On Being 16 and a Soviet Jew
Page 15-THE NEWS-September 1990
By Patty Gorelick
Artem, our Moscow cousin, is
16-years-old, His next important
decision is not which compact
disk to choose nor whifch rock
concert tickets to buy. His mind
is consumed with the problems
of his family’s survival in a
crumbling, deteriorating, anti-
Semitic motherland. The last
program which was scheduled
for May 5, 1990 thankfully
turned out to be a false alarm
despite repeated warnings
broadcast on Moscow TV for all
Jews to stay off the streets and
remain in their apartments. He
thinks maybe the next program
will be real.
Last January’s ruined celebra
tion in a Moscow concert hall
also occupies his mind. The
prestigius writers’ union, April,
had planned this party. Some of
the members were Jewish. In
stead of fmding a festive gath
ering of friends awaiting their
arrival, the writers found threat
ening black-booted, military,
uniformed Pamyat. “You’re all
Jews, get out of our country. Go
to your Israel. It is your fault
we have no food.” The Pamyat
men screamed and began beat
ing the writers. Two or three
writers managed to escape and
call the police. Not that it did
much good. It took three calls
and over an hour later before the
police arrived. Several members
of the Pamyat were held for a
few minutes and then released.
“Everyone knows the KGB is
behind the Pamyat,” Artem tells
us. He next considers the con
sequences of his being drafted
into the Soviet Army, which can
happen anytime after his 17th
birthday and he mentions that
last year 15.000 young Soviet
soldiers were killed. Sincc there
was no war, I inquire as to how
they were killed. “Older soldiers
harass and beat the younger
soldiers. Often the beatings go
too far and many young soldiers
are killed. They especially hate
Jews and particularly Moscow
Jews.” Incredulously after more
than 70 years the scenario re
mains the same for young Soviet
Jewish men. They are still trying
to leave Russia to avoid being
killed by the Russian Army.
The stories I heard from our
cousin Artem and his mother
Larissa are indelibly stamped on
my mind. Twice they have had
a Star of David scrawled on their
apartment door. The broken
glass of their apartment win
dows cuts through me with a
chill. Is this Germany again? Can
it be that the Russian Jewish
child of 1990 is at this very
moment being forced to endure
the same cruel anti-Semitic
taunts from schoolmates? “You
are a Jew and need a yellow star
on your shirt. You are against
our country. Go to your Israel.”
I cannot comprehend the fear
that prevents Artem from bring
ing lunch to school because
others already think the Jews
have more money, more food.
Is it possible that in 1990 Artem
L to R: Bill and Patty Gorelick, Larissa and Artem.
and his family are forced to hide
in the country for three days
because of a threatened pogrom?
It is no wonder that this boy of
16 has become a mature, serious
thinking man in short order.
Each new day brings more
problems. There is no food in
the shops of Moscow, “The only
things in the food shops are the
sales assistants,” our cousins
relate. Even standing in line is
dangerous. At peril of becoming
embroiled in a fight, does one
risk talking while waiting in line?
The mood of the people becomes
bleaker with each passing day
and the Jews are being blamed
for every problem — inpluding
Chernobyl. Artem and Larissa
had a respite from this grim and
fearful atmosphere by visiting
with us June 9 through July 11.
We were their hosts and tour
guides in New York, Charlotte,
Myrtle Beach and Washington
D.C. They applied to immigrate
to the U.S. last February and we
anxiously check our mail each
day for a reply from the U.S.
government. We have so far
heard nothing.
One hot afternoon returning
to our car from SouthPark Mall,
Larissa told me, “The mall and
shops are like a museum for me,
I think I am in a dream.” We
took pictures of Larissa’s dream
in front of a display of six styles
of irons. Never had she seen so
many choices of anything.
After a tour of Charlotte
Country Day School, Larissa
began crying. “I can take seeing
all the shops filled with clothing
even the ones on Fifth Avenue,
but 1 can’t take seeing the
wonderful schools.” Larissa tells
us that her son Artem who is
at the top of his class in high
school will not be permitted to
go to the university because he
is Jewish. The claim of Jews not
being allowed to attend the
university was made frequently
by different members of our
Soviet family, and since many
of them applied and all were
turned down despite excellent
academic records, I tend to
believe it’s true. Our cousins tell
us that the Soviets believe the
Jews are smarter and have better
living standards than the rest of
the population. By keeping Jews
out of the university the Soviets
hope to keep the Jews on a lower
echelon within their society,
I watched as Larissa counted
all the items on the salad bar.
She was astounded by the va-
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riety and had never seen most
of the vegetables. “If this restau
rant would be in the Soviet
Union, there would be a line two
months long,” she said as she
wistfully thought of her husband
Boris in Moscow who could not
be with her to enjoy the expe
rience. Artem liked “this sys
tem,” and found it “very conve
nient” eating only his favorite
foods.
The movie theaters brought
exclamations of the “the seats
are upholsterd!” Soviet seats are
hard wooden or metal folding
chairs. In addition, the audience
is forced to endure up to one
hour of film on the wonders of
the Communist system before
the movie is shown. The novelty
of the candy counter also made
a big hit.
The evening at Myrtle Beach
we were attending a cocktail
party given to honor the 55th
birthday of a close friend. There
were perhaps 20 guests present,
all Jewish, who had known each
other for many years. It was a
fun-loving, happy group. At the
close of the cocktail party while
driving to the restaurant for
dinner, Artem commented on
the joviality of our friends.
“When groups of Jews come
together at home (Moscow)
there is fear in their eyes. There
are two subjects always dis
cussed: 1. Will there be a po
grom? 2. How can we leave?”
With an aching heart I said a
silent prayer for our family and
the thousands of other Jewish
families who are still living in the
Soviet Union,
On one of the last evenings he
would be with us, we walked to
our car from a Russian class at
the Jewish Community Center,
As the twilight sky of a warm
July settled peacefully and quiet
ly over us, Artem looked
around, and wishing for my
unattainable world, turned to
me saying; “this is paradise,”
Putting me on intimate terms
with what it means to be an
American, I knew Artem and his
family must be safe in the
embrace of our country. Hope
fully, we will not be too late.
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