“An Album of Memories”
🍇 Chapter 4
Aron Botvinnik, the Tailor
Part 4
🧳 A Journey Across Several Borders
Aron did not make the decision to leave the Soviet Union in a single evening. It took shape over the course of years—from hundreds of small incidents, doubts, hopes, and conversations. But eventually there comes a day when a person stops asking himself:
“Should I?”
and begins asking an entirely different question:
“How?”
For most Soviet citizens, the possibility of freely leaving the country was virtually nonexistent. But during the 1970s and 1980s, a particular route opened up for some Soviet Jews.
Formally, people applied for permission to emigrate to Israel on the basis of invitations from real—or sometimes fictitious—relatives. In practice, after leaving the Soviet Union, many ultimately chose other countries as their permanent homes: the United States, Canada, Australia, and elsewhere.
👉 Why Did This Possibility Open Up at All?
In the late 1960s and early 1970s, several circumstances came together at roughly the same time.
• After the Six-Day War of 1967, the situation of Soviet Jews attracted widespread attention in the West. Influential Jewish organizations in the United States and other countries began actively campaigning for their right to emigrate freely, regarding it not only as a political issue but also as a moral one.
For many members of a new generation of American Jews, helping Soviet Jews came to be seen as a moral obligation—and as a determination not to repeat what many regarded as one of the tragic failures of their parents’ generation: the failure to do enough while European Jews were being persecuted and murdered during the Holocaust. They believed that such silence must never happen again.
• At the same time, the Soviet Union was experiencing serious difficulties in agriculture. Repeated poor harvests increasingly forced the country to purchase millions of tons of grain abroad, and beginning in the 1970s the USSR became the world’s largest importer of grain.
The problem was not simply one particular “bad year,” but a combination of structural problems and persistent inefficiencies in the Soviet agricultural system.
The year 1972 became particularly notable. The Soviet Union purchased unprecedented quantities of grain abroad, including from the United States, Canada, France, and Australia. That same year, a special three-year agreement was signed for the supply of hundreds of millions of dollars’ worth of American grain to the USSR.
At the same time, enormous revenues from Soviet oil and gas exports to the West gave the country the hard currency needed to pay for large-scale imports of wheat and other grain. For the Soviet leadership, economic relations with the West were becoming increasingly important.
• American lawmakers decided to use this economic leverage. In 1974, the famous Jackson–Vanik Amendment was adopted. It linked the granting of favorable trade treatment to countries with non-market economies to their citizens’ right to emigrate. The Soviet leadership sharply condemned the legislation. But for the first time, the issue of freedom to leave the country had become connected not only with diplomacy and human rights, but also with concrete economic interests.
• Although formally the issue concerned the right of any person to leave his or her country, historically the main focus was on Soviet Jews, many of whom had been denied permission to emigrate to Israel. This was how the term refusenik entered common use.
Refuseniks were people who had applied for permission to emigrate and received an official refusal from the Soviet authorities. Many remained under KGB surveillance for years, lost their jobs or academic careers, and found their opportunities for professional advancement severely restricted. Soviet Jews formed the largest and most internationally visible group of refuseniks.
•Ethnic Germans, including descendants of the Volga Germans, found themselves in a somewhat similar position. Many regarded West Germany as their historical homeland, and over time this led to a significant movement of ethnic repatriation.
Beginning in the late 1970s, smaller numbers of ethnic Greeks also began emigrating as the Greek government increasingly supported the return of members of the historical Greek diaspora.
In both cases, emigration could also be understood as repatriation of a historical diaspora.
• By the 1980s, the first waves of Armenian emigration also began to emerge, particularly after the Spitak earthquake and amid the conflict over Nagorno-Karabakh.
• There were also people who sought to leave for religious reasons—Pentecostals, Baptists, Mennonites, Old Believers, and Greek Catholics.
What the West would later call the Soviet “brain drain” was beginning.
But we might add something else as well: the Soviet Union was losing not only scientists, engineers, and intellectuals, but also skilled hands and people with entrepreneurial and organizational talent—abilities that the Soviet system often gave them little opportunity to develop to their full potential.
