July 4, 1993 – So far, so good. I had been in Moscow for nearly two months, and I was still alive and unscarred. In fact, I was thoroughly enjoying myself. And with the occasional unscheduled drop-by visit from Vladimir Bragin of the KGB, I was feeling well protected.

I had received a surprise phone call earlier that week from a friend in Washington, Mary Saba. (You may remember her from the London and Prague episodes.) Her husband, Joe, had just left on a business trip to one of the “Stans” — the five Central Asian Republics of the former Soviet Union whose names all end in “stan” (Kazakhstan, for example) — and Mary and their teenage son, Colin, were going to join him there. Since they would have to travel through Moscow and had never been there before, she and Colin were planning to stay over for a couple of days, and she was letting me know of their imminent arrival.

I was thrilled to be seeing a good friend from home. When she told me where they were staying — a Soviet-style hotel on the outskirts of the city — I told her they would find that to be both inconvenient and generally miserable, and that I would pick them up and bring them to my apartment, where I had two spare bedrooms. It didn’t take much to convince her.

The Sabas are the kind of people who fit in anywhere. They’re smart, funny, caring, personable, and genuine — that rare breed known as completely lovable, good people. Mary got along beautifully with Olga, Lena and Tamara; and Colin managed to find common ground with Tamara’s two teenaged daughters, even though they didn’t speak each other’s languages. We did the usual sightseeing tour, and then Colin said he had a special request: he wanted to see the Moscow Military Museum. Tamara’s husband was an Army officer, and he gladly offered his services. He arranged for our admittance, and five of us crammed into his little car.

But first came lunch — at McDonald’s, of course. Doesn’t every American travel 5,000 miles to eat at a Mickey D’s? Colin and Mary were just curious to compare it to the ones at home; Tamara and her husband had never eaten there, because it was too expensive for them as a family of four. So off we went, my treat. Cheapest restaurant meal I ever had — and surprisingly good. Far better quality than in the U.S., in fact. All of the meat and vegetables were locally produced, and the rolls freshly baked. It was worth the wait in line.

At the museum, admission was free — but I found that I had to pay one ruble (about 1/10 of a cent at the time, as I recall) for the privilege of taking pictures with my own camera. These, of course, were the days before cell phones, so my camera was simply that: a camera — and with actual film, as it was also the pre-digital age. (God, I am old, aren’t I?) As we wandered through the several rooms and I snapped away, I lost track of how many pictures I had taken, and suddenly ran out of film. I only realized it because my camera told me so, when it started beeping . . . and beeping . . . and beeping. At the unfamiliar sound, all of the other visitors in the room froze where they were standing, and two armed guards came rushing in from the next room, hands on their holstered weapons, to find out who had the bomb. When I saw them, I instinctively held the camera up in the air and called out, “Nyet, nyet! Fotoapparat! Fotoapparat!” (I’m sure you’ve figured out that that means “No! No! Camera! Camera!” I have no idea why I said it twice.) That quick action saved me, though, and I was neither shot, tackled, nor arrested; but the guards and I had managed to scare the bejeezus out of each other . . . and quite a few more people besides. Clearly, I still hadn’t mastered the art of quietly blending in. Come to think of it, I never did.

Mary’s trip happened to fall over the 4th of July weekend, when it turned out that there was to be a show given by some Broadway musical performers at the Estrada Theatre in the renowned (or infamous, depending upon the year) House on the Embankment. Just one of the many outsized Stalinist monstrosities still dotting the landscape throughout the city, this one was completed in 1931 specifically to house the government elite of the time, many of whom later became victims of Stalin’s paranoid political purges. (Sorry — I just seem to keep alliterating). Anyway, someone had given Gil Robinson a pair of tickets, but he wasn’t going to be in Moscow that weekend, so he passed the tickets along to me. Leaving Colin in the safe company of Tamara’s family, Mary and I set out for a girls’ night on the town. As we had done in London, we managed to make it a memorable one.

Vitold had offered to drive us to the theatre, and said he would be happy to come back to pick us up as well, but I felt that would be too inconvenient for him. The traffic pattern in front of the building was a total mess, and there was no way of knowing what time the show would end. I knew there was a taxi stand in front of the Kempinski Baltschug Hotel, about a 15-minute walk from the theater, so I told him we would manage to get home on our own. Brave words.

For once, Vitold managed to get us to our destination without being stopped by the police for speeding, running a red light, or nearly knocking down any pedestrians. We actually arrived a little early, and since it was a lovely, mild evening, we stood outside the theatre for a while, watching the arrivals and chatting with a couple of acquaintances I had seen in the crowd. The U.S. Ambassador, Thomas Pickering, had already arrived for the occasion. As a motorcade of three or four expensive foreign cars flying Russian flags pulled up, I knew that a Russian VIP had to be in one of them. President Yeltsin was out of the country that week, so I was curious to see who might be taking his place that night. As a man emerged from the car and started up the steps toward us, flanked by three improbably large bodyguards, he passed within a few yards of us and I recognized him immediately. I drew a sharp breath and grabbed Mary’s arm, exclaiming, “Oh my God! It’s Yevgeny Primakov!” Mary wasn’t familiar with the name, and when I told her he was the head of the KGB, she was startled, but also delighted to have a story to bring home to Colin. The crowd then began to move inside, and we headed to our seats.

The show was outstanding. The performers were members of the supporting casts of several hit Broadway shows, and had the audience in the palms of their hands from the get-go, singing and dancing to Broadway tunes and a few patriotic songs to honor the holiday. First, however, the orchestra had played the national anthems of both countries, for which everyone stood in unison, but with the Russian and American halves of the audience singing their respective anthems in turn. I am proud to report that our half was louder and much more enthusiastic. Living in Moscow — fascinating though it was — made you all the more proud and happy to be an American.

The performance ended much too soon, as all good things seem to do, and we filed out into the dark Moscow night around 11:00 p.m. The crowd was huge, and some of the people were walking, as we were, in the direction of the Baltschug, so we didn’t feel at all uncomfortable. And as we approached the hotel, we could clearly see the line of waiting taxis. They were facing away from us, and we had to pass the entire row of about a half dozen cars in order to get to the first taxi in line. No problem.

Mary walked around to the left rear door, behind the driver, and I opened the right rear door. When we were both seated and had closed our doors, the driver turned to his right, looked over his shoulder at me, and said, “Rublevskoye Shosse shestnadtsat?” — my exact address. Rublevskoye Shosse 16. And my heart leapt up into my throat. What the hell . . . ???

My first impulse was: RUN! But that was obviously not an option. And I had Mary to think of. Since she didn’t know a word of Russian, she assumed the driver had asked where we were going. So I gulped my heart back down into place, smiled weakly at the driver, and said — in Russian — “That’s right. You have a very good memory.” Mary thought I was giving him our address.

Good memory, my ass! I hardly ever took taxis in Moscow — I had two drivers and an excellent Metro system at my disposal, so who needed taxis? Then who the hell was this guy? He simply nodded, smiled back, and began moving the taxi slowly forward. Once again, I mentally foresaw my imminent death. But as I watched to see the direction he would take, he drove straight along the quickest route, sticking to the main roads, and right up to my building and around to the entrance in the rear. He knew exactly where he was going, and never said another word throughout the 30-minute ride — quite possibly the longest half hour of my life. I thanked him, added a generous tip to the fare, and he waited until we were safely inside before driving off.

So, once again, who was he? How did he happen to be at exactly the right spot at exactly the right moment? If I had ridden with him once before and just didn’t remember, what were the odds of my getting the same taxi twice? Or of his recognizing me, in the dark, in a city of nine million people, and remembering my address? And not saying a word about the coincidence? Was this just another manifestation of Moscow paranoia, or was something spooky actually going on? Could Officer Bragin somehow be keeping tabs on me? But how would it even be possible to arrange such a thing? Again, too many questions without answers.

I still don’t know the truth, and never will; but I can still feel the fear in the pit of my stomach when I think back on that night. I never did tell Mary.

And while I give you a week to mull that over, I will be — in writing, at least — hopping another train to Kyiv, but this time with two American companions, and complications on the Ukrainian side. Til then . . .

Have a great week,
Brendochka
4/13/23

Back in Moscow following my first visit to Kiev, I had settled into a comfortable routine of busy days and quiet evenings. I’d even begun venturing out by myself on weekends. The nearest Metro stop was an easy walk of only about a kilometer, along a pleasant pathway that skirted a patch of undeveloped, public parkland; and it was a quick ride from there into the city. More often, though, I would investigate my own neighborhood, finding handy little shops and introducing myself to the shopkeepers who didn’t quite know what to make of the newly-arrived American lady in their territory. Or friends would take me to some of the non-touristy areas of Moscow, and invite me to their homes for some good food and “kitchen conversation” — the traditional Russian after-dinner talks around the table that go on for hours. I finally came to understand why my grandparents had rarely used their living rooms: the kitchen was the true heart of the home.

One weekend, Vitold offered to drive me to an amazing place called Izmailovsky Park on the outskirts of the city, which featured a huge weekend open-air market that quickly became my favorite place to find items for the apartment: hand-woven rugs, hand-embroidered tablecloths, hand-crocheted bedspreads, hand-sewn curtains — everything beautifully handmade. And there was the odd trinket, like the famous Russian matryoshka (nesting doll) — a couple of which are staring across the room at me even now, thirty years later, as I write this chapter.

Then one day the office phone rang, and I answered it to hear a man’s deep voice introducing himself as Mikhail Pashkin of the Moscow Militia — and specifically, head of the Moscow Police Workers’ Union. I waved Lena over to the phone to be sure I didn’t miss anything, as Pashkin was, of course, speaking Russian. She was understandably a little nervous, since no law-abiding (or other) Russian citizen wants to be involved with the law enforcement authorities for any reason, even over the phone. And we’d already had one unannounced drop-in by a uniformed officer, “just checking to see how things are going.” Why had we become the beneficiaries of such loving attention? Surely, I thought, they must have better things to do. Did they check up on all registered foreign organizations this way? Quite possibly. Or was there something special about ours? My association with Aksilenko, for example? There was no way of knowing.

This day, however, Officer Pashkin was calling to invite me to visit him at Militia Headquarters, known to Muscovites by its infamous street address, Petrovka 38. He had heard of our Foundation and was interested in obtaining — gratis, of course — a quantity of our Veggieburger product “for the widows and orphans of Militia officers killed in the line of duty.” A nice way of making it impossible to refuse.

As luck would have it, the head of our Foundation, Gil Robinson, was due to arrive in Moscow in a few days. I relayed that information to Officer Pashkin, and we scheduled a meeting several days ahead in order to include Gil. That gave me plenty of time to work up a good case of nerves. But from a practical point of view, I decided it was better to have friends in certain places, in case I ever needed a favor. Spoken like a true Russian citizen.

A few days later, Gil arrived as scheduled. He decided that Maya should accompany us on the visit to Petrovka, mainly because she was the most self-assured of our three interpreters and least likely to be intimidated. So off we went at the appointed time, with Vitold driving but refusing to enter the scary building with us. He would wait in the car, no matter how long it might take, but would not set foot inside. We had been given directions, not to the main headquarters, but to a small, dilapidated old building around the corner. The guard at the desk was expecting us, and accompanied us up the stairway to the third floor (there was no elevator), gratuitously pointing out along the way the “interrogation room” on the second floor — mercifully unoccupied at the moment.

Oh, please! Was that really necessary? Did he actually think we’d enjoy a touch of gallows humor to begin our day? Speaking for myself, I could have done without it.

On the third level, three men were waiting in a small — really small — office: one seated behind an old, somewhat scarred desk, and one standing to either side and slightly behind him. There were three mismatched chairs on the front side of the desk for us. And that’s all there was room for in the office; it wasn’t exactly the executive suite. Gil took his seat in the middle, flanked by Maya to his right and me to his left.

The man seated at the desk was, of course, Mikhail Pashkin. He was movie-star handsome, dark-haired, with shoulders, pecs and biceps that strained at the seams of his short-sleeved, light blue shirt. This was not a man you would ever challenge to an arm-wrestling contest. If his intention was intimidation, he succeeded magnificently. (All right, now I’m starting to sound like a Mickey Spillane novel. Enough of that.)

Pashkin introduced the uniformed man to his left (our right) as Militia Officer Kostylev. And on Pashkin’s other side, now perched casually on a windowsill, was a pleasant-looking man in khakis and a plaid sport shirt, who introduced himself as Bragin. Just . . . Bragin.

After we three had identified ourselves, Gil began by politely asking a couple of questions as to the specific jobs of our hosts. Pashkin talked a bit about his work within the Police Workers’ Union, and Kostylev said that as an officer in the Militia, he was also a member of the Union. Then Gil turned to Bragin and asked, “Are you also with the Militia?”

And that was when the fun began. Bragin simply shook his head and softly replied, “No.” Obviously a man of few words.

Now remember, please, that Gil Robinson was a former Ambassador-at-Large with the U.S. State Department — supposedly a trained diplomat, right? In Washington, and every other world capital, when someone gives you a non-responsive response like that, you don’t press them; you assume their job involves some sort of classified work. And Gil, of all people, should have remembered that. But did he? Oh, no. Instead, he asked, “Well, where do you work?” And when Bragin responded, “A different department,” Gil incredibly went on: “Well, what department is that?” And Bragin softly replied, “It doesn’t matter.”

At this point, as Gil prepared to push the envelope with yet another idiotic question, Maya and I began elbowing him in the ribs from both sides, saying quietly, “Gil, drop it.” “Let it go, Gil.” “Just leave it.” Maya understood; I got it; but the professional diplomat remained clueless. Meanwhile, Bragin had caught my eye. Seeing that I was shaking my head in embarrassed disbelief, he smiled and nodded knowingly at me. In that instant I sensed that Vladimir Bragin (I learned his full name later) had become my newest friend in Moscow. He then looked at Gil again, shrugged resignedly, and said, in Russian, “КГБ” — which Maya and I translated for Gil, in unison: “KGB.”

