Based on a true story
By Alex Gordon
HAIFA, Israel — Boris Mikhailovich Borisov loved the Soviet power. It lifted him up from the bottom of society and equalized him with its many multinational subjects in rights and lack thereof. Boris Mikhailovich could not pray, but he often and almost prayerfully thanked the dear power for the good life. To succeed, he joined the Communist party, received a law degree, and began seeing a speech therapist to correct his embarrassing Yiddish pronunciation.
Borisov was a Communist and a Jew. He had always been a Jew, and a Communist only until World War II. He was living in a big city, in the European part of the USSR, when the postwar years were not good for the Jews. They were accused of having a bad attitude toward the socialist homeland, of “homeless cosmopolitanism.” In the midst of the campaign, Borisov was exposed. It turned out that Boris Mikhailovich Borisov was not Boris, not Mikhailovich or Borisov, but Baruch Moiseevich Weinstein. He was removed from his job and expelled from the Communist party.
Boris Mikhailovich realized that the Soviet power did not reciprocate his love. Although the cosmopolitan campaign quickly came to an end, the power did not want to hire him for his profession. One day Boris Mikhailovich was advised to apply to a newly established university in one of the Central Asian capitals, where the rector was a lawyer. Borisov sent a job application to the far eastern region. A telegraph reply came: “You are hired, come, Rector Saidov.” Boris Mikhailovich was shocked and concerned. What to do? After all, he had concealed the dismissal and expulsion from the Communist party.
Borisov was on his way to the Central Asian capital by several trains: planes were not yet flying, and trains were slow. Life was passing before him in those trains. He was shaking in the trains and with fear: how to explain, maybe to conceal, but would it pass? It was July. The heat was wild, but it got even hotter as he approached Central Asia. Exhausted by the heat, remorse, and eight days of travel, Boris Mikhailovich was approaching the goal of his trip. The train was approaching the Central Asian capital, and Borisov was approaching his Judgment Day. Through the car window he saw a group of natives on the platform, wearing skullcaps and white shirts. They were holding flowers in their hands. – Some important delegation, he thought. In the shabby, frayed suit, he took a lost step on the dusty, hot platform of the station platform in the Central Asian capital.
From the group of welcoming well-dressed locals separated a short man in a suit and tie. He approached Borisov and said: “Comrade Borisov, I am glad to welcome you to our land! I am Rector Saidov.” People in skullcaps brought him flowers and congratulated him. They all welcomed him! Exhausted by the heat, the trip, and his thoughts, stunned by the meeting, Boris Mikhailovich thought feverishly: “How did they recognize my face and what should I do: tell or not tell?” – Suddenly he burst out, “Comrade Saidov, I need to talk to you urgently about business!” – “What are you saying, Comrade Borisov! What business? You have just arrived. Have a good rest, and the case can wait!” – “It can’t wait, Comrade Saidov.” – blurted out Boris Mikhailovich, and, slapping the rector in the face with a bouquet of flowers, drew him away from the crowd of subordinates and hurriedly told him the story of his sinful fall, well prepared and made up on the trains.
The rector was silent, then took a few steps away from the man who had come, looked up at him, and asked: “Comrade Borisov, did you teach in Tashkent at the Central Asian State University at the law department in 1937?” – “I did,” replied a surprised Boris Mikhailovich. – “So, I am your student!” The station platform of the Central Asian capital turned out to be the first stepping stone to paradise for Borisov. A new life began. He found work, housing, and peace, and was surrounded by respect and care. He fully experienced what it was like to be a teacher in the East. Antisemitism was a thing of the past.
In the Soviet East, those persecuted from all over the vast country found refuge. People were beginning to live among respect and reverence, material prosperity and moral liberation. But Boris Mikhailovich’s amazing adventures did not end with the story of his miraculous arrival. After two years of happy life, Boris Mikhailovich was urgently summoned to see the rector. “Hello, dear comrade Borisov! Sit down comfortably, dear friend! How glad I am to have such a wonderful guest!” After a long and pleasant oriental introduction, the rector said: “Tell me, please, Boris Mikhailovich, what must be done to make our young and promising law faculty become the leading one in Central Asia and become famous far beyond its borders?” – “I don’t know,” Borisov said.