✂️ The Last Fitting of His Former Life
• The decision had been made. Now came the Soviet bureaucracy.
First, an invitation from Israel had to be obtained. Then came the documents: proof of family relationships, notarized translations of certain certificates, photographs, applications, questionnaires. And every time, the same anxious thought:
“Have I forgotten something?”
Some certificate? The required number of copies? Had everything been signed correctly? Was every official stamp exactly where it was supposed to be?
• OVIR — Office of Visas and Registration
OVIR was the commonly used Russian acronym for the Soviet Office of Visas and Registration (Otdel Viz i Registratsii), the government agency responsible for processing applications to leave the Soviet Union, among other matters.
Long, silent lines outside yet another official’s door. Almost no one spoke. Everyone understood why the others were there. Some had already been refused and were trying for a second or third time. There were rumors that sometimes documents moved more quickly after the “right conversation” with the right person. Whether this was true or merely another urban legend, no one was particularly interested in finding out anymore. They simply wanted to get out of this “swamp” as soon as possible.
Aron looked around and realized that he was no longer alone. But that did not make it any easier.
• Work
What should he tell his colleagues? Who could be trusted with the truth, and with whom was it better to say nothing at all?
— I’ll be leaving my job soon. I’m moving to be closer to relatives, — he would say, without specifying where or which relatives.
There were farewell orders. Final fittings. Quiet goodbyes to longtime customers who did not even realize they were saying goodbye.
Someone would say:
— See you next week.
And Aron knew that he would never see her again.
• The Apartment
Some belongings were sold. Others were given to neighbors. Some things could not be taken out of the country. Others were simply left behind. Soon, other people would be living in this apartment. Perhaps some of those things would be useful to them.
Neighbors came by “to have a look at the wardrobe.” And somehow, they ended up leaving with it. Afterward, they stood together in the courtyard for a long time, now in silence, with nothing more to say. No one mentioned the wardrobe again.
Everyone understood: this was not simply a departure. It was a farewell forever.
• The Suitcases
Only two were allowed. What should he take? Every kilogram became a choice between the past and the future.
Suits? His tailor’s shears? Family photographs? Favorite books? Only one ring, one chain. And he must not forget the little bottle of wine made from the Lydia grapes growing in the courtyard.
That was about memory.
One pair of binoculars. One small telescope. A brand-new camera made by the Leningrad Optical-Mechanical Association (LOMO), bought especially for the journey. One new wristwatch—people said that in the West Soviet watches were respected for their reliability and accuracy.
Those were for the future—a possible means of survival during the first difficult months.
From the outside, such ideas might seem naive. But this was the advice given by “people who knew”—those who had already traveled the same road.
• Familiar Places
Aron suddenly began to look at the city differently. It turned out that all his life he had walked past buildings that he now found himself studying with unusual care.
The market. The Opera House. Lanzheron Beach. The port. Primorsky Boulevard. His own courtyard. The grapevine is growing there. Even the smell of the sea seemed different. Before, it had simply been familiar. Now it was becoming a memory.
— Will I remember it forever—or will the new scents of another life eventually take its place?
Every new stamp on another official document brought closer the moment when the familiar streets, his workshop, the courtyard, and its grapevine would all be left behind.
❤️ So That the Journey Would Be a Happy One
During one of Aron’s last days in Odessa, the courtyard’s unofficial leader, Aunt Rosa Glazer, decided to prepare a farewell Jewish meal for him according to old family traditions that her mother and grandmother had once taught her.
Inviting Aron to the table, Rosa said:
— I don’t know how other Jews are supposed to do it, but in our family, this is how it was always done.
On the table were gefilte fish, matzah, and tzimmes.
In our Odessa courtyard, farewells did not begin at the railway station, but around the family table, where every dish carried a family memory and every meal became a heartfelt blessing for the journey ahead. The framed sign on the wall reads: “Welcome, kind people, to our courtyard.”
— You already know the fish. Without it, a Jewish farewell isn’t a proper farewell. But be sure to take some matzah. It reminds us that sometimes life makes a person set out on a journey before he has time to prepare for it. But you still have to take your memories with you.
A little later, Rosa added:
— And try the tzimmes too. So that your new life will be at least a little sweeter than the old one. And if things get difficult, remember that even carrots with honey must once have seemed like very simple food to someone—and now they’ve become a holiday dish.
👉 In its classic form, tzimmes is a sweet dish made from carrots. Prunes, raisins, honey, and sometimes apples were often added as well. The result was something halfway between a side dish, a dessert, and a philosophical question.
Why carrots? There is a lovely tradition behind that. In Yiddish culture, sliced carrots, with their round shape, were associated with coins. Tzimmes therefore came to symbolize wishes for prosperity, well-being, and good fortune. In other words, it was more than just food. It was an edible wish for happiness.
Rosa explained nothing more. She simply put another piece of fish on Aron’s plate, then another spoonful of tzimmes, as though she were trying to feed him not only for that evening, but for the long journey ahead.
🪡 She Had Not Finished Her Work Yet
Just before leaving, Aron went over to the old Singer one last time. Slowly, he ran his hand over the familiar cast-iron body, as though he were saying goodbye not to an object, but to a part of his own life. His grandfather had once worked at this machine. Then his father. And eventually Aron himself had taken his place behind it. It had survived the war, displacement, difficult years, and thousands of garments, becoming a silent witness to the history of the Botvinnik family.
Taking her across the ocean was impossible. And so the Singer remained behind in the Odessa apartment. Not as a forgotten piece of furniture, but as the guardian of the family’s craft and memory.
Aron was certain that one day her treadle would creak again, the needle would once more begin stitching steadily through fabric, and the old machine would continue to serve people for many years to come.
In that respect, she was remarkably like the grapevine in the courtyard. The vine remembered generations of residents and every autumn gave them another harvest. The Singer, too, had outlived several generations of tailors and seemed to have no intention of retiring.
Even as her last owner was leaving Odessa forever, the old machine’s story was not coming to an end. She was simply waiting for someone to place a foot on the treadle again, take up a piece of fabric, and continue the family trade that had begun so many years before.
✂️ The Shears That Set Out on a Journey
Before closing his suitcase, Aron checked once more to make sure that his large tailor’s shears were safely inside. They had been made in Solingen, Germany—a city renowned for centuries for producing blades, knives, razors, and professional scissors. The Solingen mark was still visible on one of the blades, a name well known to craftsmen who valued reliable steel and precision tools. These were not shears one bought for a season—or even for a decade. A good tool could serve a craftsman for an entire lifetime and was often passed from master to apprentice, or from father to son.
Aron’s father had given him these shears when he first began working on his own. They were heavy, well balanced, and cut easily through fabric folded into several layers. The long lower blade barely lifted from the table, allowing Aron to make a smooth, precise cut, while the massive handles rested comfortably in his hand. They did not need to be constantly replaced. All that was required was to protect the blades, never use them to cut paper, and from time to time take them to a good craftsman for sharpening.
Over the years, Aron replaced countless needles, measuring tapes, pieces of tailor’s chalk, and thimbles. But the shears remained the same. They had cut the fabric for hundreds of suits, coats, trousers, and dresses. The black finish on the handles had worn away in places, the metal had acquired a soft sheen, and the blades still moved with the same confident, dry sound Aron had heard thousands of times before.
To anyone else, they were simply an old professional tool. To Aron, they were an extension of his hand.
The old Singer remained behind in the Odessa apartment, preserving the memory of home and of several generations of the Botvinnik family.
The shears, however, went into the suitcase and traveled with Aron through Chop, Vienna, and Italy, before eventually crossing the Atlantic Ocean.
And so the two principal tools of the family trade parted company. The sewing machine remained behind as the guardian of the past. The shears were destined to become a tool of the future
And so the two principal tools of the family trade parted company.
The sewing machine remained behind as the guardian of the past.
The shears were destined to become a tool of the future.
• The Last Fitting
Before leaving, Aron put on his best suit. He stood in front of the mirror for a long time, looking at his reflection. He adjusted the lapel, smoothed the sleeve. The suit fit perfectly. You could see the quality of the fabric and the hand of a skilled tailor. That was exactly as it should be for a man born into generations of the trade.
