Читать книгу The Russsian Factor: From Cold War to Global Terrorism - Simona Psy.D. Pipko - Страница 5

The waiting room of our law firm had always been overcrowded during morning hours. When the two women entered my cubicle, I was on the phone. Pointing to the two chairs on the other side of my desk, I continued my conversation while unobtrusively looking them over. Presently, I hung up.

“What can I do for you?” Neither has replied.

The older one fiddled with her gloves, her dark hair and fashionable clothes at odds with the tension on her face. The scent of her French perfume resembled mine. She was embarrassed by something, and instinctively I knew it had nothing to do with whatever had brought her to my office. There was something else, not yet clear to me.

The girl was different. Wearing a blue sport jacket, her blond hair tightly woven into two braids, she gave me the look of a small cornered animal—a look of fear and hopelessness. In spite of the difference in appearance, they appeared to be mother and daughter. From their expression and posture, I could see that they were locked in conflict. The table lamp on my desk revealed the tension and anxiety on their faces.

It had been a very busy day at our law firm. The hum of whispering people and the clatter of manual typewriters filled the air of my small office partitioned by walls that did not quite reach the ceiling. Through the open door I saw lawyers moving in and out of the library. My visitors remained silent as I closed the door.

“Don’t you recognize me, Simona Davidovna?” asked the mother. “I was a representative of the city board of education at the Laptev trial when you defended him. Do you remember the case?”

At once I knew why she was so embarrassed to be in my office. My stomach knotted and my heart beat harder, but my face remained impassive.

Did I remember the Laptev case? Of course I did. It had been one of the highestvisibility cases in the city in recent years. My time, energy, and legal skills had been totally consumed by that trial. It had required so much attention and put so much pressure on me that I still felt the emotional scars. The defendant had been so young and the charges so serious.

Juvenile delinquency was a major problem in Soviet society. Robbery, rape, and the theft of government property were everyday occurrences. But the murder of a militiaman (a policeman, a member of the police force) committed in broad daylight in front of a movie theater in the center of town is far from routine. Boris Laptev, a high school student, had been charged with resisting the militia (the Soviet police force) and with the murder of a militiaman on duty. The incident had aroused strong emotions among the public on both sides and was covered extensively in the local newspaper.

I was the only person defending Laptev. Predictably, city agencies united in their position against him and launched a strident ideological campaign to culminate a guilty verdict. The secretary of the District Party Committee, together with the chairman of the city council, had organized a show trial at the local cultural center.

Show trials had become part of the court system during the purges of Stalin’s time. Highly politicized and orchestrated by the party in the thirties, they started out as political spectacles, witch-hunting the opposition in which a vengeful Stalin invented, not only the practice of scapegoating, but often the crime itself. Later incorporated into criminal law, show trials became a routine event in Soviet courts and in the life of any lawyer and was used once established by the Communist Party in accordance with its political agenda. The Laptev trial had its agenda too.

The trial’s immediate target was an audience of about several hundred students assembled to learn how to behave in a public place and how to respond when a militiaman asked for identification. However, the ultimate target was public opinion. The precedent to be set was to create an atmosphere of zero tolerance for any resistance to the militia. A new law had recently been passed providing for the death penalty in the case of murder a representative of the militia. The Laptev trial sought to forge another link in a chain of public performances designed to dehumanize the individual, who would be crushed beneath the workings of a relentless ideological machine.

The events in question were relatively simple. A nineteen-year-old militiaman, in plainclothes, had requested Laptev’s identification. The eighteen-year-old refused. A fight ensued, and during the struggle, the militiaman slipped, fell, and hit his head on the edge of the sidewalk. He had died in a hospital two days later.

I felt great sorrow for the young man who had lost his life, but I had an equal concern for Boris Laptev, who, in my opinion, bore no real responsibility for that tragedy. My defense strategy for the trial had to be clear: to show that the death was a result of an accident. The absence of intent or a motive to kill indicated that Laptev’s behavior would not be qualified as premeditated homicide. However, the charge of “resistance to the militia” made the case more complex. Resistance had taken place, but Laptev claimed that he hadn’t known that the plain-clothes interlocutor was a militiaman.

Laptev’s credibility became one of the central issues of the case. Over the course of four months, his parents submitted numerous documents showing Boris to be an honest, hardworking student known for good conduct and achievements. I asked them to provide me with additional references of his character and integrity.