If the floor had opened up beneath Gil’s chair at that moment, he would have been a happy man. As it was, he was trapped in that little office, trying to worm his way out of a gigantic faux pas. His face turned several shades of reddish-purple, and he began to stammer. I believe the only word he actually managed to choke out was, “Oh.” To his credit, though, he did shift gears fairly quickly, turning from Bragin to Pashkin and asking what we could do for the good folks of the Militia; and the meeting then began in earnest.

When I looked again in Bragin’s direction, he was once more looking at me and smiling. You might say we bonded over Gil’s embarrassment, and I was to be the beneficiary of that connection throughout my stay in Moscow. He was my Russian krysha, literally “roof” — my protection — and it never cost me a thing. It didn’t change what he did for a living, of course, but he turned out to be a very likable fellow.

Now, you’re probably wondering where the Russian Mafia comes into play in this story. At that time in Russia — and I’m not sure how this may have changed under the current regime and with the rise of the oligarchs — it was difficult to know with whom you were dealing at any given time. The so-called “Mafia” families — actually just criminal gangs who named themselves after the Italian originals — were so seamlessly woven into the Russian hierarchy and society in general, you simply couldn’t avoid them.

In the case of Pashkin and his buddies at Petrovka, it all had to do with the final distribution of the huge shipping container of Veggieburger we were able to deliver to them. Information we later received indicated that the widows and orphans had enjoyed little, if any, of it. All or most of it went in the front door and right out the back, directly onto the black market, earning a sizable profit for both the “wholesalers” and the “retailers.” And those operations were generally controlled by the various Mafia gangs. So while I spent those months in Moscow for the most part steering clear of the criminal elements, it proved impossible to bypass them entirely.

One example of the steps we took to protect ourselves was the safe in the apartment. The ‘90s were a time of rampant criminal activity in Russia, sometimes referred to as “The Great Mafia Wars.” There were daily drive-by shootings; burnt-out vehicles by the side of the road; and kidnappings or slayings of individuals as they entered or left their banks with large amounts of cash — much like living in Newark or Detroit. So we had a sturdy safe in one of the bedrooms in which we kept the thousands of dollars periodically carried over by Gil Robinson for payroll, rent and other expenses. As with the front door, it would have taken a bomb to get into that safe; and it relieved me of the need to go near a bank . . . ever.

*. *. *

When I was preparing to leave D.C. for Moscow that May of 1993, people frequently asked whether I wasn’t afraid to be going to such a dangerous location. At the time, I had been living in the metropolitan Washington D.C. area for most of my life, and I simply pointed out to them that I was already in what was then known as the murder capital of the United States. The only difference, I argued, was geography. I had long since developed a “que sera sera” attitude, and didn’t think too much about the daily hazards of life. My philosophy was, and still is, that we’re all born with a pre-determined expiration date — though it’s not stamped on our bottoms like a can of beans — and if my time was due to come up in Moscow, then so be it. I was going to have a grand time while I could.

And so I did, for the most part. But there were nerve-wracking moments as well. One of those involved the aforementioned need for my continuing contact with Valentin Aksilenko. We kept our telephone communications brief and infrequent, and only actually met a couple of times during the entire summer. He seemed relaxed enough, but again, I attributed that to his years of KGB training. We would “walk and talk” — strolling outside in busy places near my apartment building to avoid any electronic bugs that might be hidden in the apartment — and I think I managed to appear nonchalant enough. But my insides always felt as though I’d swallowed a gallon of Mexican jumping beans. I fully expected at any moment to be pounced upon by a couple of big thugs, dragged into a car with darkened windows, and driven to an isolated spot where I would be shot in the back of the head and left for the crows to feed on. But then, I always did watch too many bad spy movies. Obviously, I survived without anything of the sort ever happening.

*. *. *

But there were other moments as well. It seemed that even a holiday — specifically, in this case, the American Fourth of July celebration — could turn scary in Moscow, and not just from any errant fireworks. Join me next week for that memorable episode, which still gives me the willies when I think about it.

So long for now,
Brendochka
4/6/23

May 11, 1993 – Sheremetyevo Airport, again. But at least this time, it wasn’t a snowy February. It was springtime, and I had someone waiting for me at the baggage claim area: good old Vitold. He had thoughtfully brought a friend with him, one who owned a truck. Vitold was a little crazy, but he wasn’t stupid — he knew his Lada automobile would never be able to hold a woman’s six-months-worth of luggage.

That ride — from the airport far to the north of central Moscow, to the Foundation’s apartment at the far opposite end of the city — has to go down in the record books as one of the most miserably uncomfortable rides in history. In my history, at least. This truck wasn’t a Ford pickup, or anything even close. It was a nameless rattletrap, a junkyard reject, a pitiful conglomeration of spare parts seemingly held together with Scotch tape and baling wire. Its creator had obviously never heard of shock absorbers — or, for that matter, padding in the seats. Welcome home, Brenda; your limousine awaits.

Add to that, the driver from hell and the notoriously rutted Russian roads (pardon the alliteration), and it’s no wonder I was ready to kiss the ground when we finally arrived at No. 16 Rublevskoye Shosse: a 16-story, blue and white Soviet monstrosity, ground-floor commercial space in the front, parking and entrance in the rear, springtime mud everywhere. (A picture is available on Google Maps, minus the mud.) And in the dismal little entryway, a small desk at which was seated the ubiquitous dezhurnaya: the lady concierge cum watchdog whose responsibility it was to report — to whomever her bosses were — on the comings and goings of all residents and visitors. Innately suspicious of the newly-arrived American on the sixth floor, she eventually decided that I wasn’t there to kill her or to steal anything, and by the time I left Moscow, she had almost come to accept me. I considered that one of the major accomplishments of my time in Russia.

The building was owned by the Ministry of Defense; but the apartment belonged to an army officer who had been sent, along with his family, on indefinite assignment to Tajikistan. I’m sure they were thrilled. But they were allowed to rent out their apartment, and were delighted to find American tenants willing to pay in dollars. They had hired one of their neighbor families on the same floor to look after the place and collect the rent, and we in turn hired the lady of that household, Tamara, to do a bit of cleaning and cooking. I do not know what I would have done without her. She was a great cook, and she knew where to shop for the best meats, produce and bread. In return, I would bring items for her from the hard currency stores that weren’t otherwise available to her. She also volunteered to do my laundry for me. I would have adopted her and brought her home with me when I left Moscow, but her husband and daughters objected rather strenuously for some reason.

Happily, the interior living spaces were far superior to the building’s exterior. My apartment was unusually large for Moscow, clearly indicating that it belonged to a somewhat privileged family. It had a spacious living-dining room, three big bedrooms, two well-appointed bathrooms, and a very nice eat-in kitchen that had been upgraded with German-made appliances and cabinetry. The furniture wasn’t beautiful, but it was comfortable and clean, and I immediately felt right at home. There was also a large enclosed balcony, which became a very handy storage room. Part of the main living area had been portioned out as office space, with a desk, file cabinet, computer, satellite phone, and a Xerox printer/copier (one of the 16 pieces I had brought with me).

My favorite feature of the place, though, was the apartment door. It was made of steel, roughly three inches thick, and had a three-fingered steel deadbolt, each finger, or rod, measuring a good inch or so in diameter and about six inches in length. Nobody was going to break through that sucker — not without a bomb, anyway.

And more people came with the office as well. Olga and Lena had been hired by Gil, and were soon my new best friends. They were delightful women, both fluent in English, who acted as interpreters and office assistants. Olga was outgoing, Lena more on the shy side, but we all got along beautifully, and I soon was referring to them as my Russian sisters. Many an evening I would invite them to stay after work for zakusky (hors d’oeuvres), vodka and a movie. With Vitold’s help — I nicknamed him “the Scrounger” — I discovered kiosks where I could buy the best caviar at the equivalent of about $3.00 for a two-ounce container, decadently rich ice cream to stock the freezer, and vodka that wasn’t rotgut. With all that good food and a VCR player, my popularity was pretty much assured, even though they did suspect I was a CIA agent because why else would an American learn to speak Russian? It had been less than two years since the breakup of the Soviet Union, and paranoia still ran deep.

The final two members of our little family were Vitaly and Maya. Vitaly was a quiet sort, and acted as a back-up driver and gofer. Maya was a strikingly beautiful young woman, married without children, and the spoiled daughter of an army general. She was also intelligent and an excellent interpreter, but was obviously more interested in her social life and eventually visiting America than in actually doing any work.

So this was my home, and these were my people, for the next several months. How on earth had this come to be? What twists of fate had led me from my prosaic childhood in New England to this strange and forbidding place? As I thought about it, the answer became obvious: it was all Walter Surrey’s fault. (Sure, blame the guy who’s not here to defend himself.) When I walked into the offices of Surrey, Karasik & Morse for the first time in April of 1979, I was taking the initial, unsuspecting step toward this moment. Every path, every byway, every road from that point on led me directly — do not pass “Go,” do not collect $200 — to my lifelong obsession with all things Russian . . . and now, to Russia itself.

As I write about these people who were such a big part of my life that summer, I have a hard time picturing them as they would be now, thirty years later, and I can’t help wondering how their lives have turned out. It broke my heart when, less than a year after leaving, the roads to Russia were suddenly closed off to me, and I had to lose touch with them — but that’s a whole other story for another chapter (or two).

There was little time to get acquainted that first day — I was off to Kiev just 24 hours later, compliments of Gil, who had arranged for me to meet with our Ukrainian partner. Olga had made my train reservations, I had brought a small bag already packed for a two-nighter, and Vitold drove me to the Kievskiy Vokzal — the Kiev Train Station — which, coincidentally, is located around the corner from my old standby, the Radisson Hotel.

I had a sleeping compartment on the train, and headed off — alone once more — into the unknown. The train left Moscow around 5:00 p.m., and arrived in Kiev in the morning. I had brought along food and bottled water, and had been warned to use the bathroom early in the voyage, as it was unisex and would be too disgusting to use later. They were right. It’s hard to aim on a moving train.

Somewhere in Ukraine, we made a fairly lengthy stop at a village where we were able to leave the train and mill around the station for a few minutes. There were vendors, of course, and I bought a couple of pieces of fruit and bottles of mineral water. I even had a chance to talk with a very sweet lady, who was tickled to learn that I was an American whose grandparents had emigrated from her region around the time of the first, failed Revolution of 1905.

Around 9:00 p.m., I left my compartment to stretch my legs in the corridor, and was looking out the window at the passing scenery (it was not quite dark), when we made a brief stop at a small station. As I glanced at the people on the platform, I suddenly noticed a familiar face: a woman who appeared to be the identical twin of my mother’s older sister — or, rather, as she had looked many years before. Unfortunately, there was no time to disembark, and I have always regretted that I was unable to talk with her. She may have been a distant relative; I will never know, but I like to think so.

We arrived without incident in Kiev in the morning, and as I stepped down onto the platform, a woman approached me and introduced herself as Irina Shakhova. Irina was a little younger than I, spoke fluent English, and looked enough like my mother’s side of the family to have been my cousin. It was obvious that we felt an immediate affinity for one another; we talked as though we’d known each other all our lives, and soon became fast friends. Later, when she and her husband Yuri moved to the Washington area with their two children and Irina’s mother, we remained close.

In addition to meetings at the Ukrainian Ministry of Health and the storage facility that housed our shipments of food, Irina did manage to give me a driving tour of the beautiful, historic city of Kiev, and a couple of exquisite restaurant experiences where the food was reminiscent of my grandmother’s cooking when I was a little girl. But the most amusing incident involved a small demonstration of coal miners from the Donbas region — an area so tragically in the news this past year — in front of a government building across the street from my hotel. I had some free time, and wandered over to see what I could learn, and to take a few pictures.

The crowd was peaceful; they had no choice, really, as the militia seemed to outnumber the demonstrators. As I was wandering about among the two hundred or so miners, a man — obviously spotting me as a foreigner — approached and began speaking to me in Russian. He asked where I was from, and when I said “Washington,” he became very excited and asked me to take a message back to my President. Okay, sure, glad to; I’m from Washington so obviously I know the President, right? And what was his message? Quite simply, that a dentist had implanted a radio transmitter in his mother’s teeth through which the government was spying on their family. [Cue Twilight Zone theme.] Never mind the other coal miners’ legitimate complaints about poor wages and working conditions; let’s first take care of Mama’s listening device. The poor man must have inhaled one too many liters of coal dust. I didn’t want to upset him, or invite trouble for him by enlisting the help of a Militsionaire, so I assured him I would do my best and hightailed it out of there, back to the safety and quiet of my hotel room.

But the most memorable — and saddest — event of that trip to Kiev was my visit with Irina to a treatment center for child victims of the Chernobyl nuclear disaster some seven years earlier. These were some of the children who were receiving our Veggieburger. If you can recall how the poor orphans were portrayed in the movie versions of Charles Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol,” you’ll have an idea of how these children looked: pale, emaciated, eyes dark-ringed and sunken, and faces sad beyond description. There was not a spoken word or a hint of a smile from any of them, as though they had never known a moment when they weren’t ill, and they realized the future wasn’t going to be any better. Their faces haunt me to this day. And these were just some of the less-afflicted children — the ones who were mobile and not visibly deformed. I was not given access to an inpatient hospital or an orphanage, undoubtedly for good reason. And of course, I was not allowed to touch the children, though I wanted desperately to give each one a huge hug. But the danger of radiation contamination was still too great.

Yet their condition, as greatly as it affected me, in no way surprised me. For those three days in Kiev, I had a sore throat that felt for all the world like tonsillitis, only it couldn’t be, because I’d had my tonsils removed decades earlier. But I had breathed the Chernobyl-polluted air and eaten locally-grown food, and that was enough. As soon as I left Kiev, I felt fine again; my sore throat disappeared, and to my knowledge I have suffered no lasting ill effects from that brief exposure to nuclear contamination. But those children had been breathing that foul air for all or most of their young lives. An entire generation had been sacrificed to the ravages of mankind’s insatiable lust for advancement.

Then it was back “home” to Moscow on another overnight train, and onward to a summer of fun and games in the ancient land of the Tsars, the Commissars, and the Oligarchs. Near the top of my to-do list: discreetly reestablishing contact with Valentin Aksilenko.

*. *. *

Today, I can’t remember what I had for dinner last night; but the details of those months in 1993 remain etched in my mind as though I had just lived them. Please join me again next week, when I revisit my first encounter with the Moscow Militia and the local KGB, on their turf, at a place known only by its address: Petrovka 38.

