TOLIK'S ODYSSEY

Chapter One
FINDING A WAY

The morning dawned grey and dark. Snow had gently fallen when Anatoly Ivanovich, Tolik, as his friends like to call him, master tailor of The People's Factory #17 peered out of his grime-caked window. It overlooked the Zoo Park from his third floor walkup. No. 10 Protochniy Pereulok was an old building. Built in the late 1840's for Moscow's textile business it showed each and every day of its age. The red brick was crumbling. Snowflakes were catching on the chipped and worn corners, having built up throughout the night. A freezing icy wind swept down from the north.

Huddled in a flimsy blanket, Tolik went to the small stove in the dimly lit kitchen. He put on the old black cast iron kettle to boil water for his morning tea. “Today is Monday” he thought, and wished it were Sunday, looking forward to Sunday and sitting in the coffee shop with his friend Mikhail. It would be better than this. Having to share an apartment with a streetcar operator whose shift started late in the day, and a porter who worked in a school for party bigwigs, and a party functionary, caused Tolik to tip-toe to avoid awakening the two men. It was 4:00 A.M., and Tolik wished to get to the shop early. Today Mikhail would bring in the new bolts of satin, but storage was in short supply. Mikhail Anton Tyevski: good friend, Party member and boss of The People's Factory #17 would bring his large self to bear. Tolik would ask him for a big favor.

Gently pouring the hot water into his teacup, he deposited the rest into a white basin. Tolik dipped some cold water then his arms into the basin of hot water. He grabbed the small wafer thin piece of soap that had lasted for over a month and used it to scrub his lean 5'6” frame. When he had rinsed himself off, he carefully wrapped and saved what was left of the soap. After combing his wavy, dirty-blond hair, he dressed for the arduous trip by foot down to the broad avenue called Novinskiy Boulevard to board a streetcar to Factory #17 on that cold March morning.

Descending the steps of his building, his mind raced forward. There were the two dresses that were needed by Thursday for a final fitting on Friday. Bolts of material needed to be moved for Mikhail, and there was the Party meeting set for Wednesday evening at 7:00 P.M., and one must not forget, to meet with Comrade Spasky about his overbearing fat wife's gown. He wished he could go somewhere warm, with palm trees and warm, blue ocean on that cold morning. Perhaps to bask in the sun, feeling the warmth that he hadn't felt in Moscow since he had come to this God forsaken city over three years ago from Wilna. As he opened the door leading to the street, a cold blast woke him from his dream-like trance. Back to reality, he hurried up the boulevard, struggling and slipping through the newly packed snow. Cold was biting his nose and cheeks as he waited for tram #303, the first on the line this frigid morning, to take him to his own little private hell.

The party always comes first, he thought. He is the servant of the people, working for the good of Mother Russia. But where is the milk and honey? Milk and honey? Hah! All he carried today was a small piece of goat's cheese, a slice of black bread and an apple that he paid too much for. Another crowning achievement of the People's Paradise sponsored by the glorious Soviet Communist Party!

Upon arriving at the factory, Tolik climbed the wide grey and white steps. Following the shoveled paths to the door, the street was still lit by the tall street lamps Wind tossed the speckles of falling snow through the light. Swinging open the big metal portals, he quickly stepped inside and danced off the snow from the tops of his boots. Factory #17 was a large brick three-story building, and Tolik was assigned to the top floor, room 307, a large dreary room of the People's factory. He climbed the two flights of stairs to his tedious job.

Inside he took off his coat as he marched to his cutting table, stopping, he placed it over a chair back. Going to the small wood stove, he grabbed some pine logs and placed them carefully into the big, black mouth of the belly of the stove. Splashing some kerosene on the kindling, he lit a fire to start the process of heating the cold, damp room. Removing his gloves, he placed them into his fur hat. Finding a sweater he kept on the back of his chair, he slipped it on and began to work. It was 6:00 A.M., and no one except the watchmen had arrived yet, so he worked in relative peace.

