Anxiety was normal for us, and the next few days offered little relief from it. Misha Kremen reported to the police station on Monday, only to be told to re-appear on Wednesday. We urged him not to go back, but being a man of his word, he did, and spent the next fifteen days in jail. Masha Slepak had been released on her own recognizance, while her husband, Volodya, was held pending trial. Ida’s case was also pending, and she was as determined to win as the authorities were. She set out to familiarize herself with the law, specifically that which pertained to the accumulated evidence and charges against her.

We were so distressed by the graffiti and the barbarism of the KGB that some of us thought we should protest directly in front of the KGB headquarters. Not everyone agreed. Some were simply afraid of the place, and several others had become disenchanted with the group’s demonstrations. “Don’t you see? We march and protest and the government couldn’t care less,” was their attitude.

Conversely, we felt that the authorities would not tolerate much more protest, so we would have to make a decisive move. At that point we were each prepared to sacrifice ourselves for the freedom of even one refusenik. Naturally, we hoped to avoid the almost certain fifteen-day jail sentence that a demonstration at the KGB building would bring. Ida was generally democratic, allowing for individual opinions, but this time, fearing for our safety, she was adamant that our posters show nothing anti-Soviet, … only “Let Us Go To Israel.” Was it morally right, some of us wondered, for those in our group who did not plan to go to Israel to display such signs? Reasoning that we were participating, not only for ourselves, but also for innumerable others, who were not present, we overcame our doubts (most of the group did choose to emigrate in Israel).

On Friday June 9th, we arrived at KGB headquarters to find the area literally overrun with agents. Obviously they had received advance knowledge of our plans (only later did we learn how). This granted them the opportunity to plan and prepare every last detail of how they would handle our demonstration. Each individual action had been arranged, from the appearance of seemingly genuine provocateurs to the manner in which we were eventually taken away. They had personality profiles – and mine must have led the authorities to believe that I could easily be drawn into a fight (I assume that they based this judgment on what I did at the June 1st demonstration). This provided them with the excuse they needed to deal harshly with me. But I did not respond as they had expected.

We lined up at the predetermined spot. I wore my yellow jersey, and Natasha Rosenstein wore a blue one on which she had written, “Let Us, Citizens of Israel, Go!” Galina Kremen had brought her son, Sasha, who held a photo of his younger brother, and a poster reading, “Let my Father out of prison”. All of us held “VISAS TO ISRAEL” signs. We had barely taken up our positions when a KGB agent in civilian clothes came up to us and poked at our placards, saying, “What’s all this you’ve written up? Come on, now, go somewhere else or I’ll call the police.”

We told him to go away, that the police could figure it out without him. Opposite us, photographers busily recorded the scene as our provocateur pulled off my poster, leaving me with only a dowel in my hand (this little stick was to become a piece of evidence against me. I was later accused of attacking this man with it). The crowd grew larger and more unruly as the verbal abuse increased and became progressively more vile: “To the gas chambers with them! Hitler did it! They’ve eaten their fill here, and now they are acting up!” They shouted for the police. Then suddenly a woman appeared in front of me alone, a professional agent, provocative but restrained in her physical movements toward me. She grabbed me by the front of my jersey, thereby tearing off my mezuzah, my talisman (in Orthodoxy, one is not supposed to wear a mezuzah, but I am sure God will forgive my “chutzpah” in doing so). Daring me to fight back, with an evil look and the same professional skill, she shoved her clenched fist forward, stopping only millimeters from my face. Instinctively, I froze. Knowing that the slightest move would have ‘done me in,’ I just looked at her derisively. In front of me in the crowd, I caught the eye of Victor Yelistratov. I focused on his eyes as they actually commanded me, “Don’t move!” I got his message at my most critical moment. His wisdom prevented me from provoking a fight.

The police arrived, surrounded us, and demanded to see our identification, whereupon I demanded to see theirs. Although they were the same ones who had dealt with us on Sunday June 4th, their behavior was entirely different. Today the KGB was in charge, and the atmosphere was absolutely electric. One agent, Colonel Markov, sarcastically complied with my demand for his identification, but would not allow me to go after my own. My papers however, were in my bag which now lay somewhere on the pavement amongst the crowd.

“Let me get my bag,” I shouted. “That’s where my documents are”. He grabbed my arm, applying his considerable strength so that it would appear that I was disobeying his order. Curiously, the policeman who grabbed my other arm, was gentle with me. His touch and his eyes told me that he was feeling very uncomfortable about participating in such brutality. Markov said that they would take care of the problem at the police headquarters. “Where are you taking me? I can walk by myself!” I shouted. The colonel was not about to hear me out. He was acting on strict KGB orders to show that I was inciting disobedience. I was dragged through the underpass leading to the opposite side of the street. There my husband caught up with me, and put my bag in my hands. It calmed me to see Edward, and to have in my possession my passport as well as the items I had brought to carry me through a fifteen-day imprisonment.

At the KGB building I was put in a Volga with policemen on either side of me, and taken to the same police station as the previous time. I was left to wait alone. After a while, the rest of the group arrived. They had been transported in a special bus which the authorities dramatically drove against the flow of traffic, using a loudspeaker to warn oncoming vehicles, and blaring a siren all the way. In addition to the usual investigative reports, this time there were witnesses present. The man who had provoked me at the KGB building was there to claim that I had assaulted him.

