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Heart to Heart
Jumping Off Bridges

San Diego Jewish Times, April 7, 2006                                                       .

By Gert Thaler

SAN DIEGO, Calif.—Note from Editor: Slant your column on a Passover theme. I racked my brain.

I could have challenged Edie Greenberg to a recipe contest, but she would probably outshine me.

I could have challenged both my favorite columnists, Natasha Josefowitz and Dana Greene. Natasha by asking her to write a poem about “why all these seven nights are different from all other nights” and Dana by pounding out a story on how singles, living alone in our city with family ties elsewhere, have set up a Passover kitchen celebrating the occasion with other singles.

Or…I could have shared with readers a letter written to my own family on March 19, 1974 (read that date again, darlings) when I made my first trip to the USSR and spent one morning in the Moscow synagogue on the day that matzoh was distributed and I was invited to speak (and in my Yiddish, oy vey!) from the pulpit in the decaying House of Worship.

That letter starts off: “You’ll never know what it’s like to jump off the Coronado Bridge until you’ve tried it! The experience is so unusual you’ll never know what hits you until you find yourself drowning in swirls of water.”

 “Welcome to Moscow! The Coronado bridge experience is a picnic in comparison. Here you drown in a sea of bureaucratic papers as a foreigner is constantly transferred from one in-tourist desk to another. Indignation gets you nowhere. Patience is virtue — and if virtue ever got a woman anywhere in life, this must be the place. If you’re in a hurry, better go to London.”

The letter goes on to describe activities for a Moscow citizen: “You know before day’s end you’ll have stood in line after line to do anything from catching a bus, buying groceries or shoes or even a newspaper.”

I promised I would never complain again about taking a number in the local Jewish bakery, which, regardless of how long my line would be, I would still get my choice of rye, pumpernickel or challah. Most Moscow stores’ daily stock would be depleted before all shoppers would eventually reach a counter.

Fortunately for me, my Eastern European-born parents separately found their way to San Diego where they met after each were widowed (he had nine sons, she bore three daughters and a son). With a 25-year difference in age, they married in August, 1919 and this column is written by the only result of that union.

Snow fell on Moscow as my eldest sister, Jeanne Camiel, and I made our way around the city. We rode the subway, attended the opera and ballet and saw the largest buildings we had ever seen surrounding the awesome “Red Square.” We stood in the long line to view Lenin’s tomb then gave up with frozen ears, red noses and bare heads and rushed back to the heat of the Russia Hotel (pronounced Rooseeya). Our meal times had been designated to be served in the tourist dining room, but once I was served soup with a round piece of pork fat floating on top, we set about finding more palatable dining elsewhere.

I have visited other cities in Russia over the years, and, of course, found Leningrad (now St. Petersburg) the most attractive at the time of my visit. The small, but professionally excellent, Odessa opera house was a highlight of our visit to that city on two occasions.

And, the frosting on the cake for me has been the development of making Russian friends who have immigrated to San Diego, establishing themselves as productive citizens within the business and cultural community.

But now, to that memorable Moscow day when matzoh was distributed. As I stood among the crowd in the foyer of the synagogue I felt someone tugging on my coat sleeve and turned to see a blonde young lady who promptly put a piece of paper in my hand, placing her finger on her lips to indicate that we should not have a conversation/

Her note stated her name, “Ludmilla Zhovtis,” address and phone number and written in halting English was “I need talk with you but must be in private. Please come my home soon as possible.” I still have the note, now yellowed with age.

We were slated to visit the Palace of the Czar with our private guide driving, a tour that my sister had looked forward to. My mind was in a whirl trying to figure out how the palace visit could be accomplished plus a visit to Ludmilla. Impossible, since our departing flight was early that evening. So I feigned stomach cramps, incurred the wrath of my sister, got rid of the guide and returned to the hotel. Using a pay phone outside the hotel I phoned the Zhovtis home explaining the lack of time for a visit, suggesting we meet in our hotel.

Within half an hour we met, with Ludmilla explaining that Russians were not supposed to be visiting there, which then necessitated a walk in the light snowfall for two hours. The conversation was conducted in Yiddish and Spanish. My Yiddish was adequate and my sister’s perfectly spoken Spanish harmonized with Ludmilla’s, since she had once been allowed a trip to South America to relatives and learned their language.

She already held an exit visa obtained through sponsorship by the South American relatives.

But her true dream was the U.S.A., where she knew no one.

And suddenly, along with the matzoh, an even better gift had been delivered in the form of an American Jewish woman to whom she would appeal for the opportunity to obtain sponsorship to immigrate to America.

By the time the walk concluded I promised, with my husband’s final approval, to file the necessary documents guaranteeing for such exit visas for all four family members, her mother and one French poodle. I returned home and submitted the documents. From March to July of 1974 the papers were being processed, and in order to facilitate their progress we went to Vienna in July, where I was allowed to sit at the right hand of the HIAS (Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society) director for a full week to learn the process of accepting Jews from the Soviet Union for future immigration to the U.S.

I have never forgotten Monik Einzigger, who shared his knowledge and expertise in the handling of thousands of people seeking asylum and his technique in determining if, in fact, each person was a Jew as others tried to slip by in order to benefit from the aid offered by the two Jewish agencies.

Thanksgiving Day, 1974, our phone rang and in a shout of joy Ludmilla was telling us they were safely in Vienna breathing the air of freedom prior to being sent to Rome for three months of indoctrination, and in February of 1975 we greeted them as they arrived in Los Angeles. By that time my garage was storing 48 boxes of Russian language books.

The true meaning of Passover had come into fruition. The words, “Let my people go” rang in their ears as the gates of freedom opened. All because I chose to be with fellow Jews in a place where a box of matzoh symbolized our common heritage. It is a memory that still rests firmly with the days of Passover in my heart.

Hag Sameach! Enjoy Pesach.