In the early morning silence, a glass of tea next to him, flashbacks of conversations and laughter kept coming to mind. Tolik recalled his weekend and the pleasure it offered in contrast to this dreary place. Tolik was in despair, slowly growing darker as the morning progressed. Bent over his worktable, his glasses sat over the end of his nose. A steady rhythm of the sewing machine filled the air. Tolik lamented his lot in life. The dreariness of Russia, the long hours of working six days a week, the mandatory meetings Party leaders insisted on, the day to day lack of goods, and the daily failure of public services. Not to mention the lack of women in his life. Even in a big city like Moscow, it made him resentful. It was hard enough as a Jew. Now it seemed that a Jew in Russia, even a party member, was seeing less and less progress and more and more oppressive action towards his ambitions. Besides, what he really wanted was to be a rich man, not wanting anything, not needing anything or anyone. This secret consumed Tolik day and night.

As the morning drifted by, there was a sudden commotion. The big freight elevator rose up, the heavy metal doors slid open. There with 3 workers stood Mikhail Anton Tyevski-Factory boss, and friend of Tolik. A good Communist who believed in socialism, Mikhail was also a life long friend. Behind Mikhail stood large bolts of satin. In big brown cardboard boxes, they stood wrapped tightly, and wet from the snow. Mikhail, his face red and matching his ruddy complexion and hair, ordered the men to move the boxes to a side wall and immediately came over to Tolik.

Slapping Tolik on his back, Mikhail laughed, “Anatoly Ivanovich, do you never take a short day? Must you show up even your boss? The morning has hardly started and you have nearly done a day's work! You need a women to keep you home on days like this my friend.”

“Yes, then I would have the factory boss banging on my door, disturbing my sweet revelry Mikhail Anton Tyevski.”

“Don't be so hard on yourself, my friend. You are young yet, time is on your side. Me, I must court this old lady called The People's Factory #17!”

Tolik looked searchingly into Mikhail's eyes, and said; “I must speak with you my friend.”

A whispered “What is it?” came from Mikhail's mouth, and a worried look that drew him closer to Tolik.

“Mikhail, I must leave Russia, this place, this feeling of doom. There are rumors that we will be at war with the Germans again, and all men of any age, Jew and non-Jew alike will be fodder for Stalin's cannons.”

“Tolik my good friend, keep your voice to a whisper! These walls all have ears. Be careful what you say, even in jest.”

“Mikhail, my parents are dead, I have no life here in Russia, the war will come, and all of us will suffer more than our share. I need to get away. The party does not give, Mikhail, it takes, it demands. I cannot sacrifice. I am weak, unable to bear the burden of more sacrifice. Can you help me to get away?”

“And where would you go… and why?”

“I don't know, somewhere away from here, away from the madness of war and Europe, far away from Russia. Maybe… maybe I could get to America or Canada. The war will not reach there. Can you help me?”

“ That is a big “maybe” my friend! Let me think about it Tolik,”

Mikhail thought to himself: Your Father was a good man, Tolik. He took me in during the revolution, and saved me from starvation when I lost my parents.

“But why Tolik? Why leave Russia? She is your home, your life, your roots. Tolik looked away, too ashamed to tell him he wanted to be so unpatriotic.

“I will do what I can”, said Mikhail, exasperated. “But remember, it places me in grave danger; after all, I am a factory boss, and a member of the party in good standing. If word got out… Besides, what will I say, surely they will notice that Anatoly Ivanovich, master tailor is missing?”

“You don't have to tell them anything, Mikhail. One day I was here, the next day: gone. Do you own responsibility to every factory worker in your charge?”

“Give me time, Tolik. Meanwhile do what you always do, at least to avoid suspicion. We will talk some more tomorrow my friend.”

Returning home that evening, Mikhail climbed the steps to his small three-room apartment. Greeting his wife Olga: he lit a cigarette and made a call to one of his old party cronies. Comrade Rosenthal, Security Commissar of Moscow; a Jew, is on the other end of the line. .

Mikhail: “Igor? Mikhail Anton Tyevski. How are you my friend?”
Rosenthal: “Good, good, where are you, you old scoundrel?”
Mikhail: “ In my lovely dacha by the Black Sea. Can we get together tomorrow evening, I have a need to discuss with you. Perhaps I can convince you to join me in some good vodka and salmon?”
Rosenthal: “My friend, say where and when. Any fish is good if it is on the hook!”
Mikhail: “Hah, you and your fancy proverbs. Tomorrow at 7 P.M., meet me at the English Tea Room, in the foreign sector.”

Mikhail hung up the phone, and wondered if anyone was listening in. He could be sure that nothing was said that could incriminate him, but one never bets even on a sure thing in Russia.

