGB), claimed our luggage, and headed for Passport Control. There were two lines open, and I was steered to one that was manned by a tall, blond, handsome young man with an appropriately stern facial expression. I put my passport, open to the front page, in the little tray at the base of the bullet-proof glass window. He picked it up, checked the visa, looked at the picture, looked at me, looked at the picture, looked at me, looked at . . . oh, well, you get the idea. Then he asked, in his best, heavily-accented English, “This your photo?” At the time, I was a 40-something, reasonably decent-looking redhead, not easily disguised, so yes, it was obviously my photo. I replied, in my best, American-accented Russian, “Yes, that is I.” Ekaterina was a stickler for grammar.

Tall-blond-and-handsome began again: looked at the passport, looked at me, looked at the passport, etc., and finally asked: “You sure this your photo?”

Enough, already. The impatient, impetuous, and somewhat impish American in me burst forth, and I smiled, this time answering in English: “Well, it’s not Raisa Gorbachev.”

Oh, my God! This was the hockey puck fiasco all over again (see last week’s episode), but worse — I was now on their turf. I began to wonder what the inside of a Russian prison looked like and what the usual sentence was for being an American smart-ass.

But miraculously, “Sourpuss” broke rank and actually smiled. Barely managing to stifle an audible laugh, he stamped my passport and waved me through, and I knew I had made his day. Welcome to Moscow, Mrs. Gorbachev — or whoever you are.

After a long and thorough clearance procedure through Customs, we were finally in a bus on our way to the impressively large Cosmos Hotel, nowhere near the center of Moscow but still within the city limits. The outside was fairly nice; the interior, not so much. Face it: it was shabby, without the chic. Our luggage made it off the bus and into the lobby, and when everyone else had claimed their two bags, there remained . . . nothing. An empty cart. My bags were nowhere to be seen.

“TAMARA!!!”

Poor Tamara. Missing luggage was the last thing she needed to deal with. Muttering a very Russian “Oy,” she set to work earning her pay. She consulted someone at the front desk, who shrugged and said something unintelligible while waving a hand in the direction of a staircase. Tamara told me that I had to go — by myself, since she couldn’t leave the rest of the group — downstairs to “Lost and Found.” In the basement. Of an enormous Russian hotel. In Moscow. Alone. Even Gisela wasn’t allowed to come with me.

With our exhausted and puzzled group waiting anxiously in the lobby, I steered my shaky legs down the steps to a large, dimly-lighted, unfurnished and unoccupied room. I called out — “Hello?” — and waited. After a few seconds, I called out again, louder. “Hello?!!” Finally, a man emerged from behind a closed door, and I told him I was looking for my two suitcases. Showing him my baggage claim check, and carefully spelling my name, I waited while he went back through the same doorway. About 12 hours later — all right, it was just a couple of minutes, but it felt . . . you know — he returned, miraculously with my actual bags, which seemed no worse for the wear. I resisted hugging him, but did say thank you about 100 times, and struggled back up the steps, shlepping my bags behind me. My fellow travelers heaved a collective sigh of relief when I returned in one piece, and we all headed for our assigned rooms. But as Tamara handed Gisela’s and my room keys to us, I swear she looked at me strangely. Or was I simply coming down with early symptoms of Soviet paranoia? I didn’t have any pills for that.

By now, we had been in Russia for several hours, between the lengthy airport processing, the bus ride, and the mystery of the disappearing suitcases, and it was nearly time for lunch with our group in the hotel dining room. There was just enough time to take our things to our room. Gisela and I reached our floor and introduced ourselves to the dezhurnaya — the female concierge (a.k.a. watchdog) on every floor — entered our room, set our bags down, began to look around . . . and the phone rang. “What the hell . . . ?”

Well, when a phone rings, you answer it — right? So I did, and a man whose voice I didn’t recognize asked for me by name. He introduced himself as Georgi Karpov (not his real name), a colleague of Viktor Akimov, who he said was on holiday and had asked him to get in touch with me as requested in Walter’s telex. All of that made sense, but what was totally spooky was the timing of his call, as though he had known precisely when we reached our room. Maybe it really was coincidence. Or that pesky paranoia.

In any event, we arranged to meet in the hotel’s coffee shop the next morning at 9:00, right after the group’s scheduled 8:00 breakfast. And then I had to tell Tamara that Gisela and I wouldn’t be joining the group on their first tour the following day because I had an early meeting with an official from the Foreign Ministry, after which we had an appointment at the American Embassy. Way to blend into the crowd, Brenda. Predictably, Tamara was less than amused, but had no recourse. I knew that she was, however, required to report any anomalies to her superiors, who in turn reported directly to the scary folks at KGB headquarters. First day, and I’m already on their radar. Oh boy!

After a quick lunch in the hotel dining room, we were herded back onto our bus for a driving tour of some of the city’s highlights — no stops, but views of the outside of the Kremlin, the entrance to Red Square, the front of the Bolshoi Theatre, and the like. The real tours were to start the next day. Then dinner in a rather nice restaurant, back to the hotel, and up to bed. As we unpacked our bags, Gisela and I staged the first of what were to become our nightly chats for the benefit of the hidden microphones in the room; found that the shower actually dispensed hot water; and slept rather soundly, all things considered. So far, so good.

