“Yes. I am serious.” I had not invited these people to my home, so I neglected to add the courtesy of “Comrade Colonel.”
“Alexander Mikhailovich,” Prozukhin’s wife said, her voice more authoritative than her husband’s, “how can you talk of divorce after all of us witnessed that wonderful wedding only last summer? That was a tribute to the Socialist Military Family.”
Only a zampolit’s wife would still use such brazenly false terms.
I shrugged. “People get married. People get divorced. Jana and I are going to get divorced.”
Nadezhda Prozukhin scowled at her husband and nodded. He had his orders.
The zampolit sighed and visibly braced himself. “Captain Zuyev,” he recited from memory. “If you persist in this matter, I’ll see that you rot in some lost desert in Central Asia.”
He had made his speech. We all knew it was not an idle threat. Prozukhin’s wife sneered openly as I pondered his words. The division zampolit did have the power to cripple any officer’s career. That spring, Major Ivan Matushkin, an able pilot in the 2nd Squadron, had run afoul of the zampolit and his wife. Matushkin was moving dishes from his apartment to the officers’ dining room for the Air Force Day party. But he had broken the rules by driving his old Zhiguli right up to the door of the podyesd. It was a weekend, and no one cared except Prozukhin. On the urging of his wife to reestablish his “authority,” Prozukhin came down the staircase, grabbed Matushkin’s car keys, and ordered him to report for a reprimand on Monday morning.
“You bastard,” Matushkin had sworn, “I’ll show you some authority.” He snatched back his keys and threw the colonel against the side of the car.
Prozukhin had written a report that the major had attacked and beaten him. The VVS grounded the major, reduced him in rank, and ordered him reassigned to Central Asia as a GCI officer.
Like my mother, this honest pilot had also been sent for a psychiatric “evaluation.”
“My personal life is my own affair, Colonel Prozukhin,” I finally answered.
“And your professional kharacteristika is my affair, Zuyev.” He had gotten his full nerve and spoke with real menace now. “If you persist in this, your career is dead.”
I shrugged. How could anyone want a career serving officers like this? But if Prozukhin acted quickly on his threat, I might find myself isolated in some Asian outpost where it would be difficult, if not impossible, to petition for a discharge.
Finally I answered him. “Let me consider this matter carefully, Comrade Colonel.”
Word of the divorce spread quickly. Two days later I was ordered to Lieutenant Colonel Antonovich’s office to discuss my marital problems. I stated my case as best I could, and added that giving in to the division zampolit’s threat might preserve the marriage, but certainly would not resolve the conflict between me and Jana.
“You can’t force people to be happy, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel.” I said. Antonovich nodded sadly. “That will just put more stress on me, and flying with stress is dangerous.”
Antonovich sighed loudly. “At least try to work things out, Shurka. I’ll keep you on the ground for a while.”
“Like you did Major Matushkin?”
Antonovich squared his shoulders. He had no doubt received direct orders from Division. “Zuyev, you will withdraw this divorce request, or I’ll ground you permanently. What’s your decision? Can you try to work things out with your wife?”
“I’ll try,” I finally conceded.
A week later I told Antonovich that Jana and I had withdrawn our divorce petition.
But we had not. The lie was just a ploy to gain breathing space in which to make some concrete plans.
So I told Jana that we should both think about our future carefully. The next divorce counseling session at the ZAGS was not scheduled for a month. At least this gave me time to think.
But instead of thinking clearly, I sank into a numb lethargy, an ambulatory depression that seemed endless. I skipped the scheduled meeting with the ZAGS counselor. This suspended our divorce process. But I had no intention of canceling it. Jana became a distant figure, even though we still shared the same small apartment. She knew she had lost, that I was willing to sacrifice my future in the Air Force to be free of her. We hardly talked to each other; it was as if we had both witnessed some terrible accident and were too stunned to speak.
