With appreciation from Memoir Magazine

KGB Search

By Ella Reznikova

Ukraine, 1979

I hear a loud knock at the door. A knock is always a surprise, even when expected. But this one is different–this knock goes right to my heart. My body freezes and my first reaction is to wait, as if waiting would change anything.

It’s too early for guests, and it isn’t the polite knock of a neighbor asking for a few potatoes, or carrots, for soup. That knock happens often in a building with a hundred flats, where everybody knows each other, because even your enemies have to eat their soup. I have done that knock myself. I know that casual, pleading knock.

And it’s not a telegram, either. Тhat knock is also loud, but the one who knocks makes an apologetic and intermittent sound: most of the telegrams in my country are about death. Good news isn’t worth the money.

I am still in bed, waiting, and I want to pretend that I did not hear the knock–that would be so good–nobody is knocking–the day can go the usual way–when the knocking comes again, louder, more intense, and stubborn. Now I am sure something is wrong.

I hear my father open the front door. There is a moment of heavy silence, then a set of questions including my name. I can’t hear everything, maybe because they are too quiet and they don’t want me to hear, to know, or maybe my heart is beating too loud.

My bedroom door opens without anyone knocking. There are three men looking like triplets, like they are supposed to look. Official. Gray. Earnest. The figures of nobody in power. They enter like greedy hunters expecting fear from prey that has no armor, no place to escape, no place to complain. My father follows them and I see how pale his face is. But I also know that my father is on my side; I feel a wave of love towards him that helps me to pull myself together.

My father and mother are trapped in this country, waiting for many years for permission to immigrate. Every six months he patiently goes alone to the Soviet Visa Department just to be humiliated and called an enemy of the people, and to hear “Come back in six months.” No explanation, no advice, no promise. I know that he is very cautious in his behavior so as not to invite another reason for refusal. But I also know that he admires dissidents and that every night he listens to the Voice of America on his tiny radio that my mom calls his second wife. Because the Soviets jam airways, this radio voice sounds like it has incessant bronchitis. But my father is proud that he is still getting through.

There is nothing in this house, I think, nothing that will put me in jail. The next moment is a hell that lasts three hours. I try to get up from bed, but they won’t let me. They won’t allow me to move, to change into my clothes, or to even go to the bathroom. My room becomes their room. They decide now what chest of drawers to open, which of my possessions to touch; they are checking every inch of my room. Nobody talks while they pull out old things whose existence I didn’t remember myself. I would never recognize their faces if I met them on the street, but I might if I entered their offices. Gradually I see which one is in power, and which one is the meanest and most dangerous. The third one seems almost embarrassed by this situation, but also the one who is the most shameless in devouring me, twenty years old, with his squinty eyes.

Meanwhile, they throw all my clothes and books on the floor, and suddenly I remember that under my pillow I have a forbidden religious book that I read at night. I hope that they won’t look there, and also I hope that they won’t search my father’s room. Who knows if he left some quotes in his small notebook that he carries everywhere.

As time goes by, I am getting more convinced that they are up to something, that they know what they are looking for. Their confidence feels dangerous even though I know that I am not hiding any drugs or anti-Soviet literature…at least not this lucky time.

At the same time, I am almost embarrassed by their certainty. I’ve heard from my friends that they plant some things in people’s houses when they are really on your case. My eyes follow them sharply. My manageable horror is mixed with curiosity about what they are looking for, what they are so sure they will find. And in spite of the fear and chill in my gut, I still have to suppress a tart joke that is almost begging to come out of my mouth.

Meanwhile, they open my grandmother’s medicine cabinet and find her syringe. Their eyes light up with triumph, but not for long – they don’t see any drugs. They say they will take the syringe to the laboratory to find out what was used in it. My father and I exchange quick glances with something close to relief, but it is too soon to relax. There are still predators in our house.

Now, they reach for my private letters and the photo album that I have not even shown my family. There is nothing in my life that I can protect from them except my dignity, I think with a lump in my throat. They are looking at pictures of all my underground friends, so free and independent – none of them look like “decent” Soviet citizens. Now they look at the pictures of my beautiful naked girlfriends. They try to be professional, but they are suddenly slowing down, turning every page of the album with pedantic mindfulness, as if every detail will help them to find what they are looking for. It feels like they forgot for a second why they came here. I bitterly wonder if they ever saw a naked woman in their lives.

They put the letters and the album in the same box as the syringe while I notice with an inner smile that my father has been also peeking at the pictures with curiosity. Later he will ask me why I did not show him this non-traditional piece of art before it was taken away forever to their dark and damp basements.

Now they are asking me to stand up and are searching my bed and under my pillow. The leader asks about the book. It is about Buddhism, I say. He is almost happy to find something illegal. But he also knows that though it is bad for my reputation, it is not a crime.

Finally they get tired and decide to take a cigarette break in the kitchen. They flick their ashes in a little teacup. My father joins them, even though he quit smoking years ago. There is a need for some human exchange with the uninvited guests. I hope this cigarette brings my father some relief but refuse to smoke myself.

Our kitchen is very small and quickly starting to smell like a claustrophobic barroom. Standing near the open glass door, I see how they are melting in cigarette smoke. While becoming more human they are telling me how lucky I am. They were really going to take me away this time, they say. With handcuffs, they add, and for the first time during this visit I can’t define the tone of their voice – regretful or weirdly empathizing.

And then they leave without checking my father’s room. He shuts the door. He tells me he is glad my mother was not home. He also says that he is glad they did not search his room. My father reminds me that he has a big map of the USA on the wall.