Bar in the Departure zone. The story of one escape. Alexander Couprin

      “Here, here, here, and here!!!” Vlad hissed, pointing to the length of the Soviet borders from China to the Arctic Ocean. “And this tiny piece is the Turkish border. See how small it is? You already know that the Finns and Iranians immediately return defectors, right?”

      Dima didn’t know, but he nodded. Vlad tore out a section of the border with Turkey using his fingers and handed the piece of paper to Dima.

      “Take this, measure it along the border, and calculate.”

      “What do you mean?” whispered Dima, shocked.

      “This fraction, this unit, divided by the rest, will give you your odds, your one-in-a-thousand chances to make it there.”

      Later, when Dima was in the army, he learned that there was a unique selection process for serving on the Turkish section of the USSR border. He realized that he had no chance at all.

      Vlad’s attitude toward Dima changed. He became attentively alert. Knowing about his nephew’s childhood dreams, he couldn’t imagine that Dima was still holding onto them, that he hadn’t outgrown or abandoned them. This earned Vlad’s respect but also instilled fear. At eighteen years old, Vlad had never experienced anything like it. Could it be the call of Balkan blood? He knew little about Dima’s father. He knew his exotic name was Dzhanko, but the Hungarian communist Dzhanko was far from Zelenograd.

      During her passionate Komsomol youth, Vlad’s sister won a two-week all-inclusive tour to the newly opened Sputnik International Youth Camp, and Dima was conceived there. Apart from the unusual name, his father was known to be an ethnic Serb but held Hungarian citizenship for some reason. Dima’s mother categorically refused to talk about him, and Dima never asked. Vlad made inquiries initially but soon realized it was a dead-end. Many years later, Vlad discovered that Dzhanko was alive and well, having moved to Yugoslavia, where he married and had many children. “Such a nimble dad, a prolific bastard,” Vlad thought, but he didn’t take any action. Contacting anyone abroad was dangerous, very dangerous. Vlad’s sister had long since cooled toward the Komsomol and worked at a military factory. Vlad didn’t need a relative abroad mentioned in his personnel file; it would mean an immediate end to his career. “To hell with him, this gypsy,” Vlad decided and never returned to the topic.

      Vlad had his dreams of escaping the USSR. He even attempted to register a marriage with a cheerful Odessa woman of Jewish origin, hoping to be included as her husband in her exit visa to Israel. However, it ended horribly. The woman had hoped to turn the marriage of convenience into a real marriage. Vlad had no choice but to confess his sexual orientation to her, leading to an emotional explosion. Even with a lot of money, it was difficult to pay her off as she had already envisioned herself in Jerusalem with her handsome husband, whom she believed owed her his escape. This was followed by a failed attempt to get a job on a cruise ship with the Black Sea Marine Company. Thankfully, he was rejected at an early stage. The personnel department explained that no one would allow him on a foreign cruise without collateral in the form of a loving wife and a couple of children ashore. Gradually, Vlad’s hope of escape faded and was replaced by prolonged episodes of depression. But after a few years, Vlad was unsure if he truly wanted to leave. He was earning a significant amount of money by Soviet standards, and his life was settled and comfortable, but it was from this dead dream that his unnoticed mental disorder began to take hold. However, helping and being involved in the lives of his few relatives distracted him and gave his life a special meaning.

      Vlad’s sister was torn between work and doctors, and Vlad felt the need to talk seriously with his nephew. He didn’t ask direct questions, fearing to push the boy into lying and causing pain for both of them. Instead, he requested Dima to listen.

      “You see, there’s nothing unusual about your desire to leave. Thousands of people dream about it; many have tried and ended up in penal colonies, and only a few have succeeded. And there’s no guarantee that you’ll be one of them. My advice to you is not to freak out! You’ll completely ruin your life.”

      “It seems like it’s not really my life at all,” Dima replied wistfully.

      “None of us here are living our own lives. Learn to accept reality.”

      “So, what can I do?” Dima whispered.

      “Just live. Don’t take unnecessary risks, and live with your dream. Without dreams, all you have is crap. Go to the army, and we’ll think of something. There are legal ways to leave. You could marry a Jew and then apply for a permit to emigrate to Israel,” Vlad said, but his words lacked conviction, and Dima didn’t pay much attention. At eighteen, two years in the army felt like an eternity.