How I Became A Russian: A Story Of Two Worlds

Originally posted on LinkedIn.

I am a Jew. I have known that since childhood, and not because my parents told me we were Jewish or they kept a Jewish household and followed Jewish traditions (very few people in the Soviet Union did), but because from an early age, I was tagged. “5th Paragraph” was the primary tagging mechanism. It’s not a metaphor; this is literal: Paragraph #5 of every document that included your name was Nationality. Mine said, Jew. My birth certificate, pre-school and school forms, medical records, passport, and employment applications stated this. And if the 5th Paragraph wasn’t enough to identify me as a Jew, there was always my name. My last name was a total giveaway - Kugel. According to Wikipedia, Kugel is a “traditional Ashkenazi Jewish dish, often served on Shabbat and Yom Tov.” You couldn’t be more Jewish if you tried! In his feeble attempt to protect the family from ridicule, my father convinced us that our last name was German. There was no Wikipedia to prove him wrong, and my brother and I pretended to believe him. Even after WWII and the Holocaust, a German name was more acceptable than a Jewish one! Thank goodness my parents gave me a perfect first name, a typical Russian/Ukrainian name, Galina. With that name, I could fool people sometimes and not appear Jewish, as it seemed there was something wrong with being Jewish.

We lived in Kiev, the capital of the Ukrainian SSR (Soviet Socialist Republic). The city had one synagogue, and it was empty most of the time. Only ancient Jews who no longer cared about being ridiculed by their neighbors or harassed at work went there. My single visit to the synagogue with my mother made a long-lasting impression on me, validating my suspicion that “there was something wrong with being Jewish.” I was about 5. I remember this visit vividly and can still feel the firm grip of my mom’s hand on mine for the entire time we were inside. The lighting was dim, and the place looked dark and intimidating. After a brief conversation with an old man dressed in black from head to toe (he must’ve been the rabbi), we walked toward the door when a woman approached us. She said “Hello” in Russian, with a heavy accent, and told us she was from Israel. My mother, who was a very friendly person (talking to strangers like they were family - that kind of friendly!), just stood there looking toward the door. The woman proceeded to say that I reminded her of Israeli girls, and she wanted to give me a gift, Magen David (the Star of David), and a small book with pictures of Israel. The Star of David was beautiful and sparkly, hanging on a pretty gold chain, and the book looked like a miniature accordion. She took the book by one end, and it magically dropped down the accordion pages, revealing a mysterious world I knew nothing about. Mesmerized and excited, I extended my hand to accept the gifts, but Mom firmly pulled me away without saying a word, and we rushed out the door. In that instance, I knew not to mention this “incident” to anyone and not to speak of Israel or the Star of David. There was definitely something wrong with being Jewish!

Jewish kids in the USSR had no “safe spaces.” We were expected to live with antisemitism just like our parents and their parents before them. We were left to our own devices to deal with it. I was no exception. So when a high school teacher said: “You don’t need an ‘A’ because you won’t get into any university anyway,” it never occurred to me that I should tell someone, complain, or set him straight. Instead, I knew I had to prove him wrong. And I did! I found a school that had fewer restrictions for accepting Jewish kids. It wasn’t the school of my dreams, but I knew by then that life wasn’t about reaching your dreams; it was about doing your best with what you have. Finding a job was another triumph against all odds. I was offered an engineering position in a new department where they were looking for “someone exactly like me”... until my 5th Paragraph was discovered. The job offer was off the table in minutes, with no explanation. Now what? The only choice was to keep pushing because giving up wasn’t an option. So I pushed. Found another place and convinced them to let me work for free (could it be that I invented internship?) until I finally “squeezed” myself into a paying job six months later. Not my dream job? Too bad. Welcome to the real world. The real world kept on confirming there was something wrong with being Jewish.

This would’ve been my life and the end of the story if my husband and I, with our three-year-old son, didn’t escape the Iron Curtain, but we did!

The year was 1979. Kiev - Chop - Bratislava - Vienna - Rome - Ladispoli - New York - Los Angeles. A four-month journey (refugee style) from stateless to the new homeland.

America, here we are!

We quickly discovered that Americans are friendly people, and they love asking questions. “Where are you from?” - was their favorite. I dreaded this question because of what usually followed. “From Russia” - was the obvious response. To that, I heard: “Oh, you are Russian! Welcome to America!” Well, I tried to explain that I am Jewish, not Russian, even though I am from Russia… Ukraine, to be exact. My explanation confused the heck out of people every time. “You are from Russia, so you are Russian. Jewish is your ethnicity and religion, and in America, that’s your private business.” After all those years of being tagged by the 5th Paragraph, it felt strange, uneasy, and wrong to be called Russian, but to Americans, the tagging didn't make sense. So, at some point, I stopped explaining and “became” a Russian until one glorious day, I became an American. 

The year was 1987. One beautiful California morning, I received a call from my younger son’s teacher asking me to come to school and tell the kids about Hanukkah. I was quiet as she explained, when she asked the kids if anyone celebrated other holidays besides Christmas, my 5 year-old raised his hand and told the class that he is Jewish and his family celebrates Hanukkah. Turns out, she said, he is the only Jewish kid in class. My heart sank hearing this, and I almost screamed: “He did what? He told the entire class?” A wave of fear came over me…, but then I remembered there is no 5th Paragraph in America, and there is absolutely nothing wrong with being Jewish here. Still frazzled, I agreed to share the Hanukkah story with the kids and promised to bring them some holiday treats. She thanked me and hung up as I sat there awhile gazing at the phone, thinking of another 5-year-old in another world.

Happy Holidays, everyone!

Merry Christmas!

Happy Hanukkah!

Many blessings to all in the year ahead.