* *. *

This tale is getting a bit long for a single post, so I will leave you here until next week, when I will expand on Mr. Karpov and his attempted provocation; the “gypsy” (unregistered) cab driver and his attempted provocation; a near-kidnapping (us) and an actual drug bust (not us) in Tbilisi, Georgia; and perhaps a few other improbable but absolutely true tales from the pages of my journals. See you then.

Brendochka
1/5/23

Whew! Christmas has come and gone, and we stand once more on the cusp of a new year. I hope everyone made it through the snowy, blowy holiday without too much difficulty, and that we can all ease into 2023 in good spirits — and I don’t just mean a hot toddy . . . though that’s not a bad place to start.

Now, to pick up where I left off last week . . .

If you think hard enough, you’re likely to recall one moment in your life when an event, a chance encounter or a decision changed the entire course of your future. In my case, it was taking a job I wasn’t even sure was right for me (or vice-versa). In fact, none of my most memorable adventures would have taken place were it not for that job and one extraordinary individual: the late Walter Sterling Surrey. So it’s only fitting that I begin this week’s post with a bit about him.

Walter was short, rather homely, and totally unremarkable — until he began to speak. That’s when the force of his personality, his brilliant mind, and his Puckish humor made themselves known, but without ego or pretension. It was that force that convinced me to accept the job offer and give international law a try.

Walter was a prominent Washington attorney with an expansive international transactional practice and clients doing business in such scary places as China, the Soviet Union and Iran. Before that, he had been in the OSS (precursor to the CIA) during World War II; joined the U.S. Department of Justice after the war; then moved to the State Department, where he became the chief legal draftsman of both the Marshall Plan and the NATO Treaty. Later, he worked with Richard Nixon and Henry Kissinger to reopen relations with “Red” China. Not a bad resume.

What I loved most about Walter, though, were his totally irreverent sense of humor and his genuine concern for people. It’s the down-to-earth side of him I’ll be sharing with you from time to time, beginning now.

But first, a brief personal note: I am a night person. I hate early mornings. They’re way up there on my “things-to-avoid-at-all-costs” list, right next to cleaning the toilet and scooping dog poop with nothing but an inverted plastic baggie between my naked hand and the steaming pile of poop. Oh, and cilantro, which to me tastes like soap.

However, like most of the rest of the world, I spent the greater part of my life conforming to someone else’s idea of a “normal” workday: up with the *#&#*$*! alarm clock; fighting the morning rush-hour traffic in all sorts of weather; fighting the mid-afternoon energy slump; fighting the evening rush-hour traffic in the same lousy weather; and — after all of the fighting was over for the day — falling asleep on the couch around 9 p.m. in the middle of a TV rerun that had been dreadful the first, second and third times around so why was I watching it again with a half-eaten Chinese takeout dinner congealing in its container on the tray table by my side?

It was different, though, for the ten years I worked with Walter, at a time when the practice of law was first and foremost about service to the client, and not just the almighty dollar. I was happily up before the sun, out of the house by 7:15 (a.m.!), in the office by 8, breakfast and lunch at my desk, no time for a mid-afternoon energy crash, on the go at Mach speed until 6:30 or later, having side-stepped the worst of both rush hours, and still raring to go for the next day.

God, how I loved that job!!

Most of Walter’s early mornings in the office were devoted to getting his thoughts organized for the day. But occasionally there would be a pre-office-hours visitor who preferred not to be seen by the dozens of people arriving for work around 9:00. One such was Viktor Akimov (not his real name). I hadn’t been working with Walter for more than a few weeks when he said to me one day that he needed to meet with this man from the Soviet Embassy, and that it had to be an early a.m. appointment. This was in 1979 — remember the Cold War? — and I believe my response was the same as anyone else’s would have been:

“Did you say SOVIET Embassy????”

Yes, that was indeed what he had said. He explained that, because there existed at the time no private industry in the USSR, all business had to be conducted with the appropriate government ministries in Moscow — light industry, heavy industry, oil and gas, agriculture, and so on — and that a contact in the Embassy was essential to making the necessary introductions. Viktor Akimov was that contact.

So, with some trepidation, I consulted the first of the two gigantic Rolodexes on my desk. Again, remember that this was 1979, way before the advent of electronic contact lists, or much of anything else electronic. In fact, we were still typing on IBM Selectric typewriters, which, as you older readers may recall, did not have an “Undo” key.

Anyway, I found Mr. Akimov’s business card identifying him as a diplomat in the Economic Affairs Section at the Soviet Embassy in Washington. Nervously, as though he might somehow be watching me through the phone lines, I dialed his number. He answered his phone just as I was thinking, “Oh damn, now what do I say?” As it turned out, though, his English was excellent, his manner was cordial, and we confirmed an appointment for the following morning. That night, I anxiously anticipated the next day when I would finally see what a real Soviet official looked like.