“You bastard,” I said. “Did you leave your conscience at home, or did you sell it for a dime? Look at the poor fellow – a woman beat him with a stick from a child’s crib, a stick he could break with his finger!” He appeared uncomfortable, said nothing, and was led out. The investigator who drew up our case turned out to be Jewish. He even tried to get us to let down our guard by telling jokes. Then he asked me, “Where do you work?”

“I don’t work.”

“When did you stop?”

“May 16, 1978. That’s not even a month ago.”

“We’ll check it out. You do know that by law a woman may not be out of work for more than four months. Otherwise, you could be arrested for parasitism.”

“Since I have a husband and two children, by law I am entitled not to work. I have worked for this regime for almost 19 years.”

“Whether or not you have to work depends on how old your children are.”

They also tried to frighten Sasha Kremen:

“Whose kid is this? Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, little boy? Where do you go to school? What class are you in? We’re going to tell your principal. I bet you’re even a member of the Young Pioneers (the Young Pioneers was a Communist youth organization.) Galina told them to leave the boy alone and that he was none of their business.

Things looked really grim for me. I was booked for “malicious hooliganism” and for disobeying authority. Everyone else avoided the second charge, and even though the police tried by every means possible to get us to sign their reports, we all refused to do it. Our names were recorded in several different files. Each time this required the taking of our internal passports. When they were returned, Galina and Sasha were allowed to go home. Natasha Katz and Natasha Rosenstein were to be released next, but the rest of us were required to continue what had become a morbid sort of game. One KGB agent asked a policeman which one of us had worn the yellow shirt, which was invisible under my jacket. The agent pointed an accusing finger at Ida, but the officer was unsure. Pursuing the question, the agent then asked loudly for ‘Nizhnikov’, and when I answered, he stared at me directly, trying to size me up. He then concluded that as an adversary I was not to be feared, and pronounced me a nobody, a worthless cipher, a zero. Ida was afraid that I was insulted, and told me not to pay attention to him.

After a while, Colonel Markov came to take my passport again, claiming that the original report had been misplaced. I said that my identity had been clearly established, and that I was not responsible for the poor job of their workers and I refused to surrender the passport. Colonel Markov left the room. Exhausted and anxious about the outcome, my three remaining cohorts urged me to show my passport and to stop making a big issue out of it. I gave in and handed it over to the policeman who had booked us. He muttered something about being sorry. They let the other women go. Only I remained.

Then three plainclothesmen appeared in front of me, ready to apply more pressure. One, wearing dark glasses had already sized me up to be a zero. The second was our handsome tail, while the third was Gromov, important for heading the ‘refusenik’ department of the KGB. The policeman informed me that I would receive a summons to appear at the station on Monday, June 12th. I was asked to sign a paper to indicate that I had been so informed. One glance at it proved that it mentioned nothing about a summons.

“What’s this you’ve shoved at me? That’s not for a summons; it’s a formal charge. What do you take me for? Write it up the way you’re supposed to – when I should appear, and why.”

One of the agents said, with contempt for the policeman, “Don’t you see she’s on to the system? We know that legal seminars are conducted in her home. She can teach you how to do your work.”

Again, I asked for my passport, and I was informed that it would be withheld from me.

“You have no right to keep it,” I insisted.

“Come and see us on Monday,” Colonel Markov said, “and we’ll find out in court who’s right and who’s wrong.” Trying to provoke me further, he said to the KGB men near him, “She’ll probably say that she can’t show up on Monday.”

“Then why don’t you keep her until then?”, one of them responded.

I knew this was an act being put on for my benefit, and I was not intimidated.

“O.K.,” I said, “I have enough with me for fifteen days.” and I pointed to my handbag with my clothes inside, as if to let them know that I was prepared to be jailed.

“How about warm socks? I assure you it gets cold in there,” Colonel Markov laughed.

“Don’t worry. I have everything!” I said.

The KGB men left, and Colonel Markov told me that I could leave as well. I brought up the problem of my passport again. Again, I received the same answer. Since they had no legal right to hold it, I now had a chance to turn the tables on them. They had definitely broken the law, and I could make trouble for them. Finally, I left. Outside I was greeted by my husband and Natasha Khasina. Natasha told me that agent Gromov, had tried to intimidate her with these words:

“Why do you demonstrate? This will end up very badly for you. You should take into consideration that a case has already been started against Ida Nudel; Misha Kremen got fifteen days in prison; Anatoly Scharansky is in prison; and you have small children to think of.”

“He was trying to scare me,” Natasha said, and added that Gromov had accused us of demonstrating in order to attract the attention of foreign correspondents.

Natasha replied that he was wrong and that we understand perfectly well that correspondents cannot give us permission to emigrate – only the Soviet government can.

We then walked as we talked, badly needing the fresh air, and home was not too far away. As we entered the underpass at Dzerzhinsky Square, the KGB agents following us came so close that we could hear the conversation over their two-way radio, “ … following subject … following subject … ”.