The Russsian Factor: From Cold War to Global Terrorism. Simona Psy.D. Pipko

so tense and nervous was she. Suddenly, I realized that the noisy background clatter had subsided. There wasn’t a sound in the law firm.

      “OK, OK, Tanechka, please,” I said in a hard whisper, glancing at the door. “Relax. And tell me how you discovered the church in the first place.”

      “It was many years ago.” She caught her breath. “I was six or seven. My grandmother took me there, but I didn’t understand anything then. Still the feeling of peace remained in my memory.”

      “When did you become such a strong believer?”

      “A couple of years ago. One Sunday we were supposed to clean our classroom, but none of the students showed up; so I went home. It was a nice, sunny day. Can you imagine a beautiful spring day in our rainy city? I didn’t take the bus but decided to walk along the street. Have you ever heard the church bells?” she asked me.

      “Many years ago,” I replied. “It’s such a rare occurrence these days.”

      “You’re right. But that was the day I heard the church bells for the first time. I heard them in my heart. As if a magnet was drawing me, I moved in their direction. I don’t remember how I got there, but I found myself inside the church.

      “There were smiling old people and that familiar smell and atmosphere of peace. From the first instance, I liked those people. I liked the goodwill. I liked everything that surrounded me—the music and singing and peace. It was the Russian Easter. I will never forget that day, which brought me such happiness.

      “Since then, I have visited the church almost every month, whenever I had a chance. Those people are my real friends. They know my name, my school, where I live, but they have never betrayed me . . .”

      The situation was clear to me. “Tanechka, believe me, I understand what you’re going through, and how you feel. I wish the best for you, and I’ll try to help you. Now, please tell your mother to come back. And take care of yourself.”

      I really wanted to help the girl and show her that there was an adult who could grasp her enormous difficulties. At the same time, for a number of reasons, I didn’t want our conversation to go any further. There was no complete escape from the situation, and talking to this child/woman further wouldn’t help her. Amazed by the purity and strong will shining out of her clear blue eyes, I knew I had to save her from the harsh judgment of society. I knew what to tell her mother, I just didn’t know how.

      I had several minutes before the mother returned to my office. Hundreds of thoughts flashed through my mind. I couldn’t disagree with the girl. Cheating, lying, leading a double life—all that occurred routinely in my own life, balancing myself on the edge of danger.

      Struck by Tanya’s strength and boldness, I couldn’t tell her mother openly that a militant, aggressive society demands a victim, and that her daughter was about to become one. She had dared to differ, to infringe on a world of false unanimity where everything had to be uniform, a world that would not relent until it had extinguished her bright flame in a highly visible manner, to warn others.

      I couldn’t tell Galina Petrovna that the practice in school communities of publicly renouncing religious belief marked a sick society. I couldn’t tell her many things. Still, I was obligated to help the family. The advocate, after all, is the only resource available for resolving social disputes, the only reliable person with whom a citizen could consult without the fear of exposure to the authorities. The Soviet government exercised overwhelming control over all aspects of human life, with no regard for privacy. No private therapists, no independent clergy, no call-in radio talk shows so popular in other countries to limit this control.

      As hard as it was to defend adults in our country, to deal with children was even harder. Though I primarily defended boys who had committed crimes, gender made no difference. Each case chipped away a bit of my heart—I felt responsible for every kid. You have to have a strong nervous system to be constantly involved in the destinies of these unfortunate children. But to communicate with some of their parents presented a real danger—I was a Jew. In talking with them, I had to maneuver like an acrobat on a tightrope. Sometimes, when stress was more than I could handle, thoughts of emigration visited me. I cast them aside. No. I was not ready yet.

      “Please take a seat, Galina Petrovna,” I said when she came back. She sat down and looked at me hopefully.

      “You’re a very fortunate woman,” I said. “You have a wonderful daughter, and she needs your help. Do you think renunciation of religion will change anything? Tanya will always be marked. Our young people are absolutist. They will never forget her story.”

      I paused for effect.

      “And don’t you think the renunciation process itself will attract a lot of public attention and adversely affect all the others in your family?”

      A spark of fire flashed in her eyes. She nodded in agreement.

      “Listen. The problem won’t be solved at school by the open Komsomol meeting. The city board of education will still hold a party meeting, and your parental failure will be discussed. Am I right?”

      She nodded again.

      “Furthermore,” I continued, “the same party meeting will be held at your husband’s office. Think about that. In my judgment, the less noise, the better for your family and for Tanya. Where is your mother?” I asked her, perhaps too suddenly.

      She stared at me. “My, my mother?” she repeated.

      “Yes, yes, your mother.”

      “She’s in the Ukraine.”

      “Send your daughter there.”

      She had not expected such advice, and I could see that she needed time to think it over.

      While talking with her for another half hour or so, I noticed some changes. Her panic disappeared, and fear receded from her eyes.

      I began to feel sure she would eventually do as I suggested. Twenty years as an advocate had taught me that the most powerful human force was the instinct for self-preservation. Galina Petrovna was a typical product of the Soviet system, a system in which each person fights every day for survival. Although she and I didn’t share the same values, the fate of a brave girl, who happened to be her daughter, had temporarily united us.

      Living and working in Estonia, one of the Baltic republics, I dealt with people of many different nationalities from all over the country with correspondingly different views and values. My profession compelled me to develop a uniform approach to all of my clients.

      It was growing late, and several people were still awaiting for me downstairs. I said good-bye to my former adversary. As she stood up to leave, I offered her my hand.

      The essay published in the magazine The World and I, October 1990

      PART II

      My Observations, Analysis, and Commentary

      1995–2005