By the time we left, we had exchanged addresses and hugs. We felt very close to the Luries. With only a limited time to meet these people, the usual process of developing a friendship accelerated, and emotional bonds solidified rapidly.

Two others in our group had more problems reaching their ultimate destination. After more than three paranoid hours riding the Moscow subways, Shoshana Robinson '86 and Rebecca Sheridan '86, lost and discouraged, decided to try one last address. They followed directions to the very outskirts of the city, found the apartment building and rang the bell.

A white-haired man with owlish glasses opened the door, took one look at the two Americans with over-stuffed knapsacks, and said softly, "Welcome." Yureii Medvedkov took their coats, and offered them tea. A glance around the living-room, accompanied by Yureii's explanations in English, gave visual evidence of the Medvedkov's many friends in the West. Dozens of familiar American "no-nukes" bumper-stickers were pasted to the walls and bookshelves. Hanging on the wall above the couch were two patch-work sections from the "women's peace ribbon," a five-mile long needlework collection which was wrapped around the Pentagon and other Washington buildings last summer in a symbolic statement against nuclear armament.

The Medvedkovs, Yureii and his wife Olga, are members of an unofficial Soviet peace group, The Moscow Group to Establish Trust Between the U.S. and the USSR. Their goal is disarmament, and they see "trust-building" as the best hope for peace. The group has a core of 11 people, with about 1000 supporters who have at different times attended their seminars and discussions.

In the Soviet Union anything "unofficial" is basically illegal--only the government's own "peace group" is sanctioned. Consequently, members of the Medvedkov's group are harassed by the government, which tries to discredit them as "anti-Soviets." Many have been subjected to arrest or forced detainment in psychiatric hospitals, where they undergo dangerous chemical and physical abuse.

That night, Dina Zisserman joined the group at the Medvedkovs. Dina's husband Vladimir Brodsky, a surgeon and neurocardiologist, is serving a three-year sentence in a labor camp under charges of "malicious hooliganism." His "crimes" include standing in front of the Academy of Sciences building with a sign that read, "No one will survive a nuclear winter." Once in prison, Brodsky began a hunger strike in protest of his imprisonment, and his health rapidly deteriorated. Officials offered to release him if he renounced the Trust Group; he refused.

Yureii and Olga Medvedkov, Dina Zisserman, and many other members of the group are also refuseniks. To Yureii Medvedkov, the right to emigrate is one of a broad slate of human rights that are indivisible from peace activism. "To be a peace activist is a right," he insists. Refuseniks, by applying to leave have already crossed into a realm of dissent which sets them apart from ordinary Soviet citizens. While simply wanting to leave is not usually considered dissent in Western countries, a desire to leave is considered tantamount to treason in the Soviet Union. As a result refuseniks are in a difficult position. They are not usually dissent activists, yet they no longer keep up an appearance of complacency with the system.

We all came back to the hotel, but most frustrating of all was not being able to share our experiences, and discoveries among ourselves. Seeing what we suspected were electric bugs on the ceiling restrained our conversation. We asked each other, "how were the museums?" As each pair responded, "oh, the museums were wonderful, much better than we ever expected," we knew the day had gone well.

Wednesday, March 26

By 1 p.m. we had arrived in Riga, the capital of Latvia. The official guide at the hotel informed us that "lunch was at two, excursion at three, and dinner at six." By 7 p.m. we were out to meet another family. Melissa and I linked arms, as much to appear inconspicuous as for reassurance and security, and walked down Lenina Street looking for our first family.

We found the correct address without much difficulty and were taken to Lev Fabricant's home. Lev opened the door of his home, greeted us with "shalom," and quickly introduced us to his wife Olga, and their two children, Eli and Leah. In their living room, decorated with a couch, a few chairs and a crib, we spoke.

Lev and Olga have been waiting for visas for about six years. In these six years, they have become the leaders of Jewish activity in Riga. They hold seminars on historical, cultural and religious topics attended by about 20 to 25 people. The whole group consists of about 100 people. Olga told us that in November their home was searched for about 10 hours, and many important books and religious articles confiscated.

The conversation turned to politics, President Reagan, Central America, the arms race and Israel. Although we conversed freely on all these issues, when we asked for details about other refuseniks in Riga, prisoners in labor camps, and recent arrests Lev's voice fell to a low whisper and he removed a "magic slate" from the wall. He wrote what he could not speak onto the board and then erased the words. He gave me the names of people in Riga who wanted invitations from Israel and the names of refuseniks who wanted visitors. My discomfort and surprise at watching adult men and women use toys meant for children disappeared as I saw the "magic slate" among many other families during that week. We left after midnight and quickly returned to Hotel Latvia, and to our room that overlooked a church that had been converted to a planetarium.

Monday, March 31

After almost two days in Riga, a managably small city, Leningrad struck us as sprawling, huge, and complex. We switched teams in Leningrad; by 2 p.m. Rebecca Sheridan and I set off. Three hours later we were sitting with Misha Borlov and his family. Borlov's name has been changed. He is a scientist who was expelled from his job after applying for a visa in 1980. A few years later, officials voted to strip him of his Doctor of Science degree because of his "anti-political activity." Similarly, his wife, a chemist, is now unemployed. His daughter Marina, a bright woman who reads English literature voraciously, now baby-sits full time. Before applying to leave, she was studying chemical engineering; the university failed her and forced her to leave school.