The Picture in the Old Magazine

There is an old Jewish magazine on the middle shelf in my library.

It is from Riga. It is in the Russian language. All black and white, no color pictures.

There is a date of issue on the cover, the summer of 1989.

I found this magazine, as I was going through my Mom’s papers after her passing in 2008.

I cherish this old magazine. I am going to tell you, why.

I remember how my Mom arrived in San Antonio, TX. She came out of the door holding this magazine in her hand. She wore a very heavy, dark blue winter coat and a strange fashion chapeau, like a beret. Yet, it was a very pleasant time of the year. Nice and warm outside. It was the Texas spring of 1990. She looked tired. I noticed that she aged a lot...

- I picked up this magazine in Riga. I thought I would read it while on the flight, but I couldn’t. I cried all the way..., - she said.

After her arrival, my Mom lived through an amazing 18 years with us. She and our sons became very close. I am very happy that we have arranged that to happen.

My Mom came over after the tragic passing of my father. It was ten years after Lily, I and a little Mark left behind our old life in the country of the USSR. Latvia was a part of the soviet empire back then.

It was 10 very long years for my parents.

We have left, and their existence became unbearably lonely. And finally, they got permission to leave. They set everything up and were ready to go. It was a very exciting time. We talked on the phone every week, counting days for us to meet together. And suddenly the chilling phone call,

- ...Sashenka, (it was how my Mom called me) Papa is gone...

There are some moments in life when everything is crashing down. Collapsing to the point of no return. Shattering indefinitely. That was one of those moments.

I didn’t see my father for ten years, but I was sure that it was temporary. Just a little blick in the everlasting chain of the timeline. Everything passes and this too shall pass... That was how I thought.

The timeline was unforgiving, however.

I thought that the good times would come and we will be together again. I was certain that the scars of the old arguments, disputes, and bitter exchanges would heal, and we will be happy again altogether.

Oh, gosh, the arguments, it was a lot.

We, my father and I, we're the best example of the generational conflict. The stubborn, everlasting dispute between the fathers and the sons.

He wanted to believe in communism; he knew it wasn’t right, he understood that the game was fixed. He knew how rotten was the lie, but he believed that was the way...

...The way I didn't choose, but he...

Going with the flow of the predetermined life in the USSR, in his mind, would be a better choice for me, and though we argued.

He wanted me to be just like everyone in the equally gray, colorless crowd of the soviet people.

- Ne vysovyvaisya! ( Keep your head down!), - he emphasized.

I didn't want to be in gray. I wanted to be in full color and very much thought.

I have never wanted to be a part of the common crowd. I always believed that I transpired for a better ...

- “For your own good...”,- my father would say.

I disagree passionately. Especially, because I knew, he talked like that with me only. He was totally different when articulated with his friends.

He was like two different people in one back then.

I was sad and disappointed. I couldn't neither understand nor agree with him.

The news of my father's passing that came so suddenly crushed me.

I couldn’t come to his funeral. I couldn't go back to the USSR. Latvia still was under the soviets and coming back wasn’t safe for me.

I still had two pending charges on me. One for anti-soviet propaganda and another for the desertion from the military services. None of those were right or justifiable in my conciseness, but yet those were outstanding.

Because of the preparation for the funeral, my mom missed the date of the permitted and scheduled departure from the USSR. The exit window closed for her. Mom's application for the exit visa from the country got revoked and voided. The authorities were acting in their usual dry, cold, and bureaucratic ways. They have explained that on the grounds that the original application had two people in it, and now she was the only one person left applying, it needed to be done all over again. It may take a year or two to reapply,- they explained.

I had to get involved. I was very active in public life and well known in the local community. I was the president of the local B’nai B’rith lodge and the board member of the JFS (The Jewish Family Services). I appealed to several Jewish agencies for help. In return, I got a lot of condolences, but not any actual help or advice. Then I decided to broader my search for help.

First, I went to see a local democratic congressional representative Henry B. Gonzalez. He was the champion of emigrants’ rights. Every TV or radio station, every paper was talking about that. I met with his staff and, as requested, submitted a long letter with the application for help to expedite my mother’s departure from the soviet union.

The official response came two weeks later, as I was promised by staff actually. In a dry, cold, and bureaucratic language, the letter explained that at the present time, the case of my mother didn't fall into the realm of interests for the honorable Henry B. Gonzalez. The letter advised, however, of my right to reapply for help and assistance. That could be done at some other time in the forthcoming future.

It was when I went to see a republican congressional representative, Lamar S. Smith. I had no hope. Every news channel at the time portrayed that congressional representative as a strict isolationist and anti-immigration proponent.

One morning I decided to stop by his office, as it was on the way to one of the ongoing construction project sites that I was monitoring.

