At last the telephone rang. Natascha had safely arrived at the San Francisco Airport. I had prepared a sandwich and a bag of fruit for her since she had been traveling for two days and two nights and was bound to be hungry.
And there she was, sitting on the designated bench outside the Airport. Very pleased I hopped out of the car and embraced her. “Welcome to America, Natascha.”
In spite of her tiredness, her shock at my demonstrative greeting was obvious. She looked at me sternly and embarrassed, and mumbled something. Probably just as well that I didn’t understand it. But then her face relaxed and she looked not unfriendly.
We stowed her smallish suitcase on the back seat. It was tempting to put her next to it, but I resisted the temptation.
I handed her the bag of food I had brought. “Eat and enjoy. You must be hungry,” I said, “and then close your eyes and sleep if you like. We’ll have plenty of time to talk.” I had to grin about my long speech, knowing full well that she didn’t understand a word. On the other hand, much of the meaning of what we say comes from the tone of our voice. It conveys our feelings and emotions, much more so than words can do.
It’s strange and challenging to have a guest with whom you cannot communicate. I turned on the classical music station to soothe the embarrassing silence.
She did not open the bag of food I had brought; so I opened it for her and took a good look at her features while encouraging her to eat. She was much shorter than I, about 5’1” and slightly hunched forward. Her expression was stern, tired and emotionless. She looked a bit intimidating which was probably the way I looked to her. She wore no make-up and her skin was remarkably unblemished, though quite wrinkled.
She still was not eating and I urged her again to do so. At last she took a bite and her face brightened.
It was time to drive home.
My office is Natascha’s room now. It’s the only warm room in the condo and the only one that has a door. All the others, kitchen, library and living room, and my upstairs bedroom have high ceilings and are open and difficult to heat. I usually spend the day in my office, happily working at my desk.
The week of Natascha’s visit passed quickly and pleasantly. We walked the beach, went sightseeing and cooked. I taught her a few English words. She enjoyed learning, but it remained a big handicap not to be able to communicate! There was so much I wanted to know, and I’m sure she did too. We used Laura to translate for us, but Laura was a busy lady and most of Natascha’s questions as well as mine remained unanswered.
When the time for her departure arrived, another obstacle raised its head. Natascha could not get a boarding pass. She had no valid visa; no way she could go back to Russia, they said. Besides, she had entered the country as a refugee.
What now?
We went to the Russian Consulate and sat there all day. And then to the German Consulate. Both visits in vain.
One last avenue, the Office of Immigration. They looked at me in disbelief. Apparently, no one had ever petitioned NOT to be admitted to the USA. And that was what I requested; it seemed to be the only way to get Natascha home. As much as Natascha liked it here, she did have a granddaughter in Russia whom she fervently hoped to meet one day. We went from office to office, explaining her sad story over and over again—she was homesick and didn’t speak English …
To my surprise, Natascha was eager to go home. She missed her comrades, and the little place she called her home. But most of all she missed hearing her language, the familiar sound of Russian.
On our third visit to the Office of Immigration I ask for someone who spoke Russian; and that did the trick. The lady was most kind and helpful. She spoke with Natascha and wrote the perfect letter for her, explaining that Natascha could not immigrate to the USA—she had to go back. And so, after a month in this country, Natascha was able to return home to Russia. I was delighted she had come. And so was she.
Would we ever meet again?
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