Why tell a story that you kept to yourself for more
than forty years? This is the question
I’m still asked after people find out about my book, A Rose for Sergei. Why
now? My first response is easy. After Sergei Kourdakov’s death my boss suggested
we not discuss Sergei in public. I
agreed it was the best thing to do. And
so I stopped talking about Sergei, even though I had unanswered questions about
what happened to him. It was 1973 and the
Cold War was alive and well.
My memories of Sergei were held close. He was an important part of my life when we
were both twenty-one, and he had a profound effect on my life. I learned life lessons at a very young age. I grew up faster than anyone that young ever
needed to. Knowing Sergei changed me, I
have no doubt about that. And still I didn’t
talk about him.
My second response to the question, “Why write
now?” is more heartfelt. Disparaging
remarks about Sergei Kourdakov on social media, and in the documentary film Forgive Me, Sergei immediately changed
my way of thinking. Some of these commentaries
regarding Sergei’s life aren’t right, I kept telling myself. I heard Sergei’s story first hand, I knew him. I also knew his background had been thoroughly
“checked out” by a federal government agency. I had to say something. I sat at my computer, took a deep breath…I
have to do this, and started writing my story.
* * *
Day 1 of writing . . .
Fall 1972
"Excuse me; I would
like to go to the men’s…how do you say in America…restroom?” Sergei asked in
his broken English. “Is that the right
way to say that?”
“Yes, that is the
right way; you could also say men’s room.
And it’s okay to excuse yourself,” I said. “It isn’t rude. I’ll be fine sitting alone a few minutes at
the table until you return,” I assured him as I smiled and tried to refrain
from laughing. He was so incredibly
polite. The way he spoke, his broken
English combined with his Russian accent, could be very amusing at times.
We were having
dinner at the JW Steakhouse at the Key Bridge Marriott
in Arlington, Virginia. My date was
Sergei Kourdakov. He was twenty-one
years old, and he had defected from the Soviet Union over a year ago. He had been a member of the KGB, the
Commissariat for State Security or secret police, and a Soviet naval intelligence
officer—intimidating credentials for sure.
He was also very good looking, which I found even more intimidating.
—K. Kidd, from Chapter 1, A Rose
for Sergei
* * *
I write because . . .
I don’t want Sergei’s story to be forgotten.
