In 1988 my dad went to America. The whole family prepared for this trip like it was the second coming of Christ. The preparations actually began in early 1987. In order to visit a relative who lived on the other side of the Iron Curtain, a Soviet citizen had to run a gauntlet of pointless bureaucracy. My dad had to ask our neighbors, his boss, and his coworkers to write letters of recommendation and to vouch for his character. He had to get a letter from his work confirming employment, a letter from the police confirming that he had no criminal record, and a letter from voenkomat confirming that he completed the mandatory military service. The most ridiculous letter had to come from his parents, stating that they do not object to their child’s travel abroad. After the piles of paperwork had been collected, they (the piles of paperwork) had to be presented to a set of indifferent and sometimes malicious workers at the OVIR[1]. Even if all your paperwork was in order, even if you had glowing recommendations from everyone you knew, even if your entire life was dedicated to serving communism and the Soviet Union, there was always a chance that your exit visa application might be denied.
My parents told me in no uncertain terms to be quiet and not tell anyone about dad’s possible trip to the United States. They really had a good reason to be paranoid. More often than not, people who announced their intention to leave the USSR were immediately fired from work and generally ostracized by everyone they knew.
Moreover, letting kids know about anything remotely sensitive held additional dangers. Everyone who grew up in the Soviet Union knows the name “Pavlik Morozov”. Pavlik’s story was taught in schools. There were books, songs, and even an opera dedicated to Pavlik.
Pavlik Morozov’s story started and ended in 1932. He was a 13-year-old boy who overheard an anti-Soviet conversation between his grandfather and his father. As a true pioneer, Pavlik denounced his father to the NKVD. His father was arrested and executed. When Pavlik’s grandfather found out what the young boy did, he killed Pavlik with an ax. Pavlik became an instant martyr and a hero.
With the enemy fought Pavel
And others he taught to fight
In front of his village he spoke
And exposed his father’s deeds[2]
All Soviet children were brainwashed to emulate Pavlik Morozov, and most parents were weary of saying anything controversial or dangerous in front of their kids.
I was 10 years old, and to me America was something that I’ve been taught to fear and hate, a capitalist nation dedicated to oppressing its workers and treating Black people as second-class citizens. The only American events that were reported in Soviet newspapers and on the evening news had to do with the space race, nuclear arms race, protests, and racial riots. I could not, for the life of me, understand why someone would willingly want to go to America and why it had to be such a secret. That being said, I kept my mouth shut.
To add a layer of secrecy, my parents and grandparents did not even tell me when the trip was supposed to take place. One morning, I woke up and they told me that my dad already left for America.
My dad spent almost a month with his brother in Los Angeles. When he came back, he brought magical things that I had never seen before. A stroller for my baby sister that folded! A pair of winter boots for me that had Velcro straps! I had never seen Velcro before and spent hours driving everyone nuts with the ripping noise of opening and closing the Velcro tabs. Bananas. I’ve only seen bananas in movies, and they were the most amazing things that I have tasted in my life. But the best thing of all were M&Ms. These tiny colorful chocolate-covered candies became my raison d’être, the reason I did my chores, took care of my sister, got good grades, and went to bed on time. My grandmother hid the jumbo-sized bags of M&Ms and doled out a few candies at a time as rewards.
My dad told amazing stories of highways, of skyscrapers, of Disneyland, of giant stores with shelves full of produce, of shopping carts, and of free plastic shopping bags. Apparently, people would drive to a store and buy a trunk-full of groceries in a single shopping trip!
While I wasn’t fully aware of this at the time, my dad’s visit to America started some hushed conversations about immigration. I was frequently left home to babysit my one-year-old sister while my family went to OVIR. My parents and grandparents spent hours around the kitchen table, going through mounds of papers and arguing in muted voices. At the time, we did not know anything about immigration. Bits and pieces of rumors trickled down through the grapevine of other Jewish families that managed to get their exit visas and leave the Soviet Union. We heard rumors of families immigrating to Israel through Vienna or Rome. We heard rumors that many of these immigrant families would change their minds and ask for asylum in the United States. These families would have to stay in Vienna or Rome, or whatever city they were in for an indefinite period of time, until a Jewish community in the United States would agree to sponsor them. Some families left the USSR with a few belongings; others shipped their furniture, books, and dishes in giant wooden crates. One time, I overheard my dad saying that the Soviet government had a requirement that all valuables and collectibles had to be appraised and that we would need special permission for each valuable item to be taken outside of the USSR. I did not quite understand what was going on, but I stopped sleeping, worried that the government would take my postage stamp collection.
The planning, document collection, and hushed conversations went on for over a year. All of a sudden, all the frantic activities stopped. No one would tell me what was going on – every time I would ask, my parents or grandparents would tell me not to worry about it and not to talk about this to anyone outside the family. I only found out what happened in 2021. I was interviewing my mom to clarify certain events, and when I asked her what happened with that particular immigration attempt, she told me that it was because of my grandmother. Apparently, all the paperwork was done, and all the documents were approved. We only needed to go to OVIR and pick up our exit visas and travel passports. Our whole family (including me and my baby sister) took a cab to OVIR. When the cab pulled up to the building, suddenly, my grandmother turned around and announced that she was not going anywhere. She simply refused, and no one could convince her otherwise. She told my parents that she did not want to go to a country where she didn’t speak the language and didn’t know anyone and that if they wanted to go, they’d have to go without her.
[1] OVIR: Otdel Viz i Registratsii (English: Office of Visas and Registration. Russian: Отдел Виз и Регистраций)
[2] Translated from a 1938 Soviet song titled “Song of Pavlik Morozov” (Песня о Павлике Морозове). Music by Ferenc Szabó, text by Sergei Michalkov.
Dmitriy B. 