With my divorce proceedings in limbo, I was able to reach a truce with Lieutenant Colonel Antonovich. He put me back on flying status. But I still felt deep revulsion at wearing this bloodstained uniform.
Then, in December, the somber weather broke for a few days. The southern sun flooded the green valley, and the air was fragrant with the blooming citrus groves. Instead of returning home from the flight line one afternoon, I walked up the slopes of Senaki Mountain alone, trying to break the black vise that had seized my emotions by exercise in the sunshine.
Time disappeared. I trudged through the orchards and beside pastures full of bleating sheep and goats. The sun was almost down and long shadows hung in the valley below. I heard the sweet chime of bells. At first I thought they were from the livestock. Then I realized I was walking beside the fieldstone wall of a church. I entered the courtyard beneath the high wrought-iron gate and stood just outside the door of the vestry. Inside there were old women and a bearded priest. I could see the yellow glow of candles and smell incense. Soft chanting echoed from inside. Again the bells rang. Birds flew through the sunset and landed on the gilded, onion-dome steeple.
All at once, I stood upright, feeling the muscles of my legs and back unclench for the first time in months. The weight of depression had been lifted.
My life as a Soviet Air Force pilot was finished. But now I saw that there were other careers, other lives, to live. And, I realized, there was another country to live in, America, the nation of refugees and immigrants. For almost two years I had been listening to the American shortwave station, Radio Liberty, and to the Voice of America. That exotic country now seemed more hospitable to me than my own nation. After I somehow found a way to resign my commission and leave the Air Force, I would find a way to leave the Soviet Union itself.
State Security would never approve an exit visa for a former fighter pilot, especially one with my background. So I would have to “emigrate” unofficially. Everyone I knew thought this was impossible. But I knew our borders were hardly airtight. There had to be a way to escape to the West, where I could live in freedom.
I stopped in the twilight, halfway back down the mountain. Unconsciously I had been marching straight toward my apartment, as if preparing to simply pack my bag and leave. Once I had made my decision, it seemed absurd to remain here, wearing this uniform, living this false life. But it was obvious my future would not unfold so simply.
One thing was certain: I could never simply slip out of the Soviet Union while still an Air Force officer. Almost every minute of my day, every day, week, and month of the year, my movements were officially noted. So a discharge was my first priority. Then I would consider the safest way out of the Soviet Union.
For the next two weeks the problems of a discharge and an escape route were constantly on my mind. I soon realized that leaving the country would be easier than resigning my commission. I had once shared a train compartment with some KGB border guards, traveling from Sochi to Tbilisi. Over a bottle of cognac, they’d revealed that the entire mountainous southern frontier of Georgia was a warren of smugglers’ trails. The Turkish tribesmen on both sides of the frontier crossed the border continually, with donkey trains of contraband. I knew from my training in Azerbaijan that the same porous frontier existed with Iran. A determined man with a few thousand rubles to spend could easily escape to the south. Then there were our “fraternal” Socialist allies of the Warsaw Pact: Czechoslovakia, Hungary, and East Germany. Each of those countries bordered the West. And my friend Sergei Salamov who had served in Hungary told me that a handful of dollars or deutsche marks would see you across the border into Austria. So escape from the country would not be impossible.
Escape from the military itself was another matter.
A few weeks later Gorbachev himself offered the solution to this problem. It was early on a Friday evening, and most of the regiment’s pilots had gathered in the sauna to mark the end of another training week. I was in the duty-alert dayroom completing some paperwork when the announcement came over State television. Gorbachev had addressed the United Nations General Assembly in New York, but I had not paid much attention. Now the Moscow newscaster read a summary of the speech. The Soviet military, Gorbachev had pledged, would be reduced in strength by 500,000 men and 10,000 tanks. The reductions would begin “immediately” and continue over the next two years. The announcer stated that this force reduction would apply to “all ranks and services.”
I saw my opportunity. Clearly officers who no longer wished to serve would be allowed to resign.
I went to the sauna to spread the news of this sensational announcement. The men looked up from their
