Your Email:

Friend's Email:

Note: (optional)

Subject:

Message: <br /><br /> If you are having trouble reading this email, you may view this article online at: http://www.jweekly.com/27776/full/27776/american-dream-sours-for-russian-migr-s/ <br /><br /> <b>American dream sours for Russian émigrés</b> <br /> Friday, November 25, 2005 | by dan pine <br /><br /><p>Call the main line at Congregation Beth Am in Los Altos Hills and you get a recorded greeting in English and Russian. That fact alone says a lot about the synagogue's commitment to its Russian émigrés.<br /><br /> When thousands of Jews from the Soviet Union came to this country, American Jews opened their arms to embrace them.<br /><br /> I know. Ten years ago, I was one of the Jews with the arms.<br /><br /> My former Los Angeles synagogue had launched a small Russian émigré program, mostly involving English tutoring. Having a fascination with all things Russian, I signed up right away.<br /><br /> My assignment: Tutor a family newly arrived from Moscow and living in a drab San Fernando Valley apartment.<br /><br /> Mischa and Gela were young and gorgeous, with a beautiful 3-year-old daughter, Lilliana. My job was to converse with them about simple everyday topics, encouraging them to practice speaking English.<br /><br /> I was charmed by all three (though Lilliana threw a pencil at my face during that first meeting). Over the months, we grew close. They taught me the Cyrillic alphabet, I taught them weird contractions like "wouldn't've" and "couldn't've." Mischa told me about his days in the Soviet Army when he would kill enemy Afghan fighters with his bayonet.<br /><br /> I told him about Disneyland.<br /><br /> The first time we all went to the synagogue, I could tell they were lost. They had never set foot in a temple back in Moscow. Whatever they knew of Judaism came from the fading memories of their babushkas.<br /><br /> We had fun together. I had a hunger for Russian vocabulary that my new friends happily obliged. When Gela taught me the word "skavarotka" (which means "frying pan"), I thought it sounded so exotic, I started to stroke her cheek with the back of my hand, cooing romantically, "Skavarotka, skavarotka ... "<br /><br /> They laughed hard when I served them coffee along with a yellow carton of Mocha Mix (the Russian word for "urine" is "mocha").<br /><br /> Then there were the feasts. Though it's as calorie-dense as coal, I love Russian food and couldn't get enough of it. My first time at a Russian restaurant with Mischa and Gela, I pigged out for an hour, and just when I thought it was time to pay the bill, the waiter asked if I had enjoyed the appetizers and would I like the chicken Kiev or the stroganoff.<br /><br /> Mischa taught me to drink vodka, and poorly. One night at a Russian restaurant, he kept refilling my shot glass, which I kept dumping into my water glass when he wasn't looking.<br /><br /> The two took to American life at warp speed. In no time, Mischa had a good job that allowed the couple to spend like real Americans. They would whisk off to Vegas every month, always returning in the chips.<br /><br /> Soon they bought a house in the hills, put in a new kitchen with marble countertops and plunked down a sectional sofa in front of a big screen TV. They had long ceased needing me to practice English.<br /><br /> They had another baby, a boy. Life seemed good for the family. I loved them dearly, though I wouldn't drop in to visit as often as they wished. In Russian culture, drop-ins are expected, along with spontaneous feasts, vodka toasts and the singing of folk songs.<br /><br /> But then Gela had an affair with Mischa's best friend. He quickly hooked up with another woman, a Russian single mother. Gela played hardball, took the kids. He swore revenge. The divorce was ugly.<br /><br /> The American dream was looking dingy and haphazard.<br /><br /> I never blamed them. Coming from a culture of scarcity, where cunning made all the difference, why wouldn't they seize everything they could, however they could?<br /><br /> We all went our separate ways, and now it's been years since I've seen them. I imagine Mischa and Gela are fighting the same battles as most of us -- for love, for money, for meaning -- only on a lonelier battlefield. They dismissed the Jewish community that took them in and set them up. The Jewish faith that beckoned to them apparently didn't take.<br /><br /> I can still pick my way through a Russian newspaper and make out some words. I recall a few in particular: "druzya" (friends), "lyublyu" (love) and "prikrasniya" (beautiful).<br /><br /> There was a time when those words fell easily off my tongue. I hope someday to speak them again. <br /><br /> <br><br /><br /> <b>Dan Pine</b> lives and kvetches in Albany. He can be reached at <a href="mailto:dan@jweekly.com"><a href="mailto:dan@jweekly.com">dan@jweekly.com</a></a>.</p>

Please enter the letters and numbers you see in the image below: