Never Speak to Strangers and Other Writing from Russia and the Soviet Union. David Satter

believe.

      When we entered the compartment, the women were in their nightgowns. Masha was sitting on the upper bunk, her breasts and a crucifix visible through the opening of her gown. The dark haired girl was lying on her side on the bottom bunk. We began to undress and the boxing coach turned off the overhead lamp so the only light came from the reading lights above each of the berths. I climbed into the upper berth and the coach got into the lower berth. The small lights were then turned off, leaving nothing to illuminate what went on until several hours later when the first filtering rays of sunlight indicated the break of day.

      During the night, I was troubled by a strange dream. There was an indistinct image of the dark haired girl moving around the compartment as if she was making preparations to leave. After I had opened my eyes, I became concerned about my suitcase. I pulled on my pants and climbed down from the upper bunk. The fields and forests looked blue in the early morning light. The coach was already dressed and sitting on the opposite lower berth. The girls were asleep in their beds. Joking with the coach, I reached for my suitcase. It was then that I discovered that it was gone.

      Suddenly, the coach began feeling the pockets of his jacket. “Wait a minute,” he said, “my watch is gone!”

      He looked down at the bunk where the dark haired girl was sleeping, curled up in a tight ball facing the wall. He pulled back the top blanket and under it found other blankets tightly rolled from the inside out and arranged to create the impression of a sleeping person. I woke up Masha Ivanova and asked her what she knew about the dark haired girl. She said that she had met her that evening for the first time. I called the attendant and asked her if she had noticed anyone leaving the train in the middle of the night. I explained that I had lost my suitcase and the boxing coach had lost his watch. She promised to alert the police.

      The train arrived in Tallinn at 8:30 am and we were met by the police and taken to their headquarters in the station. The police made clear that they viewed the case with the utmost seriousness. They insisted that we write detailed statements and stressed that any omission could impair the investigation. The coach and Masha wrote their statements and then Masha helped me to write mine. Reading the statements, the officer in charge began to wonder. “Two men and two women in one compartment,” he said, his voice trailing off thoughtfully.

      I now faced a dilemma of my own making. My notes from Lithuania were gone. It was urgent that I find the Estonian dissidents whose names and addresses were in my suitcase. Fortunately, I also had written them down on a piece of paper that was in my wallet.

      We left the station and got in a line at the taxi stand. It was a cool, foggy morning and behind us, the Upper City of Tallinn, with its medieval walls and spires, was wreathed in mist. A jeep pulled up and a policeman offered us a ride. We were taken to the Viru Hotel. As I got out of the jeep, Masha gave me her address in Tallinn.

      I entered the hotel and got in line to register. As I waited, I gradually became aware of a short man in a fur hat and long coat trying to attract my attention. He finally cleared his throat, walked up to me and shook hands, leaving a tiny piece of paper that had been folded over several times in my hand. He then turned and walked quickly through the lobby and out the front door of the hotel.

      As I put the piece of paper in my pocket, a change came over me. For the first time, I started to feel like a spectator at a play in which I was also an involuntary participant. In spite of myself, I began to look forward to the next act.

      I registered and took the elevator to my room. Once in my room, I read the note. It asked me to call a telephone number in Tallinn from an automatic phone. I went downstairs and dialed the number. I told myself that if a Russian answered the phone, I had reached the KGB. If the voice was Estonian, it might be the Estonian dissidents. The voice was Estonian. In heavily accented Russian, a man asked me to wait in front of the Tallinna Kaubamaja, the city’s main department store, at exactly one o’clock. The person who gave me the note would meet me there. When I tried to ask another question, he hung up.

      I left the hotel and went to the department store. At 1 pm, I was met by the man from the hotel lobby. He signaled to me to follow him and we proceeded in single file down a diagonal street between five story housing blocks to an archway and entered a courtyard. He then stepped into an entryway and up a flight of steps. The door opened for him and as soon as I followed him into the small apartment, it was quickly closed and locked behind me.

      I was ushered into a dimly lit sitting room. In the middle of the table, there were several empty glasses and an unopened bottle of cognac. The man who had brought me to the apartment motioned for me to take a chair at the head of the table and the others—three men of about middle age—gathered in chairs around the table in a rough semi-circle. My guide then took up a perch directly opposite me on the windowsill.

      I looked around at my companions. The man on my right was tall and thin with a mournful expression. Next to him was the man who had met me in the hotel. The next person was also short with a sheaf of sandy colored hair over his forehead. On my left, the fourth member of the group sat in a large armchair. He had a round face and intelligent, gray eyes. He was the only member of the group with a genuinely humane expression.

      The tall, mournful looking man got up, opened the bottle of cognac and poured me a drink. I nodded and took a sip. He then returned to his chair and said in Russian but with a thick Estonian accent, “What happened to you? We saw you with the police at the station.”

      For some reason, I suddenly was convinced that I was in the presence of the KGB. “I think you know the answer to that question better than I do,” I said.

      “We are very worried,” said the man with the sandy hair, ignoring my reaction, “we want to know what happened to you.”

      “I was with the police,” I said, “because my suitcase was stolen in the middle of the night from the train. Why don’t you tell me where it is?”

      “Our movement may be in danger because of you,” the sandy haired man continued. “Were our names in the suitcase that was stolen?”

      “I don’t know who you are. I also don’t know anything about any names.”

      “Did Viktors Kalnins give you our names?” the sandy haired man persisted.

      The tall, solemn man seemed demoralized by the hopelessness of the situation. “Viktors called me,” he said, “and we went to the station to meet you but we left when we saw you talking to the police.”

      “So,” I said, “you are trying to tell me that someone arranged for you to meet me in Tallinn?” Several of them nodded their heads yes.

      “Show me some identification,” I said.

      “No, we don’t show any identification,” said the sandy haired man, shaking his head firmly.

      “I’m glad to hear that,” I said, “because for a moment it occurred to me that you might actually be the dissidents but if you won’t identify yourselves, it only proves to me that you’re the KGB.”

      The superficial politeness that had prevailed up until that point disappeared. The tall, solemn member of the group leaned over the table. “I spent twelve years in the camps,” he said. “My friends have spent six, seven and eight years in the camps. You’re not going to treat us like a bunch of niggers.”

      This remark took me completely by surprise. Could it be that I was accusing them unfairly?

      “You’re operating on a false assumption,” said the older man whose expression had been the most sympathetic. “The KGB can forge any kind of identification it wants. In a situation like this, you can’t rely on documents.” He hesitated and then added gently, “You have to believe what is in your heart.”

      He asked me if I had the names and addresses of the people I was to see. I said that I knew who I was supposed to see. I then removed the paper with the names and addresses from my wallet. “Now, tell me,” I said, “who are you?” The tall, solemn man on my right said, “I am Valdo Reinart.” The man who met me in the hotel lobby said, “I