The part of Tallinn called the Old Town, with its thirteenth—to fourteenth— century Gothic architecture, had miraculously survived the horror of World War II, in spite of the fact that seventy percent of the residential areas of the city were destroyed. The Old Town had become an island of civilization, a museum under an open sky, and cobblestone streets so narrow that only a horseman without a carriage could get through. People of the twentieth century walking along those cobblestone streets could not only see the heritage of the past but also hear the echo of history.
Needless to say, I loved the city very much, and I wasn’t alone. People from all over our ethnically diverse country admired the Baltic and adored Tallinn. Situated on the shore of the Gulf of Finland, it was a closed window in the iron curtain, through which people could nevertheless catch a glimpse of something unusual and forbidden to the rest of the country.
The twenty-year period of Estonian independence between the two world wars had created an unprecedented rise in productivity, especially in consumer products, which had been underdeveloped in the rest of the Soviet Union. Thousands of visitors from our large country, predominantly women, dragging bundles and suitcases, invaded Tallinn every year, buying dishes, china, crockery, cotton-jersey women’s and men’s underwear, and many other things. When our friends from Leningrad visited us, they always shopped a lot too, though for them the main search was for the unique and beautiful articles of Estonian leather. All well-paid advocates the prices didn’t stop them from buying expensive items (Advocates are defense attorneys and advisers in all aspects of Soviet law. Only a small group of lawyers are advocates; they constitute the bar association)
That gave us an idea for a birthday present. We had time to find a special piece, even to order it for our friend’s birthday. Though we were two young lawyers earning modest incomes, the enormous respect for our colleague overcame our uneasiness. The man deserved something special, and we were eager to please him. Like my husband’s given name, his was also Gavriil, but we called him Galya. A remarkable man ten years older than us, Gavriil Mihilovich Shaffir was a well-grounded individual knowledgeable in philosophy, history, literature, and music—a brilliant lawyer with an extensive practice. Eloquent speakers of the highest order, the two Gavriils were very much alike: both handsome brunettes with an impressive appearance and a similar manner of bearing, talking, and arguing. Yet their brown eyes were different. Galya had eyes that were alive, ardent, and curious. My husband, Garrik, just the opposite—his were languorous and sad. And I loved him dearly.
We were supposed to leave our small daughter Katya with my in-laws and take a midnight train to Leningrad on Friday. Two weeks flew by as if they’d been one day. I accomplished everything I’d planned—the birthday present was beautifully wrapped, the tickets bought. On Friday morning I drove Katya to my in-laws. Garrik was at home, working on an appeal to the Supreme Court. I had a criminal case in a district court. Home by seven o’clock, I prepared supper and, while eating, told Garrik about my case. Then we packed and left for the railroad station, elated by our upcoming reunion with Leningrad. Perhaps the same pleasant pictures of the past were going through our minds, but we did not discuss them. We enjoyed them separately. As soon as we boarded the train, we got our bedding and went to sleep.
It was a convenient train, and we reached Leningrad in the morning. We both knew the exact schedule for the entire day before the birthday party. We would first visit my parents for a couple of hours. Then we would go to a hotel designated for foreigners to have lunch. Then we would stroll along the Nevsky Prospekt, as we had in the years of our youth. Yes! If a walk along Nevsky Prospekt was a ritual of youth, a lunch in the hotel for foreigners was a real adult treat. The lunch would cost us a great deal of money for the delicacies we usually couldn’t afford and that people in Leningrad could only dream about. Under the KGB management, these hotels accommodated only foreigners, and provided upscale service to attract them. Our country desperately needed the currency they could bring.
Holding hands, we were glued to the window of a squeaky old taxi that rushed us through the empty streets of the still sleeping city. On that October day, there was neither rain nor sun—it was just typical gray Leningrad weather with thick, mighty clouds casting a gloom over everything alive, but not over us immersed in our memories.
We brought Estonian whole wheat bread and cottage cheese to my parents—something they appreciated since Estonian food was considered to be of higher quality than Russian. After spending a few hours with my parents and discussing everything from world politics to the dangers of sugar in the diet, we hurriedly left so we could arrive early at the hotel cafeteria and have more time for our stroll.
When the taxi stopped at the door of the hotel, the doorman, a big fellow with a stern red face and long blond mustache, dressed in a uniform with gold epaulettes like a general of the tsarist army, did not ask us a word, silenced by the tip Garrik gave him. Not one muscle on his red face moved as we slipped into the hotel open only to foreign tourists. We reached the second floor . . . and suddenly we were in a cozy café with a buffet offering a variety of beautifully displayed dishes.
The small room with no windows had preserved everything from the past: the dark brown oak furnishings of each booth, soft light fixtures on the oak walls, matching oak tables and chairs in the middle of the room, and mirrored insets.
The café had just opened for lunch, and we were the first patrons. Leaving our luggage in the booth, we rushed to the buffet. In just a couple of minutes, our table was laden with colorful plates, spreading tempting aromas and making our mouths water. Each movement of the dishes and silverware loudly resonated in the empty room, making us a bit uneasy; we whispered to each other. Anticipating a day of intensive walking, we needed to eat enough to last six or seven hours. I would not eat in any other café or restaurant in the city. None of them had the resources to prepare decent meals, and many had substandard sanitary conditions. We all knew that.
Slowly and persistently, we savored our delicious meal commenting upon it as we shared each dish. The lunch took about forty-five minutes; by the time we finished eating, all of the booths in the café were occupied. We no longer had to whisper because we could hardly hear each other amid the multilingual chatter of foreigners and the clinking of plates. I looked at my husband’s velvet eyes and we simultaneously burst into laughter. Life was beautiful, and ahead of us lay a wonderful day in Leningrad! We got up and left . . .
In a few minutes we reached the corner, and were enmeshed in the familiar sounds of the Nevsky Prospekt. Despite the gloomy weather, the place was crowded and boisterous. Like Red Square in Moscow, it was considered a national treasure. For two hundred years Russian writers and poets dedicated their works to it. I especially admired the brilliant descriptions of the famous Prospekt by Pushkin and Gogol. What an impressive picture both have left in our literature for generations to come! I even remembered some of Pushkin’s verses by heart.
My eyes filled with tears of pride as we dissolved into a slowly moving crowd talking, laughing, and enjoying the openness on that Khrushchev’s Thaw day. People called the time of the late ‘50s Khrushchev’s Thaw because it was him who revealed Stalin’s crimes to the world. We learned that for several decades, millions of innocent people had been killed or tortured and sent to labor camps in Siberia. Secrecy in our society had been so pervasive that nobody knew for sure how many millions had perished.
I myself had listened to many horror stories of survivors who had been released from exile after the Khrushchev revelations. They sat in my office, emaciated invalids, some without an arm or a leg, but all with hope in their searching eyes. Yet I couldn’t help them. Nobody could restore their health, property, or family. The only good news was their release—they were alive.
The entire country let out a sign