to improve relations between the two nations. It seemed like a fanciful idea. Recent diplomatic incidents had been grave: the Cuban Missile Crisis had brought the countries to the brink of nuclear war. While other incidents were relatively trivial in comparison, such as the Soviet Union being excluded from New York’s World Fair, they’d contributed to a worsening sentiment. Tensions were high. Against this backdrop the notion of a school visit had gained favour with governments on both sides. Since neither nation could be seen to capitulate on critical military issues, there were few avenues open diplomatically. Though seemingly slight, agreeing to these concerts was one of the few concessions either country was prepared to make.
Diplomats on both sides had thrashed out the official aim of the trip, entitled THE INTERNATIONAL STUDENTS’ PEACE TOUR: The hope is for the children of today to know only peace in their lifetime.
The Soviet students ranged in age from twelve to twenty-three and were drawn from every region. They were to be partnered with an exact match of American students drawn from across fifty states. On stage the two nations would be intermingled, standing side by side, hand in hand, performing before the world’s media and diplomatic elite. It was a crude political exercise and on occasion the preparations had descended into farce: there had been discussions about whether the weight and height of each student needed to be balanced to avoid one set of students appearing more substantial on stage. Despite these absurdities, Raisa thought the premise admirable. She’d originally been asked to nominate a selection of students who’d best represent the country and had enthusiastically become involved with the planning. Unexpectedly she’d been asked to head up the tour. Her only stipulation had been that she’d didn’t feel comfortable leaving her daughters behind. Elena and Zoya had therefore been included. While Zoya found representing her country problematic – she had no love for the State, with a rebellious spirit that she could barely manage to control – she was shrewd enough to appreciate that the opportunity to travel would almost certainly never arise again. Furthermore, it was unthinkable to decline such an offer. She wanted to become a surgeon at a prestigious hospital. She needed to appear a model citizen. They’d witnessed the repercussions to Leo when he’d declined to work as a secret-police officer. In contrast to her older sister, Elena had no qualms about the trip: she couldn’t have been more thrilled and had begged Raisa to take the position.
The airliner made its descent, the gentle rocking briefly muting the excitement of the passengers. Several gasps could be heard among the group of students and some of the teachers. Considering their inexperience as travellers, they’d remained remarkably calm during the flight. As they passed through the patchy cloud, Elena took hold of Raisa’s hand. Whichever way she looked at it, today was a remarkable moment. Not only had Raisa never dreamt that one day she would visit the United States, she’d never imagined she would have a family of her own. Her situation had been so desperate as a teenager – a refugee during the Great Patriotic War – that her ambition had been no grander than to survive. Even today she found it a miracle that she’d been fortunate enough to adopt two daughters that she both admired and loved.
Touching down, the cabin remained in a state of stunned silence, as if sceptical that they’d made the transition from the sky to the ground. They were now on American soil. The pilot announced:
– Look out your window! On the right-hand side!
At once everyone unbuckled their seatbelts, rushing to the windows and peering out. Raisa was ordered by the cabin attendant to hurry the students back into their seats, an instruction she ignored, unable to resist sneaking a look out of the window herself. There were thousands of people outside. There were balloons and banners, written in English and Russian. WELCOME TO AMERICA!
Raisa said:
– Who are those people for?
The cabin attendant replied:
– They’re for you.
The plane came to a standstill. The doors opened. As soon as they did, a school brass band began to play, the noise filling the cabin. In a state of dumb bewilderment the passengers lined up in the aisle. Raisa was at the front. The school band was at the foot of the stairway, playing with great gusto rather than great finesse. Raisa was nudged down the stairs, one of the first to step onto the tarmac. The press was to one side, perhaps as many as twenty photographers, flashbulbs popping. Raisa turned around, unsure what she was meant to do or where she was supposed to go. They’d been told to leave their bags onboard so they would be free to enjoy the reception. A welcome party greeted them, smiling and shaking their hands.
Raisa saw a small group of men, apart from the others. They were wearing suits, hands deep in their pockets. Their faces were hostile. She knew without seeing a badge, or a gun, that they were America’s secret police.
*
FBI agent Jim Yates watched the Soviet delegation form three neat rows, the shortest at the front, tallest at the back. The band, the balloons, the audience, the photographers flashing their cameras like these kids were film stars, and not one of them smiled, their expressions rigid, their mouths narrow. Like machines, he thought, just like machines.
Manhattan Hotel Grand Metropolitan 44th Street
If asked whether she cared about the concerts Zoya would shrug and claim that she hoped they went well if only for the sake of her mother. She didn’t feel personally invested and didn’t have much belief in the value of the events – the notion of international goodwill being conjured by singing songs seemed comical in its naivete. Her rule was to avoid getting involved in politics and ideologies. She was training to be a surgeon. She dealt with the body, flesh, bone and blood, not ideas or theories. She’d sought out a profession in which in her mind there was as little moral ambiguity as possible: she would do her best to help the sick. Her approach to these concerts was pragmatic. She wanted to travel: that was the reason she was here. She wanted to see New York. She was interested to meetthe values. She’d learnt a little English and was curious to put it to use. And there was no way she would have allowed her little sister Elena to travel without watching over her.
Sat on the edge of the bed, Zoya was less than a metre away from the television, engrossed in the American programmes being shown seemingly at all hours. The screen was encased in a glossy walnut cabinet with the speaker on one side, a panel of small dials down the other. The instruction card on top had been translated into Russian. No matter what dials she turned, or buttons she pressed, the same set of programmes was on. There were cartoons. There was a programme with music called The Ed Sullivan Show, introduced by a man in a suit, Edward Sullivan, with live music from bands she’d never heard of. Afterwards there were more cartoons featuring talking dogs and racing cars that tumbled down cliffs, crashing in an explosion of gold and silver stars. Zoya’s English was limited to a few phrases. It didn’t matter since there was hardly any dialogue in the cartoons and The Ed Sullivan Show featured live music and even when it didn’t, even when the presenter was talking, even when she didn’t understand, she found it fascinating. Was this what America watched? Was that how America dressed? The shows were hypnotic. She’d woken up early to watch more. The fact of having a television in her bedroom, a bedroom with her own private bathroom, was so incredible it seemed a shame to spend too much time sleeping.
The cartoon was about to finish. Zoya strained forward, excited. Even better than the cartoons or the music were the programmes that ran in between shows. These shorts were no more than thirty seconds each. Sometimes they featured men and women speaking directly to the camera. They spoke about cars, silverware, tools and gadgets. This one featured a busy restaurant in which children laughed while being served wide glasses filled with ice cream, chocolate sauce and fruit. It was followed by a second short, this one featuring images of houses, impossibly large for a single family, more like a dacha than a house. Except unlike a dacha, situated in the countryside, there were many of these large houses side by side, with neat lawns and children playing. And every house had an automobile. There was a programme featuring devices to chop carrots and potatoes and leeks and turn them into soup. There were face creams for women. There were suits for men. There were objects for every chore, machines for every task, and they were all for sale, propaganda except not for a political regime but for a product. She’d never seen anything like them before.