Henry B. Gonzales had a large, well-decorated office just south of the San Antonio downtown. It was full of people who looked very busy.

On the contrary, Lamar’s office occupied a small space on the 8th floor of the regular office building. It was on San Pedro street, just north of the loop, and I drove by every day. I knew the place.

I opened the office door and entered. There was an older gentleman there, and he asked me to join him at the table. He looked like a retired military man. Mr. McMullen, I remember his name.

I resited my story. I did that just like I wrote it to the other congressman in the letter.

The man listened to me attentively, playing with the pencil in his hand.

As I finished, he put his pencil down and asked me to wait for just a few minutes. I stayed in my chair and he left to another room. Soon enough he asked me to enter and to join him on the conference call with the congressman.

I resited my story again. At that point, I didn't have any hope anymore. I was ready for a polite excuse, justification, and an apology.

The congressman listened on the other side of the call with no interruptions. When I finished, he quickly told me he will try to help. Understandably he promised nothing. I heard how he was shuffling some papers and talk to somebody. I couldn't make up the essence of it. Then on the same conference phone call, he added an American embassy in Moscow. Wow, that was surprising and promising.

I resited my story again. Then somebody very important joined into the conversation.

It was Mr. Jack F. Matlock himself on the other end of the line. He was the US ambassador at the time. I told him ..., in my usual ways, that I didn't need any favors or exceptions. I said I was asking just for a little help to make things faster. I was despairing. I was trembling.

He said, that he understood.

I didn't see him, but I felt that he was smiling. He told me that he knew the situation with Jewish refugees and the problems of family reunifications. And then he said, that together we would be able to help my mother.

For a while, we talked about the responsibilities. Mr. Matlock left and somebody else took his place in the conversation. I signed several promissory notes and an agreement to set an account for my Mom’s health insurance and other state benefits. I readily pulled up my checkbook. They didn't ask me for much money actually, just a few thousand dollars. The money would be refunded back to my account if not used for my Mom's medical or social needs in five years to come. They did ask me to pay for the airline tickets for my mom, coming from Riga through Mexico City to San Antonio.

I agreed. I certainly agreed to everything!

Then they asked me to inform my Mom that the soviet and American authorities granted her permission to join me in the USA. The embassy staff was able to arrange everything instantly.

It was like a dream... I couldn’t believe what just happened.

My Mom came to San Antonio two weeks later, holding that magazine in her hands.

Yes, that very same magazine...

It was from Riga. It was in the Russian language. All black and white, no color pictures. There was a date of issue on the cover, the summer of 1989.

My Mom came out of the airplane exit and said,

- I picked this magazine in Riga. I thought I would read it on the flight, but I couldn’t. I cried all the way...

And we hugged.

So many years have passed. Good years...

And now she passed away.

I couldn’t believe that she was no more, even though we knew it was inevitable. She was very ill for a while.

I was in her room, collecting her things.

Books...

So many books.

She liked to read. She read non-stop, English and Russian both.

I remember as she discovered Danielle Steel. She didn’t stop reading until went through each and every one of her's novels that I brought to her.

And yet that old Jewish magazine from Riga she never even opened. She used to say, that she can't make herself read that one...

Why?

I never really thought about it. It was probably too many memories for her...

I flipped the pages of the magazine.

It was the local news from the Jewish community of Latvia.

It was a story by Sholem Aleichem (a popular Yiddish author), some other stories, poetry, something about the holocaust, and then the last page.

No title, just photos.

The photos about the opening of Riga's synagogue memorial.

That was from the day the memorial happened.

The Soviets didn’t allow people to commemorate that site, as it was too Jewish.

It was in 1989 when the memorial finally got permission to be open. The magazine published the photos. That was good news.

I looked through the photos.

People with flowers, big Star of David on the flags, local klezmer band.

In the last photo, I noticed a young lady with a bouquet of roses. Her head was down in sorrow.

Next to her and a little behind stood a man in a French-style kepi-chapeau. Back in Riga, I had one hat exactly like that.

I looked closer and I froze. The kepi-hat was mine, and it was my father.

Shocking...

Papa... How could it happen that none of us here in America, have seen that picture before?

It was probably the very last photo of my father.

And what a special, very special setting for me.

It was at the opening of Riga’s synagogue memorial...

******

It was in the early 1970s. I was a student at Riga Polytechnical University then.

My Jewish friends secretly collected signatures for the petition to allow the erection of a Jewish Victims Memorial. It would place the memorial on the spot where the fascists burned down the synagogue with the Jewish people inside. That was what I knew.

