Dancing Under the Red Star (10 page)

My constant thought was,
Where is my papa?
We had no idea where to turn or what to do next, but Mama told me more than once, “God will see us through this.” I didn’t know, but I sure hoped she was right!

She didn’t sound very convincing, because a part of Mama died on the day they took her husband away. She was still emotionally strong but only a splinter of her former self. Only God knew what was happening to Papa. Was he still alive? They didn’t take just him on that horrible day in June; they also took our peace. We had no hint of where he was, how he was, or what was happening with him. I thought of ways to find my papa, but we were not allowed to have any contact with him due to his status as a
vrag naroda
(enemy of the state). And unlike in America, here we could not demand our rights. We had none.

During Stalin’s Great Terror of 1938-39, there were no outside avenues of help. We could not present our case to the American Embassy in the Soviet Union; if there was one at this time, it was only a ploy. All foreign mail was inspected and filtered. Nothing insinuating the horrors of Soviet life to the outside world would be tolerated by the NKVD; instead, it would be harshly dealt with. The worst thing Mama and I could have done would have been to draw attention to our situation.

So we forged ahead as best we could. We had little money and no material resources, so we struggled for everything. I tried to help Mama stretch the measly wages she earned, but we lacked even the bare essentials. Gradually we became accustomed to having just enough food to survive. Some days were better than others. A few potatoes and an occasional loaf of stale black bread was our usual portion; it was day-to-day survival. And despite Mama’s strong appearance, she was not the same woman she had been before they stole from the bank of our family’s future memories, before they took my future children’s grandfather away.
I hated Russia.

I wanted my precious mama back. I wanted to see joy in her face and that lovely sparkle in her eyes. She still had great faith that God would somehow see us through this. She was trying to stay firm not so much for herself but so I would not lose hope.

I had one more year of high school remaining. Russian education required ten years in all, compared to twelve in America. This year, with my papa missing, I didn’t have the same attitude and motivation as a student. But I would not let the barbaric Russian system kill my spirit. I was determined never to be a victim. Instead, I wanted revenge for what they’d done to Papa!

One day in September, all of the schoolchildren in Gorky were summoned by Communist party officials to the school auditorium for a youth rally. Such events were designed to support Stalinist ideology and to instill pride and patriotism in the country’s youth. How ridiculous! From my perspective, and I was certain the other children felt the same way, the rally organizers had their work cut out for them. This assembly was a political ruse intended to put the party’s positive spin on the cruelty everyone knew was taking place throughout the country.

We were all Young Pioneers, the national Soviet youth organization that prepared children for their future roles in the country’s political life. I was an American and had always despised the Pioneers organization, even before Papa’s arrest. Now I felt no desire to pretend for their benefit. Not today!

I was only seventeen, highly skeptical, and certainly not a fool. I saw that in Russia events happened unpredictably and uncontrollably. There were no individual rights, liberties, or personal freedoms. If you questioned anything or made adverse comments, you were labeled “treasonous.” Trying to gather information, to act as your own detective, was not only stupid but suicidal. You had to walk cautiously in order to preserve your next breath.

I was no idiot; I had learned by experience to watch my back at all times. And I was no puppet; I was not and would not become their blind and “faithful daughter.” I was becoming a rebel, a rebel with a just cause, a trapped “American in Russia” rebel.

According to standard Soviet protocol, our assembly commenced with the playing of the Russian anthem. I chose not to participate. I sat there, angry, on the hard wooden bench while most of the students, perhaps sixty in all, participated in the coerced escapade. The teachers and school officials sang heartily and vigorously clapped their approval—mainly, I thought, for fear of being observed doing otherwise. The crude schoolhouse, built of gray brick and wood, always seemed cold to me, but today it was deathly frigid.

As the last notes of the anthem subsided, the chairman took his place at the podium. In a brusque and condescending tone, he began to speak of our “highly esteemed Comrade Stalin” and our “blessed motherland.” I grew nauseated, even though I’d heard this ridiculous jargon before. His cunningly contrived speech referred to “criminals,” “lack of patriotism in the heartland,” “anti-Soviets,” and most ironically to me, “intruders in our midst.” This was nothing new to me, but I was not prepared for what came next.

The chairman declared that we students, as “loyal comrades,” now had to personally and individually take a stand for the nation. We had to officially denounce and totally separate ourselves from anyone convicted of treason or crimes against the state. Family members were no exceptions. We Young Pioneers were ordered to “publicly denounce our fathers and mothers for being traitors of their country.” We had no alternative. They intended to force us to declare that our first loyalty was to the party. Even neutrality would not be tolerated.

I tried to absorb the words he spoke, but I felt numb, almost paralyzed. The man’s words were like carving knives—big Russian ones—stuck deep into my gut and twisted slowly from side to side.
They were directly ordering me to denounce my father!
Rage, fear, and a host of other emotions welled up in me at once, battling one another for supremacy. I knew I would never say anything so preposterous against my parents, regardless of what these people might do to me.

I wanted to get up and storm out of the assembly, but I knew that would not be wise. Trying to be inconspicuous, I quickly looked around, eying my friends and Russian “comrades” for confirmation of this absurdity. Did anyone else feel this outrage? I suspected so, but I wasn’t sure. Maria was there, but we didn’t sit together. I saw her across the aisle, several people between us. When our eyes accidentally met, she shook her head from side to side in repugnance and disbelief. Would anyone be willing to stand up and speak the truth at this farcical meeting—and face the cost?

