Anyone’s who ever been on a flight from Russia to Western Europe or North America has seen the following process unfold: While Westerners sail through the queue flashing their local passports, Russians and most other former Soviet citizens have to produce piles of papers before entering.

Before stamping Russian passports, the British, American, French and especially German migration officers require people to turn their suitcases upside down and fish out bank statements, hotel reservations and other official documents.

Last week in Cologne, I saw an old man standing in one such long line. He looked very tired, and I called him up front to pass through customs in the fast lane. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ve been standing in line half my life.”

He and his elderly female companion slowly moved alongside. They smiled at each other and looked terribly in love – even the hard-hearted people at passport control couldn’t help but notice. The couple spoke Russian but carried mixed passports. I figured that they, like millions of others, had probably left Russia in the early ‘90s.

“Not quite,” 83-year-old Heinrich explained later. “I was born in Germany and my Jewish family lived there peacefully for generations. When Hitler rose to power we fled in time to escape the pogroms and find a better, peaceful life. But we made a great mistake.”

The mistake was not in leaving, he said, but in where they went.

While many refugees from Nazi Germany went to the United States, Western Europe or even South America, Heinrich’s parents put their faith in the Soviet Union. They moved to Moscow, learned Russian and found work in the buzzing Communist metropolis during the rapid economic growth that Stalin dictated.

“Then came 1937,” Heinrich told me while we were standing in another line later, buying railway tickets. “I probably don’t need to tell you any more.”

Seventy-three years later tears still well up in his eyes. “My father was shot by the NKVD and my mother passed away during the war. I was alone in that goddamn city. It was terrible.”

Yet, like many others, Heinrich obtained Soviet citizenship and managed to survive in Moscow.

“I guess I became Russian,” he said. “I had a job, got married, travelled around the Soviet Union and spent my holidays at the dacha. But somewhere in my heart I always knew I belonged to a different place. It always felt like being in prison. And when things finally opened up, I was one of the first to get away.”

Twenty years of fresh sea breezes and a return to the Heimat turned out well for Heinrich. These days he still runs up and down stairs, lifts heavy bags and looks pretty good for his age.

“I even have a girlfriend again,” he said, smiling and discreetly indicating his companion. “She’s from Kiev, it’s so wonderful – I really love her.”

Now Heinrich and his long-distance lover meet up by flying on low-cost airlines on terrible time-slots, enduring visa problems and multiple layovers.

It’s all for love, he says, adding: “I waited for this all my life.”
As Heinrich bids farewell, he wishes me luck.

“I hope Moscow became a bit better now,” he says. “But it’s covered in smoke again, just like it was in the war. May the Lord take care of you over there – Poka!”

Illustration by Evgeni Vasiliev

This entry was posted on Thursday, August 12th, 2010 at 11:50 pm and is filed under tags:Germany, Russia, The Moscow News. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.