TTFN,
Brendochka
3/30/23

February 21, 1993 – Eight time zones away in Moscow, Valentin Aksilenko answered the ringing telephone: “Allo?”

“Valentin, what in hell is going on over there?!!” I was clearly in no mood for preliminaries.

Valentin chuckled, not at all surprised to have heard from me. “Oh, you saw the Washington Post?”

So this Yuri Shvets quoted in the article was the friend he had told me about in Moscow. The entire scenario had obviously been carefully planned, by both of them, well in advance. And Shvets’ last interview had taken place while I was still in Moscow — perhaps at the very moment that I had been sitting and talking with Valentin in the Radisson’s business center. What kind of dangerous game were they playing? And how had I managed to be dragged into it? Was my being in Moscow at that exact time just the worst kind of serendipity?

In disbelief, I responded: “Is he crazy? Does he know what he’s doing?’

I was clearly upset, yet Valentin remained perfectly calm. He assured me that everything was fine, that there was no cause for concern, and that his friend had things well under control. Seriously?? This Shvets guy was advertising the fact that he was about to blow the whistle on the KGB, and everything was “under control”? How was that even possible? But I somehow managed to restrain myself, and not ask any further questions. I reminded myself that we were, after all, on an unsecured phone line between Moscow and the United States. Valentin’s calm demeanor, at first puzzling, was actually smart; he had been well trained. I should have realized that in the first place, but this was unfamiliar territory for me.

Valentin further confirmed that our business arrangement was still in place; they would draft an agreement to be signed by the three of us, granting me a percentage of any income from the “transaction”; and I should please go ahead with the search for a publisher. That was the least of my worries at the moment, but I took my cue and thanked him, told him I looked forward to receiving the agreement, and we said our goodbyes. Then I started pacing from room to room.

I never did get breakfast that day, and I’m not all that sure about lunch either. I kept rereading the newspaper article and trying to imagine a scenario in which Shvets’ book could be published without creating a firestorm in Moscow; but I wasn’t having any luck. First, however, I decided I had to protect myself on this end — not just financially, but legally. I needed to be sure that a commercial transaction of this type would not be in violation of any U.S. laws, regulations, or existing sanctions against Russia. As for the controversial content of the book, that would be the publisher’s problem, not mine. It was Sunday, so I couldn’t make any phone calls that day, but I knew whom I had to call on Monday: a friend in the Justice Department.

I woke early Monday morning and made the call. My friend asked a few questions, then assured me that there was no legal restriction against the type of business arrangement I had described, and no reason why a book by a Russian author couldn’t be published in the U.S. One of his questions concerned the identities of the two men.

The next day, the FBI came to call.

One or both of the names had apparently sent up a red flag in the Justice Department’s database, and my inquiry had immediately been referred to the Department’s investigative arm, the FBI. My first thought was that they were going to suggest that I back off and not get involved with anyone, former or current, from the KGB — which, of course, would have been sound advice. But that’s not what happened. In fact, they said they saw no problem, but asked that I keep them informed of my progress.

If you’ve never been in this type of situation, let me assure you that it’s really hard to say no to the FBI. They’re the good guys, right? — no threats, no strong-arm tactics, polite and friendly, bravely protecting our country’s interests. If you’ve done nothing wrong, not broken any laws, then you naturally want to help, to give something back to the country that has given you so much. It’s a no-brainer . . . or so it seemed. So I said fine, I’ll keep in touch.

Without going into the boring details, I was able, through a mutual acquaintance, to arouse the interest of a leading literary agent in New York, John Brockman. John was taken with the story of the would-be author Shvets and his colleague Aksilenko, but said that he could not consider representing an author he had never met or spoken to. He urged me to send an invitation to the two men to visit the U.S. for a brief period, during which he could assess the validity of their story and the likely value of Shvets’ manuscript.

Oh, okay, sure . . . no problem. Two (allegedly) retired, high-ranking KGB officers — Colonel Aksilenko and Major Shvets — would certainly be allowed to leave Russia for the United States, and thereafter be permitted by our State Department to enter the U.S., unquestioned and unrestrained at both ends. Just a little ten-day business jaunt — a piece of cake.

What it really was, was insane.

But I told myself I had to try. Regardless of who they were, or had been, I was representing them in a legitimate commercial transaction, and had a contractual obligation to them as my clients. I also, of course, had made a promise to the FBI, and I dutifully reported this development to them. I issued the requisite official letter of invitation to each of the men for a ten-day business-related visit in the spring, and sat back to wait for the State Department’s inevitable (I assumed) denial of their visa applications.

But what actually occurred was mind-boggling. With lightning speed, the visas were approved and issued by our embassy in Moscow; the two men managed to make airline reservations on the Russian airline, Aeroflot; and Aksilenko advised me that they would be arriving at JFK International Airport in New York on April 25, 1993, for a ten-day stay. Someone obviously wanted them here — but who? And why? And how had they managed their departure from Moscow so easily? These were just the first of scores of questions yet to be encountered . . . and never answered. Regardless of how or why, the Russians were coming.

I was to travel to New York to meet them on their arrival. John Brockman had invited all three of us to stay overnight at his country home in Connecticut, and was sending a car and driver to transport us there from JFK Airport. We would drive back into New York City the following morning for meetings with prospective publishers. It was VIP treatment, and all very efficiently arranged. But a funny thing happened on the way to the airport . . .

I had opted to travel to New York by Amtrak’s express train. On arrival at New York’s Penn Station, I took a taxi to JFK Airport, instructing the driver to drop me at the international arrivals terminal for incoming Aeroflot flights. Whether he didn’t understand me, or simply didn’t know his way around the airport, I don’t know; but I was delivered to the wrong terminal. And by the time I got inside and realized it, my taxi was gone and there were no others around. And no shuttle bus in sight. I had no idea of how to get where I was supposed to be; I’m a Washingtonian, not a New Yorker.

And just then the clouds parted, the hand of God descended and delivered to this lost lamb an angel from Heaven.

Or, more likely, the FBI had reached out and sent me an agent. A very respectable-looking man approached me, said I appeared to be lost, and asked if he could help. I explained my problem, and he said — miracle of miracles! — that he was also going to international arrivals and would be happy to give me a lift. His car just happened to be parked nearby.

Now, I’m not a stupid person, and under normal circumstances I do not get into vehicles with strangers. But this was not a normal circumstance, and he was not your average stranger. Plus, I was running late and becoming desperate. So with some trepidation I accepted the Good Samaritan’s offer. He knew exactly where to go, dropped me off in front of the correct terminal, said goodbye and good luck, and drove off. I never saw him again; apparently he had no business in international arrivals after all.

But there was no time to think about that. I ran into the terminal, looked around near baggage claims, and found Valentin Aksilenko standing next to a man, obviously our driver, who was holding a card with my name written on it. What a relief! But where was Yuri Shvets?

As I greeted Valentin and the driver, apologizing for my tardiness, a man came inching out of a nearby corner, where he had been partially hidden in the shadows. He was of average height, slight build, with luxuriant dark hair that was styled in what could only be described as a pompadour (you younger readers can look that up), and conspicuously well dressed and unwrinkled for a long-distance traveler. Was this the mysterious author, whistle-blower, and spy extraordinaire? Really?

After a quick introduction, we grabbed our respective suitcases and headed for the car to take us to Connecticut. I sat in the front seat with the driver, giving the two visitors a bit of privacy in the rear. In addition to jet lag, they must surely have been stressed beyond belief. We chatted a bit about their flight, the lovely countryside, and other nonsense, and then I left them alone to talk softly between themselves — in Russian, of course. I couldn’t catch a word of their conversation, nor did I try.

The Brockmans were the perfect hosts, and we all spent a delightful evening, with drinks on the enclosed porch, a stroll through the historic farm property, a lovely dinner, and endless conversation. The following morning, we rode into the city, met with three prospective publishers, and Shvets’ book was quickly bought for publication by Simon & Schuster. After a brief meeting back at the offices of Brockman, Inc., we enjoyed a celebratory lunch (again, compliments of John Brockman) in a restaurant with a beautiful view of Rockefeller Plaza, and three of us — the two exhausted Russians and I — hopped a train back to Washington, where I had left my car parked in the Union Station garage. I drove across the Potomac River via the 14th Street Bridge, checked them into their previously-reserved rooms in a suburban Virginia hotel, and took myself home to collapse. They weren’t the only ones feeling the stress.

It later became public knowledge that, during their stay in Washington, they met with the FBI. How many times they met, or for how long, or what was discussed, I do not know — and I’m sure it’s better that I don’t.

*. *. *

I have to backtrack a bit here. Following my February trip to Moscow with Kate Williams, I had received an offer from Gil Robinson to join his Foundation as their Moscow office manager for an estimated three to six months. Needless to say, I jumped at the opportunity. I spent a couple of weeks part-time in the Foundation’s Washington office, and was scheduled to leave for Moscow on May 10th. Valentin’s and Yuri’s visas were due to expire on May 5th. I was cutting it close, with only five days between their departure and my own in which to get ready for the move. And all the while I was spending time with them, with the FBI (whose presence had increased dramatically since the arrival of the two visitors), with my family and friends, on the phone with Brockman, suspending home deliveries and services, cleaning out my refrigerator, and packing half my wardrobe and an entire pharmacy. Today, just thinking about it is exhausting.

So when they took off as scheduled on May 5th, I was relieved, to say the least. And on May 10th, I left on an Air France flight from Dulles International Airport with 16 pieces of baggage — seven or eight of my own, the remainder being office supplies and equipment belonging to the Foundation. The overweight charges were enormous, but luckily a very sympathetic Air France supervisor, on hearing that we were doing humanitarian aid work for children, cut the costs in half. Also fortunately, I had the Foundation’s American Express corporate card to cover the still hefty charges.

And off I went, leaving everyone and everything behind, heading into . . . what? I had no idea, but I was sure it wouldn’t be dull. And I was so right.

Join me next week, as I arrive in Moscow to get settled, meet my new “family,” visit Kiev, and become much too well acquainted with the Russian authorities.

So long for now,
Brendochka
3/23/23

“‘Glasnost’ is on everyone’s lips, but the rules haven’t changed for either side.” — The Russia House, John le Carre (1989).

*. *. *

The remainder of 1992, following my return from Moscow, passed in a blur of activity: refining and promoting my business plan; consulting with my new associates in Moscow; meeting with people at the Russian Embassy and the local college; and — having quit my full-time job to devote myself to my real passion — even doing a little temp work to bring in some extra income. And then, toward the end of the year, another bolt out of the blue struck with perfect timing.

I received a heads-up phone call one day from Ben Fishburne, a former partner at Surrey & Morse / Jones Day who had worked closely with Walter Surrey for years on transactions in China, the Soviet Union, and elsewhere. He had recently bumped into an old client and friend of Walter’s, Gil Robinson, who told Ben that he was heading up a humanitarian aid foundation in Russia. While he already had a top-notch staff in Washington, Gil was searching for someone to accompany their D.C. manager, Kate Williams, to Moscow for a week — preferably someone who spoke the language and knew something about the country. Eureka! Ben asked if Gil remembered me — which he did — and gave him my number, saying that he thought I might be interested. Talk about understatement.

When Gil called, I tried not to get too excited, remembering the APCO disappointment. But this time was the real thing, if only for a week. There were meetings scheduled, but I would still have adequate time to pursue my own interests. We were booked into my old stomping grounds, the Slavyanskaya Radisson Hotel; it was February, 1993.

February in Moscow, again. I know I said I loved the whole Doctor Zhivago thing, but two years in a row? Still, you don’t pass up a golden opportunity just because of a little snow.

Corporations To End World Hunger Foundation seemed a lofty name for a small group with a noble purpose but limited reach. But they were doing good work. With funding from the U.S. Department of Agriculture, and food product from ADM Corporation, they were supplying healthy, high-protein food — the first Veggieburger — to children in orphanages and hospitals in Moscow, St. Petersburg, Kiev (Ukraine), and Minsk (Belarus). I was thrilled to be associated with them, helping children in need and — optimistically — building bridges between our two countries.

Gil Robinson had at one time been an Ambassador-at-Large in the U.S. State Department, and had an impressive biography overall, giving him access to people and places that might not be available to everyone. He had somehow managed — without anyone on his team who spoke a word of Russian — to start the registration process in Moscow; locate and rent a large apartment in a building owned by the Ministry of Defense and occupied by high-ranking military officers; develop contacts in all four cities; and hire a driver and jack-of-all-trades named Vitold, who was a maniac on wheels but knew where and how to acquire virtually anything.

One afternoon when Kate and I both had some free time, Vitold took us on a little sightseeing tour, ending at the famous Novodevichy Monastery. Most of the buildings were not open to the public, but we were able to wander the snow-packed lanes through the cemetery where the creme-de-la-creme of Russian and Soviet society were spending eternity: famed writers such as Chekhov, Gogol and Bulgakov; the composer Prokofiev; and the unforgettable former Soviet leader Nikita Khrushchev, among numerous other cultural, political and military elites. After an hour or so, when we were just about frozen to the bone, we suddenly heard . . . the distant voices of angels.

No, we were not hallucinating. What we were hearing was the liturgical music of a choir practicing in one of the Monastery’s churches . . . and the doors were open. We headed for the warm indoors, excited at the opportunity to thaw out and to see what the inside of a Russian Orthodox church looked like. The first surprise was the emptiness — no pews, no benches, no seats of any kind; just a large expanse of concrete flooring. Along the left and right sides were tall windows, below which were statues of various saints, and tables with long, thin candles to be lit for the saint of one’s choice. And at the front was a large altar, behind which loomed an incredibly beautiful, nearly ceiling-high iconostasis separating the main part of the church from the sanctuary. The angelic voices were drifting out from behind that screen.

