Trafika Europe 13 - Russian Ballet

Naum Vaiman

fate! To pass through its matrix. To take flight, like a herd of wild horses into the desolate steppe... In September of ‘73, as I was rushing around rainy Moscow in a frenzy, finding no peace anywhere – “over there,” a war was raging, and its outcome was as yet uncertain (it was then that I, for the first time, realized, or rather sensed, that if the State does not endure, then my life on earth will also cease; I’ll be tormented by pangs of conscience, and I immediately, right there and then, made a vow: if it does survive, I am leaving) – Pyotr Naumovich unexpectedly called me: “Come by. I need you”. His face bore an expression of his old vitality, a businesslike efficiency, some sort of special self- discipline. He led me over to a large cardboard box: “The book is here. Almost finished. I want to smuggle it out abroad. Also, over there, in Lenka’s room is the archive, but that’s later. Do you have acquaintances, who deal with matters of emigration? Refuseniks? Better still, who pal around with foreign journalists.” “This thing is not without risks,” I muttered. “Life itself is dangerous, my dearie. So, do you have any such acquaintances? I can also throw in some interesting things for that journal, Jews in the USSR ”. “In all honesty, I don’t know anyone like that...” “So that means you haven’t started studying Hebrew yet?” Stunned that he had anticipated my intentions, which were as yet rather vague, I said that no, I hadn’t begun

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