The June first demonstration required more planning and coordination than had any of our activities thus far. Even so, it turned out to be the most dangerous and violent. UNESCO chose Thursday, June 1 as its day for the recognition of children’s rights. For us, it provided the perfect opportunity for a public demonstration – women and children together. This time we would be in front of the Lenin Library, at 4:00 p.m., when there would be many people, and we hoped, more publicity. Irina Liner suggested that we inform the authorities of our plan to demonstrate.

One month earlier, we had sent a letter to the City Council announcing our plan, and requesting assurances of safety for our children and ourselves. Here our naiveté hit its peak.

Ida’s role in the upcoming event presented a problem. It should be mentioned that Ida was categorically against such a letter. She told us that it would be self-incriminating, and she refused to sign the letter and participate in the demonstration. Ida was later proven right. What did we expect? Humanity from our government? For our constitutional rights to be observed? With this ill-fated letter we surrendered our greatest and most vital weapon, the element of surprise. Even though I agreed with her completely, I signed the letter. Five days before the demonstration, all of us who had signed the letter received summonses to appear before the local Party Executive Committee. Guzelle Khait decided to respond. Her appearance was used by the committee as an exercise of power to threaten her directly and to blackmail her with threats against her husband and children. The power play backfired totally, though, because not only was Guzelle even more determined to demonstrate, but, having revealed its purpose, the committee received no more answers to its summonses.

Meantime, we were meeting regularly at my apartment for legal seminars. In order to prepare ourselves for any possible situation which might arise in dealing with the authorities, we thought it advisable to acquaint ourselves with the rights granted us, at least in theory, under Soviet law. There was a certain irony involved in our gaining knowledge of the system – working within it and against it simultaneously – attending to details in order to facilitate our escape. As a cover for our meetings, one room of my apartment was used for law seminars. In another room, however, unbeknownst to the seminar participants, the six of us set time schedules and meeting places. Since we expected to be placed under house arrest on the day of the demonstration, we decided to gather in three groups at separate places, maintaining what we thought to be the strength and ability to force our way out if necessary.

It was decided that separate groups would meet in three places: at Natasha Rosenstein’s, Galina Tsirlina’s and Lena Dubyanskaya’s. As we later learned, however, we trusted Lena blindly. For some reason (which never became clear) Lena deceived us, for at the very last moment she broke her word and refused to have her apartment used as a meeting place. As a result eight women were forced to choose which of the two remaining apartments they should go to. For some of them, this ended tragically .

Rather than providing the protection the group had naively hoped for, the information we gave the authorities allowed them time to prepare, coordinate, and consolidate their reprisals against us. The day before the demonstration the KGB stationed details of plainclothes men at the homes of each of us would-be demonstrators. This was not only expected, but an ordinary fact of life for many of us, and a bit of gallows humor helped to ease the tension. We joked with one another, saying, “Here comes my lover,” or “My guy is so handsome!” It was ridiculously simple to pick out the KGB by the extreme rigidity of their stance, their empty hands, empty expressions and the occasional Pravda that they carried.

When I left my home on May 31, it was 7:00 a.m. I did not turn around, nor was I at all surprised to hear a measured step behind me. While pretending not to notice the all too familiar gait, I forced my mind away from this moment of isolation, and concentrated on reaching my friends at Natasha Rosenstein’s apartment. Going toward the bus stop my ‘tail’ walked along parallel to me, and I was able to observe him even though we were separated by trees and bushes. He slipped behind a food stall and began talking with another man. I knew they were planning to move in on me. If I were to cross to the bus stop I needed, I would be within their reach. Immediately I decided to travel in the opposite direction when a bus came and the doors opened. At first backing away as if the bus were not mine, just as the doors were about to close I jumped in. From the window I could see the two men scrambling. One minute they were engaged in a staid conversation, and the next, running about like little boys and appearing very silly. I watched them run to a nearby car and pull out into the street. By then the bus had come to its next stop, so I jumped off and quickly escaped through back alleys. This small glimpse of freedom provided a welcome relief. The emotional swing from humor to danger was as familiar as it was amazing. Here I was, a rational woman playing a cat and mouse game with the KGB. Imagine me, a responsible wife and mother, a regular Mata Hari!

