Camel from Kyzylkum

Back to the house on Greeley Street. Next to my little house was a house similar to mine. A woman named Alla (the same name as my sister) and her husband Sam lived there. Both of them had been doctors in Ukraine. Even though they were about ten years older than I was, Alla and I developed a powerful bond. It was a gift to have neighbors that were members of my community, people with whom I could talk, go for walks in the evening, or get help or advice from when I needed it.

One day I got a call from the CIA. The voice on the other end of the line informed me they wanted to interview me about my work in the Kyzylkum Desert. It frightened me—I had dealt with the KGB in the Soviet Union and I did not want to deal with any similar organization in the United States.

When a young man in a gray suit arrived at the house, he asked me questions for three hours, all about uranium and gold deposits in the Kyzylkum Desert. He was very polite. Of course, my English was still very limited. Even so, three hours of questioning was a long time. I wondered what would happen next. To my relief, after that day, they never bothered me again.

One day I called the Family Reunification organization to find out Natasha’s status. I was told that her application was denied and that she was not eligible for the program because her father was not Jewish. They told me she might never be allowed to enter the United States. I could not believe what I had just heard. I shook like a leaf. I cried in my little house so loudly that my neighbors ran to help me. They worried about me. My shock was so strong and devastating, I could not stop crying. I thought that my life in the United States would not make any sense if I could not bring my only child to be with me. From that day on, I started to fight for my daughter. I spent many months writing letters to various refugee organizations and other offices, visiting officials and synagogues in Buffalo and elsewhere. My neighbor and friend, Alla, helped me. We went together to talk with the rabbi in the synagogue. The rabbi wrote a letter that stated that according to Jewish law, a child in the mixed marriage born from a Jewish mother was considered to be Jewish, too. I sent this letter to the Family Reunification organization. Nothing seemed to improve the situation.

The Jewish Center gave me the name of the best immigration lawyer in Buffalo. He agreed to give me the first consultation for free. I went to see him. I told him I did not have any money to pay him (at that time he charged $200 per hour), but I could cook for him and bring him freshly prepared delicious food when we had an appointment. He felt my pain and was kind enough to accept my proposition. Soon after, he started to work on Natasha’s case. It took several years for him to do this. Every time I came to see him, I brought along a big bag of freshly cooked and baked food from my Russian-Ukrainian-Uzbek cuisines. He loved to eat, and he seemed to love my food. He would rub his hands and say, “Smells good!” He ended up filing an Affidavit of Support for Natasha and sent it to Moscow—he was ready to be her sponsor. He asked me not to show anyone this paper because he disclosed all of his finances on it.

Before we sent the Affidavit to Moscow, Natasha was denied an entry visa to the United States three times. After we sent the Affidavit, she suddenly got permission to enter the country as a refugee under the Family Reunification program. I was so happy and grateful to hear this news. Natasha arrived in America in January 1993, via a flight from Moscow to New York City. I will remember forever the kindness of a man who took a case without being paid for it and was ready to sponsor my daughter.

Kindness is helping the world, one person at a time.