Immigration 8: The Letting Go

It's a cool morning for mid May, the sky is a little overcast and the breeze a little biting.  I make my way through the familiar courtyard, almost as familiar as my own and pause at the entry way to the apartment building and truly let sink in that this will be the last time I will walk up to their door.  I've had several months to prepare myself but somehow I still don't feel ready to say goodbye.

I just stand there for a moment and let the thought develop.  Tomorrow they're leaving Russia, emigrating.  Misha, Marina and their little Anechka are packing up their meager belongings and flying to Austria then somehow on to Italy and then, hopefully to America, leaving everything they know behind, severing all bonds in an effort to find a better life. A cold shiver runs up and down my spine as the enormity of what they're undertaking hits me for what seems like the hundredth time - and I still can't fathom it. 

I take slow steps into the building and as my eyes adjust to the dark, I catch the form of the elevator repairman in his pristine uniform standing in the corner, smoking a cigarette.  He's been around for a few weeks, "working" but his uniform is still perfectly white. I smirk as I walk past him. We all know that he has probably never held a wrench in his life - his expertise lies in identifying and noting the comings and goings of people. He's not ever trying to be covert - intimidation is another one of his objectives.  We know that you know and we want you to know : we're watching you.

I grab the railing of the old staircase and start jogging up the steps up to the fifth floor but by the time I reach the first landing I slow down as memories start invading my thoughts. I tuck my hands into my pockets and allow the slower gait to trigger more detailed recollections.

I remember that when I first met Misha he was still on his own, living on coffee and cigarettes,  a literal starving college student.  His apartment was bare of food but never of people for his door was always open. I remember how Marina would come over and bring sandwiches that he would immediately turn around and feed to all his friends, also starving college students.  And then, when they married and had Anya how their door remained open. 

Through the years, along with countless others, I have come here, to this apartment, almost nightly.  Memories flood my mind in the forms of images : Watching hockey games in winter, screaming at the tops of our lungs while Marina brought more food to the table. In the summer, leaning out their window trying to catch Voice of America on their tiny radio, gingerly manipulating the dial in an attempt to catch the elusive station.  Gathering here, to read banned books such as Bugakov's Master and Margarita that were typed on what seemed like cigarette paper and then spending hours discussing them.

We weren't just visitors, we weren't simple friends, we were part of theirs lives, part of their family and as such were witness to many aspects of their lives. I laugh quietly to myself as I climb another flight and remember the first time Marina left two year old Anya with Misha for the evening.  We were all there, playing cards, drinking a few beers watching a game on their tiny black and white TV and there was little Anechka bouncing around from one knee to another.  At one point she toddled over to where the guys were playing cards and in a blink of an eye swiped a mug of beer and downed it before anybody could stop her.  I suppress a snort as I recall how amazed Marina was, the following day, at how well her little girl slept that night!  The "brotherhood of the beer incident" kept the secret of that good sleep for 3 years until finally, fairly sure of his safety, Misha confessed.

I reach the fifth floor with a smile on my face, though still lost in thought, my feet take me automatically along the well worn path to their door. I hear sounds from within and realize I'm not the first to arrive, to bid farewell and to help.   I enter the commune apartment and am immediately hit by the smell of acrylic paint and acetone.  The neighbors workroom door is open where she has been hand painting Olympic rings on souvenirs in preparation for when The Games come to Moscow three years from now.  I peek in and see that in addition to the paint paraphernalia and normal furnishings, a cot and four suitcases are tucked in the small room, their suitcases.

Vera, Marinas mom and Anna, Misha's mom are in the kitchen cooking.  Their faces are drawn and though they smile at me as they give me a kiss, I can tell that there's already been a lot of crying and that a lot more is to come.   A few other friends are here, figuring out the logistics of getting the furniture and other things that are being left behind to their new owners.  I join in and the day seems to fly.

There's a constant flow of visitors some staying for minutes, some for hours and yet others who just stay. Watching this stream of people, I consider the spy downstairs and smile to myself when I realize that none of us give a damn about him, our friends are so much more important to us that the consequences of having our names in his file.

As day turns to night only family and the core group of friends are left. We have dinner, we talk, we take final pictures and little Anechka is sent to the cot in the workroom to sleep at least a little. It's going to be an early morning tomorrow. However, the nervous energy permeating the apartment won't let anybody else sleep a wink and as I take a walk down the corridor from Misha and Marinas room to the commune kitchen I overhear "It's gold, in the worst case, you can sell it." It's Oleg, Marinas brother, talking to Misha and I notice, Oleg's no longer wearing a wedding band. 

Marina and Oleg never had a great relationship, it's been more adversarial than fraternal; he's never been one for doing the right thing by his family but this test of his character he passes. My eyes tear up a bit as I consider all the different and sometimes surprising forms gold takes. 

The poignant moment shakes me a bit and to take my mind off it I check the clock to see how much time we have before we must leave for the airport and realize that it's none. Three thirty in the morning came too quickly. 

Anya is woken, dressed and fed. The suitcases are taken down to the cars and we hustle downstairs.  I hold back a little and walk back to the door, place my hand upon it and offer up a simple thanks and goodbye.

The drive to the airport is quiet except for Zorkas sniffling in the back seat.  She's one of Misha and Marinas closest friends and has experience with leaving. Year's ago she came to Russia to be with her husband, leaving her home in Bulgaria, so she knows the pain of homesickness, the feel of isolation that our friends are going to suffer and so she weeps.