I was the first to arrive at Natasha’s. The other women arrived separately, some with children. Everyone was followed. In the end there were seventeen of us, eleven women and six children. Maya Ryabkina was involved in legal proceedings, filing wrongful termination charges against her former employer. She was told to meet with her former director on Thursday, June 1. This conflict was no coincidence, but we all agreed that she should attend the meeting, so she returned home, leaving her 14 year old daughter, Alla, with us. In the evening we put the children to bed, making the best use of space in the small flat, and we lay down ourselves.

The next morning we woke to find our ‘caretakers’ posted near the building in their Volgas, and all of Butler Street was blocked to public traffic. Several KGB agents sat on nearby benches. Some even sat on the traffic island. Our husbands had agreed to be as near us as possible, but they were nowhere in sight. While their anticipated presence provided great moral support, their absence really had us worried. As we took turns watching out for them from the window, we were unaware that the KGB had been well informed of our husbands’ roles, and had prevented them from coming.

At first distant, then closer, a familiar face appeared. Its owner waved to us, and we instantly brightened. It was Semyon Abramovich Yantovsky, our good friend, a very courageous man. Several KGB men approached Semyon and repeatedly demanded to see his documents. Despite being well into his 60’s, Semyon spent nearly the entire day there. What a man! If he only knew how much strength and confidence he had then inspired in us!

We also watched for Maya to return. At exactly noon she appeared at the building’s entrance. It was very quiet as we listened at the apartment door. When we heard the elevator door slam we opened our own, and there stood two large, uniformed policemen blocking Maya’s way.(KGB had blocked the elevator below, and Maya had climbed nine flights of stairs to reach us.) An agent in civilian dress forcefully closed the apartment door, warning us to stay inside. We reopened the door immediately and demanded that Maya be allowed in. Her daughter ran past us and screamed, “Let my mother in!” That sparked a real scuffle, and by some miracle we were able to grab Maya and drag her inside. After all this there were so many people outside our door that we knew the Lenin Library plan was finished – there was then no way for us to get out now.

Directly across the street were two dormitories which were used exclusively as residences for foreign students. Not surprisingly, the KGB had forbidden them to leave that morning, but curiosity kept the students at the staircase windows of their 16 story dormitories. Determined not to let UNESCO’s Children’s Day pass unnoticed, we wrote signs of protest on pieces of wallpaper (our only ammunition) in preparation for a window demonstration. The children had come in with a few tree branches bearing new, green leaves which waved out the window above our signs. At 3:00 p.m. we began demonstrating to an audience that was mostly hostile. Almost immediately after we started, KGB men appeared at all the surrounding windows of the apartment house: on both sides, below, and even hanging off the roof! It was no problem for these people to occupy neighboring apartments – the KGB never needed permission for access. In a very well-coordinated effort, they attacked our signs, and nearly us, with long metal hooks and bats with nails in them, hollering loudly as they did so. Other agents gathered outside and directed the action from below.

What was both evident and infuriating was the use of such force in the presence of children (who were clearly visible). The country claimed to be humanitarian, wanted its citizens to shed tears for the unfortunate 'victims’ of capitalism, yet unhesitatingly used hooks and bats on its own. The detestable hypocrisy of Soviet authorities, especially on a day dedicated to children’s rights, was exemplified by such behavior.

We managed to break two of their weapons, and to grab others – especially from the man on the roof. We had firm footing, and rather than lose his balance and fall nine floors he relinquished his bat. When our signs were thoroughly shredded, we began shouting from the window, “Visas to Israel, a homeland for our children”, over and over for 10 or 20 minutes until our voices gave out. The moment we closed the window, the phone rang and agents banged on the door, screaming for us to open it. Fearing they would break the door down, we barricaded it with furniture. Then came an ominous silence.

The children were terrified and exhausted. As evening approached and our food ran out, we decided to disband the group at seven o’clock. There were few cars and fewer people in sight, so we thought we would meet with little or no resistance. As I had been previously charged in the Tuesday, May 23rd demonstration, we decided that I should be the last to go, in order to avoid being picked up on the street and possibly face a second set of charges.

