By ALEXANDER DOLITSKY
When the Soviet Union allowed a few Soviet Jews to emigrate after the 1967 Six-Day War in the Middle East, expectations of freer Jewish emigration to Israel became a real possibility.
But they were soon shattered as the 1972 Soviet emigration head tax made emigration very expensive and cumbersome. To emigrate from the Soviet Union, Soviet Jews had to pay a large sum of money for their schooling, including college education, that constitutionally was free in the Soviet Union to all citizens.
In May of 1972, President Richard Nixon and National Security Advisor Henry Kissinger negotiated with the Soviet authorities for the abolishment of the head tax just before the introduction of the Jackson–Vanik amendment to the Trade Act in the United States Congress.
The amendment intended to improve US trade relations with non-market economy countries (mostly Socialist countries with a planned and command economy) that restricted the freedom of Jewish emigration. The amendment was contained in the Trade Act of 1974 which passed Congress and was signed by President Gerald Ford into law on Jan. 3, 1975. I exited the Soviet Union on March 16, 1977 — a day to remember!
Indeed, because of Richard Nixon and Henry Kissinger’s diplomacy, legal emigration from the Soviet Union became a reality for the first time since the eruption of the Socialist October Revolution of 1917.
Nevertheless, opportunities for Soviet Jews to emigrate were still restricted by the Soviet authorities and troublesome for many Jews, especially for those who had access to military and intelligence information at their workplace. Most applicants for emigration would be fired from their jobs or expelled from universities, then wait in uncertainty for several months until permission to leave the country was granted by Soviet authorities—a nerve-wracking experience.
The Soviet government also mandated a restriction on the amount of assets that could be taken from the country by emigrants. Each emigrant could exchange only 90 rubles for 120.00 dollars (Russian currency was not convertible until 1991), and was allowed to take 200 grams of silver, one golden ring, one golden chain, one camera, one fur coat and hat, and almost everything else in a limited number. All these personal possessions, however, had to be stuffed and carried in two pieces of luggage and one personal bag — like today’s airplane travel limits.
Some Russian families had accumulated substantial personal property over their lifetime. So, they were converting their possessions into liquid assets (mostly diamonds and antiques), hoping to smuggle those treasures out of the country. Subsequently, many were caught by the customs’ agents at the border’s checkpoint, with a confiscation of the smuggled items and harsh penalties. But a few had better luck. For them, the risk was worth taking.
Leonid Reff, eventually my roommate and friend during the immigration vetting process in Italy prior to entering immigration-seeking countries, had a brilliant idea — to construct a sable fur coat of the enormous size 64. “If I am permitted to take one fur coat, then it will be a huge one,” he kept repeating with pride of his creative solution to the problem.
Leonid was in his late 30s, with a well-proportioned complexion, 5′ 10″ tall, and he was an emotionally balanced individual from Kharkov, an industrial city in northeast Ukraine. In Kharkov, he was a photographer — a lucrative and money-making profession in the former Soviet Union. So, Leonid had total assets of about 50,000 rubles, a large amount of money for the average Soviet at that time; and he had to find a creative way to convert his assets into valuable goods, to be sold later somewhere in the West to get his assets back in this unusual financial transaction.
Leonid managed to purchase premium-quality sable pelts, hired a skillful tailor and instructed him to construct a fur coat of the gigantic size with all required features—pockets, sleeves, color, etc. Fashion was not under consideration. The tailor was generously rewarded for his services and the coat was completed prior to Leonid’s departure from the Soviet Union. The coat was huge, so Leonid also had to construct a large duffel bag to fit the coat in it.
Both Leonid and his coat successfully left the country in Spring of 1977 and several weeks later arrived in Ostia di Lido, Italy, where he shared an apartment with me at Via di la Sirena 23, apt. 7. Most Jewish immigrants (except for those who petitioned to immigrate to Israel) first arrived and were lodged in Vienna, Austria for several weeks. From there, they were transported by train to Rome and Ostia di Lido, Italy. In Italy, emigrants were vetted by the authorities and then waited for permission to pursue their next destination to immigrant-seeking countries—mostly the U.S.A., Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and West Germany.
Chicago was Leonid’s ultimate dream. “I will sell my sable fur pelts in Chicago and with its proceeds open a photography business,” Leonid proudly planned.
About three months from our arrival to Italy, Leonid’s appointments were scheduled with the US Embassy counselor and with the representative from the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society, a nonprofit organization for sponsoring political refugees to immigrant-seeking countries. Leonid was full of excitement and hope. “What possibly can go wrong?” he speculated. But it did.
That day, Leonid came from the appointments with American authorities painfully silent, with a pale face and in distress. “They denied me an entrance to the United States,” he revealed to me with a shaking voice. “They don’t allow communist party members a residency in America!” he cried out.
I was surprised and shocked by this revelation. “What? Leo, are you a communist?“ I questioned him with my eyes wide open. “Leo, why? You are a photographer!” I demanded a definitive answer. “Yes, I am,” he confirmed.“ But photography was a shady business in Kharkov. I used my Communist Party ID as a cover, so I would not be suspected of wrongdoing,” he explained.
“Alright, but so what if you are a former member of the Communist Party?” I questioned him calmly. “Well, evidently, there is a law in the United States that forbids communists from other countries from permanent residency in America. They told me it goes back to 1953 or 1954, some kind of Senator McCarthy’s law,” Leo explained, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Leo, but what is going to happen to you now?” I asked him empathically. “You know, we are in limbo here. We are nobody in Italy!” I gave Leo a look of pained concern for his situation.
“Well, they reassigned me for immigration to Perth, Australia,” Leo answered. “I was told that Australia does not accept immigrants with a history of tuberculosis, mental illness, and some other things. Apparently, in Australia they don’t care much about communists,” continued Leo. “But now I must get rid of the fur coat before my departure from Italy to Australia. There is no need for a sable coat in the Australian desert,” contemplated Leo with a smirk smile.
The next day we were at the tailor’s sewing shop located around the corner from our apartment on Via di la Sirena. Residents of Ostia di Lido were aware that the Russian immigrants needed to liquidate their possessions at any cost prior to departure from Italy, and they would take advantage of the immigrants’ desperation.
The tailor was a small, stocky, middle-aged Sicilian-looking man with quick gestures. He smelled a deal when he saw us entering the shop with a huge duffel bag. Leo unwrapped the coat and in broken Italian questioned, “Quanto pagherai?”(How much will you pay?) The tailor carefully examined the coat, looked straight at Leo’s eyes, mumbled something in Italian, simultaneously waving his arms in all directions of the compass, and then scribbled on the piece of paper—$500.00.
Leo stared blankly at the tailor, then his eyes opened wide, and his mouth became an O shape. He slightly leaned toward the tailor and yelled in Russian, “I will burn this bloody coat in your shop before I sell it to you. I paid 40,000 rubles for it and you are offering me $500.00. You slimy spaghetti!” The tailor did not speak Russian, but he understood that Leo’s yelling meant— “No deal!”
Several months later, Leo was granted permission to immigrate to Perth, Australia. He was my roommate in Ostia di Lido for nearly nine months and, ultimately, we became trusted friends, sharing with each other our plans, hopes, dreams, worries and aspirations.
About two months after Leo’s departure to Australia, I received permission to immigrate to the United States. In America, unfortunately, I lost contact with Leo. Today, I only hope that his immigration to Australia was a great success, and the sable fur coat found its home with deserved owners.
Leo, wherever you or yours are now. Give me a call. Let’s chat!
Note: The Communist Control Act of 1954, enacted on August 24, 1954, was a United States federal law that aimed to outlaw the Communist Party USA and related organizations. It declared the Communist Party a tool of a conspiracy to overthrow the U.S. government and denied it the rights and privileges afforded to legal political parties. The act also prohibited members of Communist organizations from holding certain representative capacities and created a new category of “Communist-infiltrated organizations.”
Accordingly, members of the Communist Party after the Act of 1954 are not allowed to immigrate to the United States and become the US permanent residents. Violators of this Act are subjects for deportation from the United States.
Alexander Dolitsky was born and raised in Kiev in the former Soviet Union. He received an M.A. in history from Kiev Pedagogical Institute, Ukraine in 1976; an M.A. in anthropology and archaeology from Brown University in 1983; and enrolled in the Ph.D. program in anthropology at Bryn Mawr College from 1983 to 1985, where he was also lecturer in the Russian Center. In the USSR, he was a social studies teacher for three years and an archaeologist for five years for the Ukrainian Academy of Sciences. In 1978, he settled in the United States. Dolitsky visited Alaska for the first time in 1981, while conducting field research for graduate school at Brown. He then settled first in Sitka in 1985 and then in Juneau in 1986. From 1985 to 1987, he was U.S. Forest Service archaeologist and social scientist. He was an Adjunct Assistant Professor of Russian Studies at the University of Alaska Southeast from 1985 to 1999; Social Studies Instructor at the Alyeska Central School, Alaska Department of Education and Yukon-Koyukuk School District from 1988 to 2006; and Director of the Alaska-Siberia Research Center from 1990 to 2022. From 2006 to 2010, Alexander Dolitsky served as a Delegate of the Russian Federation in the United States for the Russian Compatriots program. He has done 30 field studies in various areas of the former Soviet Union (including Siberia), Central Asia, South America, Eastern Europe and the United States (including Alaska). Dolitsky was a lecturer on the World Discoverer, Spirit of Oceanus, and Clipper Odyssey vessels in the Arctic and Sub-Arctic regions. He was a Project Manager for the WWII Alaska-Siberia Lend Lease Memorial, which was erected in Fairbanks in 2006. Dolitsky has published extensively in the fields of anthropology, history, archaeology and ethnography. His more recent publications include Fairy Tales and Myths of the Bering Strait Chukchi, Ancient Tales of Kamchatka, Tales and Legends of the Yupik Eskimos of Siberia, Old Russia in Modern America: Living Traditions of the Russian Old Believers in Alaska, Allies in Wartime: The Alaska-Siberia Airway During World War II, Spirit of the Siberian Tiger: Folktales of the Russian Far East, Living Wisdom of the Russian Far East: Tales and Legends from Chukotka and Alaska, and Pipeline to Russia: The Alaska-Siberia Air Route in World War II.