When we finally arrive at the airport and unload the four measly suitcases that are supposed to support three people for an unknown period of time in foreign lands, I wonder at my friends' sanity. However, as I peer around I see other families getting ready to do the same thing.  As my eyes continues to study the milling crowd I see that the emigres share a look that is a mixture of exhaustion, hope, fear and determination. 

Misha disappears into the sea of people to deal with paperwork before the three of them can head into customs and then .... well .....  and then to the skies.  Little Anechka is pale and doesn't seem to be actually awake, she's sleep-walking more than anything else.  She's passed around from grandmother to grandmother to uncle and finally to me and as I take hold of her little hand, her grip surprises me.  I kneel down to talk to her and realize that her eyes are not only tired but scared as well.
"What's the matter, sweetie?" I ask.
"There are too many people, I don't wanna go there." Her weak voice answers, pointing in the general direction of the tarmac.
"It's OK." I say thinking that she's afraid of flying "It's safe, those are great planes, look at all these people, they aren't afraid!"
But she shakes her head "I'm not afraid, I just don't want to be naked in front of all these people" she says, her eyes filling with tears.
Totally confused, I ask "Why in the world do you think you're going to be naked?"
"Dad said that I might have to take my clothes off before I get on the plane" she answers between sniffs.
My breath hitches in my throat as I realize that Misha must have warned her that there may be a strip search at customs - we have all heard the stories of cavity searches being performed on young and old as a final indignity. The poor little girl must think that it will happen in the open, on the tarmac, right before boarding the plane!  So I ease her worries and explain that if it comes to a search it would be done in private. That seems to ease her a bit and I can see her shoulders relax a little and a smile come more easily to her face as her grandfather comes over and takes her hand.

Freed from babysitting duties I go in search of Marina to tell her about Anyas concerns, I catch her face in the crowd and start moving in that direction.  As I push through the swarm I overhear Misha's mom talking to another friend saying "Marina's not doing too well, she asked me for a sedative to help keep her calm".  This gives me pause and I think that maybe Marina doesn't need to hear about her daughters fears, she's got enough of her own.  But I keep going and hope that in one way or another I can be of some help.

When I reach her she's standing with her back to me, facing her mother whose eyes are brimming with tears and as I get closer, I hear Marinas shaky voice repeat the same phrase over and over again "Please, Mommy, don't cry, just don't cry." 

Realizing that I'm not wanted at that particular moment I veer off and go in search of something to do and for a little while stay busy with the suitcases, standing with them here, carrying them over there but when I'm free again I make another attempt and spending some time with Marina. 

I find her, still with her mother, still uttering the same words and I figure that in a way, it's her mantra. She's completely focused on the separation, the goodbye is all she sees and all she fears. So I say a silent prayer that her mom will be able to keep it together. Vera is a very strong willed woman and I have faith that, for her daughter, she'll be able to keep her tears in check and her private agonies private.

Finally, it's time for customs and after all the final hugs and tearful kisses are done those of us left behind, hold on to each other and watch our beloved trio make their way into the corded off area.  We continue watching them as the  line slowly makes its way to the tables where customs agents will scrutinize their luggage.

Five, ten, fifteen minutes pass and all of a sudden I see some sort of commotion and then we all catch sight of Misha making his way back with a suitcase.  Anna, breaks from our group and expertly greasing the right palms appears in the customs area and stops Misha in his tracks - he tries to give her the suitcase but she shoves it back at him, they exchange some words and finally Misha, suitcase still in hand, walks back to the customs table.

Anna returns, a little shaken up, saying that the customs agent was refusing to let that suitcase out, but it was the one with Anyas medications and other basic survival necessities, so when Misha tried to give it to her she yelled at him that "blood through the nose" it had to go with them and sent her son back into the fray.

She's in tears now and I hug her tight as she wails "Oh my God, I yelled at my Mishenka, oh my God, my last words ..."   I try to soothe her with soft mutterings but there's nothing I can say to ease this mothers pain, I can only hope that time will find a way to heal her and at the same time I think all of us hope against hope that we won't see Misha or that suitcase again.

Thirty, forty minutes pass and there are no more attempts to return luggage and all of us breathe a sigh of relief. Our threesome is now invisible, lost in the customs crowd, so we move to a different spot hoping to catch a glimpse of them as they make their way upstairs where they will board the plane.  It takes time and I worry that they might have been detained or put through that horrid search but finally we see them.   The three of them turn when they get high enough and seek us out - they grin and wave and I hear Marina yell "Till we meet again!"  I know she's being hopeful but the way Misha looks at her and the way I feel my own heart skip a beat, I know we are thinking the same thing - If things don't go right, we could be meeting sooner than you think! So I chant my own mantra - May it all go well, May it all go right.

Thankfully it does and with a stabbing realization my mind forms the words they are gone.

Slowly the energy of the airport changes, returns to normal.  I stand there, still a bit shell-shocked, not sure if I can get my head around what I just lost. And as we make our way back to the cars I look down at my hands and think I just hugged them; I touch my lips and think I just kissed their cheeks - for the last time.

This time I sit in the back of the car. I lean back, letting my head rest and close my eyes. Again I think back to the elevator repair man and the consequences of being seen as a supporter of my friends' emigration.  If anything happens it'll be pretty minor - perhaps a loss of a vacation stipend or a verbal dress-down at work or maybe I'll be brought before some board or other to be humiliated before peers for not turning my back on the people who turned theirs on Mother Russia. None of that would surprise me. 

I sigh, thinking Nothing will change, it'll all stay the same - except they won't be here.  It's then that the tears finally spill from under my lashes, though I'm not sure if they're tears of joy for them or tears of grief for me and all of us left behind. Tired of holding myself together, I let the tears come and just cry ...