Baltic Winds: Testimony of a Soviet Attorney

By Simona Pipko

Baltic Winds, a nonfiction work, tells a life story of the prominent Soviet defense attorney, her family, friends, and clients. The narrative covers the period from the 1950s through the 90s and reflects lives of the characters on two continents, from Leningrad through Tallinn, Rome, and finally New York.

The first part of the book, Mothers and Children, presents life in Russia. It provides first-hand observation about people from different ethnic groups and reveals the abominable conditions they live in, the struggles women encounter in every day life, their status as second-class citizens, their numerous abortions, domestic violence, and sexual abuse.

The second part of the book, Years, People, Countries, takes the reader, along with the author through Europe to America. It shows how immigration and a teaching position in two universities again have brought the author close to peoplethis time Americans.

Baltic Winds is a heartfelt contribution of first-hand experience and information, which brings to light the as-yet uncovered truth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 30, 2002
• ISBN: 9781469112787

Simona Pipko

Simona Pipko was born in Moscow, USSR. A graduate of the Leningrad Law School, she practiced law as a defense attorney for twenty-five years in the capital of Estonia, Tallinn. Leaving behind her communist husband, she immigrated to the United States with her two children in 1981. While living in New York City and teaching at the New School for Social Research and New York University, she wrote a series of articles for various publications, including The International Lawyer ABA, Law and National Security Intelligence Report. She is also an Alumni of the George F. Kennan Institute for Advanced Russian Studies. In 2002, Ms. Pipko published her first book Baltic Winds: Testimony of a Soviet Attorney (Xlibris, 2002). One of her readers, Director of the Center for Study of Popular Culture, wrote-- “Thank you for sending me your moving book. You are a very courageous woman” (David Horowitz). In 2006, Ms. Pipko published her second book: The Russian Factor: From Cold War to Global Terrorism (Xlibris, 2006). Simona Pipko is the author of six books and over 100 articles published in the United States. Since 2010, she has been engaged in writing a series of articles under the general title: Soviet Socialism in the Twenty-first Century. The series was published by Red County South, www.redcounty.com/south/florida/sarasota under the name of Vera Berg, in the rubric of Colony Rabble. Other information are at https://drrichswier.com/author/spipko/, the articles written by Simona Pipko in 2010–2021, Soviet Fascism in the 21st Century. In 2020, Ms. Pipko published Socialist Lies: From Stalin to the Clintons, Obamas, and Sanders (Your Online Publicist, 2020). This book is available at https://youronline publicist.com/product/socialist-lies-from-stalin-to-the-clintons-obamas -and-sanders-by-simona-pipko/. www.simonapipko1.com -- a website with description of all books. www.simonapipko1.com -- Google images -- All books and columns. Podcast: https://anchor.fm/right-now-podcast/episodes/Soviet-Spotlight--Interview-with-SIMONA-PIPKO--RIGHT-NOW-Podcast-e4k73n Twitter: https://twitter.com/simonapipko?lang=en Ms. Pipko published What is Happening to America? The Hidden Truth of Global Destruction (Your Online Publicist 2021). This book is available at https://youronline publicist.com/product/what-is-happening-to-america-the-hidden-truth-of-global-destruction-by-simona-pipko/.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

THE BEGINNING OF THE JOURNEY

We all hanker to stay afloat on the mysterious sea of life, with our yearnings, hopes, and pursuits flapping and thrashing to succeed like battered sails in the wind. Some of us are cast up on quiet waters under a cloudless sky. Others must weather heavy winds and stormy seas. Yet we are all equally in perpetual motion, struggling in that unique sliver of time called destiny.

I had been a lucky girl: Born in Moscow, raised and culturally nourished in Leningrad (the former and current St. Petersburg and the magnificent northern capital of Russia), I was sent to Tallinn after graduating from Leningrad Law School in the mid-fifties—young, naive, and happy. The capital of Estonia had charmed me at once with its picturesque medieval architecture and grand cathedrals. The houses with red tile roofs looked like those in fairy tales, yet real people lived there. Estonia became my second motherland, my home. It was surprising that a lawyer from Leningrad, a Russian Jew at that, assigned to Estonia by the Soviet government, would come to wholeheartedly love the Estonian land and its people.

My husband Garrik, also a Russian Jew, had graduated from the same law school. The natural and uncomplicated story of our love began there—I in my first year, he in his last. A pretty girl of eighteen and well educated by my parents, I played the piano, sang, and drifted to the center of attention in most gatherings. Young men often hovered around me, but I had been brought up selective and conservative, and acted accordingly.

Extremely handsome, with lovely brown eyes resembling those of Gregory Peck in his youth, shiny, straight black hair, an intellectual forehead, and an irresistible smile, Garrik attracted many of the girls in our law school. Yet he conquered me the most with his seriousness, eloquence, and confidence: We could talk on any subject. Bright and well read, he had risen to the top of our school. He was several years older than I—the first man I fell in love with, the first I kissed, the man I later married.

Getting admitted to law school was not an easy matter at the time of our youth. Masses of naive, honest young people applied, but only a handful succeeded. Fortunate and very ready to serve our country, we shared common pursuits. To us, law implied justice. As we understood it, youth and justice worked hand in hand to save the world. I had also wanted to go to law school because history, my favorite subject, constituted a significant part of the curriculum.

All law schools in the USSR were considered to belong to a so-called ideological front. They prepared their students to become politically educated lawyers who would serve the system according to its ideological tenets. In principle, the program at the law school covered three main areas: First, Marxist-Leninist ideology and political economy; second, Russian, Soviet, and world history; and third, law.

I came to love classes on Marxism. Subsequently, my reading on the subject expanded dramatically. We studied Marx, Engels, and Lenin pretty closely. But in addition to that, we also read Kant, Hegel, Feuerbach, and the disputes between Mach and Lenin. I had never been exposed to such literature before. At home I had often discussed philosophy and history with my father, but never Marxian philosophy. Perhaps because my father was a medical doctor, he really didn’t know enough about it for in-depth discussion. Classes on Marxism formed my earliest experience in political education of socialism and capitalism.