The rector looked at him carefully. The smile was gone from his face. He looked at his interlocutor silently and sternly. Suddenly he stood up from the table, indicating that the audience was over, and said dryly: “Go and think it over.” Life changed color immediately. The rosy tones were gone. Borisov became distracted. Thoughts of the assignment seized him completely, but when he despaired of coming up with something, they were replaced by fear: what would happen if he could not find a way out? He was at the mercy of a despot who was giving him impossible tasks and holding his welfare in his hands. What was to be done?
The news of the assignment that Boris Mikhailovich received spread throughout the city. Rumors and gossip with unpleasant interpretations multiplied this news, burned and stung him with annoying questions from acquaintances. The insidious talk coiled around him like sticky tentacles and sucked the blood out of him with suction cups. A month passed, and Boris Mikhailovich made an appointment with the rector: “I have an idea, Mulladon Akhmetovich! We should publish a scientific journal in the department. Many people want to publish and defend dissertations. We will be recognized because of the journal.”
Boris Mikhailovich’s idea was realized with brilliance. The science of law needed publications. The dissertation industry and the prestigious degrees that paid well established a high demand for scholarly journals. Crowds of people eager to get their degrees streamed to the university in the Central Asian capital. Annual conferences whose proceedings were published in the journal also brought fame to the department, the university, and the rector. Borisov’s life became cloudless again. Several wonderful years passed. Borisov became a professor, settled down, became a prominent figure at the university and in the city. And then, one day he was urgently summoned to the rector: “Hello, dear comrade Borisov! Make yourself comfortable, dear friend! How glad I am to have such a wonderful guest!”
After a long and pleasant oriental introduction, the rector said: “Tell me, please, Boris Mikhailovich, what must be done to make our young and promising law faculty the leading one in the Soviet Union and famous beyond its borders?” – “I don’t know,” said a frowning Borisov. The rector looked at him carefully. The smile was gone from his face. He looked at his interlocutor silently and sternly. Suddenly he stood up from the table, letting him know that the audience was over, and said dryly: “Go and think it over.”
Like a thunder from out of the blue, a new trouble drastically changed Boris Mikhailovich’s life. He did not know what to do. He had no ideas. The fear of losing his beautiful new life wouldn’t let him go. Months passed. Borisov avoided Saidov. During occasional meetings he caught his boss’s heavy stare. For the first time he had the thought of leaving Central Asia. The news of the rector’s new assignment spread through the university. It lived its own life, the life of piquant, fascinating gossip. Echoes of people’s gossip spread through the city, clad it in bizarre and implausible forms. The meaning of the assignment was distorted, its significance for the university was inflated, exaggerated. Boris Mikhailovich experienced the torture of rumor.
Over a year passed. The rector did not call him in, but on rare occasions, he glared at him, letting him know that everything remained in force. And Boris Mikhailovich had no strength. He was ill, fell down and abandoned his research work. The hellish life ended as suddenly as it began. Borisov made an appointment with the rector. “I have an idea, Mulladon Akhmetovich! We need to open a new advanced field of jurisprudence in the faculty and invite a major specialist in it to work.” – “Boris Mikhailovich, what major specialist would agree to move in with us?” – “I know of one.” – “Where does he work?” – “In a children’s toy factory.” – “?..”.
And Borisov told the story of his friend Benjamin Bergman. Bergman, unlike Borisov, was not a Soviet man by birth. He was born, brought up, and educated as a lawyer in Latvia before its occupation by the USSR. By the time of the change of power in Riga, Benjamin knew many languages to which Russian did not belong. Therefore, he then had difficulties with Russian in his scientific work. But he had a great advantage over the Soviets: he could listen to “hostile” voices in foreign languages on the radio, knew a lot more than anyone else and had a better understanding of where he lived.
