Over dinner the conversation wandered from discussion of John Irving, Faust, and palm-reading, to recent arrests of Hebrew teachers in I eningrad, strategies to increase emigration, other minorities' problems in the USSR, and the Borlovs' personal frustration over their situation. He said, "we are like birds in a cage--we can go anywhere within the 17 Soviet Republics, but nowhere else." The Borlovs have not received mail in two months; they know that friends abroad as well as from inside the Soviet Union have been writing. Despite this isolation, and continued restrictions on their ability to work and study, the Borlovs were not bitter. We saw them once again on Sunday, and Misha told us with a mixture of hope and pessimism, that, once again, he was filing applications for visas on Monday.
Friday, March 28
As the Borlovs submitted their applications once again, we trudged through muddy streets looking for another address. We ascended an unlit staircase and knocked on a door. A man with dark hair tumbling over a youthful face opened the door, looking first surprised and then very happy. Flustered because he had not shaved, and was wearing a ragged t-shirt, Sergy, whose name has been changed, rushed off to change clothes, leaving us in a tiny sitting-room.
The door opened and a girl entered. "This is my daughter," Sergy called from another room. We met the 16-year-old Natasha who told us that she wants to be an artist. Later Sergy told us, trying to hide the tears in his eyes, that he fears for Natasha's future: "What if she fall in love? She can only marry Jewish, and among Jewish, only refusenik. But what if she fall in love with someone else? It is going to be tragic for her."
Other Russians and Jews, fearing guilt by association, will have nothing to do with them. This family has been trying to emigrate for six years, and no longer bothers to apply for an exit visa every six months. "When the children were young, it was not so bad. We had hope that we can leave. But now, it has been such long time. What if we have to stay here for rest of our lives?" Next year. Natasha will apply to a university, and her parents fear that continued visa applications will hurt her chances of being accepted.
A few minutes later another reason for Sergy's apprehension became apparent. Olga, eight-years-old, burst into the room, grinning at us, cager to pose for a picture. Her mother explained to us that Olga is "very gifted in everything." When Olga sat down at the piano and began to play one of her compositions, we realized that her mother's words reflected more than parental pride.
Olga has a piano teacher who does not know that Olga is a refusenik, and both parents fear that if the teacher finds out, she will cut off the lessons. And further visa applications could cause her status to become known to the teacher.
Later we asked them why, if the Soviet authorities hate Jews so much, don't they just allow them all to emigrate? Sergy gave us two reasons, first that "they keep us to sell." When the Soviets want something from the U.S., for instance the sale of grain, he said they let a few Jews go to "prove" that they are making progress on human rights. Secondly Jewish emigration sets a bad example for other minority groups in Soviet society. In 1979, after large numbers of Jews were allowed to leave, "everyone wanted to emigrate," Sergy said. "It was a bad political mistake, and they will not repeat it."
Our last visit Monday night took us to Lev Blithstein's home at almost 11 p.m. We found an old, sweet man urging us to try Russian candy. He told us that he has been waiting 11 years to join his wife and son abroad, and meet the grandchild whom he has only seen in photographs. After a short talk, Lev led us to a bus stop, embraced us and said with tears in his eyes, "I envy you girls, that you can leave tomorrow morning."