To sign that petition was scary. It was very scary. In fact, it was illegal. We all knew that the Central Committee of the Latvian Communist party already reviewed and rejected that proposition. The communist government had a different memorial there already. It was the wall of honor for the photos of the heroes of the communistic labor for the local region of the Soviet Latvian republic.

To sigh that petition was dangerous and exciting at the same time. Those were my thoughts:

- If I would sign a petition like that, I could be expelled from the university. Maybe not right away, but later, when authorities would get a direction from the above to do that action. And it would be done without any question asked. And it wouldn’t matter if I would be an excellent student in good standing, or not.

The official declaration would be, “ for the behavior unbecoming to the image of the soviet student”.

If expelled, I would instantly go to regular military service for three years. My exceptional, university student time postponement from the draft would be over with. That would change my life in a way I couldn’t even imagine. It wasn't the army I was opposed to, but the way that army was. I had some friends who went through the regular military service. They came back as different people, totally brainwashed.

They used to be my buddies, but strangers they became...

Although to sign that petition, was the right thing to do!

I debated with myself for a while, and then I signed.

It was my duty as a Jew and as an honest person.

The right thing to do lead my conscience.

I signed, and I got very involved in that campaign myself. I persuaded several friends of mine and even influenced their parents to sign that petition as well.

One day, all excited, I came home and told my father about my endeavors, asking him to join the group.

Oh my…, what did I hear in return!

I’d been told about my personal irresponsibility, the lack of common sense, and the inability to guaranty stability for my future!

- If you would be expelled from the university, you would become nobody! - my father told me.

- They gave everyone in our society a certain well-chosen track to follow. That results from the specially selected way of life for all of us in our society. If you follow that track, you would be a successful person with a good living. If not, they would crush your life to rubbish,- he explained to me.

I was disappointed and upset. I knew that perhaps my father didn’t really consider it like that. I knew it was just the 'right thing to do' in his mind.

Although it wasn’t right in mine.

It was so dishonest in my opinion that I couldn’t take that notion anymore. I didn't want to argue any longer. It was no point...

Since that day I carried the grudge against my father for many years to come…

We have never become close again.

*****

Even on the day, when Lily, Mark and I, were leaving the country for good we didn't get close.

I told my father, that since he opposed my way of thinking, he shouldn’t even go to the railroad station to tell us his last goodbye.

That was very harsh, perhaps rude, and heartless, but it was what I did. I have made some mistakes in my life. That was the one I can't forgive myself.

I remember how the train was moving away, slowly along beside the gray platform of Riga's railroad station. I heard the sound of wheels rolling over the cracks on the rails. I realized that it was I who was in fact leaving away forever.

I watched through the foggy glass of the coach’s door, like looking for the miracle to come.

I felt so guilty to push my father away so abruptly. I really wanted to see him, just one more time. That was all I wanted.

I’ve seen the faces of our friends, who came to say goodbyes , disappeared in the gray distance.

The train was getting up its speed.

And suddenly I saw him.

He was standing at the very end of the long gray platform.

He was wearing an old French-style chateau, the kepi-hat. It was mine. His eyes were full of tears, so were mine as well.

I didn’t know yet that it was our very last goodbye, but though it was.

***

In a few days, we are in Vienna, Austria. It was May 1980.

We just entered the free world. We didn't know much. There were so many different things we were supposed to do.

We actually happened to be a "person non-gra-ta", meaning - didn't belong to no country. We lost our soviet citizenship, was no regrets there. But not any other country has offered us a new opportunity to belong to one yet.

Every day I would leave Lily and Mark at the hostel, and go to a different immigration office.

One day sitting in a queue at the Jewish World Refugee Union an older man in the line started a conversation with me:

- Are you from Riga?

- Yes, we actually are,- I was happy to meet somebody from my old town.

- Our uncle died here while in Vienna. Can you imagine that!

- I am so sorry...

- It's alright. We all are better now. We got some help. There are a lot of very good people here, you know... What is your last name?- a man asked me.

- Mirsky.

- Oh, I knew this one. Yaakov is your father, isn’t he?

- Yes, he is.

- Is he with you? I would like to see him.

- No.

- Wonderful man, your father. He had helped us so much!

- Yes, I know, he had helped many people… - I replied.

- Do you know the story about the old Riga synagogue? - a man asked me.

- Yes, I do. The Germans burned it down.

- I was there. I was a boy then…, - My new friend paused for a minute.

- Really? Tell me about it. We are here in a queue for a long time, anyway. - I got really interested.

- My uncle was a Rabbi there. That was just a few days after the Germans came into the town. Lithuania and Daugavpils were taken over already. We had a lot of Jewish refugees from Lithuania. They said that the Germans would kill all the Jewish people. My father didn’t believe them. Germans were always good for us, better than the soviets...