I’m not sure what I was expecting. Probably a thug with a bad haircut, ill-fitting cheap suit, and hideous vinyl shoes. But that was not at all what I saw when I walked to the reception area to greet the man I had already labelled in my mind as My First Commie. He was attractive, well-dressed, and quite charming — just your average businessman type. He clearly had to be a spy, right?

Right, indeed — as confirmed two days later, when I received a call from Mike (also not his real name), an FBI agent seeking one of those early a.m. meetings with Walter. Putting Mike on hold, I ran into Walter’s office and whispered, rather dramatically, “FBI. Are you in trouble?” He smiled, shook his head, and replied, “Oh, yeah — I forgot to tell you to expect him.” The next day, Mike showed up to meet with Walter behind closed doors. It didn’t take much for me to figure out that we were dealing with the KGB. This was going to be one hell of a job!

And for ten years it was, until we lost Walter in 1989. But much more about him in later episodes.

As for Viktor Akimov, he and I developed a pleasant rapport over time and I found that — contrary to my initial mental image of a typical Soviet official — he had a sense of humor. I first discovered this when he happened to have an appointment with Walter on the day following the 1980 Winter Olympics hockey match at Lake Placid where, in what was later dubbed the “Miracle on Ice,” the American team whipped the Soviet team’s collective ass by a score of 4-3. As I escorted him from the reception area to Walter’s office, I politely asked Viktor whether I might get anything for him: “Coffee? Tea? Hockey puck?”

[Pregnant pause . . . ]

Holy Mother of God! Had I really just said that?!!

Yes, I really had. And no, despite my worst fears, I did not lose my job. Nor, apparently, did I do any damage to U.S.-Soviet relations, which already were — as they are today — pretty much in the crapper. In fact, Viktor laughed. Walter laughed, too, when I later confessed my faux pas. Life went on; it was, after all, not the end of the world. On the contrary, for me it was just the beginning.

* * *

I hope you’ll join me after the New Year’s celebrations have died down, for a trip in 1988 to what was then still the USSR, and my introduction to the bizarre world of spies, lies and “misplaced” luggage. See you next year, and until then, stay safe and warm.

B
12/29/22

I once climbed a mountain in Czechoslovakia.

Well, it was part of a mountain, anyway — more of a long, steep incline, really, to an historic castle inexplicably named Hluboka, which is Czech for “deep.” I’ve never understood why they chose to call it “deep” rather than “high” or “tall” — but no one consulted me about the name.

In Moscow, I spent countless hours strolling through the Kremlin, Red Square, Novodevichy Monastery, the Sparrow Hills, and numerous historic cemeteries. Moscow has no mountains, but it does have an over-abundance of cemeteries.

In Alaska, I took the easy way up the mountainside on the White Pass Railway; squeezed into a tiny float plane to glide over the incredibly beautiful, endless glaciers; and ate salmon roasted over an open fire in a clearing by a forest full of bears.

I also climbed the cobblestone steps numerous times to Hradcany, or Castle Hill, in Prague. Actually, what appears architecturally to be a castle on that hill turns out to be St. Vitus Cathedral, while the Presidential Palace nearby is a lovely but far more modest edifice. Very confusing — but that’s Prague for you.

In London, I dodged the advances of an amorous Russian Foreign Ministry official; in Budapest, I took a boat ride up the Danube to an artists’ village called Szentendre; I witnessed a drug bust in front of our hotel in Tbilisi, Georgia; played with a jellyfish in the Black Sea at Sochi; in Kiev, I visited a hospital for child victims of the Chernobyl nuclear disaster.

And in Helsinki, Copenhagen, Tallinn and Berlin, I racked up uncounted thousands of steps as a tourist, unfortunately without a pedometer to log them for me.

I’ve been nearly mugged in St. Petersburg (Russia, not Florida), ridden in the King’s Elevator in the Royal Palace at Stockholm, and been driven to Sheremetyevo Airport by the KGB as I left Moscow.

All of my grand adventures took place in the late 1980s, throughout the ‘90s, and into the early 2000s, until the years started to catch up with my bones. Now on the far side of 80, I no longer have the mobility or the energy to climb the cobblestone steps to Hradcany, or fold my legs into a little float plane. But I am forever grateful to have done all of those things when I was able, and to still have the joy of remembering the adventures and the people who lived them with me.

But having something of value — even of intrinsic value, like a happy memory — is not much good if you can’t share it. And since my family and old friends have heard the stories many times over and are sick to death of them, I’ve decided it’s time to make some new friends, and hopefully to amuse you with tales, in no particular order, of the places I’ve been, the people I’ve known, and the close calls I’ve had, and to show how all of my earlier experiences ultimately led me — innocently skipping like Dorothy along the yellow brick road — to Russia. Life can be endlessly amusing, if you overlook the bad stuff and hold on to the good.

I invite you to join me for Chapter 2, when I will introduce you to the person who most influenced the second half of my life (thus far), and how he in turn introduced me, at the height of the Cold War, to My First Commie.

In the meantime, Happy Holidays to all, and to all a good night, from Brendochka.