The Russsian Factor: From Cold War to Global Terrorism

By Simona Pipko

"We are at war, in WWIII for many decades now. We have been systematically targeted on different fronts and locations. Alas, my beloved America has not recognized it yet... "

This nonfiction work chronicles the development of world politics in the 21st century. Discover the single driving force behind today's threat of global terrorism. Learn why the 9/11 attack was just one link in a long chain of battles against Western civilization and how Islam and oil are being used as weapons by a very determined enemy.

The author sets the stage with several first-hand narratives from her unique experience as a prominent attorney in Russia. Then, she demonstrates how a global war set in motion nearly a century ago continuous to pose the largest and most imminent threat to the world.

Decide for yourself ones you have seen Ms. Pipko's evidence, from Russia's quickly growing intelligence apparatus to infiltrations of the CIA and UN.
The Russian Factor brings Cold War suspicions into sharp focus.

With Simona Pipko's heartfelt voice this book is also an intriguing retelling of a life lived purposefully.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBookIt.com
• Release date: Apr 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781456601478

Book preview

Past

CHAPTER 1

Summer in Minsk

Children have always been the first casualties of war. Their childhood suddenly ends, and they have to share and endure the struggles their parents go through. In 1941, when World War II came close to Leningrad, children were evacuated from the city and sent to the eastern parts of Russia. My sister Rena and I became children of war, as we experienced the misery associated with that time in history. We slept on the floor and ran to the bomb shelter several times a night. We shared one bathroom with several families and, like them, suffered from hunger and cold. Though we had ration coupons, food was so scarce that we stood in breadlines for hours, often in snow and rain. Our only wish was to see our father again, to see him alive.

Before the war, my father had been a physician, an obstetrician-gynecologist at the renowned Erisman Hospital in Leningrad. As a medical professional, he had been drafted into the army as soon as the war broke out and served in a military hospital on the Leningrad Front for the four-year duration. When my mother, sister, and I returned from evacuation, we could hardly recognize him, as he had become so emaciated. He had lost much of his hair and was worn down to a shadow. Only the serious gaze of his blue eyes, touched with hunger, was recognizable. But the end of the war brought such happiness to our family that nothing could cast a cloud over our reunion. We had survived the devastating ordeal that our country and our people went through . . .

My father was elated at the possibility of returning to his beloved Erisman Hospital to work and teach in medical school again. He wrote one request after another asking to be discharged and to return to Leningrad. However, all his requests to military commanders were met with refusal. Instead, he was assigned to Minsk, two thousand miles away from home, to teach at a medical school there.

My family’s desire to be together was so strong that we planned to leave Leningrad as soon as the school year ended. In spite of incredible difficulties in getting train tickets, my mother finally succeeded, and after a rushed and exhausting day, we boarded a train bound for Minsk.

Nothing could surprise us in the smelly, overcrowded train’s compartment of the steam locomotive. There was no room to move freely, since the entire floor was covered with piles of bundles, knapsacks, and cartons. We were lucky to find two seats in the compartment, one for Mother and another for Rena and me to share. Though the wooden bench was hard and uncomfortable, we could finally rest, nestled close to each other. Exhausted and hungry, we fell asleep as soon as the train began to move, despite the constant noise and awful stench in the car. And then . . . nightmares, one after another terrified me all night.

Simona, Simona, wake up, stop crying, my mother’s face was close to mine, whispering, shaking me, and trying to break the torture of the night. As I opened my eyes, bright sun blinded me at once. Then I looked around. There were ten to twelve people sitting in the compartment, women in black and gray babushkas tied tightly under their chins. Men were wearing dirty long rubber boots. Some people still slept, while others prepared to get off and whispered to each other, like ghosts, scared by the sun’s beaming rays.

My mother whispered too, Simona, please take Rena and quickly go to the bathroom while the other people are sleeping. There will be a line later on. Don’t forget to wash your hands afterwards, girls.