As was customary, we were not allowed to speak until called upon. The entire student body was dead silent, but I could see fearful eyes darting about, trying not to be obvious. Who would go first? Who was the lucky one? I saw hatred and bewilderment on every face. We were all scared to death, our anxiety surging. We looked like helpless victims awaiting execution.

I gazed around cautiously. Most of the students were the children of immigrants to Russia from other European countries. Several had also experienced the abduction of parents and loved ones. In a sense, we were all in the same boat, but I was different. I was the only American. If these children felt as I did, they were too afraid to show it. I was frightened but also furious. Strangely, I felt no real connection with any of them except Maria. Were they all going to succumb to this coercion and speak this demonic lie? Were we really going to consent to this lunacy, what Papa would call “nonsense”?

The rally leaders began a roll call, demanding that each child make a public declaration. “Stand up and make your feelings known. Confess and denounce the activities of your parents, and proclaim your allegiance to Comrade Stalin and Mother Russia!” they barked. Anxiety covered me like a blanket. I felt as if my mind would explode. Many of the students were small children, age twelve or even younger, who couldn’t possibly understand the implications of these commands. But the others clearly understood what they were being required to do.

The procession began. Like sheep they followed, one after another after another. Each child spoke on cue, robotically repeating the same words said by the person before them. I thought,
If life and death are in our words, then this is massive, verbal homicide.

And then it was my turn. “Comrade Werner?” As I heard my name, I thought,
Oh Lord, if you can hear me, please don’t let this happen!
The presiding chairman politely asked me again, “Miss Margaret Werner, what do you have to say about the character and deeds of your father, Carl Werner? Will you please tell us of his unpatriotic ways and his crimes against our country?”

Time suddenly crashed to a complete halt. I froze. My heart beat wildly.
What will I say? What will I do? Oh, my papa, what should I do? Why am I here instead of back home in Detroit?
I prayed,
Let me be wise, let me be discerning, and let me measure with care the words I am about to speak. God, I need you right now. Please help me!

I carefully weighed my options for several long seconds. Then I chose, despite my fear, to stand up and blast them. I chose to speak out against their blasphemous insinuations. Instead of denouncing my father as instructed, I decided to speak the truth.

I began, “
We,
the families, have never been told what alleged crimes our parents were charged with. Furthermore,
we
do not believe they are criminals at all.” I purposely used the word
we
instead of
I,
knowing that I was speaking for everybody, whether anyone else would join me or not.

“How dare you tell me to speak that way against my own father, the one you took away from me,” I said, my voice shaking with indignation. “This country is filled with ruthless murderers seeking their own perversions at the expense of innocent people! My father thought of you as mindless renegades. I can easily see that he was right!”

My words shot forth like the fierce backdraft of a raging fire. “After all that my mother and I have already endured, you now have the gall to ask me publicly to murder my father—perhaps again—right here? Are you out of your minds? Carl Werner was the best man who ever set foot on Russian soil! All he ever did here was good, and you dare to call him a traitor?” I paused, emotion swelling my throat.

“My father has more true courage and patriotism in his little finger than any of you will ever have!” I spat out, my eyes now full of tears as anger consumed me.

As I finished, I began to weep uncontrollably. Adrenaline gushed through me. I had said the exact opposite of what they had expected me to say. And, embittered emotions aside, I felt stronger for it. My words had been so forceful that it felt as though someone bigger and more powerful than I had spoken. This was a moment to be savored—a moment of personal victory. My speech had stunned the audience. I saw bewildered faces with mouths wide open; wild, unbelieving eyes; some silent cheers. I didn’t jump on the party bandwagon that day or any day thereafter. I also knew there would be a price to pay for my indiscretion, my “unfaithfulness” to Comrade Stalin and his loyal henchmen; I just didn’t know when.
But today I didn’t care.
I had no fear or concern about my own safety or what they might do to me. I was confident in the moment, in the outrage, and in my defiance.

After I finished, a small, gray-haired woman who had been sitting on the stage stood up and walked purposefully toward me. She stopped at the end of my aisle and with a pleasant smile said, “Come, Margaret,” motioning for me to move toward her. I complied, and she walked me out of the auditorium and into an adjacent hall where another woman and a man stood talking.

I had never seen any of them before. The man spoke softly but matter-of-factly to me: “I guess you know that you have left us with no other choice but to expel you from the Young Pioneers? You made certain choices today, and now you will have to live with those choices.”

I had expected something worse than that and actually felt a little relieved. Was that really all I would have to face? Was this the extent of my punishment—I would be expelled from the Young Pioneers?
Ha!
I thought.
That’s no big deal; I was getting ready to quit anyway!
I laughed internally as they spoke.

Less gently, the elderly woman said, “You must leave the premises immediately and report back to the school office first thing in the morning.” I didn’t expect serious disciplinary action, at least not now, for I was only seventeen and an honor student. I had never created a disturbance of any kind and wasn’t a troublemaker at school.

I didn’t think they would take me out back and shoot me or anything quite that severe. They wouldn’t execute a seventeen-year-old American citizen living as a Russian schoolgirl. While subtlety and human compassion were not their strong suits, party members were much too aware of public opinion for anything that blatant, especially in public. I assumed such things happened in prison cells or maybe in Siberia but not to teenagers attending school in Gorky.