Dancing Under the Red Star (22 page)

“Now, Margaret,” he softly chuckled. “What do you hope to accomplish by that?”

Another day, during another routine interrogation, the room was deadly quiet while he was immersed in writing his endless report. I decided I would break the prolonged silence and a serious Russian taboo at the same time. I suddenly blurted out, “So, Fidoli, tell me what you think about God.”

An eternity of deafening silence passed. His eyes remained glued to the paper he was writing, and although he didn’t look up at me, he did put down his pen. I could see that he was thinking, but what he thought, I had no idea. I could also tell that he was affected, maybe even shaken just a bit. He sniffled and then cleared his throat to speak.

“Margaret, please listen carefully,” he said. “I have purposely tolerated many things from you—things I would never have ordinarily allowed of another person in your shoes. But now I am going to do you a huge favor; I’m going to choose to forget the question you just asked me—as if it didn’t happen—and you are going to be happy with that, okay?”

Our roles were now reversed. Fidoli shocked me by what he said and the way he said it, flatly and without smiling. I also had to face what he chose not to say, about the consequences if I repeated my question. Maybe he was taken aback by my question, embarrassed, or angry.

Talk of God, faith, or religion was banned throughout Russia. Stalin, in fact, had issued his ridiculous decree: “God must be out of Russia in five years.” I assumed that such a conversation must be very dangerous for a high-ranking interrogating officer like Fidoli. He could not reveal his true feelings on the matter. Perhaps he was wrestling with his own sensitivities. Or maybe he was protecting me. For an American “political,” discussing the subject of God was even more dangerous. But, whatever his motives, Fidoli knew how much was at stake, and he instantly drew the line.

And I understood that I was to press him and my luck no further.

Despite my fear and reluctance, words came out of my mouth from somewhere deep within. “Fidoli, I was a ten-year-old American girl when I was forced to come to Russia—not of my choosing. My life was ripped apart, and my dreams were killed by Russia and in Russia! They killed my father. My mother and I have suffered anguish that words cannot express. I have been falsely accused of something I have not done. I am entirely innocent, and yet I am locked up here and speaking with you. Let me tell you something: The only thing I have left to believe in is God. He is real. He exists. One day he will get me out of this insane asylum, I promise you! And I only hope that you too will come to know him. Fidoli, in the end, that is all we will have left to take into eternity—our faith in God.”

I stopped, out of breath and surprised by what I’d declared. In some ways I hadn’t known what I believed until I spoke it to my interrogator. Fidoli kept his head down and said nothing to me. After a few moments, he got up and walked quietly out of the room without saying a word. Never before had he left during an interrogation, so his leaving seemed out of place. I don’t know where he went. I sat there alone for about fifteen minutes, thinking about the words I’d just said. Fidoli finally returned, accompanied by a guard, who waited by the door. He said nothing more to me than, “You may go now,” and the guard promptly escorted me back to my cell. I wasn’t called for interrogation by Fidoli or any other interrogator for more than a month after that. And prior to that day, I had been drilled at least three or four times a week by one interrogator or another.

Subtle rebellion and silent antagonism grew within me, changing my demeanor and character, I no longer saw myself as another ordinary victim but as a victim with an edge, determined not to let these people triumph over me. Although I could see that resistance could land me in hot water, I resolved that I would not let them beat me down, destroy my spirit, or wipe out the dreams and visions that allowed me to hope for a better day ahead. I would not give up the things I knew to be good and virtuous and desirable. They were not taking these away from me. They couldn’t. I would not let them! The things I had learned from my mama and papa, things of the heart, these were the things I needed to keep alive inside of me. Deep down inside I was still that little girl from Detroit, lying in the grass, dreaming of my future as an athlete, a leader, a dancer, a doctor.

One day I suddenly became very ill. I couldn’t get out of bed; I had a severe headache and a fever of about 104°. I was taken to the prison doctor, who gave me a halfhearted examination and prescribed some medicine and bed rest. I don’t think he knew or cared what my specific problem was. When I was returned to my cell, I collapsed onto my cot and fell into a delirious sleep filled with hallucinations. I was floating into a dark void. My body was out of control. I was filled with unspeakable despair, swept into an endless black abyss.

I heard voices—dark, cold, evil voices—calling to me, “Why go through all of this? Why not just go ahead and take the easy way out?” They were luring me toward death. I believed I was actually dying, and it was not like dying in a dream. I was definitely awake, and still I felt the grip of death, like hands around my neck.

Was I going to perish in this place, like so many others before me? What would happen to Mama if I died here? They told me I had pleurisy, a rare lung condition that could be fatal if not properly treated. Apparently, this medical condition was endemic to Eastern Europe and Central Asia prior to the 1940s. My death loomed over me; I was cold with fear. But I also knew that Mama was praying for me, and I hoped nothing else was as powerful as that.

The devilish infirmity lasted for three physically, emotionally, and spiritually miserable days. I didn’t eat a thing the whole time; I couldn’t hold anything down. I felt exhausted. I lost nearly fifteen pounds, which I really couldn’t spare, during this ghastly three-day episode.

When my fever finally broke, I longed for some strong tea with a bit of lemon, and I was much too weak to go to the door to receive my daily ration of bread, sugar, and hot water. I was lying immobile when one of the guards took it upon himself to look in on me. He walked in and asked, with genuine concern, how I was feeling. He poured tea for me and broke my sugar into smaller lumps that could be dissolved so I could drink. I was too weak to manage even that for myself. I was so grateful for his kindness that I cried. I could see that he was equally touched, pity softening his rugged face. I knew he held back tears only because of his sense of duty and his fear of being seen.