Rena and I forced our way through bundles and cartons and finally reached the bathroom. It took some time for us to put ourselves together. Rena, seven years younger, obediently washed her hands while I was watching her. At that moment the train stopped, and a loud voice from the stout woman conductor ordered us to leave the lavatory. No one was allowed to stay in the lavatory when the train pulled into station. Getting out, we hardly recognized our car. Nobody was whispering anymore; they were yelling. People shouted obscenities as they tried to get off the train with their luggage, pushing and fighting their way to the exit. Rena and I stood quietly flattened against the wall for a long minute while a wild crowd rushed to the exit . . .

When we returned to our compartment, two glasses of tea awaited us. Mother gave each of us two pieces of dried bread and a small slice of cheese.

Girls, please keep an eye on our suitcases, she whispered. Now I’m going to the bathroom. We knew the situation and took our responsibility seriously. I moved to my mother’s seat behind our luggage. Theft was rampant in the land.

As the train stopped at smaller stations, some people would get off and others would board, quickly filling the vacant seats. And again, almost all the women were wearing black and gray babushkas, and the men wore long black rubber boots. Nobody smiled. Their faces revealed anxiety and gloom.

Rena and I finished our breakfast and looked out of the window. There was nothing to see but the monotonous landscape of burnt tree trunks and scorched earth. It looked like a huge grave for multitude of soldiers killed in the war. On rare occasion, when my eyes could catch sight of young green shoots stretched out to the sun, a feeling of joy would come over me. Seeing houses in ruins did not surprise me. I had witnessed the same ruins in Leningrad . . .

I moved back to my seat when Mother returned to the compartment.

Girls, take advantage of the daylight; you’ll not be able to read in the evening. Please, take your books. We’ll have our supper when the conductor prepares the tea for the second time, in the evening. Listen to me; our trip will take a few days, and you should adjust to the arrangement in the train. Simona, where’s your Dostoyevsky? I took the book thinking about the evening tea, a Russian prerevolutionary tradition. I loved the tradition of serving tea in the train and understood now why Mother insisted on buying the tickets to a compartment car—it is hard to be without fluid for three days . . .

By the third night, we arrived at the last stop—Minsk, the capital of Belarus. In the dull light in the car, a hammering of complaints began while people formed a line and began to move forward. The line suddenly stopped in our compartment, and a tall man opened the window to look for his relatives. A draft of air brought the smell of burning coal from the locomotive’s engine into our stuffy compartment. But nothing could stop me. When the line began to move again, I stood on a seat and leaned out the window.

The railroad station had no electricity, and the only source of light guiding us was a full moon covered with traveling clouds. Flashlights were blinking here and there amidst the dark gray moving mass of people. Against the background of the train whistles, anxious voices were yelling out names of relatives and friends as they were trying to find each other. Behind the darkness of the window, I couldn’t see my father. He knew the number of our car, and we were supposed to wait for him; but waiting was difficult.

My parents had always forbidden Rena and me to yell or speak loudly. Normally, I complied with the rules, but my yearning to see my father was so strong that it overcame discipline. With all the force of a good pair of lungs, I gave a yell, Papa, Papa, we are here! From afar I heard my father’s voice, Simosha, don’t worry. Tell Mother to wait for me in the car. The familiar voice calmed me down. We waited patiently in the car while a line of people passed us by.

It was no secret in our family that I’d been my father’s darling. Our mutual love for music had bonded us together. A very gifted and talented man, my father was a passionate musician, who never parted with his violin. The instrument had survived the Leningrad siege along with my father. In the city of palaces and monuments, while one million people starved to death, he began composing music. The violin had become his closest friend . . .

I knew all of father’s songs and quartets by heart. After the war, Father and I spent many evenings entertaining our family with concerts. I would sing the melodies my father had composed while he accompanied me on his violin. Those concerts had become the best times of our live . . .

When all the people got off the train, my father finally came on board. The three of us embraced and kissed him, but there was no time to talk. The conductor ordered us to vacate the car. Father quickly lifted two heavy suitcases, and we left the train.

