ventured out, for many a young Galahad had wanted to toss him overboard for insulting his frightened damsel.
Just as some passengers hung back and withdrew into themselves, others were naturally outgoing and gregarious, what Americans call “good mixers.” Such a one was my Danish friend. By the end of the first day, he knew everyone on board, and had learned everyone’s life story, eliciting their comedies and tragedies. He was even something of a matchmaker, bringing together heavy-hearted members of both sexes. He liked to keep things at a merry boil. So successful was his matchmaking that some of his pairings endured for the entire length of the trip.
One day he proposed to set me up with a real Russian, one of his tablemates. He felt that Jews and Russians were somehow related and that the two of us would get on like a house afire. The Russian, named Khazhev, was actually delighted to meet me since the meddlesome Dane, despite his enthusiasm for Socialism and the great Soviet experiment, was becoming too much of a burden. For his part, the Dane was relieved to divest himself of the Russian, busy as he was with many other social duties that precluded paying too much attention to any one person. Besides, he was already light years removed from his youthful radicalism, and uttered the words “Soviet experiment” mechanically, “to make conversation,” as the Americans put it.
Khazhev took an immediate shine to me, as if we were indeed related. His tiny, almost Mongolian eyes looked at me warmly, trustingly. As for me, I had never been in either the old Russia or in its newer incarnation, and knew Russians only from the Polish city of my youth, then under Russian rule—a Russified town with onion-domed churches, long-bearded Russian Orthodox priests, Russian high-school teachers, and Russian government functionaries. But one look at Khazhev and I knew that standing before me was a different Russian sort, the new Soviet man. The three years he had just spent studying electrical engineering at Cornell University had done nothing to “Americanize” or refine him. Indeed, very little of America had stuck to him, and he spoke English as if he were rolling pebbles around in his mouth. He often had to rescue himself from his sputtering by falling back on a good, old Russian word.
He was happy to be going home and especially pleased that he had completed his four-year plan in three, saving the Soviet government a full year’s expenditure on his behalf. He wished that poor students of all other nationalities should have it so good. In addition to his tuition, the Soviet Union had provided him with a monthly stipend of $150, for students a princely sum. On top of that, during his overseas studies, the Soviet government supported his wife and two children. Now the Soviet motherland was expecting him back, and he was proud to be returning, with not just a diploma but a body of knowledge that could be put to immediate use in regular development projects. He looked forward to showing that the money spent on him had not been wasted.
He had seen a great deal of America—the Ford motor plant, the General Electric Company, and other models of industry and capitalism. He had many good things to say about America, but he wouldn’t settle there for all the money in the world because … Here he chose his words as tactfully as a diplomat. He was grateful for the education he had received in America, but since he was now leaving the country, why badmouth it? He thought of himself as an ambassador whom the Soviet government had sent to a friendly country, and he didn’t want to embarrass his country with an unnecessary remark. Decked out like a tycoon, Khazhev was bringing home cameras, suits, several pairs of shoes, a typewriter, a phonograph … But he wished he were already home.
“You see,” he explained, “my older son was born mute. He was five when I left, and had never spoken a word. He just sat there, looking up at
Just as some passengers hung back and withdrew into themselves, others were naturally outgoing and gregarious, what Americans call “good mixers.” Such a one was my Danish friend. By the end of the first day, he knew everyone on board, and had learned everyone’s life story, eliciting their comedies and tragedies. He was even something of a matchmaker, bringing together heavy-hearted members of both sexes. He liked to keep things at a merry boil. So successful was his matchmaking that some of his pairings endured for the entire length of the trip.
One day he proposed to set me up with a real Russian, one of his tablemates. He felt that Jews and Russians were somehow related and that the two of us would get on like a house afire. The Russian, named Khazhev, was actually delighted to meet me since the meddlesome Dane, despite his enthusiasm for Socialism and the great Soviet experiment, was becoming too much of a burden. For his part, the Dane was relieved to divest himself of the Russian, busy as he was with many other social duties that precluded paying too much attention to any one person. Besides, he was already light years removed from his youthful radicalism, and uttered the words “Soviet experiment” mechanically, “to make conversation,” as the Americans put it.
Khazhev took an immediate shine to me, as if we were indeed related. His tiny, almost Mongolian eyes looked at me warmly, trustingly. As for me, I had never been in either the old Russia or in its newer incarnation, and knew Russians only from the Polish city of my youth, then under Russian rule—a Russified town with onion-domed churches, long-bearded Russian Orthodox priests, Russian high-school teachers, and Russian government functionaries. But one look at Khazhev and I knew that standing before me was a different Russian sort, the new Soviet man. The three years he had just spent studying electrical engineering at Cornell University had done nothing to “Americanize” or refine him. Indeed, very little of America had stuck to him, and he spoke English as if he were rolling pebbles around in his mouth. He often had to rescue himself from his sputtering by falling back on a good, old Russian word.
He was happy to be going home and especially pleased that he had completed his four-year plan in three, saving the Soviet government a full year’s expenditure on his behalf. He wished that poor students of all other nationalities should have it so good. In addition to his tuition, the Soviet Union had provided him with a monthly stipend of $150, for students a princely sum. On top of that, during his overseas studies, the Soviet government supported his wife and two children. Now the Soviet motherland was expecting him back, and he was proud to be returning, with not just a diploma but a body of knowledge that could be put to immediate use in regular development projects. He looked forward to showing that the money spent on him had not been wasted.
He had seen a great deal of America—the Ford motor plant, the General Electric Company, and other models of industry and capitalism. He had many good things to say about America, but he wouldn’t settle there for all the money in the world because … Here he chose his words as tactfully as a diplomat. He was grateful for the education he had received in America, but since he was now leaving the country, why badmouth it? He thought of himself as an ambassador whom the Soviet government had sent to a friendly country, and he didn’t want to embarrass his country with an unnecessary remark. Decked out like a tycoon, Khazhev was bringing home cameras, suits, several pairs of shoes, a typewriter, a phonograph … But he wished he were already home.
“You see,” he explained, “my older son was born mute. He was five when I left, and had never spoken a word. He just sat there, looking up at
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