Dancing Under the Red Star (36 page)

I returned to Mara’s place and sat up in bed nearly all night long, composing this special letter to Nikita Khrushchev. It read something like this:

Dear Comrade Khrushchev,

Knowing that you are an honorable and compassionate man, my purpose in writing you today is to respectfully ask for your help.

My name is Margaret Werner Tobien. I am a (former) citizen of the United States, now living in Gorky. My family and I first traveled here from America in 1932. My father desired to establish a life and build a future for his family here in our blessed Soviet Union. We lived in the former “American Village” in Gorky, where my father worked in the Autostroy automotive factory. In 1938, under Stalin, he was falsely arrested as a vrag naroda and imprisoned near Gorky, where he died in 1942. His name was Carl Werner. He was a good man.

During the German occupation of Gorky, my mother and I barely survived but did all that we could do to defend our Russian heritage and to help our innocent soldiers during the war. I was also later falsely arrested in 1945, accused of espionage and treason, imprisoned and sentenced to a ten-year term in the Siberian camps, where I faithfully served out my sentence as a model prisoner and was then released just last year.

My husband, Günter Tobien, was a former German war prisoner who was sentenced and exiled to Siberia, where we met and married. We have a beautiful young son, Karl. My husband, my mother, my child, and I would now like permission to immigrate to East Germany, in accordance with your wonderful new War Prisoner Exchange Agreement, a sterling illustration of morality and human rights, for the world to see and admire!

We again request and deeply appreciate your favorable consideration in allowing us to do so. I believe all of my documents and papers are on record with the MVD in Moscow, for your inspection and review.

Comrade Khrushchev, you are a shining example of truth, justice, and democracy in our fair Russian motherland! And in your every word and deed, you most splendidly exemplify what a true world leader should be! You are indeed a man among men! Therefore, I thank you most sincerely, on behalf of my family, for your earnest consideration in this matter, and I firmly pledge my undying gratitude and loyalty to you sir, and to our most sacred land!

With all respect, I remain faithfully yours, Margaret Werner Tobien

I had to hold back laughter while writing such absurdities, but I thought the idea was brilliant. Early the following morning I mailed this bold but contrived personal appeal directly to Nikita Khrushchev. I only wanted him to buy what my letter was trying to sell.

I immediately returned to Gorky. Mama was amazed at this ingenious idea and surprised that I had already mailed the letter. Of course, she began to pray. I was always happy when she did that, but I wasn’t sure it would do any good. Maybe I thought this was too much for God to handle.

Just a few days later I was astonished to be summoned to an office of the presidium of the Supreme Soviet in Moscow. I spoke to a panel of four or five delegates, who encouraged me to tell my story at length and in full detail. I had never had this chance to be heard by someone in a position to effect change. The delegates seemed to be sensitive to my statements and concerns, and I saw in them indications that it might be possible for them to grant my request. I couldn’t tell, but I prayed,
God, please.

If my request was to be seriously considered, it wouldn’t be for the genuine humanitarian reasons behind it but for more practical reasons—political posturing or public relations. Everything these bureaucrats said and did, every word and deed, was carefully measured, and every decision was anchored in fear and paranoia. But if it worked, I wouldn’t care about the why. At the hearing’s conclusion, I was harshly ordered, “Return now to Gorky and await further developments.”

I returned home on the very next train, arriving at our apartment at about six in the morning. Very quietly I opened the door to our room, trying hard not to create a disturbance, but Karlie and Mama instantly opened their eyes as I entered. When Karl saw me, he said, “Mama, darling, please come home to Karlie!” I hadn’t been gone very long, and I could not believe what he said! My precious mother had taught him to say those words just so he could deliver that line upon my return.

My little son was thriving, and with all our love and attention, his speech was quite advanced for his age. At only eighteen months, he was rapidly acquiring both Russian and German, along with a bit of English. I was glad to be back home in Gorky with my mama and my son. I found I really did love the city and its people. Gorky was the only home I had known after my early life in Detroit. The city, the people, I loved. It was the government we could all do without.

When I first returned from Moscow, I felt a tremendous surge of hope about this endeavor to change our circumstances. I had wonderful premonitions of a successful conclusion to this chapter of our lives, and suddenly time seemed to fly by. I kept noticing special things about the city about my neighbors, because I would soon be leaving.

But months and more months went by, and I received no word back from Moscow. Gradually I gave in to dejection and resignation—defeated again. For years and years all I had heard was no news.

When Karl was nearly two years old, a letter finally arrived. It was a glorious day, when in December 1957, we were all granted permission to leave the country! We had a specified time to settle our personal affairs, put things in order, and then “promptly leave the country.”

Did Nikita Khrushchev, in fact, believe my letter? I wish I knew if that’s what triggered the decision. As the Germans say,
es macht nichts
—it doesn’t matter! But I immediately wrote to my dear friend in Moscow to tell him the good news. His advice had been priceless.