Before leaving, Aron tried on the suit he had made for himself one last time. Everything fit exactly as it should in the work of a fine tailor. But as he looked into the mirror, he understood that this final fitting was not for the suit, but for the life he was leaving behind
And then, for the first time, Aron understood that
the last fitting was not for the suit, but for his former life.
His next fitting would take place in another country, far from this courtyard. Would it be better than the ones in Odessa? He did not know yet. But of course, deep down, he hoped it would be.
After all, that was why he had set all of this in motion.
🧳 The Journey with Two Suitcases
👉 For many Soviet Jewish emigrants of that period, the route to the United States was indirect. Formally, they were permitted to leave on the basis of invitations from Israel—real or fictitious—but many never reached the “Promised Land.”
Their route took them through Chop, a town in western Ukraine on the border with what was then socialist Hungary. From there, they traveled by train to Vienna, the capital of Austria, and then on to Italy, to the outskirts of Rome. Only there could emigrants apply for admission to other countries—above all, the United States.
…Aron Moiseyevich walked slowly across the pedestrian bridge, his steps heavy. In each hand he carried a large suitcase—old and rigid, with scuffed corners and a short handle that dug painfully into his palm. Suitcases with wheels did not yet exist. And so, quite literally, every step toward a new life had to be carried by hand.
Below the bridge stretched the railway tracks. Some still lay within the Soviet Union; others already led into Hungary. Between them stood a tall wire fence—the final boundary of the country where Aron had been born and raised, learned his trade, married, buried loved ones, and sewn suits and coats for several generations of residents of his Odessa courtyard.
Somewhere above that dividing line, he stopped.
He set the suitcases down on the concrete walkway, straightened his back, and clenched and unclenched his fingers several times until the feeling returned to them.
Soviet border guards stood nearby. The Hungarian guards were barely visible—and why would they need to be? Those walking in this direction had already been checked thoroughly enough by the Soviet border authorities.
Aron Moiseyevich slowly turned around.
Late 1970s. Chop. Pedestrian bridge across the Soviet–Hungarian border. Many Soviet emigrants passed this way on their journey to the West
Behind him lay the railway tracks, the station, Chop—and beyond them the enormous country that from here could scarcely be seen anymore.
Somewhere very far away was Odessa. His courtyard on Sadovaya Street. The grapevine. The water pump. The shared balcony. The workshop window. And the black sewing machine whose foot treadle had moved steadily back and forth for so many years. And the people for whom he had spent so many years making suits, graduation dresses, and wedding gowns.
He did not look back for long.
Then Aron picked up the suitcases again. The handles dug into his palms as before. He turned toward the Hungarian side and continued walking—without quickening his pace and without looking back again.
In Ladispoli, a seaside town about 35–40 kilometers (22–25 miles) northwest of Rome, Soviet emigrants who did not intend to continue on to Israel could stay temporarily while their cases were being processed. The town had plenty of vacant hotels, boarding houses, and seasonal apartments. From there, former Soviet citizens submitted petitions and applications to the U.S. Embassy in Rome and waited for a decision. It was difficult to predict what the American immigration authorities would decide. But in Ladispoli, for the first time in many years, people experienced what it was like to live outside the rigid Soviet system—even though they were not yet in America.
Aron Botvinnik received a favorable decision on his application. Six months later, he arrived in New York.
As the plane began its descent toward John F. Kennedy International Airport, two identical towers appeared in the distance above Manhattan. They immediately stood out from the surrounding buildings—severe, unfamiliar, extraordinarily tall, almost as though they had been placed there at the entrance to a new world.
Aron did not yet know what they were called. Nor could he have known that years later, the entire world would know those towers.
They became the first image of America that remained in his memory.
Aron stepped off the plane carrying the same two suitcases, knowing only a few words of English—and possessing a profession that needed no translation. He did not yet know where he would live, who would wear the first suit he made in America, or how long it would take before he could once again call some place on the map home.
But he knew one important thing:
fabric obeyed the same laws in America as it did in Odessa.
And one more:
the next fitting of his life would have to begin almost entirely from scratch.
His old life remained on the other side of the Atlantic. Ahead lay a country where Aron would have to cut the pattern of his own future from scratch
To be continued…
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