In June, there were white nights on the Baltic shore of Leningrad. In the heart land of Minsk, the nights were black. In the darkness, we slowly followed Father to the dormitory designed for the faculty where he had a room, moving along a narrow path around a ruined building. Even with both of our parents nearby, I felt frightened. When the clouds moved and uncovered the full moon, the destroyed building stood like the shadow of a dying evil giant, terrifying me. Finally, we stopped at the door of a building that reminded me of a military barracks. Father put the suitcases down, pulled matches out of his pocket, and gave them to Mother. We entered a huge dark corridor and followed Father, while Mother struck matches to illuminate our way. The familiar smell of burnt coal suggested proximity to the railroad station.

Father led us to a big room with white plastered walls. The room had only one small window. Under a dim lightbulb on the ceiling, we could see a wood-burning cooking stove next to the door, then two narrow metal cots, and a mattress on the bare floor in the corner. In the center of the room was a table covered with a white sheet, and on it a pitcher with a bouquet of wild daisies. My father couldn’t meet his wife without flowers. Then Father told us that one bathroom shared by seven families living on the floor was situated at the end of the corridor.

Exhausted, we went to sleep, my sister and I on the two narrow metal cots, our parents on the mattress on the floor. This time, no dreams disturbed me—I slept like a log.

When I woke up, my father had already left, Rena still slept, and Mother was unpacking our luggage. In the open suitcase, I saw our big mirror among other things. I was glad to see it—my mother knew well her two girls.

How did you sleep, Simona? my mother asked, unpacking the biggest of our suitcases and not even lifting up her head.

Very well. I am going to the bathroom. When I return, I’ll help you to hang our mirror. Do you know when Father will come back? I asked.

Yes, he’ll be back at two o’clock for lunch. The medical school is not far from here. By the way, Father won’t allow you to go out—

Why?

He’ll tell you.

My parents loved each other dearly and expressed it affectionately. Besides many other warm words addressed to each other, my father always spoke to my mother with exceptional tenderness. She was a beautiful woman, and in her youth, some poets had actually dedicated poems to her. Her name was Vera, yet we have never heard that name at home, but only Verochka, a token of affection. My father’s name was David, but Mother affectionately called him Dodik.

At two o’clock, my father came with a big package wrapped in newspaper. He put it on the table. Verochka, I brought a very tasty present for us all, from America!

Wow! Mother exclaimed, while Father added proudly, It’s a program called Lend-Lease, which provides food and clothes to the devastated areas of many countries including ours.  Here you are. He unwrapped and placed four cans of stewed pork from America on the table. He called them tushonka.

That’s wonderful, Dodik, but I don’t know how to prepare it.

Don’t worry, comrades from the office explained everything to me. It’s very easy to prepare. You either eat it cold or just warm it up. I have more good news. I’ve received two coupons for our family to choose two items of clothing from LendLease. We can have shoes for Simosha and a dress for Renochka.

No, Dodik, Simona should get both the shoes and the dress. She’s a big girl and grown out of her dress. The shoes she’s wearing are tight. Where can we get the things?

I don’t know yet. The comrades from the office will tell me the address at the end of the week. And now, please, let’s go eat the American ‘tushonka,’ Verochka. I have to go back in an hour.

How tasty the new meal was! My mother warmed it up in a pan, and we ate it with dry bread, which was dissolving in a plate of fat and juicy meat. The aroma of the tasty meat filled the air of our room. Nobody talked. For the first time, we were eating American food. I had heard a lot about America, our ally in World War II. Now, I could taste and smell America. Moreover, I was overwhelmed at the possibility of having an American dress and shoes. I anticipated with pleasure how I would wear them. Father interrupted my thoughts.

Simosha, I can’t allow you to go out to the city.

What? I should sit all day in the dark room?

No, there’s a new public park near our dormitory. You may go there, sit on the bench, and read. What about the list of books you have to read during the summer?

Where is that new park?

I’ll show you the place on my way back to the medical school.

Father’s lunch hour passed quickly. In a rush, he walked me to the new park.