The day before the trial, they came to my office—quite an odd couple, a tall, corpulent woman and a short man of average build, both aged around thirty-five to forty. Although the weather was already warm, they wore winter coats—gray and black. The woman’s face showed no traces of make-up, only misfortune, grief, and hard labor. They brought homemade pirozhki and chocolate, knowing that I was going to visit their son in prison.

“Can you take this to Borya?” asked the wife, almost pleading.

“Yes, I can take it, but I don’t know whether I’ll be able to give it all to him. It depends on the circumstances. I’ll try. Have you thought about documents or testimony to substantiate Boris’s honesty?” I asked. They didn’t answer. Some kind of confusion followed my question. The husband and wife looked at each other, hesitating to speak.

Finally the man said, “Yes, we have. And we are sorry that we didn’t tell you before . . .” He took his wife’s hand, leaned closer to her, as if in need of additional strength, then looked at me. “We are believers,” he quietly said. “We believe in God. Our whole family, including our son, Borya, strongly follows the moral commandments: ‘Thou shalt not kill; thou shalt not steal.’ For us, they are not just words, but our creed in life. They are part of our soul, flesh, and blood, and we are sure that Borya was telling the truth. He is not capable of lying.”

My face remained impassive. “I too have no doubt about his integrity, but I have to convince the court in the trial tomorrow.”

“Please don’t use this information without Borya’s consent. He will have the final say about how to handle this.” The husband and wife sat close to each other, sweating in their dark winter coats, yet nothing could separate them.

This confession of religious belief surprised and puzzled me. They had revealed this information only one day before the trial. Why? I had thought they trusted me.

Religious belief in the Soviet Union was officially regarded as immoral. If introduced into the trial, it would generate a negative attitude toward Boris on the part of the judges, the city authorities, and the audience. Talking in prison with Boris, I raised this subject.

“I would rather die than reveal that,” he said, indignation and anger in his green eyes. But he couldn’t fool me—in a fully grown man’s body, the soul of the child trembled. We agreed that there would be no mention of religion. Discussing our defense strategy, I, however, didn’t tell him that the District Party Committee had already held a meeting with the judge and the prosecutor, and his sentence had been predetermined. After all, in a show trial it could not be otherwise.

The law provided the court with two options: the death penalty or up to fifteen years in a labor camp. My goal was twofold: to prevent the application of the death penalty, and then to appeal to the supreme court in Moscow. I also had to try to prevent negative public opinion from influencing the trial. I could not openly fight with the city authorities or voice my opinions publicly—that amounted to professional suicide. However, using a rational, balanced performance focusing on universal morality, I hoped that I could make a difference.

In Soviet society, a defense attorney—an advocate (a defense attorney and adviser in all aspects of Soviet law. Only a very small group of lawyers are advocates; they constitute the Bar Association)—had the unique privilege of speaking to an audience without prior scrutiny. I had used that opportunity frequently, but with great care. Tomorrow, a teenage audience would occupy the cultural center. In addition, there would be two potential allies in the improvised courtroom—two people’s assessors (jurors), who were regarded as judges by Soviet law. They were, in fact, common people, sometimes even nonparty members, often more humane than the judicial bureaucrats. The audience and the people’s assessors were not aware of their power. It was my goal to motivate them to use that power.

In order to do this, I would challenge them to think—yes, to think—to wrench their minds away from imposed ideological clichés and force them to reason independently. Once I engaged them in that process, I believed they would become my allies. They could help me. I needed them to mount the only effective defense for Boris Laptev.

I had to use the opportunity given to me to talk to the audience, but I had to proceed with caution. I could not say outright that Soviet society was governed not by law, but the party that the ideological concept of class struggle ingrained in the minds of most Soviet citizens had produced a psychology of violence in our society at the expense of individual rights.

Social problems, it was assumed, could be solved only by the application of force. Although carrying, making, or supplying guns was forbidden, the ethos of war had dominated all strata of our totally disarmed society. That was the essence of Stalinism— unlimited power over a defenseless people. This social system, shaped for thirty years by Stalin’s dictatorship, had achieved the omnipresence more virulent in the midseventies than ever before. Built on deception and the corpses of Soviet citizens, Stalinism had paralyzed if not killed the nation’s free spirit and its soul and consequently generated a social culture of fear and hatred permeating every person’s life. Compassion and mercy ceased to exist. Suspicion and cruelty ruled.

