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climbed out, paid him, and watched him drive away. Volodya spoke again. “There are only three ways I can leave the country. One, I could marry a Jew and leave for Israel. But I am already married and I have described to you why this would be difficult. Two, I could walk out. Some winters in the past the Gulf of Finland has frozen over, and I always hoped that this would happen again. I would walk over the ice to Finland and live in freedom.”
Jennifer reeled at the dramatic picture this presented—Volodya, with a frozen beard like Doctor Zhivago, staggering over the ice floes, alone, friendless.
“Three, I could get help from the west.” Here he looked at her longingly. “That American I told you about, the one I met in my last year working with Intourist, she has made enquiries on my behalf. She asked the US Senator Henry Jackson for his help. Do you know this man? He listened to her plea, but so far I have heard nothing.”
“I don’t know him. He must be one of the Americans who tries to get dissidents out of this country. I read something about it in the newspaper. But, Vlad, does this mean you’ve heard from this American woman recently? How?” He shook off her questions. “What can I do? Also, I don’t know any big political wheels like U.S. senators.”
“Talk to him. When you return, you must contact him. Please make a case for me. Others have left the country at his request.” He reached for her hand. “You do understand now, don’t you? Why you must help me?” He looked as if he was about to drop to his knees and plead.
“I’ll do what I can,” she told him reluctantly and felt his enthusiasm drain away. He dropped her hand. But what can I possibly do? she thought. And what obligation do I have to do anything? She remained silent for a moment, recovering her composure while Volodya’s expression clouded. He was not finished. His face reddened.
“My path, my future is through you. I feel it. You can do this for me. You say ‘do what I can.’ This is not enough. Please, I have fought for so long.”
She was astonished by the passion in his words. But passion described him, for sure. Volodya in bed—the hard, muscular body, the energy. Or playing the piano with gusto, challenging the music. And his passion for living—greeting a total stranger on the bridge over the Moika, leading his crew of younger guys. But his intensity today was different; it was foreign to her, frightening.
Libros Libertad 