We dressed ourselves and the children. We looked through the peep-hole and saw the empty corridor. Guzelle, and her four year old daughter, Dina, were standing closest to the door. We had barely opened the door a crack when a crowd of people, all in civilian dress, rushed in at us. The sounds of our children shrieking in terror will remain with us forever. To this day I cannot understand how such a tiny speck of life as Dina, or any of the other children, managed to survive that onslaught. Nothing could stop the KGB roaring through the door. They rushed in and flung us up against the walls. Guzelle directed us to the window. A few of us reached, opened it, and began screaming, “Help us, they are trying to kill us!” Agents leapt at us and yanked Rosa, Maya, and Hannah away. They punched Hannah severely in the chest. The men could not remove me on their first try, and ordered the other women to make me stop yelling. But I dug my fingers more firmly into the window screen and shouted all the louder. When finally a big man, over six feet tall, managed to overpower me, my anger knew no limit. These were bandits…fascists! How dare they break in and frighten children so! With the instinct of a mother lion, and the rage of a human being so rudely violated, I slapped this thug across his face with all my might! Instant silence. The women were horrified. Now what would happen to us? Rather than taking revenge, my victim quietly turned around and asked if I had calmed down yet. I had not, and his manner further aggravated me, so to vent my fury I grabbed a roll of wallpaper and hit a second enemy over the head. Incredibly, nothing happened. Meanwhile, Rosa had taken the children into another room to quiet them. Natasha then demanded that the agents leave her apartment immediately. They said nothing, but just walked around presumably waiting for further orders.

Soon their chief strode in saying to us:

“You shouted for help. Here I am, so, what’s up?”

“You know better than we do,” Natasha replied.

He feigned innocence, “You were making a lot of noise, disturbing the peace. A little old lady downstairs complained.”

“Sure,” I replied, “the kind of little old lady who goes around swinging bats with hooks.”

Natasha asked the chief to dismiss his men so that we could go home. Before he left, he ordered all but three to go. One who remained told us that if we were not quiet there would be more trouble. I had to answer him: “You’re the ones who broke into this apartment, caused all this trouble and now you’re saying it might get worse?”

“Yes,” he responded, sullenly, “not for you, but for us.”

They still did not let us leave. When we tried, a second group of agents entered, and waited for their boss. He came in, looking very sleek and well groomed in civilian clothes. When we asked to see his identification he said that he was “Ivan Ivanovich Ivanov,” a name equivalent to the American name, “John Q. Public.”

I queried, “The one that the whole country depends on?”

“Yes, the very same,” he said, mocking us, and then forced us to bargain with him for the right to leave. The KGB wanted us separated, but we held out for the relative security of leaving in a group. They finally relented, on condition that we proceed quietly and go as far as the Belyaev Station on foot. “Go quietly,” he added, “because people are upset and may get unruly.” We left at 9:30 p.m., two and one half hours after the agents first broke in.

We emerged from the building and found Misha Khait, Guzelle’s husband waiting for us. His daughter ran up and embraced him. He told us that he had been held under house arrest, and had jumped from his second floor balcony in order to get to us. This explained why none of our husbands had shown up. They had been, to a man, put under house arrest. The Soviet laws, and standards of marriage and family, were given a rather original interpretation when it suited the authorities: husbands may be held captive while their wives and children are abused by hooligans. Furthermore, to prevent the men from registering complaints, or making any outside contact, the KGB had cut the telephone service at the demonstrators’ homes. Each of us was accompanied to the subway station by two KGB men. Once inside the station, I tried to phone home, but there was still no connection so I decided to go to my in-laws’ place. Guzelle and Misha were going in that direction, and since Dina, exhausted from the ordeal, had fallen asleep, we shared a taxi. Our KGB companions followed in their Volga, and when I got out, the Khaits continued on, as did their ‘tails’. It was midnight when I finally reached my in-laws’ apartment and found that my husband had gotten there not long before me, his house arrest having been lifted at ten.