There were a few worshipers — mostly old women, who, despite the obvious pain involved, would periodically kneel and touch their heads to the hard floor. And strategically posted on either side of the room were two men in suits and overcoats, one on each side, just standing and watching. Kate wondered who they might be — perhaps security? Vitold didn’t respond, but I did: I was sure they were KGB. She thought at first that I was joking, but when she saw that I wasn’t, and Vitold nodded in agreement, she looked understandably nervous. So I whispered, “It’s okay; just ignore them” — which was pure bravado, of course. But the last thing we needed was for them to think we had anything to be nervous about. It may no longer have been called the Soviet Union, but some things hadn’t changed.

To our delight, we had arrived at the church at the perfect time. Without any fanfare, a priest — in long, white-and-gold robes and headdress, snowy white beard flowing from his chin halfway down his chest — emerged from the sanctuary and began a service for the small gathering. Of course, Kate and I couldn’t understand a syllable of the old Church Slavonic language, but with the choir of angels in the background, it sounded divine. The three of us were standing in front near the altar, soaking in the atmosphere, when suddenly the priest’s eyes caught mine . . . and held. And held. And held. His eyes were mesmerizing, and I could not bring myself to look away. I felt as though he was looking deep into my soul, and I wondered whether I was being blessed or cursed, or whether perhaps he was trying silently to warn me about the KGB’s presence; but it was unlike anything I had ever experienced. If I close my eyes today, I can still see that priest’s eyes and feel the power of his gaze.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he looked away and the service ended shortly thereafter. It was time for us to leave — and to walk past those KGB watchers still hanging out in the warmth of the church. I wondered if either of them had noticed my visual exchange with the priest, and I half expected them to stop us, if only to find out who we were and where we were from; but they didn’t. We did stop briefly to light candles to a couple of saints whose identities were a complete mystery to us, and hurried out of the church and the Monastery grounds to Vitold’s heap of a car waiting nearby on the street — miraculously, with all of its parts intact. Spare auto parts were notoriously difficult to come by, and had a habit of walking away if left unguarded.

There was also time during that week to fulfill another of my long-time dreams: a night at the Bolshoi. Kate and I were able to get tickets, at premium prices, to a performance of the Aleksandr Borodin opera Prince Igor. While I was disappointed that there was no ballet performance scheduled that week, as I much prefer ballet to opera, it was still the Bolshoi Theatre, and that was joy enough for me. Vitold drove us there, and on the way was stopped by the traffic police, the GAI, for some unknown violation. He was going to try to argue his way out of it when I told him to take the damned ticket and I would pay the fine — just get us to the theatre in time. The way that man drove, I’d have bet he was on a first-name basis with every traffic cop in Moscow.

But of course, we were late. We had orchestra seats, but since the opera had already started, we were not allowed to disturb the performance, and instead were directed naverkh — “upstairs.” At each level, puffing and panting, we were sent up another flight, and another, and another, until we wound up in nosebleed territory — the cheap seats, where most of the patrons were locals who couldn’t afford more and considered themselves lucky to be there at all. And as we sat down, trying to get our breath after scaling Mount Bolshoi, I noticed that most of the people there were families with children, all of them obviously enthralled by the performance on the stage far below them. I had to wonder how many American children would even allow themselves to be dragged to an opera, much less enjoy it. In some respects, culturally at least, Russian society seemed far ahead of ours.

During intermission, we sipped champagne and mingled with the crowd, enjoying a bit of people-watching. We were then able to go to our assigned seats in the orchestra section for the remainder of the opera, but quite frankly, I missed watching the faces of the little kids upstairs under the eaves.

*. *. *

You know how sometimes you can go to a party expecting it to be a total drag, and end up having a wonderful time? Or on a blind date you’re really dreading, where it turns out you meet the love of your life? Well, my next event wasn’t a party or a date, but a simple get-together with an old acquaintance and a bit of pleasant conversation. I certainly never anticipated that that afternoon meeting would be one of the most significant turning points of my life.

“Viktor Akimov” — the commercial/economic First Secretary from the Soviet Embassy in Washington in the late 1970s and early ‘80s — was in fact Valentin Pavlovich Aksilenko. Everything else I’ve told you about him was factual, but I had originally thought to protect the privacy of some individuals by not naming them in my earlier narratives. However, since the stories I’m about to relate are already matters of public record, what would be the point? So, here we go . . .

On one of my free afternoons during that week of February 14, 1993, I again met with Valentin Aksilenko in the business center of the Slavyanskaya Radisson Hotel in Moscow. As we had done the previous February, we caught up on world events of the past year, and what each of us had been doing. This time, though, Valentin dropped a seemingly offhand comment to the effect that he was so glad to be “out of intelligence work.”

EXCUSE ME??? I could not have heard that correctly! Were those really the words of a man who obviously had never admitted being in the intelligence field, now telling me how happy he was to be out of it? And why was he revealing it at this particular moment? And why to me?

It’s thought that if you want another person to keep talking, you should just keep quiet. So I did. But instead of continuing, he became still. Leaning forward in his chair, with his forearms resting on his legs, hands clasped between his knees, he stared at the carpeted floor for a seemingly endless moment, deep in thought. I waited. At last he sighed as though having made a crucial decision, sat up straight, and looked back at me. To paraphrase his next words:

“I have a friend here in Moscow who was also an intelligence officer at the Embassy in Washington. He’s secretly writing a book about his experiences as a KGB spy in the United States, but obviously he can’t get it published here. We were wondering if you know anyone in the publishing business, and if you think you could help us?”

And there it was: that exact moment in the movie of John le Carre’s The Russia House, when the Russian Katya Orlova delivers a manuscript from her scientist friend to be placed in the hands of the British publisher, Barley Blair, for publication in England because its content is too explosive to be released in Russia.

Only this wasn’t a movie; this was real. And it was happening to me, right then, and right there, in Moscow. Oh! My! God!

It never ceases to amaze me how quickly the human brain can process information and make decisions in sink-or-swim situations. I reasoned that I had a choice between a flat-out “Sorry, no, I don’t” and a totally false “Actually, yes, I do.” But my brain, now in overdrive, told me there was a third option: stall. So what I finally said was that, in all honesty, I did not personally know anyone, but that I did know people in New York who might well have connections in publishing. And thereby I unknowingly altered the course of my future, as well as Valentin’s and his friend’s.

. . . that is, if there even was such a friend. He hadn’t mentioned the friend’s name. Wasn’t it just possible that Valentin himself might be this anonymous author, and the unidentified “friend” was merely a kind of misdirection? But there was no time for reasoning just then. I told him I would see what I could do, and left the thinking for later. We parted with a handshake and a promise to be in touch.

When Kate asked me at dinner how my meeting with my friend had gone, I said it had been really nice to see him again, and let it go at that. This was not the sort of information you share with the world. But I hardly slept that night, or for the next couple of nights. We left Moscow on Saturday morning, February 20th, arriving at Dulles International Airport in mid-afternoon Washington time — nighttime in Moscow. I was so exhausted by then — both mentally and physically — that I was in bed by 9:00 p.m. and actually did sleep, not waking until noon on Sunday, February 21st.

Yawning and stretching, I opened my apartment door, bent down to pick up the Sunday edition of the Washington Post, dropped it face-up on the kitchen counter, and headed toward the refrigerator for my customary wake-up glass of orange juice. And halfway there, I stopped dead in my tracks.

Something had caught my eye as that newspaper landed on the countertop. What was it . . . something about the KGB? Turning back, I focused on an article by Michael Dobbs, then the Post’s Moscow Bureau Chief, about a series of interviews given in Moscow — the last one just a few days earlier — by a former KGB Major named Yuri Shvets, who had served in the Soviet Embassy in Washington from 1985-87, and was now writing a tell-all book about his experiences there.

The words that came flying from my mouth as I stood alone in my kitchen that day are not fit for printing in this blog. Or anywhere else.

“That #&$*#$ has to be Valentin’s friend.”

“What the #$&%*$ is he doing??”

“Is he #$&#*$-ing INSANE????????”

Well, whoever he was — Valentin’s friend or, unlikely, some other lunatic — I was sure he had just signed his own death warrant. I reread the article and tried to calm down. Then I reached for the phone and dialed Valentin’s number in Moscow, where it was nearly 9:00 p.m. There had to be a logical explanation for this.

*. *. *

Please don’t yell at me for stopping here. It’s an ongoing story, with many twists and turns and some fun stuff in between, that will require about a dozen installments to write. So, like a 1940s radio soap opera (but all true), I must ask you to tune in next week for the continuing saga, etc., etc.

Thanks, and TTFN,
Brendochka
3/16/23

I learned a lot of things in Prague. I learned that Adolph Hitler had considered it too beautiful to destroy, so only two German bombs hit the city during WWII: one landing on the City Hall, and the other on my friend Beata’s grandparents’ home (luckily, no one was in the house at the time). I learned that Russian and Czech are two distinctly different languages, and that Doberman Pinschers can be friendly. I learned that Mozart really rocks, and that cobblestones are murder on your feet. And I learned that I loved living abroad.

But most significantly, I learned that in 1991 there was a huge need in the recently de-Soviet-ized countries of Eastern and Central Europe for some sort of training programs for the thousands of individuals who would be lining up to work for all of the new Western companies springing up everywhere.

And I had an epiphany. If the need was so great in those countries, how much more desperate must it be in Russia, which had never known democracy or free enterprise. There were programs in the United States and elsewhere being created to train the new generation of Russian entrepreneurs, but what about the people who would be working for them? And who better to develop such a program than someone with years of exactly that type of work experience? Someone like me, for instance.

Again, the timing was serendipitous. My son and daughter were grown and on their own, and my mother had passed away shortly after my return from Prague, leaving me with an unexpected case of empty-nest syndrome. I had no one dependent on me any longer, and being back in a routine job just wasn’t cutting it. It was time for this little bird to fly. So I started spending my evenings and weekends writing — not fiction, not a travelogue, but a business plan. And when it was finished, I took it directly to the Russian Embassy. Now, if that’s not chutzpah, I don’t know what is.

And it paid off. My new contact at the Embassy, Natalya, loved it. A very bright and well-connected lady, she immediately set about referring me to people in Moscow who could partner with me in establishing my business school on their side of the Atlantic. As luck would have it, Natalya also was acquainted with — and introduced me to — the person at Northern Virginia Community College (NOVA) best suited to create the curriculum that would be needed there. My plan was to bring teachers to the U.S. for training in Western business methods and office procedures at one of NOVA’s campuses, who would then return to Moscow to pass on their knowledge to the students at a business school to be established there. Those students then would be qualified to become office assistants, bookkeepers, shop managers, and the like. Direct, uncomplicated, and workable.

Everyone loved it. But, like any project, it had to be financed. Ugh! So I began promoting my business plan, including a proposed budget, to several American foundations, venture capital companies, and even a couple of government agencies. And while I waited for my financial “angel” to show up, I began planning my first solo trip to Moscow for meetings with Natalya’s contacts in February of 1992.

“February??? You’re going to Russia in February??????”

That was what I heard from everyone. And my reply was always, “Sure — why not?” Actually, I’d always wanted to see the Russian winter of Doctor Zhivago, and here was my chance. I took a week’s vacation from the law firm, packed some winter clothes, grabbed my warmest down coat and fur-lined boots, and made a reservation at the Slavyanskaya Radisson Hotel in central Moscow. And off I went.

On the long overnight flight, somewhere between dinner and a three-hour nap, I studied my notes and finalized my schedule. This time, when the plane landed at Sheremetyevo Airport, there was no Intourist guide or bus waiting for me as there had been on my first trip as a tourist three and a half years earlier. I had to fetch my own bags and find a taxi to take me into the city. And I had no American law firm backing me up, as I had in Prague. For the first time, it hit me that I was entirely on my own, in what was arguably one of the scariest cities on earth. What in hell had I been thinking?!!

Once I got to the hotel, though, my confidence began to return. It was a Radisson, after all, with all of the usual comforts and amenities, and staff who spoke English. In 1992, Moscow was crawling with Americans and other foreigners looking for business opportunities that just a couple of years earlier hadn’t existed there. The bar was full of them, the dining room was full of them, and the business center on the mezzanine was buzzing with them, in a cacophony of half a dozen different languages.

Now, about those Russian winters. They were right, all those people who said it was insanity to go there in February. But I found it perversely invigorating. It snowed a bit every night, and nearly every day. The snow was swept from the sidewalks by little old ladies with brooms; on the streets, it was simply driven over and packed down by the heavy traffic — no need for snow plows. The temperature barely inched above zero during the day, and dipped to around 20-below at night.

To compensate, Russians tend to overheat their buildings — including the Western hotels like the Radisson. But I can’t sleep in an oven, so I was pleased to find that the window in my room could be opened, and I lifted it just an inch or so before turning in that first night. The next morning, I went down to the coffee shop for breakfast and came back to my room to fetch my things for my first meeting, where I found a hotel maid — a very pretty young woman — fussing over the snow on the windowsill. She kept apologizing for what she assumed was an oversight by a hotel employee, and I had to calm her down before she could comprehend that I had opened the window myself. We chatted, and I gave her the little gifts I had brought for her — just some small American cosmetic and toiletry items, but unavailable in Russia in those days. Every day after that, I would leave her a little something, and — as I had hoped — nothing was ever missing from my room. And on my last day in the hotel, she actually brought a gift for me: a lovely picture book of Moscow. All because of a little snow.

The meetings Natalya had arranged for me were going well, and I was running non-stop from one to another. At the same time, I was learning about a Moscow I hadn’t known before: the small-town Moscow, where everybody knew everybody, and where — out of nine million people — you were still likely to bump into someone you knew.

One morning, as I sat at a table in the hotel coffee shop, grabbing another quick breakfast before my first meeting of the day, I looked up and spotted a familiar face — and an American one, at that. I called out his name and he turned, completely surprised to see me in such unexpected surroundings. Randy Bregman was an attorney from Washington whom I had known for years, and with whom I shared a number of mutual friends and acquaintances. He sat down, ordered a cup of coffee, and we talked for a while.

He was associated at the time with the large, well-known law firm of Arnold & Porter. He told me that they had created a public relations firm called APCO, which had established a business presence in Russia, and they were looking for the right person who could move to Moscow and manage their office. Knowing my background, he asked if I might be interested, and I answered almost before he finished the question. Of course I was interested! Are you kidding? This was my dream come true: another overseas opportunity, and one that would put me onsite where my new business school would be operating. I could multi-task.

