Trilogy One
Inside the Iron Curtain
01
I have a vivid memory of my first encounter with Ivan Braginsky and the sight of his image. It was September of 1964, during my first year in elementary school. We were all filled with anticipation for Mr. Khrushchev's promises. Our female homeroom teacher, a graduate of the Moldavian Pedagogical School, provided a more detailed description, as requested by the National Education Section:
"You must understand that such an era does not materialize overnight. Do not expect a sudden proclamation over the radio one morning announcing its arrival. This era needs to be meticulously constructed step by step, starting from this moment, in order to be realized."
During that time, nobody questioned or dared to doubt his proposals. The adults referred to him as a resolute man, yet also as a drunkard and a madman. However, everything changed when he was retired from his position during the October Plenum of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union. It was then that I became acquainted with Mr. Brezhnev, his image prominently displayed on the front pages of all the newspapers, accompanied by Mr. Kosygin's picture, of course. But the adults only seemed concerned with Mr. Brezhnev. They all recognized him as the new leader. As a young child, I found the middle-aged man, who exuded an intimidating aura, to be rather uninteresting. Instead, my attention was captivated by the gentleman standing just behind him. He was young, stocky, with hands clasped behind his back, and a smile that always alleviated the stifling nature of the photograph. I stared intently at his vibrant red hat, and noticed how the deep black brim reflected a dazzling white light under the glare of the burning magnesium bar. This man, with his silver-gray hair slightly curled inward, possessed deep eyes that exuded an air of superiority. Beneath the prominent bridge of his nose, a smile lingered that had a certain allure, distinct from those of the adults. As a child, I couldn't shake off the impression it left on me.
Who was this gentleman? This curiosity sparked a fondness within me, and I yearned to learn more about him. Purchasing the daily newspaper became my daily ritual, and I relished in it. That gentleman, always standing behind Mr. Brezhnev, always wearing that captivating smile, piqued my curiosity. I couldn't wait to meticulously scan through the pages, hoping to uncover any information about him. Yet, time and time again, I failed to satisfy even my most fundamental desire—I couldn't even discover his name. When I turned to the adults for answers, their responses were cold and uniform: "Who knows, maybe he's just a bodyguard?" And, in an attempt to appear knowledgeable, they would add, "There are always mysterious individuals surrounding every prominent figure."
"Nevermind," I whispered to myself. Since they didn't possess the answers, I would seek them out on my own—finding a way to get close to him, to be by his side—a feeling that, at the time, little did I know would propel me, as a teenager, through the course of that year.