I also loved the classes in History of Political Thoughts, where I became acquainted with the philosophies of Spinoza, Bacon, Rousseau, and other world-renowned thinkers.

This course widened my political horizon tremendously and gave me a rewarding taste of the true meaning of civilization. Overwhelmed by the intellectual capacity of all the thinkers, by the diversity of their ideas, by their strong desire to create the best human organization for posterity, and feeling I represented the posterity they had envisioned, I studied their works even more diligently than our program required.

Delivered by the last brilliant scholars who espoused the Old Russian pre-revolutionary school of thought, these lectures had an especially strong impact on me. The old professors managed to convey a great deal of knowledge and unbiased information despite the mandatory curriculum of the school and the program, strictly adhered to without variation. Their ideas remained with me.

I cannot adequately describe the pleasure with which my father, Garrik, and I discussed new ideas and theories. We passionately debated them, agreeing and disagreeing in an emotional effort to convince one another. Garrik and I shared such a great intellectual intimacy that we both suffered enormously when he graduated from law school and left for Tallinn, where his parents lived.

Over the next three years he traveled to Leningrad almost every week. He did not simply love me; he truly adored me. After two more years we got married, and when I graduated from law school I was sent to Tallinn, since my husband already had a job there. Luck accompanied me again, because the other students had to go to Siberia, to the cold northern parts of the country, or to other equally unpopular, underdeveloped locations for three years under the contract of national service.

At the time, the entire country, including Tallinn, was suffering from a severe housing shortage. We were glad that Garrik’s parents had an apartment, since seventy percent of Tallinn’s residential area had been destroyed during the war. Though by the ‘fifties the ruins had already been cleared away, the huge wastelands, like unhealed wounds, constantly reminded the people of the horrors of war.

In the decade since World War II, construction of new residential buildings in the devastated European part of the country was practically non-existent—priority went to the reconstruction of heavy industry—but there was a difference. Unlike the completely destroyed cities in other parts of the country, in Tallinn, the Old Town with its Gothic architecture, and some residential buildings from the time of Estonian independence had miraculously survived. Islands of civilization, all of them represented the best that the human spirit had created in the past.

Apartments from the twenty-year period of Estonian independence between the two World Wars, referred to as of a bourgeois time, became the most desirable residences for those in the new Soviet administration. Built with all the latest technological advances Europe had to offer before the onset of World War II, they were truly worth the hunt it took to acquire one: Large windows provided a pleasant sense of spaciousness as well as a lot of daylight, and the big, comfortable kitchens, with gas stoves and convenient pantries, conquered women’s hearts. Parquet floors throughout added to the charm. But the most attractive aspect for Russians used to living in Soviet-style communal apartments was that each of these apartments had been designed for individual families and consisted of two or three rooms.

When distributed among the Soviet administrators, one of these comfortable apartments in the downtown area went to Garrik’s father upon his arrival from Russia after World War II. The Ministry of Internal Affairs, where he worked, stood at the top of the list in terms of the power structure.

One could not mistake who lived in a building, Russians or Estonians, simply by the smell at the entrance. If the scent of garlic, baked pastry, or pirozhki drifted down from the apartments, Russians occupied them. Estonians were more likely to be found at the local cafés than in their kitchens. They could sit for hours over a cup of coffee and a piece of traditional Estonian

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Simona and Garrik in Leningrad, 1953pastry, chatting and enjoying the atmosphere: The habits of a culture do not easily change.

Living in Tallinn with Garrik’s family presented a whole new environment for me. I had left my parents’ home in Leningrad and had to fit into a new family. Discussions of history, philosophy, or music ceased to exist. I no longer had a piano. But, living in the home of my beloved husband, I made the best of it. Maybe the aroma of pirozhki in our building helped me get used to the new environment by reminding me of home a little bit.

The apartment consisted of a bedroom and a living room; Garrik’s parents gave us the living room, a clean and cozy place where we put a sofa bed. Pale peach wallpaper, exceptionally attractive, with textured flowers, had been left from the pre-war time, and my in-laws had kept it very clean. A big window lit up the room pretty well, and on the rare occasions when the sun came out, it played a mysterious game of colors, reflecting off the peach wallpaper. The ringing voices of children playing in the courtyard lifted our mood, and the flowery cotton curtains, paintings, and plates on the walls made the room a nice place to live.

But we had no privacy, since the room was a passageway for the family—very inconvenient for a young couple. I had never lived where strange people walked back and forth at will, so, I always started when Garrik’s parents entered the room. But we had no alternative. We both worked under the auspices of the Ministry of Justice, which had no housing at all.

So we appreciated the opportunity to have any room. One of the biggest problems most young couples face seemed to have been solved. Often, after dinner, we continued sitting together at a big dinner table, talking in the comfortable kitchen that could accommodate all four of us and allure us with the aroma of cinnamon and vanilla. Those gatherings helped to maintain a spirit of family unity. A brilliant speaker, Garrik seized our attention with interesting and intriguing cases. Hypnotized, I sat with my mouth open, afraid to miss one word of his. Despite some inconveniences in life, I was happy. What could have been better than being hugged by a beloved man?

My husband hadn’t been wasting his time during the three years he was living in Tallinn. He had established both a circle of his own friends and his professional reputation—two crucial elements in our society. His name, which I now shared, was becoming known. In a promising practice, those factors played a role. I had joined a group of his friends, judges, prosecutors, and officers of the KGB and MVD—all our law school graduates. Though I had always remained the youngest and therefore the voiceless one among them, I, nevertheless, learned a lot listening to their stories and arguments.

Garrik had become both my mentor and my patron. He taught me a great deal. Both advocates¹, we didn’t work for the government or earn salaries. Our income depended on the number of cases we took. We belonged to the rather small Bar Association of Estonia, which comprised only advocates and was not directly affiliated with the government either. Responsible for their own careers, all advocates were financially self-sufficient—members of probably the only profession in the Soviet Union that required individual initiative and tenacity.