“Just one thing, though,” Randy cautioned. They had a Russian partner, a man he called simply Vlad, who could be — in his words — rather bossy and difficult to get along with. Shrugging it off, I reminded him of my ten years with Walter Surrey, the attorney I had been working with when Randy and I first met, and assured him that if I could handle Walter, I could handle anyone. He laughed, and agreed. He gave me the name of the partner (Sarah something, as I recall) in Arnold & Porter’s Washington office who was in charge of finding a manager for the Moscow APCO office. He said he would let her know to expect a call from me when I got back to the States the following week. I couldn’t believe my luck — and as it turned out, there was good cause for my disbelief. More on that coming up later.

Among the people with whom I met that week was a group of educators from a district known as Lyubertsy on the outskirts of Moscow. (It also happened to be the location of one of the most notorious, violent “Mafia” gangs in the entire Moscow area, but that was beside the point.) They invited me to visit their district and to join them, their Mayor, and some of their teachers for lunch one day, transportation to be provided. It was a fairly long drive, and afforded me the extra perk of seeing some of the rural area outside of the city that I might not otherwise have seen.

Their building was located on a former government-run collective farm, which had now been privatized. The food they served was all locally produced, including the pig who had given its life so that we might have shashlik (shishkebab) for lunch — prepared right there, on the farm, outdoors, in a clearing surrounded by three feet of piled-up snow. And that was where the table had also been set with a typically Russian over-abundance of food: Outdoors. In ten-degree weather. At a picnic table. In the snow. Get my drift? This was “frigid,” redefined.

There was a little warmth radiating from the barbecue grill if you stood right in front of it, but the only real heat source was from the bottles of vodka they had stashed in the snow beneath the table. Hospitable, hardy folks, these Russians. Of course, every bite of food had to be preceded by a toast: to U.S.-Russian friendship, to President Yeltsin, to success in business, to world peace, to President Bush, to you, to me, to someone’s evil mother-in-law . . . to all of us. And we’re talking about bottoms-up shots of ice-cold vodka, not dainty sips of wine. I was doing fine, relying on my Russian/Ukrainian heritage to sustain me, until it was time to go indoors for our meeting. (Please don’t ask why we had to eat outdoors when there was a perfectly lovely building just 20 or 30 yards away; apparently, it’s a thing over there. Or perhaps they were just testing my mettle. In any event, it would have been rude to question it.)

Did you know that it’s possible to consume a whole lot of alcohol in icy-cold surroundings without feeling any effect? Or that it will hit you like a brick wall as soon as you come indoors to the warmth? Well, I didn’t know — but I found out quickly enough. The funny thing was, as off-kilter as I suddenly found myself, I was also speaking the most fluent Russian of my life, and understanding everything the others said, without relying on the interpreter. At least, I think that’s what happened. Later, when I sobered up, I just had to pray that I hadn’t nullified any existing treaties between our governments. Without my sloppily-scribbled notes, I would have had no clue as to what transpired at that meeting, but I did recall that we parted as great friends. I suppose there is a moral to this story somewhere, but I’m damned if I know what it is.

I also found time that week to have dinner at the home of a couple I knew: a Russian lawyer and his wife who had been in Washington the year before, and who were also friends of Randy Bregman. See what I mean about everybody knowing everybody? And there was a whirlwind tour of the city with a delightful group of young Russian folk dancers who had been given my name as someone who might be able to arrange a U.S. tour for them (which, unfortunately, I wasn’t — not my bailiwick).

During that walkabout with the dancers, though, I learned a bit more about the nature of the typical Russian babushka (grandmother). I was wearing my nice warm, puffy down coat, scarf, gloves, and boots, but typically my head was uncovered — I hate wearing hats and hoods. I get hat hair. So, as we were standing in a scenic spot while I took a few pictures, this elderly woman came rushing up to me, scolding me in Russian: “Cover your head, you’re going to catch pneumonia,” she kept repeating as she actually reached out and tried to pull the scarf that was around my neck up higher onto my head. As I tried to wave her hands away without actually slapping them, I told her that I was fine, that I was from the north and accustomed to the cold, etc. — until she finally gave up, uttered one last “tsk,” and walked away, muttering under her breath. Not shy, those wonderful little old Russian ladies. I used to have a beloved grandmother like that.

What turned out to be the most significant meeting of that week, however, seemed at the time to be the least meaningful. If you’ve been following my journey from the beginning, you may remember “my first Commie,” Viktor Akimov, and my having missed seeing him on my first trip to Moscow as a tourist in 1988. Before leaving for this visit in 1992, I sent him a fax (the world had advanced from telexes), and this time I received a reply happily agreeing to get together. And so we did, in the business center of the Radisson, where we drank tea and had a fine time catching up on the ten years since he had left Washington. I told him about my business school proposal; but he said very little about what he was currently doing. He seemed tired, and somewhat at a loss in the new open environment in Russia. We agreed to keep in touch, and that was that. I could never have imagined what lay just a year in the future . . . and a year after that.

It had been a hectic week, and I left Moscow worn out but optimistic. Except for the money thing. The Russians didn’t have any, and I was going to have to raise it all at home. And of course I still had to follow up on the APCO opportunity. So when I got home, I called Sarah and scheduled a meeting.

*. *. *

Hydrogen peroxide and vinegar . . . chlorine bleach and ammonia . . . alcohol and barbiturates . . . Brenda and Sarah. What do they have in common? They’re all toxic combinations.

Now, we’ve all met people to whom we’ve formed either an instant attraction or an instant dislike. But this woman had such an incredibly off-putting attitude, and an air of all-knowing superiority, that she was in a class of her own. She began by describing her plans for the Moscow office and her requirements for the person to fill the opening. She needed someone who could serve two roles: office manager, and IT specialist. Two completely different, incompatible jobs, requiring two different and incompatible skill sets and personality types. Two roles that, in every other organization, are filled by at least two people; but she was convinced that one should be able to do the job. Then she capped it off by naming a salary that was not just laughable — it was downright insulting. Even for Washington, it would have been ridiculously low; for Moscow, a notorious hardship posting, it was ludicrous. She clearly knew nothing about the reality of Russia.

I left that meeting feeling very let down. It wasn’t the end of the world, of course, but it was the end of what I had considered potentially a great opportunity. I was sorely disappointed — until about eight years later, when I was reading a newly-published book about Boris Berezovsky, one of the first, and wealthiest, of the new Russian oligarchs. In the book was a mention of another oligarch, Vladimir Gusinsky, who had been involved in many successful business enterprises, including — are you ready? — APCO. Omigod! This clearly was Vlad: Randy Bregman’s “bossy-and-difficult-to-get-along-with” Vlad. And the same Vlad who had since fallen out of favor with the government, been arrested on charges of corruption, and who — even today, in 2023 — is living in exile somewhere in the world, still on Vladimir Putin’s hit list. Go ahead and check him out on Google; it’s a fascinating story, and one in which I might easily have become an innocent bystander — or even deemed guilty by association. I had dodged that bullet, perhaps literally. I guess I owe Sarah my thanks after all, for what was arguably the worst job interview ever. So . . . belatedly and somewhat grudgingly . . . I do thank you, Sarah.

*. * . *

Have I mentioned that I’m writing a book? No? Well, I am. In fact, it’s the impetus for my having started this blog in the first place. But I’ve gone on long enough today, so please come back next Thursday for the beginning of that story, the reveal of the true identity of “Viktor Akimov,” and a segue into the most memorable two years of my life. In the words of the immortal Al Jolson, “You ain’t heard nothin’ yet.”

So long for now,
Brendochka
3/9/23

Now, where did we leave off last week? Right — Valerie had been rescued from the elevator and made good her escape from Prague. It was her loss; she missed out on a lot of good times.

On the way to work one day, I noticed printed signs posted on utility poles and trees all along the main streets, but couldn’t make out what they said. When I asked someone at work, I was told they were an announcement of the regular five-year cleaning of the pipes. All water was to be shut down throughout the city — except in the central, Old Town district — for the upcoming weekend. That explained the rusty water in my shower.

But what does one do without water for an entire weekend? Well, if you’re an American on an expense account, you either leave town or check into a hotel where there is water. But being tourist season, all the major hotels were already full, and I could only find space in a lovely little boutique hotel, the Ungelt, just off the Old Town Square. It was perfectly located, and for $200 I had — not just a room — but a beautiful two-bedroom, two-bath suite with a huge living room and a full kitchen. Good thing, too, since it turned out I was going to have to share it with a partner coming in from the Cleveland office.

The partner’s secretary called one day just before the water shutdown to ask whether we could help out with a hotel issue. Her boss would be arriving in Prague a day earlier than originally planned, but when she had tried to add a day at the start of his hotel reservation, she had been told that all rooms in the city were booked, due both to the usual tourist crush and the upcoming water issue. I explained the situation to her, which she of course found incredible, being from Cleveland where tourist invasions were not really a problem and the water system wasn’t 500 years old. But I had a brilliant idea. I said I had just reserved a two-bedroom suite for myself, and I would be happy to have company for the one night. Her reaction was hilarious! She simply could not believe that I — a woman — would agree to share living space with a man — and a married man at that — whom I had never even met. Ah, these moral midwesterners! She just didn’t understand, first, that in most of the western world this would not be considered shocking; second, that he was a partner in the firm and if he tried anything objectionable, I would know exactly where to find his wife; and third, that this was Prague, where practically nothing was considered unusual. So she checked with her boss, and he said “yes please” — which must have sent her into spasms.

As it turned out, though, the water was restored before he arrived and I was able to move back into my apartment after only one night in the hotel. He was already on a plane by that time, so I left a note and the key for him at the hotel desk, and said I’d see him at the office on Monday. When we did finally meet, he said he and his wife had had a good laugh over the situation, and yes, his secretary was a bit on the puritanical side. No kidding!

Anyway, while I was staying at the hotel, I was able to do some wandering around the Old Town, where I encountered a family of three from Germany: a young couple and a middle-aged woman, who were driving around Europe on the cheap. The young man spoke English, and told me they had lost their bearings in the city’s twisted streets. He asked if I could direct them back to the student hostel where they had stayed the night before. He showed me a piece of paper with the supposed address on it, but what they had written down was the word “Ulitsa,” which they had copied from a street sign, and which I had to explain means “Street” — not the name of the street as they had thought. They didn’t realize that the street names were shown in reverse, as for example, “Street Main.” Dismayed, they asked where else they might stay, and I told them about the water situation and the packed hotels, and that I had even had to move out of my apartment to an expensive hotel for two days. The young man suddenly became very excited. Could they stay in my apartment, since I wasn’t using it?

Now, I’ve heard of chutzpah, but this was beyond belief. Did I have “STUPID” written across my forehead? Was I really going to let three total strangers — and wayfaring tourists at that — move into my apartment, where all my belongings were, and where they couldn’t bathe or flush the toilet for two days??? Really? So I quickly made up a story about a landlord who wouldn’t allow tenants to sublet, wished them well, and got away from them as quickly as I could. They had a car, and I assume they slept in it that night. If they could even remember on which ulitsa they’d parked it!

As wonderfully friendly and generally safe as Prague was, it was not without its problems. The Romany people — commonly referred to as Gypsies — live in many parts of Europe, and were considered a huge problem in Prague at that time. Sadly, they were blamed for every crime that occurred anywhere in the city, whether they were guilty or not. One day, Rudy had picked me up at my apartment, and as we drove down the hill and around the corner, I noticed a man lying on the ground near the rear of a parked car, and saw blood on the ground near his head. I shouted at Rudy to stop, but instead he merely slowed down, took one look at the man, and kept going, saying it was not safe to stop. That was not like Rudy at all, and I kept asking him what was wrong with him. His answer shocked me. He said the man was a Gypsy, and if he was alive, regained consciousness and became frightened, he could very easily pull a knife and kill us both.

Now, I’m a city girl, and I’m no stranger to the dangers posed by all sorts of unsavory people. But I’ve also seen the results of hatred and bigotry, and I just could not allow a man to lie there and possibly die simply because we were afraid. So I told Rudy to find the nearest police or fire station. As luck would have it, just up the street we encountered a police car with two officers, stopped them, and led them back to the injured man, who was by then sitting up and holding the back of his head. The officers took charge, and we were able to go on our way. Sadly, that too was Prague. It’s the one truly negative memory I have of that summer, and it will never go away.

But, as with any ethnic group, there are Gypsies . . . and there are Gypsies.

Of all of the wonderful restaurants in Prague that year, my favorite was located outside the city center in a big, rustic log cabin set back from the road in a thinly wooded area. I never would have found it on my own, but my co-workers seemed to know every eating spot in town. The dining room was huge, and in the center was an enormous open fire pit, with a dozen or more chickens turning continuously on a long spit. And there was entertainment: a group of Gypsy musicians, who — along with the owners of the restaurant — were delighted to meet the friendly American woman who spoke to them in Russian. As a result, I was always given the best table near the rotisserie, and serenaded to the strains of Gypsy violins whenever I visited. (And yes, you can get sick and tired of hearing Zigeunerweisen.) Of course, as an American, I was by Eastern European standards a good tipper, so those guys weren’t stupid. But I had grown very fond of them, and hated saying goodbye at the end of the summer. If they went out and committed crimes after work, I never knew about it, and didn’t want to know. They were my Gypsies.

Then there was U Fleku — a brewpub that had been in continuous operation since the year 1499, even through the much more recent Nazi and Communist occupations. My friends Joe and Mary Saba — you may remember them from the London episode — came to Prague to work for a couple of weeks, during which time Joe had a big birthday to celebrate. So we —about a half dozen of us — took him to U Fleku and surprised him with a birthday cake. However, the only candles we had been able to find were the size of Chanukah candles, and when they were all lit, we were sure the blaze was going to burn down the 500-year-old wooden building. But it didn’t. And as we sang “Happy Birthday,” we were surprised and delighted to hear everyone in the room join in, singing in Czech. Who knew it was such a universal melody? I have to say, those Czechs really know how to party.

