Dancing Under the Red Star (5 page)

I never doubted my parents’ love. One day I became deathly ill. I had been exposed to scarlet fever as a result of being bathed in the same tub with my infected cousin, Robert. He and his parents had stopped in Detroit to see us on their way to Canada. I overheard the doctor telling my parents that I had, in fact, contracted the disease and we had two choices: I could either remain at home under quarantine (my father would have to live elsewhere for twenty-eight days), or I could spend those same twenty-eight days in a hospital. Of course I wanted to stay home, but I was immediately taken to the hospital. I remember that my favorite nightgown and robe were quickly taken away from me; I was given a separate bath on each of three floors, dressed in new hospital attire, and then rushed to a fourth-floor isolation ward.

This ward contained nine or ten beds, and mine was next to a window, where the view stretched off into the distance, far away from the hospital grounds. This was the first time in my life that I had to share a room with anyone. It was also the first time I recall being separated from my mother and father, which was much worse. I remember my discomfort in this room and my dismay at having to live twenty-eight days without my parents. It was dark for me there, almost otherworldly, and I was frightened to death.

Fortunately, I had only a mild case of the disease, and though I missed my parents, I ended up having a relatively good time in the hospital. I celebrated my sixth birthday; my parents brought me cake and ice cream, which was shared by all of my new friends in the isolation ward. The worst part was that I couldn’t touch or hug or kiss my parents, nor could I hear their voices. They could only see me through the glass. I couldn’t hear my mama call me “Maidie” or hear Papa call me his “sweet girl” and say, “Don’t worry, baby. Everything will be all right.” I felt all alone, and that was an unfamiliar feeling.

Such experiences were exceptional in my otherwise happy childhood. Every day I merrily skipped to and from my elementary school, which was about three blocks away. I had many friends, got straight As, and was especially popular with the young boys, because I could run and play and compete with them on their level in their sports and games. Whenever they chose sides for kickball, the most popular game at school, my favorite boys—Tommy Natress and Billy Graves—always chose me first or second, even before the boys. I had a normal height and build for my age, I suppose, perhaps on the slender side, but I had a physically aggressive mind-set and a highly competitive spirit. I didn’t mind getting hurt, if necessary, and I think that’s what the boys liked about me.

Dodge ball was another favorite. Not many girls my age took an interest in sports or seemed able to compete with the boys. But I absolutely loved it; I lived for it! Even at ten, I was a competitive athlete, though I could not imagine how this drive would shape me in the years ahead. During that time, I don’t remember having a worry in the world. My life was indeed good, it was pure fun, and it was all for the taking!

I admired my favorite schoolteacher, Miss Lovejoy, who made school a genuine pleasure. She had pretty blond hair, beautiful clothes and jewelry, and an effervescent personality. My favorite subjects were social studies and history, though I really enjoyed them all. I just enjoyed learning—at least at school, but maybe not as much at home. Although I was an excellent student, my father demanded absolute perfection at all times, and he ensured that I never settled for anything less than that from myself.

He was a strict disciplinarian when it came to school, my grades, and my studies. “How do you expect to ever get anywhere if you don’t give it the best that you have right now?” was a typical response. “If you work hard now, you will excel, and later in your life you will be happy that you did!” He did not believe in learning from mistakes. Sometimes he was a bit hard to bear, but I knew that he was motivated by love.

He said that failure was impossible if I was not careless and if I applied 100 percent of my effort toward my work. I was not permitted to use an eraser while doing my homework at home. He reasoned that if an eraser had to be used, then the whole assignment could just as easily be redone, avoiding all mistakes the second time. “That will teach you to think more carefully next time…before you begin to write, won’t it?” he would ask in calculating fashion. Then he would wait for my response. No one other than Mama could ever disagree with my father, so my response was always, “Yes, Papa.”

I brought erasers home from school on several occasions, used them very carefully and only when I had to, and then hid them from Papa. But I never hid them well enough. Though he never said a word, when I went to look for them again, they were nowhere to be found. I always knew exactly where I had put them, but they would mysteriously disappear, as if they never should have been there in the first place. It wasn’t easy to put anything over on Papa, and consequently I didn’t spend a lot of time trying. I also didn’t use erasers much. Instead, I usually redid my work in its entirety until I got smart and learned to do it right the first time. Consequently, I always did my best to complete my homework during the school day, while I could use an eraser if necessary. Some might consider such measures extreme, but I knew Papa’s objectives and the spirit behind them. “Life is too short for mistakes,” he would say. “This way you will learn.”

I attended a nearby summer camp when I was about seven or eight years old. Among the many activities I enjoyed at this camp, swimming and diving in the immense man-made lake were by far my favorites. Papa taught me how to swim when I was six, an experience I’ll never forget. He nearly drowned me in the process! He held me tightly to his chest while he walked out into the lake until the water was at his neck and well over my head. Then, with a warm but mischievous smile, he pushed me out into the deep unknown. I desperately tried to clutch him, and he began to back away slowly while he encouraged, “You can do it… You can do it… Now swim!”

My arms flailed helplessly as fear enveloped me. I must have swallowed half the lake in the process. I was scared, crying and choking, struggling for breath and kicking my arms and legs wildly to survive. Somehow I made it back to shore, to see my father doubled over in laughter. “I hate you, Papa,” I sobbed, which made him laugh all the more. Naturally I didn’t mean it, and it was that single day, then and there, that I learned how to swim. A few minutes later I went back out on my own, and the process seemed to automatically make sense. I could swim! And from that moment on, regardless of the fearful initiation, I lived to swim. That’s all I wanted to do.

