Dancing Under the Red Star (33 page)

I thanked her for the packages she had sent to me. The guard returned in a few minutes and motioned for Mama to leave. “Mama,” I said hurriedly, “we will be out of this hellhole soon, and we can start all over, okay? We will go back home, and we will build new lives. Everything will be just wonderful, you’ll see. I’ll be back soon, I promise. I love you so much, Mama!” As I watched her going out the door, I realized that I had once again spoken the very same words that Papa had said. An overwhelming sadness enveloped me. The sorrows and losses of our family had just multiplied.

After she left, I was called to report to the authorities. I repeated what my mother had said: that she was much too fragile for such an assignment and that she did not know the language well enough to be of any real value to them. I wasn’t sure they bought that excuse completely, but it seemed to satisfy them for the time being.

They kept me at the Vorobyo’vka for approximately a month and a half under reasonably livable circumstances. I was treated fairly well and wasn’t subjected to any particular abuse beyond what I had come to know as customary. I still didn’t know precisely why I was here or what they wanted with me.

One day a certain well-spoken, very well-mannered, high-ranking MVD official unlocked my cell door. He entered my room and declared, “Werner, you will return to your camp at Inta in the morning. We have no further need for you here.”

I was elated. They had evidently decided not to use my mother in their schemes. Or did they decide? Was this another simple twist of fate, or was this exactly the way God wanted to work this out? I didn’t know, and it really didn’t matter. The important thing was that Mama was now cleared of all suspicions as I returned to Inta to complete my term.

This was a pivotal time for us, I thought. It was now the fall of 1953, and I actually felt as if I could see daylight ahead. My sentence was approaching its end, and I would soon be released. I felt that the elements against us had retreated somewhat, resigned maybe, or even surrendered. Was it simply an answer to prayer? Whatever it was, it looked as though the authorities weren’t going to bother us anymore. The truth was that Mama actually knew quite a bit of sensitive information. If they had known how much, they would not have let her go. But now the matter was nearly over, and so was my sentence. Now I could begin to envision a new life and a fresh start for Mama and me.

The joy I felt leaving Gorky and returning to my camp was indescribable. It was almost as if I had been released from my imprisonment and my political status, as if normal life had been returned to me. Now I had another chance to say the things I didn’t get to say to those women I loved so dearly. And now I could clearly see the light ahead. The last ten years of my life had been shrouded in dark despair, but now there appeared to be more light than darkness. God had given me a vision and hope for the future.

The ride back to the Siberian north was ten times more pleasant than my trip south, although I couldn’t anticipate seeing my dear mother at this journey’s end. When I got out of the van at Inta, I knelt down, kissed the stage floor, and began looking for my friends. Nothing had changed while I was away. The girls and I had a joyous reunion—laughing, recalling, but mainly crying. I could see the love on their faces. I knew they had missed me as much as I had missed them. The camp was not my home, but these women were. We were always
home
for one another.

And back in Gorky, the MVD officials never harassed my mother again.

Thank you, Lord!
I prayed.

For the next year or so my life at Inta continued as expected, with no major deviations from the prison norm. During the winter of 1954 we were allowed to flood our parade grounds with water so we could ice-skate. Given the cold Siberian winter, the water didn’t take long to freeze. Our camp had only a few pairs of skates, but all the avid skaters gladly shared them. Among us was a former champion ice skater from the Ukraine, who flew like a graceful bird across the ice. My childhood passion for skating had never left me, and my heart lifted every time I went on the ice. During our nonworking hours, we skated with the reckless abandon of youthful freedom and exuberance, forgetting our prison. We skated like children without a worry in the world. It was a time of mysterious joy, a feeling I cannot describe or forget.

Our ice-skating fun came to a crashing halt one day that winter. I had almost forgotten that I was still an American political prisoner assigned to a labor camp in Siberia. Like a rush of cold water to my face, without warning, all of us were ordered to pack our things. No problem—I was already an expert in packing! We were being transferred to a much smaller camp, and our present camp was going to be occupied by men. We had to walk the entire distance, but this time the authorities took care of our baggage and personal belongings.

Unanimously, we hated the confines and conditions at our new camp. Compared to this, our old camp looked very good. We were seasoned improvisers, but in this new place we would definitely need to readapt. We were cramped for space, and our brigade was assigned the tiniest, dingiest, hole-in-the-wall berthing quarters available.

The miserably small auditorium and stage on which we would perform was the worst part. There was no one we could complain to; I already knew that. But I was now on my way out. I was a short-timer; I just had to hang on a little while longer. We eventually staged a few concerts and dramatic performances, using our older and more perfected routines, but my heart was no longer in it. We muddled through, but the passion we had shared was now gone. Things were not the same. We particularly missed our friend and teacher, Tamara, who had been freed a few months earlier and now lived somewhere in the city of Inta. I thought about Tamara quite often, and I missed my special friend. But I felt so be it, because a new life was on the horizon.

Not long before I was due for release, I was called to an assembly in the dining hall to hear a speech. The camp commandant was announcing the imminent release of some of the inmates and wishing everyone a successful life in the future.

You’ve got to be kidding,
I thought. Then I questioned myself.
Margaret, you’re not going to blow it now, are you?

Nearly one hundred inmates attended the assembly. I looked around at the living and recalled the dead. There should have been at least another thirty of us, according to my calculations, but those women didn’t make it. Those were the sad cases, the unfortunate ones who did not finish the race. I knew those women, I knew their stories, and I knew of their lives. What I didn’t always know was the singular thing that made them snap and kept them from finishing. I thought about these women, the dead. I remembered them all in great detail.

