Дато Турашвили - Flight from the USSR

They remembered listening to Dark Side of the Moon , which Gega had brought over. They recalled arguments about various alternative methods for fleeing. Eventually, they agreed that any method other than a hijacking was a waste of time and effort.

The argument seemed watertight; there was no other way. In Georgia, it was impossible to get travel visas to Western countries except in the rare cases where you had influential parents. It was more realistic to go to one of the East European countries but, they reasoned, what was to use of moving from one prison to another, even if the latter was slightly better? Back in the ’20s, up until 1929, the border between the USSR and Turkey was only partially controlled and hundreds of Georgians took advantage of the security slackness to cross the border. Inhabitants of the mountainous region of Achara were familiar with all the mountain paths and clandestine routes into northern Turkey and would help for the right price. Those who made it then moved on to Europe.

But by 1929, this escape route was blocked forever.

After World War II, the so-called ‘Iron Curtain’ was truly impossible to lift, even an inch. In the 1950s, some embarked on a seemingly inhuman task of swimming the Black Sea. Amongst several decades of failed attempts, there was evidence of at least one successful attempt. A Russian from Batumi managed to reach the Turkish shore, probably because he was a professional swimmer. However, he was immediately arrested by the Turkish police and put in prison for three years because no one believed a Soviet citizen could swim all the way to Trabzon without the KGB helping him. He was accused of spying, even after he suggested he swim from Trabzon to Istanbul along the seashore to demonstrate his skill and physical abilities.

But that summer evening in 1983, when Soso and Gega’s friends got together on Lvov Street, they could only discuss these escape attempts as myths and legends. The idea of escaping by swimming was far-fetched at best.

Then someone mentioned a hijack as another peaceful option of escape. They argued there was no need for violence, or risk of casualties, as they would only use weapons to threaten the pilots. The plan sounded so simple that some smiled, while others thought it was a joke. It was maybe the fantastic and unlikely nature of the plan that helps explain why no one was able to later recall the author of the suggestion. Throughout the nine months of close interrogation and imprisonment, every single detail of their plan came out. But without exception, everyone completely forgot the simple detail that was crucial to the investigation. The prisoners might have erased it from their memory the moment they heard it. As the investigation wrapped up, the authorities gathered every other fact and feature of that evening on Lvov Street except one—who said it first?

“Take him for a while, will you?” Manana asked her husband in a very tired voice. Giorgi took the baby who had already been crying nonstop for an hour.

Manana closed the bedroom door and sat down on a chair in the kitchen. She was about to light a cigarette, but changed her mind because the baby had begun to cry harder. Manana went back into the room.

“Give him to me,” she told Giorgi and took the baby back again.

“What should I do?” Giorgi asked his wife vaguely, as Manana answered exactly as he expected:

“Nothing.”

It was more the voice of a tired woman than that of an angry wife. Giorgi went to the kitchen, opened the small window and lit a cigarette. He smoked it quickly and nervously because, like any young father, it was baby’s crying which drove him crazy more than anything else. Normally he had a calmer disposition and could put up these things.

He smoked the cigarette till the end and then opened the fridge. It was empty. He closed the door in dismay, stifling the urge to curse. But his frustration quickly subsided when he tiptoed to the bedroom door. The baby had stopped crying. Giorgi carefully lifted the curtain hanging on the door to the bedroom. Mother and child were both asleep.

Giorgi lit another cigarette, more relaxed this time, and opened the little window again. He didn’t throw the stub out of the window as he usually did, but extinguished it under the tap. He lifted the lid of the trashcan, very carefully, and threw the stub away. Then he opened the empty fridge and closed it again.

“Surprised it’s empty?” asked his wife.

Giorgi turned around quickly. “I thought you were asleep,” he said as he sat down on a chair.

“I was, but I have to prepare food for the baby.”

“It might be his earache again.”

“It might.”

“Don’t you have that medicine anymore?”

“No, and I can’t borrow it from the neighbours anymore either.”

“I’ll buy some tomorrow.”

“With what?”

“I’ll buy it.”

“Are you going to borrow again?”

“I’ll buy it.”

“It’s hard to find too.”

“I’ll get it from Chashka.”

“It’ll be very expensive at Chashka’s.”

“I’ll buy it.”

“Let’s have some tea. Have you done anything about the job?”

“They’ll tell me tomorrow.”

“Will they take you?”

“Probably.”

“They won’t take you anywhere. Why do you hope they will?”

“They don’t know about my criminal record.”

“Even if they did, you were officially acquitted, you even have that rehabilitation sheet in your personal file.”

“No one ever looks at that sheet.”

“And you, of course, never tell them to read all the documents to the end.”

“Of course.”

“Your dignity and self-respect wouldn’t allow that.”

“I can’t beg.”

“Why do you hope these people will take you then?”

“I took out from the file what was unnecessary, before giving it to the staff department.”

The husband and wife both started laughing, but immediately remembered their child, and put their hands over their mouths.

“I’ll fry some potatoes quickly,” Manana told Giorgi. “There are still some left and it’s not too much trouble.”

“I’m not hungry,” Giorgi said as he lit another cigarette on the gas fire and opened the little window.

In the morning, Giorgi left home early. He looked at the parcel under his arm, once again, and took the trolley-bus to Lenin Square. From the square, he walked down Leselidze Street and turned towards the synagogue.

Several Jews were standing in front of the synagogue and Giorgi asked them if they had seen Chashka by any chance. They were reluctant to talk to a complete stranger. What business could Giorgi have with Chashka? He hadn’t seen him before but knew, like everyone in Tbilisi, that Chashka was selling foreign medicine that was hard to find locally. Giorgi didn’t know what Chashka looked like, but he intuitively felt that Chashka was standing there at the moment, so he stated his reason directly:

“I need medicine for a child.”

With his intuition and experience, Chashka knew this man was a real client and not someone from the KGB or other agency. He approached Giorgi.

“Come on,” he told him, leading him into the ground-floor flat of a nearby house. Chashka opened a notepad and offered a chair to his visitor. Out of curiosity, Giorgi tried to look around the room, but Chashka cut to the chase:

“What medicine do you want?” he asked as he looked into his notepad again.

“German eardrops, I need it for a child. He hasn’t slept for three nights. A neighbour gave us some Bulgarian stuff, but we’ve used it all.”