Camel from Kyzylkum

Another memory from my life in Austria that will stay with me forever has to do with my first discoveries made in the closest little town that was five kilometers away from our village.

The road wound its way in the mountains covered with forest, dressed with the freshly fallen snow sparkling in the sun. Not far away, below the steep bank, the river roared along. The air was fresh and crisp. This five-kilometer walk among the sounds and scenes of the magnificent views of the Alps was therapeutic healing for my worn-out body and soul. One could walk all five kilometers without meeting any car or person on the road. I liked to walk this road alone. Sometimes, though, I walked with Irma.

As in any little Austrian town, there was a central square with a church, a government building, and a little grocery store. It was November when I visited this grocery store for the first time. I stepped inside and was amazed and saddened at the same time. The abundance of fresh fruits and vegetables that were neatly packed and on display was overwhelming, and there were so many other items I had never seen before. I was especially struck by the strawberries. They were bright red, ripened to perfection, packed in little wooden baskets, making them the center of attention. I could not believe that such strawberries could be in the store in November.

In the Soviet Union, even when in season, strawberries sold in the store were not so perfect and inviting. And other items in that store—why did I not know anything about them? It was a moment for me when I suddenly realized how miserable and undignified our life was in the Soviet Union. When I was a teenager, I spent long hours in line just to buy bread. When I was working, I stayed in line to buy some fruits and vegetables. It was a time when meat, sugar, flour, and so many other basic food products were rationed or not available at all. Yet, in the little store in Austria, everything was available and presented so attractively. There was something very dignifying about it. A sea of emotions swept over me and tears suddenly covered my eyes. I left the store and stood in the middle of the town’s square, sobbing uncontrollably.

I had a lot to weep over: the life I’d led in my country of birth, not knowing that life could be so much better, that strangers could be kind and smile, that a visit to the store could be a pleasant experience. I wept about everything that I had to go through in order to leave my country. I wept about my unknown future. I wept until I had run my eyes dry of tears. It washed away all the sorrows of my soul; I knew it was going to be a tough and long road ahead, but I was ready for it.

One morning I woke up and discovered that my entire body was covered with a rash. I did not feel well. I questioned if it was an allergic reaction, or something else. I did not know. I was subsequently isolated in a little room on the first level of the house because our sweet hosts were worried that I could spread the infection to others. Few people know what it means to get sick in a foreign country without insurance and without money, although everyone can imagine. Fortunately, after several days, my body cleared up and I was back to normal again. But if it had turned out to be something more serious, what would I have done? How would it have affected the next steps of my immigration process? Would I have been left behind? I did not have answers to these questions and was happy that my condition cleared on its own.

At least twice our refugee group was driven to Vienna for interviews. I think it was at the American Embassy or maybe some other organization that was helping refugees. All I can recall is that it involved a lot of paperwork that we needed to fill out, and a long wait to be called. But it gave me a chance to browse around that particular neighborhood of Vienna. The unimaginable cleanliness of the streets surprised and impressed me. Many boutique stores with clothing for women and men were filled with wonders I had never seen before. Needless to say, I could not even buy a handkerchief for myself. In fascination, I walked from one store to another and stood for a long time in front of each window display with beautifully dressed mannequins, eagerly absorbing every exquisite detail of their dresses and accessories.

It is important to understand that during my life in the Soviet Union, nice, quality things were not readily available in the stores. In order to get nice items—clothes, shoes, and even food—one needed to have some connection with people who worked at the distribution base or with people who could get it from the distribution base and sell it at a higher price. That is why the Vienna stores, my first experience behind the “iron curtain” of the Soviet Union, were a striking discovery of a very different life from the one I’d always known.