Unlike the government-appointed lawyers specializing in particular fields of law, advocates were well versed in all branches of it—civil, criminal, labor, domestic relations—to advise clients. And we also worked as defense attorneys—only advocates could in a Soviet court of law. And only a responsible and benevolent person can be a good advocate. Both my husband and I shared that approach to our profession. On this point, as well as on many others, we had similar views.

In those days, we had much in common and loved each other deeply, expressing it in many ways, even writing poetry to each other. We took long strolls, hand in hand, through the famous old park called Kadriorg—meaning the Katherine Valley. Peter the Great had established it in honor of his wife, Katherine, who happened to be a native. The old park evoked a sense of peace and tranquility and offered no reminders of the war—nature, especially trees, heals its wounds faster and better than cities and people do.

The tree-lined paths shadowed us with the growth of two hundred years. We often sat on a bench next to the lake, watching the proud profiles of a pair of swans as they glided over the water, doubled by their shadows. As in an idyllic fairytale, surrounded by lush green bushes and varicolored flowerbeds, we sat close to each other, leaning against one another and enjoying the beauty of nature while the fearless squirrels, jumping and frisking around, touched us with their velvety tails. It was there on the bench that Garrik said to me:

If separation from the Party would be like losing two hands, separation from you would mean losing my heart and dying.

I love you, too, very much, I quietly replied. He had always been more expressive with his feelings than I, though, listening to him, I could’ve drowned in his tender brown eyes.

In the fall, shuffling through a carpet of fallen leaves, we would occasionally pick up a particularly vivid one. The legacy of summer made us happy snatching at the bountiful harvest of reds, greens, and yellows. The dry leaves rustling under our feet reminded me a bit of the Russian forest where I liked to gather berries and mushrooms, but the cold air blowing in from the Baltic Sea revealed the difference.

We both loved the fall in Kadriorg as well as the old city. Estonia had become our home. But our attitudes toward the new culture were not identical. Garrik admired Russian literature. He knew many of the writings of Pushkin, Necrasov, Mayakovsky, and Blok by heart and often recited them to me. For him, they were without comparison—the best poets in the world. He exhibited no interest in Estonian culture.

In that regard, I had a different view. I loved Russian music with all my heart, but for me, Mozart, Sibelius, and Tchaikovsky were the crowning geniuses of civilization, and I loved them all equally. I enjoyed cultural diversity, and life in Estonia had introduced me to a previously unknown experience, one with the specific flavor of the Baltic.

Regrettably, our idyllic family life did not last long; with the birth of our daughter, Katya, the atmosphere at home became tense. By this time, my in-laws had retired and decided to dedicate themselves to bringing up my daughter. That didn’t thrill me at all. Living with them had never been a blessing from the beginning, especially since we lived in the passage to their bedroom, under their constant scrutiny.

My parents rescued us by giving up a room of theirs in Leningrad. I bartered it for a modest two-room apartment in Tallinn through the Bureau of Exchange. That way, we got our first separate living quarters.

The new apartment hardly compared with our previous one—the low ceilings, small windows, painted plank floors, and whitewashed walls conveyed no trace of coziness. The place had no central heating either. A huge round stove, painted silver, rose from floor to ceiling on the wall dividing the two rooms, warming both. We had no carpet on the floor, nothing on the walls to relieve the bleak whitewash, but Garrik, Katya, and I finally had a home of our own, and that meant everything to us.

Our first furnishings, white beech Estonian chairs and a table, weren’t new and were inexpensive, but nothing could upset us—we were happier than ever before.

For some time, I couldn’t work and had to stay home with Katya. To secure a spot in a kindergarten presented a nearly insurmountable problem for a working mother—the waiting list was four or five years long, and a child usually reached school age before the admission letter arrived. Again luck accompanied me—Garrik, who was on good terms with the people in the military headquarters, got a spot for Katya in the kindergarten for military personnel. I would’ve preferred her to go to an Estonian kindergarten to study language and culture, had even planned it, but I had no choice in the matter.

Acquiring knowledge had always been as much a part of my life as breathing, maybe even more—it drove my existence. As my daughter grew, I tried to plan for her intellectual life and education as well. Raising a child, living on the practically foreign soil of Estonia, was a job in itself. Reading fairy tales and poetry weren’t enough in an ethnically hostile and heterogeneous environment: We had to acquaint Katya with the local culture. Kadriorg offered us a wonderful opportunity to do so, as well as to awaken a sense of history in her.

We often bundled her up and strolled through the park, talking as we passed the statues of Estonian writers with their eyes on distant horizons. You couldn’t miss the yellow and white palace, in the style of Versailles and the Hermitage that housed the State Art Museum. On our way through the park, we also visited a small house where Peter the Great had lived two hundred and fifty years before.

Leaving the hospitable green canopy of the park, the sky opened up as we walked toward the sea, our eyes drawn to the magnificent memorial, Rusalka, situated on the edge of the water. And whatever the season—spring or summer, even on those rare sunny days, we always felt the power of nature as the stiff Baltic wind tousled our hair, whipped women’s skirts around their legs, and snatched hats from people’s heads. Yet it discouraged no one, and people stood in silence with uplifted faces, admiring the splendid monument.

The cultural landmark expressed the spiritual ties between the peoples of Russia and Estonia in the memory of lost seamen. In 1893, the naval ship Rusalka (Mermaid) sank with her entire crew in Tallinn harbor. Resonating with human goodness and respect for historical past, an exceptionally touching memorial by Amandus Adamson had been raised to mark the place. The pedestal portrayed the last hulk of the sinking ship as granite waves unyieldingly pulled her in. The names of all the perished sailors had been engraved on the base, and from it rose the tall, granite slab of the monument, upon which a bronze female figure, an angel, has alighted, blessing all seamen, dead and alive, with a cross outstretched over the harbor. The memorial evoked awe, a sense of grandeur of the human soul.

Sensing it, Katya stood in trepidation; her light chestnut hair stuck out from beneath her red beret, and her bluish-gray eyes moved slowly over the memorial, imitating the behavior and actions of the adults around her.

