Much as we hated the
regime when I was young, we knew it was for ever. Communism was
invincible, and the only thing you could do was learn how to cope.
Some people tried to escape. Some brave people did it literally:
crawling under barbed wire, swimming out to sea. Some, privileged to
travel abroad, defected, knowing that their relatives remaining
inside the Soviet Union, would be prosecuted. Dissidents who weren't
sent to camps were sent abroad, which we honestly didn't see as
punishment. Some got married to foreigners, for real or for
convenience. In the '70, Jewish families were allowed to emigrate.
But these were handfuls, sunshine stories in a bog of misery, and
there would always be the hundred millions in Russia, the occupied
countries and Eastern European satellites, deprived of material
wealth and human rights.
Being one of the
lucky handful, I always felt guilty. But what could I do? Communism
was invincible, and the West didn't care. As the party bosses
promised us, our children and grandchildren would live under
communism.
And then one evening
twenty-five years ago it all changed. I sat crying in front of the
TV, repeating like a prayer that I had never, ever hoped to live long
enough to see it.
No comments:
Post a Comment