escapades with her American Express credit card were well known, thanks to glasnost. But another scandal was emerging about the Gorbachevs’ new luxury holiday villa in the Crimea. Apparently Raisa-herself a professor of Marxism-Leninism-had not been pleased with the dark marble entrance staircase. She had ordered it demolished and replaced with snow-white marble.
Frolov politely thanked the Voyentorg and replaced the telephone receiver. “Excuse me, Alexander Mikhailovich,” he said with an almost conspiratorial smile. “My son is due to take his eight-form foreign language examinations soon. We are planning a small party for him.”
More likely the “small party” would be a small prezant of Caspian caviar to the chairman of the examination board. Or perhaps Frolov could arrange a prescription for a hard-to-find medication needed by that chairman’s ailing mother. The possibilities were limitless within the network of influence and privilege bounded by Moscow’s Ring Highway. For men like Frolov, many doors were open. It was well known among my fellow pilots that doctors in this hospital would barter treatment with the German ultrasonic kidney-stone machine in the basement for access to good restaurants or entry to Beryozka hard-currency stores. Smaller favors were arranged with the discreet presentation of an appropriate prezant. Among the elite of Moscow, Kiev, Gorkiy, or a dozen other Soviet cities, influence and wealth were interchangeable.
There was an expression known to every Soviet citizen above the age often: Rukha ruku moyet, “One hand washes the other.” The opulence of this hospital’s Voyentorg was clear proof that this system was flourishing, despite all the sanctimonious nonsense about glasnost and perestroika.
Frolov was now neatly sorting the test pages and graph. He folded his fine, white hands precisely on the desk and smiled.
“Well, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel,” I said, as sincerely as I could, “how are my test results?”
Frolov shook his head. “We have some problems here, Captain Zuyev.” In his precise manner, Frolov lifted the chart with the plotted test results. “I am convinced these results are not valid.” He tapped the red peaks on the graph paper with the tip of an expensive imported pen. “These answers go far beyond the norms. Are you absolutely certain you read the questions carefully?”
“Absolutely, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel.”
Again, Frolov shook his head. Then he smiled reassuringly. “No, Alexander Mikhailovich, I think you were feeling some temporary confusion during this examination.”
“I answered each question as honestly as I could,” I said with open-faced sincerity.
Frolov nodded and held up another document. I could see it was a printed extract of my service record. Again he slipped on his reading glasses. And again, he used his slim gold pen to emphasize the points of his argument. “Captain Zuyev, there is clearly nothing in your personnel file to indicate the type of unstable personality or antisocial attitudes evidenced by this test.” He seemed honestly confused, eager to find a logical explanation for this strange dichotomy.
I nodded without speaking, then turned away to glance out the window toward Sokolniki Park once more. Poor old Colonel Petrov had tried jogging behind a group of younger officers, but now he was walking stiffly along the path, taking a shortcut to the hospital.
Frolov was reading from my service record. His accent and diction were pure Moscow staff officer, not the rough edge of a Soviet Army field commander berating an insubordinate junior officer. “Comrade Captain,” he said, smiling again to show his concern, “I have reviewed the records of hundreds of pilots during my career. As you know, the Army’s selection process is rigorous, designed to identify the best-qualified young men for flight training.” He looked down again at my service record and frowned with concentration. “Everything in your background is absolutely normal… your school records, the entrance test scores at the Armavir Academy. Your flight training and academic records there demonstrate the highest possible aptitude…” He shook his head and smiled again. “Alexander Mikhailovich, I simply cannot believe that you possess an undetected personality flaw that would account for the answers on this test.” For emphasis, he placed his open hand on the test booklet and the plotted answer graph.
I was carefully weighing Frolov’s sincerity. He might be the critical factor in my campaign for a discharge from the Air Force. If I could convince him I actually was psychologically unstable, he might facilitate the discharge with a minimum of notoriety. On the other hand, Frolov had the power to brand me as a shirker, and incorrigible egoist, which was anathema in the collectivist dogma, of Marxism-Leninism. “Comrade Lieutenant Colonel,” I finally said, “I answered those questions honestly.”
Frolov cleared his throat and frowned more deeply. “Let me quickly review your record.” His voice was cooler now. “Born Kuybyshev, 1961.” He smiled. “Only twenty-seven years old, Alexander Mikhailovich, and you have been a First Class pilot for four years, a captain for two. You are a flight leader and a respected tactics instructor in one of the Air Force’s leading combat fighter regiments.” He hefted the service record for emphasis, then continued. “Last year you qualified for the military test pilot school at Akhtubinsk. You’ve been a full member of the Party for four years.” He flipped over the carbon copy of an official form. “And I see you have recently received the Defense of the Motherland Medal.”
I nodded. These medals were a joke to good pilots in line regiments. We called this particular citation “the medal for sand from your ass.” It had nothing to do with professional skill, but the staff rats in Moscow put a lot of stock in medals. In fact, you could usually spot a true rear-echelon hero by the number of medals on his chest.
Frolov was staring at me now with a fatherly expression of concern. “Your wife is the daughter of a distinguished Air Force officer. Comrade Captain, your career to date has been nothing short of exceptional. You have an extremely promising future in the Air Force. Yet you seem determined to make us believe that you are some kind of mental defective. Honestly, Alexander Mikhailovich, what are we to make of this?”
Suddenly I knew that it was time, finally and irrevocably, to state my case. I had to accept the fact that all medical tests would be inconclusive, at best, and that this officer was too skilled and politically astute to accept the results of my psychological test as valid grounds to grant me a discharge. “Comrade Colonel, I no longer wish to serve.”
Frolov sighed audibly and closed the dossier. Clearly he was frustrated. He impatiently flipped open my dossier again. “In September 1978, when you entered the Higher Aviation Academy at Armavir, you took an oath, a solemn oath to serve the Soviet Union.” He fixed me with his intelligent eyes. “You told all your superiors that your sole ambition in life was to become a fighter pilot.” He sighed again. “Now you sit there and tell me you no longer wish to serve. Comrade Captain, what has happened? Tell me more about yourself. Help me understand.”
I understood his frustration. The man was a Communist in a privileged position. He had no reason to doubt the system that treated him so well. Until recently, I had been like him, a believer, one of the Communist elite. How could I explain my transformation?
“Well,” I finally asked, “where can I begin?”
Frolov smiled warmly now. “Why not begin at the beginning?”
PART TWO
CHAPTER 3
Samara
1961–78
I was brought up in Kuybyshev, a major river port on the Volga, in the heartland of the Russian Federation. Kuybyshev had been named for a hero of the Revolution, but most people called the city Samara, a name well known in Russian history. Both my parents were engineers. My father, Mikhail, was a technical manager at one of the city’s aviation factories. My mother, Lydia, was a construction engineer at the Kuybyshev Hydroelectric Institute.
During the Great Patriotic War, when the Nazi armies threatened Moscow, Kuybyshev had become the temporary capital of the Soviet Union. Our aircraft factories had turned out thousands of combat planes. Assembly