I couldn’t tell the audience that all of us, Laptev as well as the dead militiaman, were not victims but hostages of that system. It was impossible to tell the truth in a society where neither an independent judiciary nor the concept of a fair trial existed. But I could try to encourage a little free and creative thinking—the only way to resolve social problems. The death penalty for Laptev would not stop the rising crime rate among teenagers. It is psychology of war deeply rooted in social behavior that produces militant actions, not an individual like Laptev.

Tomorrow I would have to find some way to get that message across. But I had some doubts. Would I be able to accomplish this?

When I reached the cultural center the next morning, I was shaken by a sense of an unfolding spectacle, with me as one of the actors in it. In front of the building, armed guards of the internal security force routinely followed everybody with their inquisitive glare. They surrounded the black van used to transport “special cargo.” Black vans on the streets were known to carry prisoners. People called them “black crows.”

The hall was jammed with people, many still looking for seats. Wooden chairs and benches in the first three rows were reserved for witnesses. My eyes immediately found Laptev’s parents, sitting in their shabby dark overcoats, their faces downcast, awaiting the decision that would seal their son’s fate. The place was swollen with tension—no loud voices, no laughter. The dim hall was quietly buzzing, resembling a human hive, full of expectation, order, and respect.

A huge, illuminated stage served as the courtroom. At its center stood a table covered with a green felt cloth with three wooden chairs side by side, the middle for the judge and two on either side for the people’s assessors. A second table and chair for the court reporter sat adjacent to the judge’s table. On the same side, and perpendicular to the judge’s table, was yet another felt-covered table and five chairs, one for the state prosecutor, one for the public prosecutor (who addressed the legal and social aspects of the case respectively), one for a civil plaintiff, and two for medical experts.

Facing all these stood a small table and chair for me, and behind them an enclosed wooden structure, like a cage up to the chest, for the defendant. In a Soviet courtroom, the defense attorney and defendant may not have eye contact or communicate, except with the judge’s permission.

Trouble began immediately. When they brought in Laptev handcuffed, with his dark head bowed, his mother fainted. Laptev’s father tried to lift his wife’s heavy body from the floor, and instinctively I rushed to help since no one else dared to do so. Inhibited by the edge of the stage and unable to find the stairs leading down to the hall, I stood frozen, not knowing what to do.

The presiding judge continued with the trial, reading the documents in the file, as if nothing had happened. The five people at the long table, led by the state prosecutor, pretended to study their papers. Suddenly, as if from nowhere, a trembling young voice screamed, “Somebody help my mother!”

The judge stopped reading. All five sitting at the long table raised their heads. Only then did several people get up to assist Laptev’s father and bring a glass of water for the mother. I returned to my table and saw two armed guards, in the green uniform of the internal security force, restrain Laptev. Defeated he took a seat and disappeared behind the wooden structure. The trial resumed.

It took three days to question thirty-seven witnesses. The presiding judge questioned a witness first, and the people’s assessors followed. Those seated at the long table came next. Without any interruption from the judge, both the state and public prosecutors assisted each other in the questioning.

As a rule, the public prosecutor was not a lawyer but a representative of the organization where the defendant worked or studied and usually had a marginal role in the trial, giving an objective view of how his or her peers saw the defendant. In the Laptev case, the public prosecutor affiliated herself completely with the accusatory side and displayed exceptional eagerness and loyalty to the state. A teacher herself, she would be expected to present an objective view of the case, but in reality never did. Moreover, the state and public prosecutors became inseparable—they arrived at the cultural center together each morning, shared lunch, and left together in the evening.

I was the last to cross-examine the witnesses. The judge, bound by his unspoken alliance with the prosecutors, constantly interrupted me. He didn’t like my line of questioning, the subject matter, or the testimony of some witness when it failed to conform to his plan.

The judge had a faithful ally in the court reporter. This woman’s handwritten record would provide the only official document upon which I could base my appeal. I had to argue with the judge for every word beneficial to Laptev in order to include it in this record. Many times the judge tried to twist testimony favorable to the defense, and I had to contend with him to preserve the truth.

It is impossible to describe the tension during the trial. I was exhausted by the end of the third day, fighting for each scrap of favorable testimony. But I had succeeded, at least, in part by having it put on the record.