Bergman’s relations with the Soviets in Latvia, which had been liberated from the bourgeoisie, were strained: they could not forgive his participation in the Zionist-socialist youth movement. Benjamin was lucky: the war broke out, and he was mobilized immediately. He came back a “happy” invalid of the war. By blood he had washed away his unreliability and bourgeois roots. Bergman’s normal life as a lawyer and criminologist in Riga began. But one day everything turned upside down. Bergman’s sister made an attempt to flee to the newly formed state of Israel. She was arrested and convicted, and he was removed from his job. After a long ordeal, he got a job at a children’s toy factory.
All this Borisov told the rector. Saidov, unlike Boris Mikhailovich, did not like Soviet power, nor did he like the Russian conquerors. The Communist form of government was surprisingly suitable for Central Asia. It was organic and understandable in the East. The feudal hierarchy in a party shell was natural and consonant with local traditions. Corruption and nepotism were well suited to social relations in Central Asia. The Soviets respected the local bosses and let them live up to their needs and customs. Saidov despised the Soviet rulers for driving away talented people and was grateful to them for this, since they gave him valuable and cheap material for building his temple. The rector did not immediately respond, but his response was positive: he personally took a very enthusiastic part in Bergman’s arrangement.
Benjamin was given high honors, which he fully justified. He actually developed a new field of criminology – victimology, and created a school of victimologists. He was invited to give lectures at the most prestigious Soviet institutions, and this happened despite his poor Russian. Bergman was even more successful in legal practice. With his participation, new articles were introduced into the national penal code. Why did the natives like Bergman’s scientific research so much? It used to be thought: a criminal is a criminal, a victim is a victim. That’s how the court punished those who broke the laws. Bergman explained: the criminal is partly the victim, he is less guilty than is commonly believed. It is necessary to understand his psychology well.
For example, he takes a bribe or gives a bribe. Previously, it was in the pure form of a crime. According to the new science, he is a victim of folk traditions, misunderstood respect and gratitude. The measure of punishment should be reduced. A man of Western culture, Benjamin Bergman deeply understood the East, knew its weaknesses and virtues, appreciated and respected local people at all levels. And they loved and respected him. The fame of the law department of the University of Central Asia was growing. Prominent scientists in the field of legal science from among the formerly persecuted scholars have moved there. They left their jobs in other peripheral cities and moved to the hot but promising Central Asian capital.
Saidov was a clever, cunning, and ambitious man. He achieved great success in the development of the university. He was envied and disliked by the other local bosses. They were waiting for something to pick on. A favorable opportunity presented itself, and he was removed. Of course, it wasn’t without Oriental torture. Rumors swirled before and after his dismissal about the rector’s shameful deeds. His actions acquired unbelievable and non-existent details. Gossip spread to every corner of the city. His transgressions were twisted and grinded, distorted and exaggerated. The spiders of gossip crawled into the most unexpected places and took on incredible guises, dressing up as dragons and presenting Saidov as a monster.
Rector fluttered helplessly in a web of gossip. Like boa constrictor rings, the gossip choked the slipping colossus. A few months after Saidov was removed, Borisov called Bergman: “Benjamin, I’m leaving Central Asia”– “? – “I was very happy here, I love our city, but the East is a treacherous place. I’m tired of Asian mores and gossip. I’m leaving for my old big city. I want a quiet life.” Time passed, and news reached Benjamin Bergman: Tired of loving the Soviet government, of fighting Asian mores and of resting from it in the European part of the USSR, Borisov performed an act unexpected for himself and for everyone – he moved again – for permanent residence in Israel.
It was a good thing that the speech therapist he had been treated by in his younger years had not been able to completely eliminate his Yiddish pronunciation.
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Alex Gordon is professor emeritus of physics at the University of Haifa and at Oranim, the academic college of education, and the author of 10 books.