Oh, and about that cake. I had stopped that morning at my favorite bakery to order it. It was to be freshly baked and ready for pick-up that afternoon. I couldn’t decide which of several flavors to choose, so I said — or thought I said — “either that one or that one,” pointing to two of the samples. The cost was an incredible $7.00, which would have been the price of just a couple of slices back home. But when Rudy went to pick up the cake in the afternoon, he returned to the office with, not one, but two cakes, and for the same $7.00 — an unbelievable $3.50 apiece! I guess I must have gotten my conjunctions mixed up; clearly, I didn’t know my “or” from my “and.” The second cake did not go to waste, though — my Czech friends knew how to eat as well as drink. I could never quite understand how they stayed so slender; must have been all the walking.

One more restaurant story. I received a call one day from Michael Silverman in the Washington office (also from my London and Budapest adventures), telling me that a client and friend from Rutgers University, Dan Matuszewski, was coming to Prague and would be calling me to touch base. Dan was a delightful guy, and I was looking forward to hearing from him. When he called a few days later, to my surprise he invited me to join him for dinner, and said that there would be a third person with us: Father Theodore Hesburgh, then President of Notre Dame University. I had heard of but never met “Father Ted,” as he was affectionately called, and was honored to have the opportunity. However, not being Catholic, I wasn’t quite sure what to expect, and decided I had better be on my best behavior.

To begin with, I couldn’t find the restaurant. I had the name (the Beograd — Belgrade, in English), as well as the address, and I knew where the street was, just off of the lower end of the famous Wenceslas Square. But I couldn’t find a building with the right street number, nor was there a visible sign with the name of the restaurant. So I approached a man walking by, who didn’t speak English, and asked him for the “Restaurace Beograd” — the Czech words for Belgrade Restaurant. Again, though, my pronunciation must have been less than perfect, because the poor man kept saying, “Ne Beograd. Praha. Praha.” (“Not Belgrade. Prague. Prague.”) He obviously thought I was suffering from some form of dementia and believed I was in Yugoslavia! As he walked away, shaking his head slowly from side to side in apparent sympathy, I was thinking about how to find a Czech language tutor, and soon. But first I had to find the restaurant.

I did locate it a few minutes later, with the help of another passerby, just around the corner from where I had been looking. It seemed that the street, which appeared to end at a cross street, actually made a 90-degree right turn and continued under the same name. Oh, well . . . that’s Prague.

When I finally arrived, Dan and Father Ted were already finishing their first round of drinks, and I soon discovered to my everlasting delight that Father Ted was one of the funniest, most interesting, and most down-to-earth priests one could imagine. I can’t think of a topic we didn’t cover during that dinner, most of it with a distinct overtone of irreverence and accompanied by a good bit of raucous laughter. I’m not sure how much any of us managed to eat that night, but it was a great time and one of my fondest memories of Prague. I do regret, though, that I never did make it to Yugoslavia.

My very first chapter of this blog began with the sentence, “I once climbed a mountain in Czechoslovakia.” I did not lie, although “mountain” may have been a slight exaggeration. It sure felt like a mountain, though. Google Maps tells me that the tallest mountain in the Czech Republic is Snezka, at 1,603.3 meters, or 5,260 feet — just twenty feet short of a mile high. On the other hand, my mountain, Hluboka, is described as “a hill.” But from personal experience, I can tell you that even the hills of San Francisco can’t hold a candle to the one leading up to Hluboka Castle. To me, it was a mountain. And you can’t drive right up to the castle, whether by car or tour bus; parking is at the bottom, and then you walk. Straight up. It probably only took about 10-15 minutes, but it felt like hours. All of my walking around Prague had not prepared my body for that experience, and my legs were sore for a week (a good excuse for more of that marvelous, medicinal Becherovka!). But the magnificent castle at the top was well worth the trek. And that was just one part of a lovely weekend spent at Jana’s parents’ home in the nearby town of Pisek.

Before I go on with that weekend, let me tell you about all of those Janas I keep mentioning. In order of seniority, they were: Jana Pilatova (the one from Pisek and the smartest), Jana Stefakova (the hottie with the equally hot boyfriend), and Jana Jungmannova (the youngest, prettiest, and sweetest). If you noticed the “ova” ending on all their family names, that’s the feminine designation. The Czechs — in 1991, at least — had no problem with the centuries-old system of gender-specific identification.

So Jana P. had invited me to meet her family and get out of the city for a couple of days. It was about a two-hour bus ride through the beautiful countryside of Bohemia. Her parents had a very nice, comfortable, older home on a substantial piece of land with a huge vegetable garden in the rear. Her father was a farmer who worked for a large produce grower, and everything they ate was freshly picked or killed, skillfully prepared, and incredibly delicious. But they couldn’t understand why I had such a small appetite — which, I promise you, was not the case at all. They could not have been more hospitable, and I found them to be well-educated and politically well-informed, as was their daughter Jana. The dinner conversation was lively, mostly about their joy at finally being rid of the [expletive deleted] Russians. It is a truism that you don’t really get to know a country until you have spent time with the “ordinary” people, away from the tourist areas; and I felt privileged to have had that opportunity.

But all good things must come to an end. I was scheduled to return home during the last week of August, having already extended my stay for a couple of weeks at the firm’s request. As much as I loved being there, it was the longest I had ever been away from home, and I was feeling a bit homesick. I had a tape of Simon & Garfunkel’s concert in Central Park, and kept playing “Homeward Bound,” over and over and over again. So when I was asked to extend once more until after Labor Day, some little voice in the back of my head told me I had to decline. When I announced to the gang from the office that I was going, they planned a farewell barbecue at Rudy’s house, and I felt as though I had truly found a second family — a diverse and somewhat quirky family — in Prague, and it was not easy to leave them. But that voice kept telling me to get on home, and so I left as scheduled, with my six pieces of overweight luggage, some beautiful Czech crystal, the strains of Mozart and Gypsy melodies lingering in my mind and heart, and a wealth of incredible memories.

A week or so later, just before Labor Day, my mother became ill and entered the hospital. She passed away on September 18th, of congestive heart failure. I had come home just in time. Always, always listen to that little voice.

But even in the aftermath of a tragedy, good things can happen. The loss of someone close to you can bring with it the realization of how precarious life really is, and how important it is to make the most of the time we’re allotted. And as I prepared to do exactly that, it became more and more clear that, for me, all roads did indeed lead to Russia.

Signing off until next week,
Brendochka
3/2/23

In 1991, I was working in the Washington office of the Squire Sanders law firm, and feeling bored with my life in general, when a bit of manna from Heaven fell into my lap. Two of the partners — one from the home office in Cleveland — were discussing the firm’s foreign offices. I said, half jokingly, that if there was any thought being given to opening an office in Moscow, I’d like to volunteer. The Cleveland partner said there was not, but that they had a new branch in Prague in need of someone who could organize the office and help to train the Czech staff. He asked if I would be interested, and — assuming he was also kidding — I laughingly replied that I could be packed and ready in an hour.

Never assume anything.

A few short weeks later, I found myself, and my six pieces of seriously overweight luggage, on a plane to the historic capital of Czechoslovakia, where I knew absolutely no one. I also did not know the Czech language, but I had studied Russian, and since they’re both Slavic languages, I figured it couldn’t be that hard, right? This was going to be great!

When my overnight flight landed at Prague, I found a very pleasant-looking young man named Rudy holding a sign with my name, and I met my first friend in my new home. On the ride from the airport, I discovered why Prague is called the Golden City: the name refers to the golden spires of its abundance of churches, the estimated number ranging anywhere from 100 to 1,000, depending on which travel guide you’re reading. Rudy drove me first to the apartment the firm had rented for me, about a kilometer from the office; dropped off my luggage; and then headed straight for the office along a very direct route that would clearly be an easy walk for me the next morning, and every day after that for the next three months.

I could not have arrived in Prague at a better time. It was May of yet another “Prague Spring.” But this time it was not about an anti-communist revolt as it had been when the Soviet Union invaded in 1968; it was, conversely, all about celebrating the departure of the last of the occupying Soviet troops that very week. Independence had at last returned to Czechoslovakia, and to the rest of Eastern Europe, after the fall of the Berlin Wall a year and a half earlier; and Prague had not stopped partying since.

My apartment was on the second floor of a generic Soviet-style building near the foot of a ridiculously steep hill. The hallway light operated on a timer and had to be switched on each time I entered the building or left my apartment, if I didn’t want to be groping around in the dark. The apartment itself had a fairly large bedroom, and a small living room, where there was a wardrobe with a man’s clothes still hanging in it. (I never did find out who they belonged to, and no one ever came to claim them.) There was also a tiny bathroom where the hot water ran reddish-brown for several minutes before clearing enough for a quick shower. A sit-down bath was out of the question. The kitchen contained a working refrigerator, stovetop and sink; but I never learned to use the oven, which showed temperatures in centigrade, or the Russian-made microwave, which I was sure would zap me with some sort of deadly rays if I dared try.

But none of that mattered, as I only slept, showered and changed clothes there. The rest of my time was spent at the office, followed by dinner every evening with one or more of my co-workers at any of the many outstanding restaurants the city had to offer, and sightseeing all weekend, every weekend. I quickly got into the habit of stopping on my way to work in the morning at a bakery near my apartment for fresh bread and pastries to share with all of my new colleagues, and Rudy brought in our daily supply of deli meats and cheeses for lunch.

On my first walk to work, I also discovered that I had seemingly been transported to Dorothy’s Emerald City. At the top of my hill was a store with a large sign that appeared from a distance to read “OZ.” Of course, my curiosity led me directly to it, and as I came closer, I found that those letters were — not the end of the yellow brick road — but the initials of the words “ovoshchi” and “zelenina.” Optimistically thinking that there must be a measure of similarity between the two Slavic languages, I tried to use my limited Russian skills to translate. In Russian, “ovoshchi” means vegetables, so that one was easy — or so I thought. But “zelenina” was a bit of a puzzle. I reasoned that it had to come from the root word for “green,” which in Russian is “zelyoni.” So, OZ seemed to stand for vegetables and . . . what? green things? — which obviously made no sense whatsoever. OZ was a produce store, all right, but it turned out that a Russian vegetable translated to a Czech fruit, and the “green things” were the veggies. My first foray into this new language was a complete bust, and it never did get much better. But I arrived at work that morning with a bag full of delicious fruit.

The next day I got to the office to find that there was great excitement among all the employees, who included the aforementioned Rudy (our driver and jack-of-all-trades); another young man named Roman (our second driver and office courier); three very attractive, blonde young ladies all named Jana; Beata, who was a multi-lingual American paralegal of Czech birth; and a Czech-American attorney named Milan. It seemed that Rudy — a man of many talents, as it turned out — had scored a handful of tickets for a concert coming up the following weekend at the local football — soccer, to us Americans — stadium to celebrate the Russian exodus. The performer was none other than Paul Simon, of Simon & Garfunkel fame; and there was a ticket for me. And I’d only had to travel 4,300 miles to get there!

As if that weren’t enough, when we arrived at the packed stadium on Saturday evening, we discovered that an even greater star was in attendance: President Vaclav Havel, the hero of the newly freed, democratic Czechoslovakia. We were able to see him from our seats, and the excitement was palpable throughout the crowd. Welcome to Prague, Brenda. This was just the first week, and I had spent it with an American music icon, the President of Czechoslovakia, and a whole bunch of welcoming strangers, most of whose females seemed to be named Jana.

But Paul Simon wasn’t the only act in town. It happened that 1991 also marked the bicentennial anniversary of the death of one Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, and throughout Europe his genius was being celebrated ad nauseum, all summer long. And I couldn’t get enough of it. Dragging various people along with me, I must have gone to a half dozen concerts. My favorites were held in a small theater on the banks of the Vltava River, and were called — if I remember correctly — “Mostly Mozart.” To the beautifully performed melodies and lyrics of the operatic arias (in the originally written languages), satirical plays were presented by the singers onstage that were absolutely hilarious; and somehow, the interplay of comedy and Mozart’s masterpieces just worked. “Wolfie” may have been turning over in his grave, but I loved it, and so did the rest of Prague.

*. *. *

As for any spoken language barrier, I soon learned that everyone in the country had been required to study Russian during the Soviet occupation, but that most Czechs refused to speak it any longer, for obvious reasons. Along with their other freedoms, they were thrilled to have their native language back. But when I rode in a taxi or shopped in a local store, the conversation would usually go something like this:

Me (in Czech): “Dobry den” (“Good day”). Then, in English: “Do you speak English?”

Them (in German): “No. Do you speak German?” (It seemed they’d forgiven the Germans for the long-ago Nazi occupation, but the Russians . . . not so much.)

Me: “Nein.” (One of the dozen or so words I know in German, two of the others being Schweinehund and Dummkopf. You see how my mind works?)

Me (continuing, this time in Russian): “Maybe you speak Russian?”

Them (in Czech, and suddenly stiffening as though someone had shoved a pole up their butt): “No! No Russian!”

Me (still in Russian, and very apologetically): “Sorry. I’m American, and I only speak English and a little Russian. Can you understand me?”

Them (still in Czech, but now visibly relaxing): “Oh, American! Good! Welcome! Yes, I understand a little Russian.”

Problem solved. They would continue to speak in Czech, very slowly and with a lot of gestures; and I would respond in Russian, the same way. And somehow, we managed to communicate. Through the weeks, as I picked up some words and phrases in Czech, I would use a mixture of the two languages. Every cab driver in Prague came to know me and where I lived and worked — there weren’t a lot of American expats in Prague at the time, and a redheaded American woman who spoke to them in Russian was memorable. Being a good tipper didn’t hurt either.

*. *. *

Personal note: I hate beer. In my opinion, it’s bitter, it’s bloating, it smells bad, and it leaves a bad aftertaste. (I feel the same way about coffee, except for the bloating part). If that makes me weird, so be it. But the folks in Prague weren’t ready to accept that, and kept trying to convince me that their renowned Czech beer, Pilsner, was different and so much better. So one evening, when we were all out partying after work (not an unusual occurrence), I agreed to take a sip from Jana’s (it doesn’t matter which Jana’s) glass — and almost did a vaudeville-style spit-take. I’m sorry, but beer is beer, and I can’t tell a good brewski from a bad one. And I said so, as gently as possible. But I don’t think they ever forgave me for that.