Mama, why does that woman have wings? she suddenly asked.

Katyusha, it’s not a woman, it’s an angel. The people standing nearby smiled. Garrik was sitting on a bench, reading the newspaper.

What is an angel?

It’s a good person who lives in the sky, Katyusha.

Why can’t a good person live on the earth?

Sometimes, talking to Katya forced me to think. People became interested in my answers and watched us. I had to find an appropriate way to communicate with a child.

Does a mermaid live on the earth? I asked.

No, it lives in the sea. Katya’s face grew serious as she held my hand, slowly moving with me.

You’re right, and the angels live in the sky, I concluded gladly. My little girl was so smart.

On the far side of the monument, Katya asked, Mama, why doesn’t the angel have a red star in her hand? Holding onto her red beret with both hands, to keep from losing it to the wind, she looked up at me.

Because it’s an old memorial. When it was built, red stars didn’t exist yet.

That revelation puzzled and astounded her. She gave me her hand again. The absence of red stars had affected her deeply. Katya was not only serious, but stubborn, too. Mama, if there were no red stars, what was on the Kremlin towers?

She looked up at me again, squinting in the sunlight. All children knew the pictures of the Kremlin towers with their red stars.

There was no one around us, but I had no idea what to say: The notion of the cross, as well as religion itself, was completely foreign in our society.

Katyusha, let’s get closer to the monument to read the people’s names, I said instead, and headed to the stairs at the granite base, pulling her with me.

What people, Mama?

"The sailors who served on the ship Rusalka."

There were many different names—Russians, Ukrainians, Belarussians, and others. I emphasized the various nationalities to Katya. But it wasn’t easy to read the names because the salt water, patina, and time had all left their destructive traces. I stopped. Look, Katyusha, all those good people from different places all defended their Motherland together, and we must remember them.

And where are they now? she asked in absolute innocence. Her perception of events occurred on a completely different level. I should’ve allowed more for her age of five.

We are now standing on a memorial that was built in honor and memory of the good people who went down with the ship Rusalka. They are dead, Katyusha. Alas, my daughter had already known the meaning of that word.

Her big, terrified blue eyes gradually filled with tears. Her adoring face expressed such grief and suffering that my heart was overwhelmed with compassion. Yet I stuck to the truth. Don’t cry, my little girl. Those people defended our Motherland. And we came to this memorial today because we remember them. We are grateful to them. Don’t cry, Katyusha. I dried her tears, bent close to her face, and kissed her. You should love your country and remember the people who gave their lives for it. All good people do just that, I said, kissing her again.

I, I will, she quietly said, her voice shaky, her dimpled chin trembling.

We often visited the memorial, but Katya never again needed an explanation. I encountered a much more difficult situation at work.

After the Khrushchev revelation of Stalin’s atrocities in 1956—1957, thousands of people began returning from labor camps, prisons, and places of exile and deportation. All these people, eager to know their rights, flooded into law offices. Crippled, physically injured, toothless, bald, emaciated, they looked at me with hope and anticipation. Some had lost an eye, an arm, a leg—predominantly Estonians, they had already forgotten their native language and spoke only Russian.

I heard horrible stories from these victims of the ‘thirties, ‘forties, and ‘fifties. At first I didn’t want to believe them. But new people came in to tell me of increasingly terrifying experiences. I could hardly cope with my emotions, so profoundly was I traumatized. Afraid of weeping along with them, I even tried to avoid those clients. I couldn’t.

Once I did cry as I listened to a client tell his story. In 1939, he had been just sixteen years old, living in Narva—a city in Estonia, situated on the Soviet border and populated predominantly by Russians. An Estonian, he spoke Russian fluently and listened regularly to Soviet radio. He had so often heard all about the beautiful lives of the Soviet youth, such as the activities of the Pioneers, that he had wanted to be one of them. He had crossed the border into the Soviet Union in pursuit of that dream and was quickly apprehended, tried, convicted, and sent to a labor camp. For twenty years, he had labored in the uranium-molybdenum mines of Central Asia, until his release in 1959 . . .

By the time I met him, he looked like an old man. Bald, his head revealed numerous scars on his skull. He had survived several mining accidents that had cost him his left eye and left arm. Talking to me, he tried to conceal the absence of teeth in his mouth: He had only three, two canines in the upper jaw and one incisor on the bottom. His left eye had no lid; it was just a hole, partially shielded by a loose flap of sunken skin that only managed to highlight the place where his eye should have been. Tears fell steadily from his right eye down an emaciated face, following a grooved path to his empty mouth as he talked.

Touched, frightened, I cried with him. I really don’t know why; was it sympathy for the man or fear of him? Perhaps it was a combination of the two. He was only thirty-six. He had most likely survived the camp for twenty years because of his youth. Most prisoners lived only seven or eight years in the gulag mines in Central Asia, he told me.

I could not erase the face of that man from my eyes and memory for a very long time.

The flow of these survivors continued to torture me for several years. There seemed no end to the breadth of that human tragedy. The victims came from all parts of the country—Magadan, Kalyma, Central Asia, and Siberia—with their stories of torment and pain, tearing my heart apart. But there was no escape; I was obliged to listen and to help if I could.

These events didn’t affect my husband in the same way, perhaps because we had learned about them in different ways. He had attended the readings of Khrushchev’s secret speech in The District Party Committee. All members of the Party had gathered together in the corresponding committee districts for that reading.

For me information came directly from living people themselves. They actually showed up at my office, and I learned about all the atrocities that way, several years after Garrik had—in face-to-face communication with the surviving victims of Stalinism, a catalogue of unprecedented lawlessness, brutality, and the slaughter of hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of innocent people.

The psychological shock I experienced utterly wrenched me from a happy unawareness into bitter reality. The philosophical theories and concepts of civilization faded; maturity came rapidly and definitively.

My professional responsibility forced me to learn to control the turmoil I felt while I was trying to navigate the predicament, and taught me to conceal my true feelings and attitudes. In this, I had no choice . . .