Can you find your way back? he asked.

Of course, it’s pretty close to our dormitory.

Are you sure?

Yes, go. You’re late. I kissed my father, and he hurried off.

Left alone, I looked around. It was a very strange park, not like the ones I was used to. There were many parks in Leningrad. Like green islands with big old trees and leafy foliage, they decorated the city, caressing our eyes. The park in Minsk had a different landscape. The small round flowerbed in the center held only weeds. Around it stood five benches, and behind them were young trees with weak thin trunks and a few green leaves. Even the hot sun and warm air were different. I didn’t like what I saw. But I could have a good tan, I thought.

Within a couple of weeks, I was accustomed to the new park. It almost belonged to me exclusively. Only rarely did other people visit it. I came to love it as my small refuge. It was a pleasure to sit and read under the hot sun. My skin became a light brown, very becoming to my blue eyes. Unfortunately, we were unable to get the American dress and shoes. My old ones were very small and uncomfortable. That saddened me a great deal. I was fifteen. I wanted to be pretty.

What are you reading? An unfamiliar but pleasant voice startled me. An officer of the Soviet Army was sitting next to me on the bench, wearing the same uniform my father did. This calmed me. I respected all people wearing military uniforms—they saved our country from the Nazis.

What are you reading? the officer repeated. His quiet voice, honest blue eyes, and tanned face made me feel comfortable.

Dostoyevsky, I answered.

You’re too young to read Dostoyevsky. Do you like him?

No. I answered. The young officer smiled, showing two straight lines of bright white teeth.

Then why are you reading Dostoyevsky?

I didn’t answer because strange thoughts ran through my mind. What a handsome man this young officer was! I answered him honestly.

I have to read Dostoyevsky. My father gave me a list of seven books to read during the summer.

Is your father a teacher?

Yes and no. He’s an officer of the Soviet Army and a doctor. He’s teaching in the medical school here in Minsk. The young officer took a good look at me.

What is your name? he asked. Simona.

What a lovely name. It goes very well with your appearance. He smiled. I smiled back.

But I couldn’t ask his name. There was a certain distance between the ages in our culture. I didn’t know how to address him and felt a bit uneasy. Like my father, he was an officer of the Soviet Army and older than I was.

Are you living here in Minsk?

No, we live in Leningrad and came here for the summer to visit our father. Are you a sportsman? I asked the question because our people, exhausted by war, usually had pale and emaciated faces. The officer looked very healthy, like a sportsman. He didn’t answer my question. Instead, he asked me again, Have you seen the city?

No, my father doesn’t allow me to go farther than this park.

I don’t agree with your father. It is a unique experience of your life to see the consequences of the war.

I’ve already seen the consequences of war. I came from Leningrad. I’ve seen destroyed houses and burnt forests. I know the consequences of war.

Have you ever seen a totally destroyed city?

Totally destroyed? Maybe not.

I saw Dresden and Coventry. Have you heard about those cities? he asked.

Yes, I’ve heard about Coventry. Why are you asking about those cities?

Because Minsk resembles them. It will take a lot of time, human energy, and equipment to restore what the war destroyed.

I know that. But we won the war, and we will restore our country.

Simona, you’re mistaken. The Soviet Union won the war together with the Allies. Without the help of the Allies, it might not have happened. His strong intonation and confidence astonished me. He was talking like a foreign radio broadcaster.

My father listened to the Voice of America and BBC every night. He thought that I was sleeping, but I wasn’t. And though he turned the volume very low, afraid that the neighbors might overhear it, I heard the news on the foreign radio program every night. I didn’t like it. My father did. Often I heard him commenting and calling our government the bandits in power. I vehemently disagreed with him. For me the Soviet government was the most democratic in the world, and I adored our leader, Comrade Stalin. Yet I had never voiced my disagreement with Father. Nobody could. He was opinionated, persistent, and stubborn. In our culture, a teenage girl couldn’t argue with an adult.