I did, however, discover a local drink that I loved, and still keep in my freezer to this day, right next to the Stolichnaya vodka. It’s called Becherovka, and is a clear, herbal, after-dinner liqueur, to which I was introduced one evening at dinner when I happened to mention that my feet were killing me from all the sight-seeing along the cobblestoned streets of Prague. On their promise that it would relieve my pain, I tried a shot before dinner. And a second. It was uniquely refreshing, and couldn’t possibly do any harm — after all, it was herbal, wasn’t it? Well, after those two shots, and another one after dinner, absolutely nothing hurt. In fact, although I swore I was not the least bit lightheaded, I couldn’t feel my feet at all. Luckily, I wasn’t doing the driving. So who needs opioids — or even ibuprofen — when you’ve got Becherovka? I do limit myself these days to one or two small shots, but it’s still my pain-killer of choice. (BTW, it can be ordered online, if you’re interested, and over 21.)

Then there was the night I met the Dobermans. No, not the nice Jewish couple next door; these two were from upstairs. When I got out of the taxi in front of my building after dinner one evening, there was a small group of men standing nearby, just talking and enjoying the mild summer air. One of them called out to me, but he was speaking Czech and I couldn’t understand him. Thinking they were just being neighborly, I gave them a friendly wave as I opened the door to my building . . . and was confronted in the dark hallway by two humongous, solid black, barking, drooling, straining-at-the-leash Doberman Pinschers, ears up and tails down, obviously looking for someone to kill. Someone like me. Startled out of my wits, I let loose with a primal scream . . . the dogs’ owner screamed in response . . . the dogs barked louder . . . and all the while the men on the street were roaring with laughter. That was what they had been trying to tell me: look out for the dogs, who had just come back from their evening walkies. And when my neighbor and I finally stopped screaming, we joined the others in laughing at ourselves. The dogs — who lived directly above me — turned out to be sweethearts, once they got to know me, and their owner was also quite friendly; though I would have preferred to meet them some other way — any other way.

Dogs are treasured as pets in Europe, just as they are here. And that included the dog belonging to the Czech Foreign Minister.

We had an American attorney working with us — a bright but spoiled young woman from a well-to-do family, who never quite adapted to the easy-breezy way of life in Prague. Our law firm had been retained by the new Czech government to advise and assist in formulating a new constitution and legal framework, and she — we’ll call her Valerie — had been assigned a desk at the Foreign Ministry where she worked pretty much full-time. As a convenience, she brought her lunch to work every day and kept it in the Ministry’s refrigerator, as did many others.

Now, I have to insert here that Valerie was, shall we say, less than popular with the Ministry staff. She had way too much Attitude. On the day in question, the Foreign Minister was leaving town on government business, and had brought along his beloved dog — a terrier, I believe — to hand over to a friend who was going to care for the pooch during his master’s absence. The Minister parked in his usual spot in front of the building, opened the driver’s-side car door, and before he could turn around, his dog ran out into the street — and directly into the path of an oncoming vehicle. The poor baby was killed instantly as his owner watched, helpless.

Needless to say, the Minister was devastated, but was unable to cancel or postpone his official trip at the last moment. So he had to make some hasty arrangement for his dog until a funeral could be planned for the following week. And this being Prague, the solution turned out to be . . . well . . . unique.

When Valerie arrived for work a little later that morning, no one took the trouble to warn her that anything was amiss. She went directly to the kitchen to put her lunch into the refrigerator, and had one item that needed to be kept frozen. So she opened the freezer door . . . and let out a SHRIEK that must have been heard in Belgium. Because in the freezer — staring sightlessly out at her, arms and legs akimbo, a silvery frost already forming on his fur and his little black nose and protruding pink tongue — was the Minister’s dog. The Minister’s dead dog. Sad . . . stiff . . . bloody . . . undeniably, irretrievably dead doggie . . . without so much as a blanket or a newspaper to cover his sorrowful condition. And the shrieking continued, while all around her, Valerie’s co-workers were laughing their asses off. Not at the dog, of course, but at her. They really didn’t like her.

You will be relieved to know, incidentally, that that unfortunate, cryogenically-preserved canine received what was reportedly a lovely burial the following week in the Minister’s home town, alongside all of his previous pets. I assume he was thawed first. The dog, not the Minister. Requiescat in pace — R.I.P., little pup.

Prague seemed intent on getting back at Valerie for not being happy there. Sometime during the summer, we suffered a city-wide power failure for nearly an entire day. As the locals were fond of saying, “Oh, well . . . that’s Prague.” While the rest of us enjoyed a lunch at a nearby restaurant, consisting of cold cuts and fresh vegetables, with potatoes cooked slowly over a huge collection of candles (Czech ingenuity at its finest), Valerie was stuck in the elevator at the Ministry. Stranded alone in the car, she again displayed her usual aplomb in times of crisis: she screamed, pounded the elevator door, screamed some more, repeatedly pushed the buttons to all the floors . . . and continued to scream for someone to get her the %#*#& out of there. When stressed, it seemed her upper-class upbringing went directly down the drain. She was, of course, ultimately rescued. But no one was in the least surprised — or in the least saddened — when she finally was granted a transfer back to the States.

Valerie may have considered Prague to be a living theatre of the absurd; but to me it was an endless tapestry of humanity at its best, and life as it is meant to be lived: freely, joyously, and always hopefully.

There is so much more to tell about that summer in Prague — water shut-offs, Gypsies, German tourists, rotisserie chickens, a Catholic priest, Chanukah candles, and more — so I’ll have to make this a two-part chapter. See you next week for the rest of the story.

TTFN,
Brendochka
2/23/23

The War Between the States — more popularly known as the Civil War, though there doesn’t seem to have been anything even remotely civil about it — ended just about 158 years ago, on April 9, 1865, at Appomattox, Virginia. But history cannot be erased entirely, despite growing efforts to disclaim parts of it; and the use of “Confederate” still pops up from time to time in the American South.

One day in 1990, an attorney friend of mine from Washington, DC, Bill Anawaty, was in his home state of Texas, driving along a highway near Harlingen, when he spotted a sign directing travelers to something called the Confederate Air Force. The imaginative name caught his attention, and on a whim he decided to check it out. What he found was so totally unexpected that it led him to undertake a project that would ultimately involve a group of World War II pilots, diplomats from the Soviet Embassy in Washington, another attorney from DC, and yours truly.

A naturally gregarious individual, Bill went directly to the CAF’s office and began asking questions of some of the people there. What he learned was that the CAF (today known by the more politically correct name of Commemorative Air Force) had begun in 1957 with the purchase and restoration of a single P-51 Mustang by a small group of ex-service pilots, and had since grown to include an example of virtually every aircraft that flew during World War II. [For more information on the fascinating history and mission of the CAF, check out their website at commemorativeairforce.org.]

Timing is everything in life, and the timing of Bill’s impulsive detour could not have been more fortuitous. The 50th anniversary of the start of America’s World War II Lend-Lease program was coming up in 1991, and he had just stumbled upon a group of WWII veterans, with a collection of WWII planes, performing WWII-themed air shows around the country. Why not take the show across the Atlantic to Europe, Bill thought, where the Lend-Lease program had actually taken place half a century earlier? What an amazing hands-across-the-sea celebration that would be!

Never one to let grass grow under his feet, Bill immediately began looking into the possibilities. And as his excitement grew, so did his vision. Along with Great Britain and France, he reasoned that we couldn’t ignore the Soviet Union, which had been one of our staunchest allies in the fight against Nazi Germany. And who better to make the initial contact with the Soviet Embassy than his Russia-obsessed friend: me?

Another attorney friend, former American Enterprise Institute president Bill Baroody, signed on, and the two Bills set about planning and seeking logistical and financial support for the project. At the same time, I contacted my friend at the Soviet Embassy — the aide to the Ambassador mentioned in last week’s Chapter 9 — to determine what the level of interest might be on their end. I never dreamed that the mere mention of WWII planes would have such a dramatic effect. It turned out that my friend — let’s call him Dima — was crazy about planes, and about history in general. And when I told him that we had also discussed inviting the Soviet Ambassador to accompany us on a visit to the CAF in Texas, the deal was as good as sealed. Dima took the plan to the Ambassador, who loved the idea, and dates were chosen for a trip to Texas in July.

But, as we all know, the best-laid plans . . .

As apparently happened all too frequently, the Ambassador’s schedule changed at the 11th hour, and he — accompanied by a terribly disappointed Dima — was needed elsewhere. But interest in the Lend-Lease project was still high, and the then Minister-Counselor/Deputy Ambassador, Sergei Chetverikov, was given the pleasure of taking the Ambassador’s place, with Mrs. Chetverikov to accompany him. Second only in rank to the Ambassador himself, Sergei was no slouch when it came to diplomacy. And he and his wife were a delightful and fascinating couple, who contributed greatly to what turned out to be a memorable few days.

Being the closest thing our trio had to a Russia expert, it fell to me to figure out the legal and diplomatic implications of traveling from state to state with a Soviet diplomat, and then to make the appropriate arrangements. Since diplomats and staff members from the Embassy were not allowed to travel more than twenty-five miles from Washington without special permission, it was necessary to begin my inquiries with the U.S. Department of State. Talk about opening a bureaucratic can of worms! Not only did I have to answer more questions than a new patient in a doctor’s office; I was also told that I was to be the individual responsible for the welfare, safety, and good behavior of the Chetverikovs. So if something were to happen to either of them on this trip . . . Well, I didn’t even want to think about that.

Among the slew of questions asked were several having to do with our means of travel and our actual schedule. Bill Anawaty had made all the travel arrangements, so airline schedules were no problem. But, to cap off the day at the CAF in Harlingen, he had thoughtfully booked a huge duplex apartment for a two-night stay on South Padre Island, in a building directly on the shores of the Gulf of Mexico, with its own private strip of beach. The man at the State Department asked how we were going to get from the airport to Harlingen and then to South Padre, and when I said we would be driving, he wanted to know the make, model, color, and tag number of the car. But I couldn’t answer that one. Bill had reserved a rental car, and we wouldn’t have those details until we picked it up at the airport. So I was instructed to call a certain number at State and report in once we had arrived at Houston Airport and gotten the vehicle.

Sounds good, right? Well, first of all, this was at a time before cell phones were attached to everyone’s hands, and it was anyone’s guess as to whether I would even be able to sneak off to a pay phone. I did manage to find one easily enough, but no one answered at the number I had been given, and there was no voice mail at that number, and no one to take a message. I even tried reaching my contact through the main State Department number, but still no luck. So I shrugged it off and decided to try again later. Their mistake; their problem. But Sergei was very observant and noticed my telephone activity. Irritated at the State Department official’s failure to be where he was supposed to be when he was supposed to be there, I decided to let the team in on the screw-up. Sergei merely rolled his eyes, shook his head, and smiled. He was well acquainted with bureaucratic bull . . . er, nonsense.

In the rush to get to the CAF, that call never did take place. But somehow we were still on someone’s radar, as evidenced by the man and woman — dressed in business suits despite the blistering hot weather — lingering in the CAF hangar, ostensibly eyeing the planes but clearly far more interested in our group as we were given a tour by our new CAF friends. Sergei also spotted the couple, and he and I had a good laugh at their expense. I never did figure out whether they were “our” people or “his,” but my guess is they were ours. Subtle. Really subtle.

That day was spent on an airfield and in the gigantic hangar in what I call 99-square weather: 99 degrees, with 99% humidity. It was brutal. We did take a break from the heat in midday, when we met to discuss our vision for the European tour, and were treated to a lovely lunch (in an air-conditioned dining hall) by the great airmen of the CAF — all World War II veterans, of course — followed by a flight in a plane of our choice. The two Bills and Mrs. Chetverikov passed on the offer, and only Sergei and I opted for a flight — he in a fighter plane, and I in a biplane with the passenger seat in front of the pilot, and just above tree-top level. I felt as though I was piloting the plane, and I could have stayed in the air forever — or until we ran out of fuel — whichever came first. But as exhilarating as it was, I kept wondering how quickly I could get across the border into Mexico in the event Sergei’s plane took a nosedive into the ground and the full force of two governments came looking for me.

One other nerve-wracking incident occurred when Sergei decided to go swimming in the Gulf the next morning. I don’t know whether the water there is always that choppy, but again I was plagued by nightmarish mental images of his being carried out to sea on a giant wave. I was beginning to feel like Walter Mitty with a death wish! But Sergei was a strong swimmer and emerged from the sea unscathed and refreshed. We spent the remainder of the day relaxing, playing chess, eating, drinking, and discussing every controversial subject imaginable.

All too soon the two days had passed and it was time to leave for the long drive back to the airport. Sergei asked if it would be possible to see the Mexican border, as he had never been to Mexico. He knew he would not be able to cross the border that day either, but he just wanted to be able to say he had seen it, and perhaps to buy some Mexican souvenirs. Bill Anawaty knew of a place at Brownsville where the Rio Grande River was quite narrow and nearly dry at that time of the year, and there was an actual border crossing, so off we went.

The crossing at that point consisted of a pedestrian bridge, over which Mexican workers would come into the U.S. each morning to their jobs, and return home at the end of the day. There were no souvenir shops — or shops of any kind — within sight, so I approached the lone Border Patrol officer and asked if he knew of any on this side of the river. He said there were none, but that we would find plenty if we just walked across the bridge into Mexico. I explained to him that we couldn’t do that, as two of our party were a Soviet diplomat and his wife from Washington, and that they did not have clearance to leave the country.

Now, our modern-day problems along the U.S.-Mexican border are legion and well-known, but nothing I’ve heard lately can compare with the response I received from that officer. He simply shrugged nonchalantly and said, “Oh, that’s all right — they can go across. No problem.”

NO PROBLEM??????? What the hell had he been smoking??!!!

I gave him my best “mother-who-just-caught-her-child-sneaking-a joint” look, and said, “Well, it may not be a problem for you, but it damn well would be a problem for the Soviet Embassy, and it would be a problem for your bosses, and it would be a problem for the State Department — and it would be a gigantic problem for me!” Sure, this was long before 9-11, so things were somewhat more relaxed, but still . . . I tried to explain the legal and diplomatic implications to him, but he just didn’t get it. So we turned around, got back into our rental car, and continued on our way to the airport. I have no idea whether we were still under surveillance at that point, but if we were — and whoever they were — I can just imagine the nail-biting that went on in their vehicle when the Chetverikovs walked right up to that border crossing!