A natural passion for athletic competition—whatever the sport—was birthed in me at that time and grew stronger in the years to come. My parents always seemed to know how to bring out the best in me. Mama’s style was a bit different, but both of my parents wanted me to be athletically equipped. For me, the great thrill was the event—the sport itself, the opportunity to compete against others, to match my skill with theirs, and theirs with mine. Competitive excellence, I believe, comes largely from within—unseen, intangible—and has little to do with one’s physical ability. But I had both, an above-average degree of physical ability coupled with a competitive desire, the heart to win.

Every Saturday morning Mama took me downtown for my weekly acrobatic training and gymnastics classes. I couldn’t wait for those Saturday mornings to arrive! I always tried very hard, earnestly desiring to be not only the best I could be but also the best in the class or on the block or in school or anywhere else. That was my goal. Mama always told people I had no fear, and that made me feel good. And I was a natural acrobat. I especially loved the more difficult routines and was often used as the class example by my instructor, Mrs. White. “Now, class, watch how Margaret does it,” Mrs. White would say as I demonstrated tumbling routines. I even thought about becoming a ballerina, a ballerina with great acrobatic skills. Perhaps I could even run off and become an accomplished acrobat in a touring circus.

The beauty of my childhood was that, with an active imagination, I could be anything or anybody I ever wanted to be. My mind knew no limitations. Everything was possible. Papa often said, “Nothing is impossible if you only believe! You can do anything you want to do.” One only needed enough time to think, to dream, and I certainly had that, even more than my fair share. I would lie on my back and daydream in the warm summer grass of a nearby playground.

It’s amazing the things a kid can ponder while lying in the grass. Maybe that’s what grass is for. Given enough time, could I have solved the problem of world peace or prevented my father from being taken away? But my fantasies focused for hours upon end on this theme of success and variations of it: how I would be the object of much public admiration, performing death-defying and amazing feats for all to see and enjoy. Perhaps I would be a world-class ballerina, just like the Russians. Before I knew anything about Russia or that I would one day live there, I imagined myself dancing there. It was always easy to be a ballerina in the grass.

My mother could not have known how my acrobatic skill and training would benefit me in the days to come, but perhaps her deepest desire for my strength made it a kind of preliminary equipping for me, for what would be an entirely unpredictable future with many setbacks. Did she have a prophetic sense of preparing me for the road ahead, the road so remote from my growing up in Detroit?

Dear Lord, why couldn’t we have just stayed in Detroit? Why didn’t Papa listen to us years ago?

My father, Carl Werner, was a highly skilled and valued laborer with the Ford Motor Company and was quickly promoted into their supervisory ranks within the Detroit plant. There he heard speculation, then rumor, then actual discussions, and finally, concrete plans about Ford signing a one-year contract with a Russian automobile factory. Autostroy, in Gorky, was seeking to establish a modern, streamlined automotive production facility and needed specialists in various fields, including my father’s specialty: tool and die making. In essence, it was almost a Ford factory; Henry Ford wanted it to be a model and replica of his highly regarded Detroit plant.

During the 1920s and early 1930s, tensions between the Soviet Union and the West had eased somewhat, particularly in economic cooperation. Russia’s new challenge was to organize its vast natural and human resources efficiently. For a variety of reasons—compassion for the sufferings of the Soviet peoples, sympathy for the great “socialist experiment,” but primarily for the pursuit of profit—American businessmen and diplomats began signing business contracts with various Russian officials.

Henry Ford sold tractors to the Soviet Union. But he was not alone. Other leading American capitalists and financiers were also involved in Russian trade and business financing, including Averell Harriman and Armand Hammer. These commercial ties between the Soviet Union and the United States established the basis for further cooperation, dialogue, and diplomatic relations between the two countries. This era of cooperation was never solidly established, however, and it diminished as Joseph Stalin attempted to eradicate all vestiges of capitalism and to make the Soviet Union economically self-sufficient. Any Americans who were left in Russia were considered expendable.

As a Ford employee, my father faced a difficult and fateful decision. In Detroit, Ford was going through major cutbacks and sizable employee layoffs, and no one knew for sure whose head would roll next. He could stay in Detroit, under difficult conditions, and simply make the best of bad times. Or he could opt for the opportunity of a temporary, one-year move (as it was presented to us) to Gorky. That would be an economic advance for us and a fresh beginning. Staying offered uncertainty at best, while going offered immediate financial relief and perhaps some future stability for his family. Perhaps a move even suggested to him the realization of a dream, the fulfillment of a vision.

I have no doubt that he always had his family’s best interest in mind. I thought my father always knew what was best. I’m certain he spoke at length with my mother about this potential move, such a drastic change in our lives, carefully weighing the factors and considering all the possibilities. But in our family, he was a strong man, a decisive man, a man’s man, and would ultimately decide for us all.

Some of them were dreamers

And some of them were fools

Who were making plans and thinking of the future

With the energy of the innocent

They were gathering the tools

They would need to make their journey….

Carl Werner was a good man to the very heart and fiber of his soul, much loved by Mama and me. But he was making a decision that would impact not only his own life but ours for the remainder of our days.

I loved America, and I loved my young life. I didn’t understand my father’s plight or what he really had in mind, but I wondered if we didn’t have other choices. Had Papa thought this thing through carefully? It seemed a ridiculous notion. In hindsight, it seems to me that he rushed to judgment, that he made a rash decision not entirely supported by his wife. Even as a child, I knew it, and I wholeheartedly agreed with her that we should not go to Russia. Why was Papa so stubborn? Why didn’t he give credence to the intuitive things Mama and I felt? He was the only one who really wanted to go to Russia. Mother and I simply had no choice in the matter.