The fourth day featured closing arguments. The state prosecutor a woman in her forties gave an unremarkable speech with no surprises. For an hour, she tried to convince the teenage audience that the Soviet militia was a respected guardian of public order in a Socialist society, and that every citizen must demonstrate complete obedience to its representatives. She discussed the new law permitting the death penalty, and emphasized the “social dangers” of resistance to the militia. Arguing that such danger justified “an exceptional measure of punishment,” she pointed out the seriousness of resisting the militia. “Such resistance has led to the murder of a militiaman in the line of duty!” she declared.

I had expected her to demand the death sentence, but I had also assumed that she would present legal grounds for such a demand, so I was enraged by her failure to analyze the evidence. My anger gave me strength. I wanted to fight back. The stuffy hall and intense heat from the stage lights no longer bothered me. Rising, I turned my head toward Boris. Behind the wooden structure, I saw only two frightened green eyes.

“Comrades Judges, it is true that cold-blooded murder is the most dangerous crime in our society,” I began. “It is also true that only a court can determine the fact of murder and render judgment. The roles of the two parties, the prosecution and the defense, are delineated by law. We are here to express our legal opinions and help the judges arrive at a just verdict.

“Unfortunately, my opponent did not analyze all the evidence presented in the course of the trial. Instead, she virtually ignored certain testimony. The law requires a prosecutor to present opinions based, not on his or her personal convictions, but on the evidence presented at the trial. Only a deep and thorough analysis of all evidence can lead to a well-founded sentence.”

The first half of my speech was aimed at proving that Boris Laptev did not in fact resist the militia, since he didn’t know that he was dealing with a militiaman. He had no intent or motive to kill. The death had been an accident. I analyzed the circumstantial evidence and the testimony of the five witnesses who had corroborated it. The defendant, I concluded, should be acquitted of the charges.

In the second part of my argument, I was supposed to present my thoughts concerning Soviet society and the role of its youth. I had to show that Boris Laptev was a morally stable and law-abiding person with deep respect for Socialist communal life and for life itself. Of course, I avoided all mention of the Laptev’s family religious beliefs.

“We are witnesses to the tragic and senseless death of a young militiaman,” I went on. “I have great sympathy for the parents of the deceased, and I also have great concern for any individual whose life is threatened. This is why I am here today defending Boris Laptev. A defense attorney defends an individual, not a crime. My professional duties allow me to use all the ways and means provided for by the law to protect the rights of the defendant, and my major frame of reference is Soviet criminal law.

“Some speculate that the sentence at a show trial is a foregone conclusion because the judge has already decided the outcome by bringing the accused to such a trial. This assumption is not necessarily correct. Although the code of criminal procedure provides a judge with this right, valid sentencing must have three signatures—the judge’s and the two people’s assessors’, who by Soviet law are regarded as judges.

“Second, the Soviet criminal code states that punishment also serves the purpose of preventing the occurrence of new crimes, either by convicts or by others. The show trial has that same objective of deterrent.” I paused and glanced around the hall; my eyes came to rest on the first of the people’s assessors. “Who are these ‘others’? The answer is that we are the others. We are, our people, the members of society, this audience, and people all over the country!

“The ultimate task of a show trial is to teach our youth the main social norms and obligations of Soviet society. In my opinion, this trial can provide them with more. For the first time in their lives, young people can learn a lesson of life and death. Some of the students in this audience witnessed the events in front of the movie theater, and some had these events recreated during the trial. Such awareness is exactly what the law requires. That, I believe, is one of the positive sides of a show trial. Furthermore, the show trial carries with it a feeling of participation and allows us to assume responsibility for preventing a tragic and meaningless death from happening again.”

I felt a tremor shoot up my left hand. It was hard to control the tension in my upper torso, but I couldn’t move from my defined territory at the table. “The life of every individual matters, the victim’s as well as the defendant’s. Boris Laptev is not only a good son and brother he is also a member of our Socialist society, a member of a school community, and a friend.

“Many students in the audience know him personally. I ask them to think about the events revealed during this trial. Furthermore, they know Boris Laptev better than we do. Our information is derived from the documents in the file, but theirs came from sharing with him ten long years of schooling. We know Boris never committed any offense or antisocial act before. They know he was a dutiful son who helped care for his two sisters when his mother had to work at night. We know Boris’s academic achievements from official records. His classmates know he helped many friends with their assignments . . .”

I had been talking for almost two hours, standing upright with my hands clutching the sides of my small table. My mouth was dry, my legs stiff and numb.