Luckily, we found a Mexican restaurant along the highway with a nice little gift shop. It was between lunch and dinner hours and they were officially closed; but when we introduced ourselves, they happily invited us in, went back to the kitchen, and prepared a wonderful, authentic Mexican lunch for us. So we were able to satisfy our appetites for food and souvenirs, and to meet some lovely, generous people, before continuing on our way.

We made it to the airport with plenty of time to spare, and also in time to witness the very swift, well-executed arrest of a young man, on charges unknown. Drugs? Smuggling? Mass murder? It’s always something, isn’t it?

Our flight home was smooth, except for the mother with the crying baby seated next to me, whom I did manage to calm down for a while by making funny faces and letting him play with my keys. Oh . . . and there was the encounter with the Stealth aircraft. At some point during the flight, the pilot announced that if we hurried and looked out the left side of the plane, we might catch a glimpse of a Stealth fighter passing in the opposite direction. Being seated on the right side, and with a baby on my lap, I didn’t even try. But Sergei did, and was disappointed to have missed it. Then he said to me that of course there was no way we could have seen it anyway, since it was a Stealth and thus invisible.

Excuse me? Did I hear that correctly? I have to assume he was joking, right?

Well, we finally landed safely at National Airport, and I was able to return the baby to his mother and Mr. and Mrs. Chetverikov back into the hands of their Soviet keepers. I also reported in to the State Department the following morning. They never asked why they hadn’t heard from me earlier, and I wasn’t about to bring it up.

The disappointing end to this story, though, is that, despite our continuing efforts and the enthusiastic backing of all of the countries involved, the financing for the project never came through. It turned out to be horrifically expensive to try to transport all of those planes and people over to Europe and from country to country, with no guarantee that the shows would earn enough to cover the costs. Which is why you never heard anything about it, of course. But it was a wonderful idea, and would have been a grand adventure.

It wasn’t a total loss, however. New friendships were forged, with the wonderful airmen of the CAF, and with the Chetverikovs (who later chose to stay in the United States, where Sergei — an accredited attorney — joined the renowned law firm of Hogan Lovells in Washington).

Of course, I had no idea at that point that a different sort of adventure awaited me a year later, in the summer of 1991. So tune in again next week, please, for my tale of castles, water shutdowns, German tourists, power failures, beer halls, gypsies, dogs, Paul Simon, and the Czech President. And arguably the most beautiful, magical city in the world: Prague.

TTFN,
Brendochka
2/16/23

It seemed as though life would never be right again after Walter died. But, as inevitably happens, there came a time when things did quiet down and I settled into what we now call a “new normal.” It was never again as much fun, but I found comfort in working with other partners from the Surrey & Morse days, though now under the Jones Day umbrella.

On February 15, 1989 — just two weeks after Walter’s passing — the last of the Soviet troops withdrew from Afghanistan. And as 1989 eased toward the ‘90s, it seemed as though relations between the United States and the Soviet Union were stabilizing. But the world doesn’t seem happy to remain stable for too long. In Eastern Europe, rumblings of discontent were being heard throughout Poland, Hungary, Czechoslovakia, Romania — in fact, the entire Eastern Bloc. On November 9, 1989, the Berlin Wall was breached, and the people of Communist East Germany were, for the first time in nearly three decades, finally able to reunite with their families and friends in the West. As the old folk song says, the times they were a-changin’.

But it didn’t happen overnight. The Soviet Union would remain the Soviet Union for another two years. And a client of Jones Day would begin planning a series of symposia on “Doing Business in Eastern Europe and the Soviet Union,” with Jones Day as a co-sponsor and presenter. I was thrilled to be able to participate. The first presentation was held in Washington, with speakers brought in from some of the Eastern Bloc countries and from their embassies in Washington. And through my contacts at the Soviet Embassy, I was able to arrange a closing reception at the Embassy itself, to the delight of the American attendees from all over the country who had never dreamt of being able to see the inside of that establishment. As icing on the cake, I was even invited to stand in the reception line at the Embassy, alongside the aide to the Ambassador. What fun!

And then we took the show on the road. First was London, in April of 1990. At last, my travel lust was to be satisfied again — and on someone else’s dime. It doesn’t get much better than that. The partners involved from Jones Day were old friends of mine — Michael Silverman and Joe Saba — as well as Vladimir, whom you will remember from the burning bed episode. And Joe’s wife Mary, also a good friend, was to accompany him on the trip.

All of our people from Jones Day had been accommodated at the Mayfair Hotel, where the conference was being held — except me. In the rush of travel preparations, someone had counted wrong, and by the time the error was discovered, there were no more rooms available. So I was being housed at a bed and breakfast in another part of the city, a few stops away from the Mayfair on the Underground (metro), in one of the largest cities in the world, and one about which I knew nothing.

The B&B was in one of those beautiful London row houses in a very nice neighborhood, so I figured the only real inconvenience would be the need to allow for travel time to and from the hotel each day. No big deal. Until I got inside, that is. Those London row houses, as beautiful as they may be on the outside, are — how can I put this politely? — old, and not the most conveniently designed residences. This one, typically, was three stories high above the ground floor, and my room was — you guessed it — on the top floor. And the one, shared guest bathroom — care to guess again? — first floor. Figuring on showers, applying makeup in the morning and removing it at night, washing and “doing” my hair, not to mention the usual bathroom usage — just the thought of all of those up-and-down trips every morning and night was exhausting.

Then there was the room itself. It must at one time have been a well-to-do woman’s clothes closet, or more likely, a servant’s room. Now, it held a single bed, pushed up against a wall to save space, a dresser, an ironing board in the wall that came down across the bed, and . . . Nope, there was no “and.” That was all there was room for. Oh, and a miniscule closet. My suitcase had to live under the bed, and it just barely fit.

Well, after making my way from the airport to the B&B, checking in and leaving my luggage in the closet . . . sorry, the room . . . I headed for the nearby Underground and by some miracle made it to the Green Park Station and located the Mayfair. Luckily, I’m good with maps. When Mary asked how everything had worked out at the inn, I told her the truth, and she immediately went into action. She found Joe, told him the arrangement was totally unacceptable, and said he absolutely had to do something. But what? There was no room at the Mayfair.

Or was there? This was the moment I began believing in serendipity. It turned out that one of the scheduled Soviet speakers had — for reasons that of course were never explained — been denied entry into the UK, and his room had just become available. We changed the name on the registration from his to mine, and we were all able to set to work for the remainder of the day. The issue of what to do about the B&B and my belongings was shelved for the time being.

(By the way, that room at the Mayfair was gigantic, with a bed big enough to hold an entire unit of the Soviet Army, and a bathroom twice the size of the entire room at the B&B. Serendipity, indeed.)

Never one to stand by and do nothing, Mary pitched right in at the conference, and together we handled the nitty-gritty tasks involved in greeting, registering, and hand-holding of the European speakers, and ensuring that all the program activities went off smoothly. All was going well that first day, until the principal Soviet speaker, Dmitri Popov (not his real name), arrived and Michael referred him to me, telling him that I spoke a little Russian. And all hell broke loose upon my head.

It seemed that it wasn’t only Chinese officials who formed a liking to me. Apparently, I held a certain appeal for pompous, egotistical, overweight, over-sixty Soviet Foreign Ministry officials as well. Or perhaps Dmitri was just a horny old man, happy to be out of Moscow for a few days, wifeless, and looking for a good time. That would be my guess. In any event, he moved his portly frame rapidly across the room toward our registration table, introduced himself, and declared that I should be his helper for the next few days — totally ignoring the female interpreter who had arrived with him. He was clearly feeling frisky; I was beginning to feel nauseous. And thus began four days of weaving and dodging to avoid old Dmitri, who was usually too inebriated to keep up with me in any event. What was it with me and communists?

But I couldn’t worry about that. There was still the inn to deal with. So, after dinner — which ended around 10:00 p.m. — Mary and I hopped into one of those marvelous London taxis and headed out. When we arrived, the owners had already retired to their apartment on the basement level, and the house was quiet. So we tiptoed up the three flights, gathered my things, left a note and the key, and tiptoed back out to the waiting taxi. What that driver must have thought about two American women stealing about London at night, making off with luggage belonging to who-knows-whom . . . well, we could only imagine, and couldn’t stop giggling. But it worked, and the driver was too polite to ask questions.

FYI, the next morning I called the owners of the B&B, explained that I was needed at the Mayfair, and arranged to pay the bill for the entire five days. So, no harm done, except perhaps to our reputations. Crazy Americans, right? Then it was back to work.

During the week, Mary and I did manage to find a few hours to break away and do a little sight-seeing and shopping, and found London to be a beautiful and — in the word that I thought most fitting — civilized city. We were even blessed with unusually good weather for April. It had snowed a little — just flurries, really — on the day of my arrival, but then the sun came out and stayed out for the remainder of our time there. Bloody good show, as they say.

Finally, on the last full day of the conference, there was to be a reception at the Soviet Embassy, which I had been able to arrange through the previously-mentioned Ambassador’s aide in DC. But I wasn’t invited to this one — only the speakers and the sponsors were to attend. Which was fine with me — I had made plans with some others to head to a disco in the Piccadilly neighborhood of London. Yes, I said “disco,” as in “discotheque” — it was, please remember, 1990. Michael, Joe and Mary were to join us there after the Embassy reception.

Before that reception, however, we had our own gathering at the hotel for all of the people involved in the symposium, at which Dmitri, already halfway to Happyland on vodka, finally managed to zero in on me. I tried to keep the conversation on a business footing, but he turned it to political matters, and somehow was able to throw in an insulting remark about America’s involvement in Vietnam. He didn’t know me very well, or he would never have dissed my country to my face. While acknowledging that Vietnam had not been our finest hour, I then turned the tables and said that at least we had been there to defend the South Vietnamese, whereas his country had outright invaded Afghanistan. At that point, he puffed up like a six-foot blowfish, turned even more red in the face, and declared, “That is an internal matter” — standard verbiage when Russians don’t want to discuss something. My immediate response was, “Oh, really? Try telling that to the Afghanis.”

I then turned on my heel and walked away for a while, giving the now apoplectic Dmitri time to cool down, and apparently to have another drink or two. When next he caught up with me, he was feeling amorous again, and asked if I would be attending the Soviet Ambassador’s reception. I told him that I had not been invited, and would instead be going out with some friends, to which he grandly declared, “Then I invite you.” When I reminded him that that would be a major breach of diplomatic protocol on both our parts, he ever-so-magnanimously offered, “Then I also will not go.”

At that point, I had had all I was prepared to take from Dmitri Popov. The symposium was over, and I no longer had to be nice to him. With Michael, Joe, Vladimir, Mary, and several others watching in obvious amusement, I began poking Dmitri in the chest with two fingers, gradually backing him up against a wall as I loudly told him the facts of life:

“Listen, Dmitri. You did not get where you are in life by being stupid. [Poke] Don’t. [Poke] Start. [Poke] Now. You are going to the Ambassador’s reception because that is your job. I am going to a disco with my friends because that is what I want to do. You are free to join us later if you wish. End of discussion.” Please note that I never told him the name or location of the disco, but he was too snockered to realize it.

We had a great time that evening, drinking, dancing, and carrying on as travelers do. Dmitri never showed up, though Michael, Joe and Mary did. At 2:00 a.m., when the disco closed, one of our English friends led us to a nearby all-night diner for an early breakfast, where a customer slam-dunked a waiter for some unknown reason, but was quickly quieted down and the two shook hands like true English gentlemen. I told you: civilized! Then it was back to the Mayfair for a couple of hours of sleep. But before turning in, I pushed a dresser in front of my door, just in case Dmitri regained consciousness and got any bright ideas. Fortunately, he didn’t.

I stayed on in London for an extra day of sightseeing (and shopping, of course), and it wasn’t until I got back to the office on Monday that I learned from Vladimir what had transpired at the Embassy reception. Dmitri, bombed out of his gourd, had made a complete jackass of himself. At one point, he had cornered Vladimir and started asking questions about me. Trying to be tactful, Vladimir mentioned my study of Russian, and asked what Dmitri thought of my linguistic ability, to which the reply was, “It’s pretty good, but it’s Zhidovskiy Russkiy.”

Let me explain. Zhidovskiy is the derogatory — really offensive — Russian word for Jewish. And Vladimir, being both Russian and Jewish, was, to put it mildly, less than amused. That was his “I-really-want-to-deck-this-guy-but-I-know-I-can’t” moment, and I completely empathized with him. I also greatly appreciated his sticking up for me.

I am happy to report that there were no diplomatic repercussions — not on our end, in any event — from our run-ins with Dmitri. I sometimes wonder what happened to him, but only out of curiosity, not concern. Dmitri was the master of his own fate, however it may have turned out.

[Grammar footnote: Is it “run-ins” or “runs-in”? You know, like “mothers-in-law,” “attorneys general,” and “Knights Templar”? Just wondering. This unfortunately is the sort of thing that eats into my sleep at night.]

We recreated the symposium that September in Budapest, Hungary, which was another incredible trip: riding the nearly vertical funicular railway up to the Royal Palace and Fisherman’s Bastion; a private, guided tour of the magnificent Parliament as arranged by Michael; a boat trip up (or down, I’m not sure which) the beautiful Danube to the artists’ village of Szentendre; a bit of antique shopping; dinner with a local attorney at a non-tourist-y neighborhood restaurant owned by a Jewish family and employing Gypsy musicians; and some of the most delicious food (and pastries) I’ve ever eaten. And, as a bonus, no Dmitri. The trip may have lacked the drama of London, but it was more than made up by the wondrous, historic beauty of a country then in the throes of reinventing itself as a free nation once more, and the hospitality of its beautiful people.

And squeezed in between trips to London and Budapest, during the blistering hot July of 1990, there was a visit to the Confederate Air Force in Harlingen, Texas, with the Minister-Counselor of the Soviet Embassy in Washington, his wife, and two American lawyers. What a rip-roarin’ time that was! Details next week — see y’all then.

Brendochka
2/9/23