The commandant spoke in glowing terms of our “prospects,” “opportunities awaiting us” in the town, and our “future usefulness to society.” He enthused about what we would do when we were out. It was a good speech; I knew he had worked on it. His whole delivery with proper voice inflection, was impeccable. During this well-aimed and even genuine speech, I was impressed, but I felt a familiar uneasy feeling growing within me. It was the same kind of indignation that rose up one day in 1938 when I sat in an assembly of schoolchildren in Gorky and was told to denounce my father. Those same emotions intensified as the commandant talked.

I boiled over with the need to speak. I stood and shouted out, “Sir, may I ask you…on the subject of prospects, as you say. I hope you will excuse me for saying, but we have no prospects! We have no jobs, we have nowhere to live, and we have no money. So what prospects do you refer to? How are we to deal with these circumstances? And how, exactly, have we been prepared to cope with these very real and immediate problems in order to become—let’s see, how did you say it?—‘more productive’?”

Before he could respond, I continued, “And what, pray tell, is awaiting us outside these camp gates? Is opportunity awaiting us out there? Of course not! Who is available to help us out there? I, for one, have done nothing wrong, and yet, falsely accused, I stand here—an American citizen in Russia. I have just given up
ten years of my life!
And for what? For nothing, damn it! And who is going to fix that?”

I stood, considering what else to say, on the verge of tears, torn between righteous indignation, rebellion, and unforgiveness. Although deeply distraught, I remained outwardly calm and subdued. I was not stupid; I knew I had crossed a line I should not have crossed. Where did my stubborn and foolish pride come from? Was it the same pride that had gotten Papa arrested, imprisoned, and killed? And why couldn’t I control it? I wished I had carefully considered the parameters and the consequences involved. I should have been more aware of my limitations and boundaries.

Gradually I realized that the commander was more than a little embarrassed by my questions, though not aggravated or angry. He seemed a bit shaken and nervous, but he was especially contained, almost apologetic.
Was Mama praying for me?
I wondered.
Was she praying to God for me at this moment?
When I was through, he was virtually speechless. He did not answer my questions but nervously closed the meeting and his speech immediately. The commander had been respectful and unusually kind in his response to my shocking comments. A million thoughts raced through my head. All at once I was happy and yet melancholy, rebellious yet humble, outspoken but somewhat under control. I was faithful yet hopelessly fearful at the same time.
O God, please help me!

Twenty-One

RELEASED

N
early ten years in the making, March 3, 1955, was here at last,
na endlich.
The day of my release had been a tiny white speck on the outer edge of eternity’s dark horizon. But now the faint glimmer of hope was realized. My release came approximately nine months earlier than I had expected, because I was given “time off for good behavior.” I was simultaneously grateful and humiliated.

This time I could say the honest and tearful good-byes to all my dear friends and prepare myself to walk out the camp gate. Most of my worldly goods were strapped to my back, and I carried a suitcase that had been made for me by some men in another camp. I set off on foot for the great unknown, a person who had aged many more years than the nine-plus I had served. And now, with this citation for good behavior in my pocket, plus a dime, I could probably buy a cup of coffee somewhere in America. My only problem was that America was a long way off, and I was still a long, long way from home.

Not sure which way to go, I felt the whole weight of the world upon me. I was lost, afraid, and nervous. But I was also expectant, anticipating wonderful things ahead. I wanted to be picked up right there and supernaturally transported to a new start. God had already given me faith, even if it sometimes looked like blind optimism: choosing to see things in a positive light despite the darkened situation. And now, when I was overwhelmed with these conflicting emotions, I poured out my heart to God.
Lord, if you’re there, if you can hear me, if you care for me—then I need you right now!

I reached for help from God, and at that moment I felt as though he heard me. I had come to know his essential character during the desperate times. I had seen irrefutable evidence of the divine, and it was clear to me now that he had chosen to save my life on several occasions. God had walked with me in the dark, and I was learning to trust him. Since he had seen me through these last painful nine years, I could trust that he would also see me through the years ahead. Indeed, he would look after my mother and pave a way for our future as well. Although the weight of the world seemed to be upon my shoulders at this moment, it was not as heavy as it might have been.
I believed that he was carrying me through!

I could hardly wait to see Mama. Since she was still 1,587 miles away in Gorky, and I was officially confined to the Inta region for the next five years, Mama was making plans to take the long trip to visit me in Inta. Oh, how I anticipated that reunion!

I was free, whatever that meant. Not being in prison was good, but what did it mean to be out? What, exactly, would I do next? I was apprehensive about how I would earn a living, something I hadn’t thought about for the last nine years. Prison life had a perverse kind of security. Imprisoned and oppressed, I didn’t know what it was like to worry about providing my next meal or having a roof over my head. The years spent behind barbed wire did not prepare me for life outside camp confines, in an unfamiliar city, without relatives or resources for help.

Furthermore, I had only the freedom to leave the labor camp, but the conditions of my release mandated that I stay within the region. I could move somewhat freely within the borders of Inta; no one would harass me as long as my intentions were purely local. This was not true freedom, without borders or limitations; it was not even passport freedom. I didn’t have the right to leave the city, and certainly not the country. Yes, I was out, but I would have to report once a month to the local police department. I would be a prisoner of the city for another five years. To be allowed to work for pay, I had to obtain an official work permit, identifying me as a newly released political prisoner.