Our remaining time in Gorky was very hectic. We had few personal possessions, but the necessary paperwork and formalities were time consuming and frustrating. Getting all the documents together convinced me that every official held an advanced degree in general idiocy or the art of stalling. Some of them were so obtuse that we had to explain that GDR meant the German Democratic Republic. The Russians were experts in red tape and hoop jumping, but worst of all was their universal stance of self-righteous hostile authority. One official, a female office worker in Moscow, actually told my mother that if it were up to her, she would never have permitted my mother to leave the country.

This whole process was profoundly exasperating. But now, especially for me, silence was golden! And if I could only keep my mouth shut a little while longer, we might finally get out of this frightful place.

The papers were finally completed and stamped. We emptied Mama’s little apartment and packed our few things. Günter arrived from Inta. On February 17, 1958, as if awakening from a long bad dream, we left the Soviet Union behind us. We crossed into East Germany at the city of Fürstenwalde an der Spree. Though we were still firmly behind the iron curtain, we were now out of Russia forever!

Twenty-Three

THE ESCAPE

C
rossing into East Germany, we took a taxi to Finsterwalde, Günter’s hometown, about a hundred kilometers away. We spent the first two months in one room of an apartment that belonged to Günter’s brother, Max. Then we found a modest place of our own, a small but livable unit in a two-hundred-year-old house in the center of town.

Günter found a job in a local factory that produced materials for the Soviet Union, translating work manuals and directions from German into Russian. Though we had a small income, food was still rationed. Potatoes and onions weren’t always available, and meat was too expensive for ordinary people. When, rarely, bananas or oranges appeared in the stores, only one piece of fruit was allotted per family.

Our circumstances were still difficult, but the biggest problem that Günter and I now faced was our increasingly troubled marriage. Our early months in Germany were stormy as the same problems faced us again. And just four and a half months later, this tense and distressing time grew dramatically worse. I found a letter addressed to Günter from a Russian woman we had known in Inta, a member of my old dance ensemble. My sister-in-law and I read it immediately. It was a passionate love letter, reminding him of the intimate times they had shared and telling him how much she missed him and longed for him to return. I was stunned and horrified at the woman’s audacity but more so at my husband’s infidelity. And I was angry at my own stupidity: not knowing what should have been obvious to me all along.

This was supposedly a friend of mine, whose name I will not reveal. I had recently gained what I wanted through writing a letter, so I immediately answered her letter with one of my own. I pointed out to her my husband’s marital status and his responsibilities to his family. I felt especially threatened because I was now pregnant, and I let loose with my anger and warned her to take me seriously. When I confronted Günter, he showed little or no remorse. This episode caused much bitterness between us and irreparably damaged our marriage. He wanted no forgiveness, and I wasn’t offering any.

Now our son Karl became seriously ill with a bladder inflammation, and he was taken to a hospital about fifty kilometers away. He was there for a month, and I became worn out worrying over him. Then I miscarried and was sent to the local hospital myself. I hadn’t wanted another child of Günter’s at this time, but I would never have done anything to prevent its birth. I remembered Betty’s choice all too well. During the week I was in the hospital, powerful and mixed emotions flooded me. I was saddened to the core of my being as I dealt with the child I had suddenly lost. I was heartbroken about the state of my marriage and the rest of my life. Greater freedom had not brought me greater good.

At this embittered time, Günter and I began thinking seriously about leaving East Germany. Watching Günter’s brother and sister, we saw that we could never survive in the GDR; it was too much like Russia! We could not be satisfied, knowing that unlimited possibilities lay just across the border in the West. We both believed we could have better lives by defecting to the West by way of West Berlin. The risks seemed well worth it. I felt as if we were in a film, two archrivals or foes linked together by the intent to accomplish one mutual objective: ultimate freedom. After that,
es macht nichts!
We could go our separate ways, but we stood a better chance of getting out of East Germany together.

So together Günter and I weighed all the factors. My main hope was that my mother, my child, and I would eventually make it back to our true home: the United States of America. I could see other benefits, but that was what made the risk worthwhile for me.

West Germany was the strategic place for launching us back to the United States. This was my private plan within the larger plan, because I knew that Günter had no intention of immigrating to America. I wasn’t sure if I even wanted him to. He didn’t fully understand my true motives, but I didn’t know his either. In any case, the plan united us in the determination to make it to the democratic West at any cost.

At this time the infamous wall separating the Germanys had not yet been erected. Instead, heavily armed militia patrolled the strategic points along the border. It was a crime even to plan to leave East Germany, so we were in danger long before we actually attempted a crossing. If we were exposed, we would be arrested. And if we were caught at the border and detained by the Soviet-controlled Volkspolizei (People’s Police, or VOPOs, as they were called), we could be killed on the spot for attempted desertion. It was tense and stressful for all of us, including my mother. The success or failure of this escape would dictate our futures in one swift movement!

Our plan was solid, well thought out, and well rehearsed. We envisioned every detail long before we put it into motion. We planned our escape for June 28, 1958. This was the beginning of a long holiday weekend, so the border guards in Berlin would be distracted. We had heard that they didn’t pay as much attention at festive times as they normally would. So we chose that date and determined to make it work.