Over the years, I developed a whole different aspect of my personality. Shy by nature, I became aggressive, acquiring a strange confidence in coping with hypocrisy. My professional status changed. I became as well known and respected as my husband. The number of cases I handled increased. I had even more than he, perhaps because I participated more often in show trials, which exposed me to hundreds of people—the best possible publicity for my practice. In Soviet society, a defense attorney—an advocate—had the unique privilege, by law, of speaking to an audience without prior scrutiny. I had used that privilege frequently, but with great care, especially in show trials.

Show trials became a part of the court system during the purges of Stalin’s time. Later incorporated into criminal law, they presented a routine event in Soviet courts as well as in the life of any lawyer—used, once established, by the Party in accordance with its political agenda. Show trials taught me to be more careful while communicating with a huge audience of several hundred. Garrik learned, too.

In the course of our work, he and I had discovered the convenience of sharing a profession. If we had two cases in one day we could help each other out. I often sent clients to him, and he to me. Helping people had become our mutual creed.

As they say, Live to learn, and learn to live. My own life experience and legal practice had taught me a great deal. But nothing educated me the way motherhood did.

I had planned to send Katya to the Estonian kindergarten so that she would learn the Estonian language and culture. But in real life, some things are more easily planned than put into prac-tice. My family circumstances made it impossible for me to implement that plan.

When, for the first time, a special English school opened in Tallinn, I wanted to enroll my daughter in it. She would have had the opportunity to learn a foreign language, which I considered important. Besides, the intellectual ability of the children attending that school, along with their social and cultural level, exceeded by far that of children in ordinary Russian public schools. My husband didn’t see it that way.

Garrik, please be reasonable. I tried to convince him as we headed to his parents. They had already picked Katya up from kindergarten and were waiting for us to eat dinner. We could have taken a tram, but after a workday in the stuffy courtroom, we both wanted to walk to get some fresh air. We entered the square of the Estonia Theater, past people waiting for a tram, some standing in line for a newspaper at a small newsstand on the sidewalk. It was not raining that day, and the early fall air, surprisingly warm, eased our breathing, and the occasional peaceful bell of a tram sounded like a shepherd’s horn in the orchestra of street traffic. Hurried people outpaced us in the twilight, brushing by in their rush home. Patient and polite Estonians during the work-day, once liberated from their stuffy offices, they surrendered themselves to the freedom of the street, driving forward in anticipation of a good dinner, a TV show, a meeting with a loved one.

We didn’t rush, but tramped through the red and orange leaves visible underfoot even in the twilight and still wet from the preceding day’s rain. Despite the weather, Garrik already wore a hat, so becoming to his handsome face. I was bareheaded. Armin-arm, he with his briefcase, I with my pocketbook full of papers, we tried to resolve the issue.

This is the first English school in Estonia, I continued. "It’s foolish not to seize such an opportunity. She’ll learn a foreign language. And the curriculum is more advanced than it is in all the other schools. And the other children come from good families, which is no less important. Katya has to have good friends." I was practically pleading with him. Usually Garrik melted when I asked him for something, but not that time.

No. She should go to an average school. It isn’t a good idea to stand out from the masses. I don’t want to be a white crow. He was using his decisive tone but still holding me arm-in-arm.

"What are you afraid of? The English school is the same as any Soviet school, and nobody there wants to stand out from the masses. Look, Garrik, darling—it is necessary for Katya’s future that she knows a foreign language. Introduction to a second language will enrich her vocabulary. I also want her to have a diverse education. We both work. We don’t have enough time to acquaint her with foreign literature, for example. Studying English will do that without us. Don’t you understand the importance of that for a child?"

He didn’t answer. We were crossing the alley of young trees planted on a wasteland as we headed toward Lomonosov Street.

Garrik finally replied, She doesn’t need to learn any foreign languages now. Russian is quite complicated—let her know it well first, and then we will see.

It will be late. They begin teaching English in the first grade. Garrik paid no attention. Besides, she can’t go to the English school by herself, he said instead. It’s too far, and my parents aren’t able to help. We have a fine school right here, and nothing bad will happen to Katya if she studies among average children in a normal school.

Transportation was a problem, he had a point, and I decided to talk with my in-laws. The rest of the way we discussed the upcoming dinner. My mother-in-law, when she invited us, usually prepared a very tasty meal, especially meat and dessert. She had taught me how to cook our favorite dish—veal stuffed with garlic, cooked in the oven for three hours. We called it veal in threads, but the meat required a lot of time to prepare, which I usually didn’t have, spending day after day in the courtroom.

Approaching the apartment, we heard Katya’s ringing voice. The door was opened, and we became overwhelmed with the embraces and kisses of our joyful daughter, while a variety of scents drifted by. It was the aroma of veal in threads mixed with the smell of vanilla and something else hinting at dessert—a wet Napoleon. Unlike my mother, who always made a crunchy Napoleon, my mother-in-law made a wet one, where the cream inside the layers of Napoleon would stick out as soon as I touched it with a fork. Garrik and Katya adored that Napoleon, but I had never even tried to prepare it: Time was too scarce.

The table was set for five in the living room with the peach wallpaper I remembered so well. Nothing had been changed: The same picture window with flowered curtains, the same plates on the walls . . . only the place where our sofa had stood was bare.

Katya sat next to me, and I busied myself teaching her how to eat meat with a fork in the left hand and a knife in the right while Garrik told his parents about our disagreement regarding school for Katya. He presented the matter in such a way that my thoughtful, silver-haired mother-in-law, sitting across the table, looked at me with her big, cold gray eyes and declared, Simona, don’t torment the child! Who needs that language?

I couldn’t argue with my in-laws—the matter had been resolved. Katya attended the Russian public school . . .

Establishing professional credibility in the courtroom came easier to me than achieving the same thing at home. My husband and in-laws continued to see me as a young, inexperienced, and immature girl in need of guidance. I had no realistic option to enroll Katya in the English school, but I began to carry a burden of guilt as a result, that would stay with me for many years.