My mother was a different case. She suffered the worst possible experience in life. It happened in 1937, the year of overwhelming fear, arrests, and show trials, where leaders of political opposition had been publicly tried and then executed. At the time I was six or seven years old, and my mother was my first friend and my teacher and tutor—everything in the world to me. I loved her endlessly. Three times a week, she used to take me to music school to study violin. We traveled by tram. Some days, my German teacher took me there. One day I got two As in violin and, with eager anticipation, wanted to get home to show them to my mother. When I got home, my mother wasn’t there, only my father was. He told me that Mother had gone into the hospital, and that he was going to take me to Moscow to stay with my grandparents. He did.

My mother was not in the hospital. She was in prison. The events preceding her disappearance were simple. When our music school teacher told us about our kind and beloved Comrade Stalin, I had replied that he was wrong because my mother considered Stalin a bandit and a butcher who was killing innocent people. By the time I got home that day, my mother had already been arrested. I lived with my grandparents for a year. When I graduated from public school, my father told me about the real course of events. He also told me the end of the story—an incredible end . . .

In a communal kitchen, preparing a dinner, Mother had voiced her opinion. Several women in the kitchen were admiring the good deeds of Comrade Stalin. Mother disagreed with them. She said that Stalin was a butcher because he had killed innocent people. That day, my mother was arrested and charged with attempted murder of Comrade Stalin. Two of our neighbors were the informants. After the conversation at the communal kitchen, they went to the security agency to report on my mother. It was a miracle that Mother survived and was released from prison.

Working in a hospital, my father saved a newborn baby and mother, who had had a very complicated pregnancy. The grateful husband cried, thanking my father. The man was a district attorney, a prosecutor. When Mother was arrested, Father visited him and told him the story. In those years, nobody could have gotten out of prison. It was a dark time of fear, distrust, and suspicion. Yet the grateful district attorney performed a miracle. After thirteen months, my mother came back home. However, her personality had changed dramatically. She became very quiet and seldom smiled. She never kissed me. She no longer called me Simosha, only Simona. She never again discussed politics.

The incident did not decrease my love for our country and Comrade Stalin. I did not associate the leader’s name with that tragic event of my life. My parents never told me anything. I picked up the essence of the story by catching scraps of conversations, from relatives and neighbors. In addition to that, the school indoctrination was so extensive that nothing could shake my love for our motherland and Comrade Stalin. I loved him the way I loved my father . . .

No, I’m not mistaken, I told the young officer, the Soviet soldiers hoisted our flag on Reichstag. The Soviet Army liberated Berlin, the capital of Germany. We won the Great Patriotic War, I strongly repeated.

Two women passed by our bench and sat down on the next one. Rubbing his hands, as if enjoying the discussion, the officer put one leg over the other and turned his torso toward me with his back to the women. He smiled, and his black leather high boots gleamed in the sun. Then he put his hand on my book and said, lowering his voice, I’m not arguing with you, Simona; I just want to tell you something you perhaps don’t know. We’re talking about a war where the entire world has been involved. Have you heard about the Axis, Rome, Tokyo, Berlin, whose forces were fighting the Allies? What do you know about the program of Lend-Lease, which helped the Allies?

I had not heard a lot about the Axis, Rome, Tokyo, Berlin. But . . . oh, boy . . . I did know about Lend-Lease! Of course I do. My father brought home four cans of ‘tushonka’ from Lend-Lease. We’ve already eaten all of them.

It’s good you know about Lend-Lease, but ‘tushonka’ and other food are only the tip of the iceberg. You probably know that World War II started long before Germany attacked the Soviet Union. It was Lend-Lease that helped the Allied troops in the fight against the Axis.

So what? I retorted.

He looked at me, surprised by my remark.

That means that thousands of men and women perished before the Soviet Union even entered the war. Have you heard about the battle for the Atlantic Ocean, where hundreds of Allied ships were sunk? Lend-Lease provided the Allies with new ships.

No, I’ve never heard about that.