Tomorrow he may be able to tell Tolik of a plan being in the works. Nothing more. Thinking of what Tolik had said to him that morning, Mikhail thought about his being a Jew in Russia himself. He knew he could never leave Russia while he had a wife, two children and a high profile position for a Jew in the Party. To put his wife through the rigors of emigration, or his sons the embarrassment of a disloyal father, could only lead to punishment for all of them. Besides, he doubted his wife would approve of such plans. Could she even be trusted? Survival in Comrade Stalin's world is a crapshoot, so he thought.

The next morning Mikhail returned to the factory and went immediately to visit Tolik. He found him staring out his third floor window, deep in thought.

“Anatoly, why are you so pensive this morning?”

Tolik turned half way to view Mikhail, and looked for a few moments with a blank face.

“Mikhail, anything?”

“No, not yet my friend, I need a few more days to set things in motion, if I can.”

Tolik returned to his window view and lit a cigarette. Deeply inhaling, he returned to his worktable and went back to work. Tolik's brow furrowed and his eyes casts downward in thought. Mikhail went to an old wooden desk and reaching in the bottom draw, pulled out a half filled bottle of vodka. Slamming it down on the table in front of Tolik, Mikhail said:

“Tomorrow I will have news for you of some kind, Tolik. Maybe good…maybe not. Let's drink to news.”

That evening, Igor Rosenthal summoned his driver to his office. “Josef, take the night off, I am going out with a friend this evening, and will not need your services for the rest of the day.” Dismissing Josef, he rose from his desk and waddled his enormous 5”8” frame to the coat tree facing his desk. Slipping on his hat and coat, he immediately left his office and descended the staircase of the Ministry of Security in short quick steps. Standing in the street, as dusk settled in, he waited for Mikhail. The gloom of winter seemed to set in more when he was without his car and his trusted Josef. Soon the headlights of the black sedan appeared, and sitting behind the wheel of the 1939 Kadet sat Mikhail.

As they drove to the English Tea Room, Igor looked at Mikhail and asked;

“Well, what is so important that you take a man away from his life?”

“Ah, my friend, patience, life's problems can not be solved in a short time. A Jew's problem will take eternity.”

“ Are you mad Mikhail, I have obligations to the party. Doing favors is not good in this climate.” Resigned, Igor inquired;

“What is it this time, Mikhail?”

Arriving at the English Tea Room, Mikhail parked his car a few blocks from the restaurant and invited Igor to go first, secure a table, and he would join him after a few minutes. Igor entered the crowded restaurant, as a maitre' d escorted him to a table.

“There will be another joining me, thank you”.

Igor sat and waited, and soon Mikhail entered and waved like it was the first time they were meeting that evening.

Sitting in the noisy restaurant, Igor, watched as Mikhail removed his coat and sat next to Igor. Leaning in Mikhail lit a cigarette and offered one to Igor, who waved him off. Mikhail looked for the waiter's eye and ordered some vodka and a plate of salmon.

“Igor, I need your help. I have a very dear friend who wishes to leave Russia, and soon.”

“Is he in some kind of trouble?” inquired Igor.

“No, but he is desperate to get away.”

“Why doesn't he apply for a visa?”

“Who would give a visa to a master tailor, with no business abroad, Igor?”

“What do you want from me, Mikhail Anton Tyevski?”

“You have connections, can you arrange for him to get a visa out of the country?”

“Mikhail, you ask a lot. As you cooked the porridge, so must you eat it. If I am caught doing that, I will be shot!”

“Igor… Igor remember when you needed me to cover your story to the party bosses about your ILLNESS, when you were so drunk you couldn't stand, when they investigated why you had lost so much time? When…”

“All right Mikhail, I get your meaning. Give me a day or two and we will meet again. You cannot break through a wall with your forehead, as they say.”

“Comrade Igor Rosenthal, you and your old sayings, my good friend. Drink up to success.”

“Success maybe a two edged sword my friend.”

Across town at the same time, Tolik sat in his drab bedroom, a single light bulb unadorned suspended from the ceiling. Smoke curled upward, and dimmed the brightness of the bulb. A cigarette hung from Tolik's mouth. Tolik, his brow furrowed, sat staring at his shoes.

“Maybe soon” he thought, he could make plans to go to America, and realize his dream. To live and become rich would require some sacrifice.