“There is no more honorable duty on earth than the defense of an innocent person, and Boris Laptev is such a person,” I concluded and sat down. My temples were throbbing badly, and I could hear my heart pound. For a moment I felt the silence of the entire center pressing in on me, and then, at first indecisively clapping here and there, the audience burst into applause.

The judge, infuriated, restored order. The prosecutor delivered her counter arguments twice, and I rebutted twice.

Boris Laptev received fifteen years in a labor camp. I heard the verdict with tremendous relief—the first round of the struggle was over.

I’m not sure why the court didn’t apply the death penalty. Was it because of my efforts during the trial or because the people’s assessors simply refused to sign the death sentence? By law there was no appeal. The sentence took effect immediately.

Two years later, the Supreme Court of the USSR reviewed an appeal. The high court altered the previous judgment of murder. Laptev was found guilty of negligent homicide, and his sentence was reduced to three years in a labor camp, including time served. A couple of months later, he was released.

In two decades as a defense attorney, I had few such victories. This one satisfied me deeply because acquittals existed only in textbooks of Soviet jurisprudence, not in the actual practice of law.

Several years had passed since that appeal in Moscow. I had certainly forgotten my two female adversaries at the trial, the state prosecutor and the public prosecutor, whose name I had never learned. I could hardly believe that the latter was sitting before me, in my office, as a client. Her trembling hands and her puffy face revealed that she had been crying for some time. Her eyes mirrored the fear in her daughter’s, but I felt no pity for her. The frustration and pain of the Laptev trial remained vivid in my memory.

“Can you promise me, Simona Davidovna, that nobody will know about my visit to your office?” she asked in a whisper.

“What is your name?”

“Galina Petrovna.”

“My dear Galina Petrovna, you must know that I always respect the rules of lawyer-client privilege. You could have chosen from thirty-two of our lawyers. But since you have come to me, please don’t worry. I’m listening to you.”

Her dramatic story unfolded quickly.

Her daughter, Tanya, fifteen years old, a high school student and a member of the Komsomol, the Communist Youth League, had for many years concealed a strong belief in God, even attending church secretly. All had been well until a classmate discovered Tanya’s diary and submitted it to the school principal. He had arranged a meeting with Tanya’s mother to discuss the matter. He suggested that Tanya publicly renounce her beliefs at an open Komsomol meeting. A party member himself, he had had no alternative.

Tanya refused.

So Galina Petrovna had brought the girl to my office, hoping that I would convince Tanya to renounce her faith.

“Are you a Party member?” I asked the mother.

“Yes, I am. My colleagues don’t know anything yet, but soon the story will be the main topic of discussion at the Board of Education, and I may lose my position.”

“What does your husband do?”

“He’s an engineer and also a Party member. I haven’t told him the story yet. I’m afraid he’ll kill her for what she’s done to us. She’s disgraced our entire family! She has ruined—”

“Galina Petrovna,” I cut in, “I would like to talk to your daughter alone. Would you please go downstairs to the waiting room?”

She had no objection, but as she left my office, she turned back to me. “Simona Davidovna, please help me!”

During this exchange Tanya had made no movement, but her frightened large eyes had not left mine.

“Tanechka, my dear girl, how have you managed to cope with all this?”

Her features stiffened with suspicion for a moment, and then her entire body convulsed with sobs. I sat quietly. Her handkerchief became soaked. I gave her mine. Not even looking at me, she took it without a word. Patiently waiting, I watched the girl’s small and delicate hands nervously twisting my handkerchief.

“I do not want to live any longer,” she began, her voice shaking. “I cannot live in a world where everybody lies—the teachers at school, my parents at home, the radio and TV. I can’t listen to them anymore! Church is the only place where I am at peace. I’m not alone in church, God is with me, and honest people are all around. Together, we’re the happiest people in the world. We’re not compelled to lie.

“And you want me to betray these people and return to the world of liars? I hate them all! They’ve made me live a double life! They want me to renounce what they’re not even able to perceive—the soulless, shameless opportunists! They want me to believe in ‘the bright future of Communism,’ but none of them believes in it. They have no common decency. They cheat and lie to keep their Red Party cards and prestigious positions. I hate them! Hate, hate, them all!”

Her voice had stopped trembling; her blue eyes had dried, but the short wispy hairs outlining her forehead had curled with sweat; 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