Thousands of sailors from America, Britain, and Canada gave their lives for victory in World War II. Believe me, their mothers, wives, and children dearly loved those who perished, the same way the Russians loved theirs. Have you ever thought about the reason why the war was called World War II? He had a point. His deepset blue eyes were no longer kind. Instead, they were sparkling and indignant. His information surprised me.

Despite my obvious embarrassment, he continued questioning me.

Maybe you’ve heard about the Lend-Lease convoys to Russia, to the ports of Murmansk and Arhangelsk? Some convoys’ routes reached to the Arctic Circle bringing trucks and food, military equipment, and ammunition to the Eastern Front. Do you know how many people gave their lives to feed the Red Army with ‘tushonka’? Do you know the cost of bringing help to Russia? I didn’t know. I had no words to raise an objection, and he had no intention of stopping his barrage of words.

The Allies helped us in the war, and they’ll help us to restore the cities like Minsk. Let’s take a walk; I’ll show you the city.

He stood up and adjusted his soldier’s shirt. Then he took my book in one of his hands and took my hand with the other. I stood up too.

The moment he stood, I could see not only his handsome tanned face, but also a slender and very tall man. The military uniform increased his charm. We started moving toward a nearby street, which turned out to be the main street of Minsk. He stopped in front of a big dark building with small windows on the other side of the street. Under the blue sky and shining sun, the building resembled a huge brown coffin.

This is the House of the Government, the only building in the area that had survived. The Germans retreated so fast that they didn’t have time to blow it up. Let’s go a little bit farther. I obediently followed, walking beside him. After several minutes he stopped again, touched my shoulder, and lifted his hand with my book of Dostoyevsky.

You ought to remember this view to understand the tremendous tragedy and grief any war brings to all people. Look at this street.

I did. He was right. Under an unbound dome of clear blue sky, we stood on the high point of an absolutely empty wide and quiet street. There were no people or cars. As far as the eye could see, one side of the street presented a long solid wasteland, cleaned out of ruins. Along the other side stood skeletons of what had been houses. Some had all four walls and roofs but looked like wounded and blind human beings, with windows reminiscent to empty eye sockets. Others were half-destroyed, their stoves’ metal towering over the ruins like frozen sentinels. Only a roaring truck, moving in our direction, animated the dead landscape. Maybe my father didn’t want me to see that devastating picture; the thought flew through my mind, and I stopped. I was shocked and frightened.

Please, give me my book; I don’t want to go any farther. I’m going home. My voice trembled a bit. The officer immediately returned my book as if he shared my feeling of sorrow and grief. We walked back toward my park.

Don’t be saddened by what you saw, Simona. This is the reality of our lives, and we should face it with courage and open eyes. Don’t be afraid of the difficulties ahead of us. Our allies will help us restore the destroyed cities and villages, build new roads, and feed our people. He talked like a teacher, with a spirit of compassion and confidence. At that time, his blue eyes comforted me, and his strong voice calmed me. His conduct revealed great intelligence and knowledge. Like my father, he had an excellent command of the real Russian language, a rare occurrence among Soviet officers. Suddenly, he asked me, Do you believe in God?

God? I was puzzled. Why would a Soviet officer ask such a question? We still walked slowly when he looked at his watch. Sorry, I’m late to an important meeting. Hope to see you again, Simona. You’re a wonderful girl. Read your book of Dostoyevsky. Have a nice day. Perhaps he really was late, because he almost ran in the direction of the House of the Government.

No one was in the park. I went home. My entire being was shaken by the conversation with the young officer. It wasn’t only the outpouring information that impressed me. The image of the man, his eyes, the conviction in his voice, and his empathy for people alive and dead overwhelmed me. Moreover, like my father, he spoke the language of Chekhov and Tolstoy, the language of Russian intellectuals.

Mother met me with worry in her voice. Simona, where have you been? We’ve already had our dinner. I put yours under a pillow on our mattress to keep it warm. Take it. While you’re eating, I’ll tell you the news.

I didn’t feel hungry, but I took my portion of potato with onion. The food stuck in my throat, but I made believe eating it