Dancing on Thin Ice: Travails of a Russian Dissenter

287 Pages·2018·18.84 MB·English

by  Arkady Polishchuk

Dancing on Thin Ice: Travails of a Russian Dissenter By Arkady Polishchuk
© 2018 DoppelHouse Press, Los Angeles
Photographs and documents from the archives of Arkady Polishchuk, unless otherwise noted.
COVER IMAGE: Arkady Polishchuk with background image of his clandestine publication Why a
Physician Was Tried, written following the show trial of Dr. Mikhail Stern. Moscow, 1975.
COVER DESIGN: Kourosh Biegpour
TYPESETTING: Jody Zellen and Carrie Paterson All rights reserved. No part of this book may be
reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the
publisher.
PUBLISHER’S CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA Names: Polishchuk, Arkady, author.
Title: Dancing on thin ice: travails of a Russian dissenter / Arkady Polishchuk.
Description: Includes index. | Los Angeles, CA: DoppelHouse Press, 2018.
Identifiers: ISBN 9780998777047 (ebook) | LCCN 2018937174
Subjects: LCSH Polishchuk, Arkady. | Dissenters--Soviet Union--Biography. | Journalists--Soviet Union--
Biography. | Journalists--Soviet Union--Social conditions. | Soviet Union--Politics and government. |
Human rights workers--Soviet Union--Biography. | Freedom of religion--Soviet Union. | BISAC
BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Editors, Journalists, Publishers | HISTORY / Russia & the Former
Soviet Union Classification: LCC DK510.763 .P65 2018 | DDC 070.92--dc23
Dedicated to Soviet human rights activists
Vladimir Bukovsky and Alexander (Alik) Ginsburg,
both imprisoned and exchanged —
Vladimir, for the first secretary of the Chilean communist party,
Alexander, as one of five political prisoners exchanged for five
Soviet spies
The past is never dead. It’s not even past.
William Faulkner
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
A Prison for Hedonists
ONE
The Cliff Edge Where It All Began
TWO
The Life of the Blind
THREE
How to Become an Expert on Africa
FOUR
What to Do If You Know Many Russian Spies
FIVE
My Good Friends in the KGB
SIX
The Struggle for Purity in the Party Ranks
SEVEN
On the Horns of a Dilemma
EIGHT
The Unpredictable World of Dissent
NINE
The First Trial, December 1974
TEN
Different Courts Without a Difference
ELEVEN
The Sweet Taste of Freedom
TWELVE
More Dangerous Than Jews
THIRTEEN
A Jewish Invasion of the Communist Sanctum
FOURTEEN
How to Catch an American Spy
FIFTEEN
The Assault on the American Embassy
SIXTEEN
In the Cultist’s Lair
SEVENTEEN
Send-Offs of Various Kinds
EIGHTEEN
New Life, Old Stars
NINETEEN
Russian Jews, a Russian Tiger, and Some Other Russians
TWENTY
Phantoms of the Past in the Shadow of Skyscrapers
TWENTY-ONE
A Jew Who Spoke in Tongues
TWENTY-TWO
My Russian Habitat in California
APPENDICES
Photographs and Documents
Index
Author Biography
Acknowledgments
PROLOGUE
A Prison For Hedonists
L
OOK, BOYS! A JEW! were the first words I heard after two policemen
opened the cell door to bring me in. The jailers smirked and left me facing
my cellmates. Thirty-five pairs of eyes looked at me. I knew that my first
reaction would determine my upcoming treatment.
“Oh, Yisrael, is that you?!” I cried into the dim light. “It feels so good to find
a cousin among these Russian thugs!”
Raucous laughter flooded the stinky cell. A shaggy guy, outraged to the
depths of his Slavic soul that I dared to call him a Jew, was climbing down from
the upper berth to punish me. I turned back toward the peephole and affably
waved my hand to the guards. I knew they stood there, in anticipation. To my
horror, another inmate crawled out of his roomy den under the lower berth. He
flicked a speck of dust from his battered jacket and, with a lazy gesture, stopped
the swearing cellmate halfway to me. After that he shook my hand. The word
“mama” was tattooed on his fleshy fingers. The bold exclamation mark on his
thumb pointed to his strong filial attachment.
“Political?”
“Yes,” I said, “but only in Russia. Name me a country where the wish to
move to a warmer land is a crime.”
My wiry guardian angel did not react and on the path back to his wooden
platform said to his cellmate, “Crawl back into your fucking nest, Birdie.”
Judging by the dignity with which he carried himself, my angel had a
criminal record that inspired respect. Only he and three other men had the
privilege of occupying platforms under the lower bunks. From the center of the
cell, about one and a half yards from the bunks on either side, I could see their
unshaven faces only when they wanted me to; mostly, I saw their dirty shoes.