- I heard about that, - I replied.

- That day the Germans announced Jews could go to the shul to daven.- He continued. ( In Yiddish the shul is the synagogue, to daven is to pray.)

- It was Friday. The family was happy. We hoped that better times are coming. My Tate took a tallit and siddurim and so we went. (Tallit is a religious Jewish garb and siddurim is a praying book. Tate in Yiddish is Papa) There were many people there. Everybody came. It was such a Simcha, such a joy to be able to pray together… Rabbi called me to the side and asked me to run back home. He told me he forgot one very special book on his nightstand. The book he really really needed. It was a bit strange, but what did I know. So, what to do, and I went. After a while, I came back with the book, but it was too late already...

The soldiers surrounded the synagogue. Jews were inside.

A large crowd of people gathered around the building to watch.

- The soldiers were all germans? - I asked.

- No, they were ours. The Latvian men, the volunteers. Did you ever hear the name Victor Arajs? These were his men. There were just a few actual German officers there... They watched from the distance.- A man got silent for a second, looked me straight into the eyes, and then continued.

- The soldiers nailed the boards over the doors and the windows splashed the gasoline, and started the fire. Rabbi and his daughters were outside on their knees. Those bandits tore the clothes on them. They cut the rabbi’s beard. They laughed... And then, ... they shot them. - the man squelched, gulp the swallow of the air, and looked me straight into the eyes again...

- My uncle saved my life. He sent me away. He knew it somehow. There were many people around the burning synagogue. The Russians and the Latvians all came to see how the Nazis murdered the Jews. But some good people hid me in the crowd. Our Latvian neighbors took me to their family. I’ve survived. I was just a boy.

Both of us set in silence for a minute. What a story!

I was in shock. I knew that the Germans burned down the synagogue, but I never knew how it was done and who did that. I understood that my new friend's story was of what a 10 years boy could remember.

He was 10 back then, he said.

It was heartbreaking, unbearable, horrible...

It was impossible to understand why the Soviets didn't allow that information to be publicly known.

How huge was the hate they carried for the Jews, that even the memory of the Jewish suffering was forbidden!

My new friend and I got a bit emotional and we went outside for a smoke. We swallowed a few gulps of a bluish smoke aroma and he continued:

- About 6-7 years ago we’ve organized the petition gathering in Riga. We wanted to get enough signatures to convince the Soviets to allow the memorial to be built there. We even collected all the money necessary for the construction. Your father was so instrumental there. He was one of the few who delivered the petition to the authorities. Your father wasn’t afraid. He put his freedom, his future, his career on the line. There are not that many people like him. You should be proud!

*****

Meanwhile, someone called my new friend from the office and he went in, disappearing behind huge white double doors that separated us from the upcoming freedom.

I sat in a chair, all frozen.

My head was going to explode.

Thou, everything my father told me before was a pretense!

A pretense so carefully composed to save me from the trouble...

That was unfair!

Oh, gosh, how painful it was.

Everything changed at that moment, but it was too late. Too terrible late...

In a few days, while in Vienna, we got a letter from my parents. They wrote that the moment we left, their opinions about leaving the country have changed. They decided to follow us and to apply for emigration as well.

That wasn't easy, however. In the summer of 1980, all official channels for emigration from the USSR were practically closed.

It took my parents 10 years. The ten very long years.

I always fantasized about how they would come to join us.

How I would sit down with my dad over the bottle of beer and we would talk openly with no pretensions.

Those my fantasies didn’t come true.

When the Soviet Union was just about to collapse altogether, the authorities finally allowed to erect Riga's synagogue memorial. My father came to the opening ceremony and accidentally got to the picture in the Jewish magazine.

Now that is the only thing I got, to remember him for the last time.

I cherish that magazine. And for some reason, I can’t make myself read any of the articles in it. I only want to see the very last page. That's all.

***

The father and the son's conflict is the ever-lasting struggle between the generations. From Ivan the Terrible to Hamlet and the King, like in the novel by Turgenev, yet more often it goes unconsciously by the theory of Freud. It is always a difficult struggle. Everybody knows that.

My life taught me a very valuable lesson, however.

The conflict isn't a problem.

It is always the way we deal with it is.

There is an old Jewish magazine in my library. It is from Riga. The summer of 1989 on its cover.

There are three black and white photographs on the very last page there.

In those photos, I see many people with flowers, a big Star of David on the flags, and a local klezmer band. In the last photo, I see a young lady with a bouquet of roses. Her head is down in sorrow. Next to her and a little behind stands a man in a French-style chapeau, the kepi-hat. The hat was mine, and it is my Papa.

It is the very last photograph of him, and I cherish it.

Alex Mirsky

July 2021