As I began to regain my strength, I had a clear sense of my situation. My goal was to eventually get my life back and to believe, despite the opposition, that it would again be good and worth living. I knew that the only way this would happen would be for me,
right then,
to become stronger, more determined, and more faithful than I had ever been in my life. But I also knew I needed help; I was all out of personal options.

I was confronted with my physical weakness. If it is true that only the strong survive, I knew I didn’t stand much of a chance. Deep within, I knew that my ultimate survival would depend largely upon factors that I could not control. I desperately needed outside intervention, from wherever it came, human or divine, and I needed it now. I had very nearly collapsed from the strain of it all, had nearly given in, given up, and succumbed to the spirits, those voices, talking to me. It was clear to me that my individual strength and determination would soon crumble under the pressure of isolation and deprivation, and I looked intently for the helping hand of Mama’s God in my life.

In desperation I reached out for Mama’s God, and I realized that his hand was actually there the whole time. The guard who helped me was named Rolf. Now I always looked forward to his shift; he was the captain. He would turn off the lights for me during the day so I could sleep. Seemingly small favors such as these, among the endless waves of human injustice surging around me, somehow made life tolerable again. In Rolf’s kindness, I saw hope that when I was at the end of my resources, there would be other resources to help me say no to death and yes to life. I wanted to pay attention to the hand of a greater source rather than listen to the voices of darkness and despair.

Thirteen

SENTENCED

T
he dreary days in the Gorky prison were suddenly interrupted one spring day. Fidoli gave me a sheet of paper notifying me that on April 24, 1946, I would stand trial in Moscow. I was charged under Article #58-1a for treason, Article #58-10 for anti-Soviet propaganda, and Article #58-6 for espionage. Treason, because I had made the mistake of mentioning to the British officers, Leslie and Mac, that I would love to leave the country and had requested their help to do so. Anti-Soviet propaganda, because I had once described the quality of our former life in the United States and its stark contrast to Soviet life to someone who reported it. Espionage, for conspiring with the Brits.

Very early on the morning of April 24, I appeared at the Moscow general courthouse. There was no audience, and the entire proceedings lasted only about forty-five minutes. Only one witness testified against me, a very close friend of mine, whose name I shall not reveal. I didn’t resent her testimony, because I knew how the NKVD went about obtaining its goods on people: coercion, deception, manipulation, and lies. They did not need any real evidence; there usually was none anyway. If they wanted to arrest you, they did; no reason was necessary. Any cooperation my friend may have offered them was motivated by self-preservation, and under the circumstances, she didn’t have many options. I was not angry with her, for I understood all too well the factors that went into her false confession. Her testimony against me was very careless but not malicious. However, I don’t believe she carefully chose her words or exercised good judgment in her coerced claim against me.

Still, Russia was an unimaginably brutal place, impossible to make sense of. Perhaps I, too, would have frozen under similar conditions and said what I was told to say. Later in the day I smuggled a small note to her, intended for my mother. It was hastily scribbled on a matchbox cover with a burnt match while the courthouse guard wasn’t looking. She carried it for me; she meant me no ill, though she was the instrument of my sentence. Just a few years later, ironically, she was convicted of similar indiscretions and sentenced to ten years hard labor.

I was found guilty as charged and officially sentenced by the Military Tribunal of the MVD of the Gorky Region to
ten years hard labor,
coupled with five years loss of civil rights: the right to vote, to travel, to hold public office, or to teach. These people took my father from me; they separated me from my mother; and Nikolai, the love of my life, was killed in the war. But that wasn’t enough. Now they were taking another ten years of my life! Where was God in all of this? And where was justice? What is justice anyway? Is it for this lifetime? I would have many days to consider these questions.

For the next fifteen years I would be completely isolated from everyone I loved and everyone who loved me. I could hardly imagine it. But at least I was not denied the right to communicate with my mother, and for that I was sincerely grateful. I also felt a mild relief that my current life in jail, with its restrictions and lack of productivity, was finally over. It was a peculiar comfort. How could it be that I had learned my fate for the next fifteen years, and yet I was comforted?
This has to be God,
I thought.
What—or who—else could it be?

I was returned to Vorobyo’vka to collect my few personal belongings, then transferred to the large city prison where my father had been. This time I was transported in the infamous
Chornyi Voron
(Black Crow) prisoner van. This windowless vehicle contained eight to ten individual cells, each just large enough for someone to squeeze through the door with their knees smashed against the opposite wall. Sitting in that windowless van on a narrow bench, I was in total darkness. I couldn’t see out; others couldn’t see in—perhaps an all-too-appropriate symbol for this brutal system that sent so many innocent people on a one-way ride to death and destruction.

At the city prison I was put into a large holding cell with about twenty other women. I was the only political prisoner. Many of the others were so-called
Blatnoi,
Russian slang for prisoners convicted of petty crimes, serious burglaries, and even murder. These women were hard and tough; their language was abominable. I saw how alien I was to their world, and I calculated what I’d have to do to survive in these hostile new surroundings.

I decided to speak as they did to establish common ground and mutual rapport. I would adopt their aggressiveness and severity. I had to become one of them—a Blatnoi. I had to change my attitude, my habits, the way I walked, my very thought patterns. I needed a whole new mind-set. This was strictly on-the-job training. I had to reinvent myself for the survival of the fittest in a mental as well as a physical tough-woman competition. And my new stance of power and clout proved to be an invaluable tactic, because not one of the other women in the cell dared to assault, rob, or otherwise harm me. My act was a suit of armor.