Certainly my husband was a very good father—life had proved that to me—but we saw our parental obligations differently. With love and patience, he could spend hours helping Katya with her homework. I tried to instill a sense of responsibility in the child to encourage her to learn on her own. If a child is self-sufficient at eight, at eighteen she will be a responsible adult, I felt. Garrik didn’t share that view. He just couldn’t resist the pleasure of doing homework with her. He helped her even when she could have solved the problems on her own.

When my son, Roman, was born, I took charge completely.

By that time we had a maid, but for six months I didn’t trust my baby to anybody. From the first day of his existence, I did not swaddle him; he moved his arms and legs freely. My friends were astonished, my in-laws frightened. But I had already read Japanese and American articles on the subject and knew what to do. My father provided me with copies of articles from the medical literature.

Three years later, I began my son’s education. One rainy day, I did not feel well and stayed home. We began reading his ABC book, played with letters and syllables, and looked at pictures. Before going to work the next day, I left some homework for him. In the evening we continued our studies. In a couple of weeks, he could read. I couldn’t stop him—he enjoyed it so much. Cute and huggable, he evoked such love in me that I wanted to kiss him tenderly without stopping, but I restrained myself: Roman had to grow up to become a man, I told myself.

When his age allowed it, I enrolled him in the Estonian kindergarten. After several months he spoke Estonian better than his parents. My husband disapproved, but was reluctant to argue with me. He knew I intended to proceed with our son’s education.

I bought a huge map of the world and hung it in Roman’s room when he turned six. The big, colorful, and vivid map almost covered the wall. We started studying foreign countries. For homework I asked him to find the capital and major cities in one country at a time, then the rivers and the seas.

In addition, he collected stamps from foreign countries. This also furthered his knowledge of the world. His interest in, and love of, stamps has stayed with him ever since.

I constantly raised the question of school with my husband. It was clear to me that my son should attend a special English school. He needed a diversity of intellectual stimulation, and that school would provide him with such diversity. I knew education helps to mold character and wanted my son to have that opportunity—he needed a challenge. Garrik and I debated the situation for quite some time. Finally he gave up, saying in great resignation, "Do whatever you want, and leave me alone."

On the day of the admissions examination, I had a criminal trial in the Supreme Court of Estonia. I couldn’t ask Garrik for help, but the Chairman at the trial, Robert Suevi, a judge with whom I had a very friendly relationship, called a recess so I could go home, get Roman, take him to the school for the exam, wait while he took it, and bring him home again. Roman was admitted to the first English school in the city.

My daughter watched these proceedings closely, and jealousy began to color her behavior. Suffering from a huge guilt complex, I tried to make some amends. I took her to Leningrad several times. We went to museums. At the Hermitage I taught her about the artists of the Barbizon school and the Impressionists, my favorite artists. I called the first group the artists of peace, the second the artists of light. We bought catalogues and took them home to study. Life was good to us all . . .

When we moved to our apartment of a bourgeois time, with the spacious rooms and high ceilings, I bought a Behshtane grand piano, the same kind I had had in Leningrad. Music became a part of my life again. Both my children loved listening to me singing and playing the piano. Katya and I often sang together at family gatherings and other events, sitting in our beautiful living room with its green-and-gold wallpaper in an atmosphere of celebration, surrounded by antique Russian items. The priceless beauty of crystal and sterling sparkling under the light of the large chandelier conveyed a sense of completeness and satisfaction in life, out of which Katya and I could sing for hours, repeating some favorite songs over and over again . . .

Between being busy at work and being happy at home, ten years of my life passed as one day. We became a prominent and respected couple in the city. I even received a phone call from The District Party Committee, inviting me to join the Communist Party. If I had received that call at the beginning of my career, I probably would have joined the party. At that time I decided not to. My attitude toward life had changed significantly since I had come to Estonia and started working. The road of life had introduced a lot of challenges, but it had also taught me a great deal. The sky was always gray in Tallinn, but I got used to it, the old archaic language hard to study, but I learned it. The native people didn’t like us newcomers either, yet I found friends among them.

By the early ‘seventies, I was not only a well-known defense attorney, but, even more significantly, the mother of two wonderful kids. I loved my children endlessly. Yet they had two very different personalities. Katya had always been a little actress, with light chestnut hair and big, sad bluish-gray eyes, a bit melancholic, and extremely stubborn. If she didn’t like something, nothing in the world could force her to change her mind. She would rivet me with those eyes, pleading to get her own way, instantly disarming me, her stubbornness incurable. She had inherited, not only the character of my father, but his facial features as well—the eyes, the shapely eyebrows, the small mouth, and dimpled chin.

It had always been her dream to become an actress. My little girl did not know that our entire life was an endless theater.

Roman had quite a different personality. Constantly curious, he wanted to know everything. He read a lot, wore glasses, and asked questions incessantly. However, like Katya, he never wanted to eat. But we were able to cope with his eating problem. Stubbornness simply wasn’t a part of his character. A sweet and very communicative boy with black hair and lively brown eyes mirroring those of my father-in-law, he grew up as the darling of our family, unconditionally loved by us all.

Over the years, as the children matured and their identities fully developed, their thoughts, attitudes, and feelings grew more and more alike. They loved each other deeply and shared an interest in the arts, music, and the outdoors, though the law, discussed endlessly at home, had perhaps the strongest impact on both of them.

My children were a true source of joy in my life, and I did whatever I could for them out of maternal love and concern for their future. I also remembered that our children are our judges, though I never expected my children to judge my husband and me at a critical point in our lives. I couldn’t have predicted that their judgment would eventually determine the future of our family, and a different destiny for all of us.

CHAPTER 2

IN SEARCH OF A BETTER LIFE

Some legal clients come and go; others leave a personal imprint. You work together for such a long time that, over the years, the client evolves into something more, a person whose entire life, down to the most intimate details, is exposed to you. In many ways, you’re amazed to discover, the client’s family life even bears some resemblance to your own.

I had such a client. The tragic events she and her family had lived through directly affected me when it came to making the most crucial decision of my life. Though our circumstances differed considerably, life offered no real choices to either of us.

Anna Novak first came to my office sometime in the late ‘sixties. When she crossed the threshold of the office, a strange thought flashed through my mind: How could the Earth express such beauty and then force it to visit a law office? Anna brought along her daughter Vera, fifteen at the time. They had just come to Tallinn from Belarus with two suitcases, a blanket, a pillow, and some towels. Their entire wardrobe consisted of three blouses and two skirts, which they shared.

Slimly built, looking much alike, with round faces full of life, wavy blonde hair, and enormous, vibrant blue eyes, mother and daughter could have easily been mistaken for sisters. Both dressed neatly, in simple clothes. I couldn’t see everything they were wearing, but I noticed that both wore dark men’s shirts sticking out from beneath the unbuttoned collars of their worn-out coats.

With their identical gestures and drawling manner of speech, both held their heads slightly to the right, looking at me with hope. Perhaps only their eyes could indicate the difference in their age: The daughter’s expressed more energy and had long, thick lashes. Yet the delicate features in those stunning Slavic faces attracted immediate attention.

Their reason for coming to Estonia was clear. Everyone wanted to live in the Baltic Republics, still a part of Europe and better developed economically than the rest of the Soviet Union.

Estonia’s short period of independence between the two World Wars had brought a revival of industrial development, particularly in consumer goods, an area all but forgotten in the rest of the Soviet territory. People came from all over to buy such items in Estonia. Constantly, you would see women on the city’s streets loaded with sacks and suitcases, gobbling up everything they could carry away.

Living standards continued to be much higher in Estonia than in other areas of the Soviet Union. However, not all people could move there permanently, no matter how much they might have wanted to. The Soviet government closely monitored their whereabouts, and special laws prevented freedom of movement.

Anna Novak, however, a smart woman, knew how to bypass obstacles while still operating at least close to legal guidelines. You needed to obtain the proper information, and have courage and quick wits to achieve success in such a difficult undertaking; even then, there was no guarantee. Anna had taken the risk and had arrived in Tallinn.

The Republic needed a labor force. Those with ability and expertise in new or developing industries could apply for a job and a bed in a dormitory. Actually, a place in a dormitory became even more important than one’s job qualifications. Absent an available bed, no applicant would be employed. So the housing shortage, one of the most critical issues in the entire country, concerned everyone. Without a roof over one’s head, you couldn’t work.

Anna had a tough time. She knew little about Estonian cul-ture, with its complicated and archaic language; and the unfriendliness of the natives made the transition that much more troublesome for her. A courageous woman, and prepared for the struggle ahead, her lot was even more complicated than usual—she had to earn the right to live in Estonia for both herself and her daughter, Vera. She didn’t tell me what circumstances she had left behind, and I didn’t ask—but whenever she referred to the past, something tragic flashed in her eyes that hinted at deep pain.

To earn the right to live in a desirable location was extremely difficult. Housing, job allocation, and population movement, strictly regulated by the State for internal security and central-planning purposes, constituted an almost insurmountable barrier. Money couldn’t help one legally obtain an apartment. The government had established procedures for that that had little or nothing to do with your financial status. As I’ve said, your place of work, in most cases, determined the availability of housing. Consequently, a job choice was dictated more by a desire to live in a particular Republic or city than by career objectives. Usually, you had to work at a job and get your name on a waiting list for a certain number of years before you could qualify for an apartment.

In the absence of forms of property other than the government’s, people had to work for the state to earn a salary and a place to live. Even the famous Estonian cafés now belonged to the government. The kinds of safety nets found in other countries, like welfare or unemployment compensation, did not exist in the Soviet Union.

In such circumstances, where merely getting a bed in a women’s dormitory exhausted you, trying to get one with a daughter in tow was next to impossible. Anna could only hope for a rare place in a family dormitory, where priority was given to professional, highly qualified male applicants.

For this reason Anna’s relatives had referred her to two large plants, each having three dormitories—one for women, one for men, and one for families. To conceal Vera’s existence would have been impossible. It appeared on Anna’s passport², and the passport was a document of supreme importance in our society, which, besides personal identification, contained all the data concerning the location of domicile, place of work, marital status, number and age of children, and other information. Without a passport, an individual couldn’t exist in the Soviet Union.

So, with her passport and a booklet of work records, Anna marched off to the two recommended plants. The first proved a disappointment. After she waited there for two hours, someone from the personnel department told her they didn’t even want to hear about her needing a place in the dormitory.

The next day she went to the second plant, an old, musty, and shabby building, and was first in line in the office of the personnel department. She stood shivering as the water soaking her shoes seeped through to her feet, chilling her entire body. She was simply not well equipped to handle the rainy Baltic weather. In fact, she didn’t even seem to notice the rain, her mind solely preoccupied with the necessity of getting a job.

The energy level in the well-lit plant corridor typified the beginning of the workday—the noise of slamming doors and snappy phrases flew through the air. People rushed back and forth to get to their work place on time, and the air resonated with the harsh squeak of wet soles rubbing on the black and white rubber tiles. Feminine and masculine footprints crafted wet designs on the floor. Anna waited patiently.

At nine o’clock, the door marked Personnel Department was still closed. But several staff members came in and out of the office, suggesting that someone was indeed there. Three or four other people who appeared to be manual laborers got in line with Anna. At nine thirty, she cracked the door and peeked in. The lone bulb hanging from the ceiling barely lit a room that had only one small window, through which little light passed as the menacing sky peered in. Bare, whitewashed walls and sparse, institutional furniture made the office seem forbidding. Three desks stood vacant; at a fourth sat a woman reading papers, her face lit by a table lamp. Anna entered.

Good morning. I am a nurse, she told the woman at the desk, whose face, heavily made up, expressed no emotion, and whose vividly painted red lips made no movement at all. Anna heard only the rustling of papers.

Then, Your documents? the woman barked in a wooden voice.

Obediently, Anna submitted two booklets: her passport and her work record. The chairwoman took both and, unexpectedly, looked first at the work record. Apparently satisfied, she said, without the slightest expression, Take a seat. We need a nurse. How many years have you worked in a hospital?

Hardly believing her luck, Anna promptly replied, Twelve years, in two different sections.

Do you have housing? the chairwoman asked, not even glancing up.

No, Anna replied, but I was told that your plant has a dormitory. I could have gone to the city hospital, but they didn’t have a dormitory.

The chairwoman finished with Anna’s work record and took the passport. She looked through it for a couple of minutes then said in an affirmative tone, You left your daughter in Belarus?

Anna’s heart sank, and her throat dried up. The truth could instantly end her chances for a job, but she could hardly lie outright.

At that moment the telephone rang. The chairwoman answered it and began speaking in Estonian. Frightened, Anna tried to think of a way to answer the question.

As the chairwoman talked, she smiled and toyed with Anna’s passport, turning it back and forth. She hung up the phone in a very good mood and looked at Anna as if she had never seen her before. Glancing at booklets on her desk, she grabbed a sheet of paper and began writing. Hardly breathing, Anna sat quietly in anticipation.

OK, here’s a note for the trade union. Housing is their de-partment. If they find a bed for you in the women’s dormitory, you come back to me. We need a nurse, and you can even start tomorrow. Go to Comrade Kask.

Frozen with tension, her brain working feverishly, Anna slowly stood up, gathered her documents and the chairwoman’s note, and left.

It took her some time to locate the trade union office. The small, stuffy brown room was overcrowded but drab—one desk sat in a corner, and dozens of rickety chairs lined up against the walls. The place had been freshly painted, though. Because of the rain, the window was closed, and for that reason, perhaps, the door stood open to provide some air circulation. A few people were sitting, some standing, and one woman was loudly discussing something in both Estonian and Russian. Another, Russian, was crying. Anna stood at the open door and didn’t dare to enter. Nobody paid any attention to her.

After listening for a while, Anna realized why the Russian woman was crying. Although first on the waiting list for an apartment, she had been denied, the apartment handed over to an engineer who had just arrived from the Ukraine. He had three people in his family, with one child. She had a family of six, with three young children. She tried to explain the deplorable conditions her children lived in, but nobody wanted to hear her; the decision had already been made.

Whom are you waiting for? It was a strong, demanding voice, and it went well with the penetrating eyes of the tall man.

Anna handed him the note and her documents. He looked only at the signature then took them.

OK, wait here. I’ll talk to you later. He closed the door. Anna heard him speaking in Estonian to a man, and in Russian to the crying woman. In ten or fifteen minutes, one by one, people started to leave the room. The noise gradually died down. Soon, all was silent.

Anna waited then carefully opened the door. The man who had approached her before was behind his desk, studying her work record.

Aha! Comrade Novak, come on in, he called out in a polite, even encouraging voice. As I see the situation, our plant needs a nurse, and the personnel department agreed to employ you. Where do you live now?

At my relatives, she quietly answered, but her mouth was no longer dry. They live in a barracks. There are seven of us in one room.

The man dialed a number. The receiver looked like a toy in his muscular hand.

You can take a seat. He pointed to a chair with his free hand. Anna sat and, as Comrade Kask spoke on the phone, observed the surroundings and the man.

The old desk in front of him seemed too small, unable to cover the two big feet sticking out from under it. Neither the standard pack of cigarettes nor an ashtray lay on the desk. There was no trace of smoke in the air either—a vigorous man, barking into the phone, seemed very much in charge of everything indeed, his shoulders relaxed, back perfectly straight.

The telephone conversation, in Estonian, lasted quite a while.

There’s no spare bed in the women’s dormitory, he finally told her. All the places are occupied. Can you wait a week or two?

Anna didn’t answer.

He said, Go back to the personnel department and register for work. I’ll give you a note for Helga. She knows what to do. Give me some more time, and I’ll find you a bed in the women’s dormitory. Lowering his voice and looking into her eyes, he added: But believe me, it’s not an easy matter. Many women have been waiting for months.

Nervous and apprehensive, Anna nevertheless sensed the message of his gesture. I can’t live in a women’s dormitory, she almost whispered. I’m not alone. I need a place in a family dormitory—

Comrade Kask’s face changed instantly. "You lied to us! he barked, his eyes reddening, You’re married!" Pounding the small desk with his fist, it shuddered as if there had been an earthquake.

Leaping up, he grabbed her documents, shook them at her, and appeared ready to throw them in Anna’s face, his hands in motion like two great claws.

Anna shook her head. "I didn’t lie to you. I am not married. I have a daughter."

"What? A daughter? We are not a charity! We must deliver a plan! The country needs it!" Yet his voice and posture indicated some element of surprise.

He gradually calmed down, his eyes down, and, taking his seat, he laid Anna’s papers on the desk. When he turned to her again, his tone was almost friendly. Look, Comrade Novak—I am here to help the State carry out the plan of the Ministry. Yes, we need a nurse, but the state plan can be fulfilled only by qualified workers and without a family dormitory we can’t get qualified men. Is that clear? By the way, a room in a family dormitory is not in my power at all. It’s under strict control, and it can be given only by the Director himself. His eyes revealed he was interested in Anna even more than words ever could. His facial features softened, his voice resumed its normal confidence, and his big hands sat calmly on the table.

Although not very pleased to hear such news, Anna could nevertheless sense that a bridge of sympathy was forming between them. To her, at that point, even his outrage was understandable. It was the responsibility of the personnel department to check all potential employees before taking action. An individual’s passport carries all the biographical data of its bearer. The chairwoman should have checked Anna’s family condition, but she hadn’t. Anna had survived the appointment with her by chance, and she knew it.

Don’t be foolish, Comrade Kask advised her with a faintly patronizing tone. Take the job. Sooner or later you will get a bed in a dormitory. But send your daughter back to Belarus. You know children are prohibited from living in a woman’s dormitory.

Of course Anna did. But she was not the kind of Soviet woman who wordlessly follows orders. She knew what she wanted and was determined to get it, rare in Soviet society—a woman with the ability to take initiative and assume responsibility by herself.