Talking About Borscht

A group of us were at a dinner party recently where we sampled Polish sausage.  The conversation then turned to how Polish sausage was used to make borscht.  I was familiar with the traditional Russian beet soup because of my connection to Sergei Kourdakov.  To be honest, borscht was not my favorite dish.  But I remembered that it was Sergei’s favorite.  He had even given his recipe for borscht to my brother Keith.

A few days after the dinner party I decided to email Keith and ask him about the long-ago recipe exchange.  While waiting for his response, I couldn’t help but laugh when I thought about that afternoon when all of us were twenty-something.  The memories of us gathered at my brother’s favorite bar in Washington DC were still clear.  I remember thinking at that time how it seemed so out of character for Sergei and Keith, two strong and muscular weight-lifters, to bond while talking about soup.  But then again, maybe it wasn’t so strange after all.  We had beer mugs in our hands and Keith and Sergei were exchanging all kinds of funny stories.  I was really happy that they got along so well.

In Keith’s email he wrote that the original borscht recipe was typed on a half sheet of paper, “I did some re-write to get it more in line with how recipes look in the U.S.  Sergei said he got this recipe from a Ukrainian friend and it was his favorite...has a little more meat in it.”

Sergei’s Borscht

2 medium onions, minced

½ stick butter

2 pounds beets, chopped

2 medium purple turnips, chopped

1 medium celery root, chopped

2 large parsnips, chopped

2  16-ounce cans tomatoes and liquid

1 small bay leaf

1 tablespoon brown sugar

2 teaspoons salt

6 peppercorns

½ cup red wine vinegar

3 quarts beef broth

1 pound potatoes, shredded

1 small green cabbage, shredded

1 Polish sausage, cut into ½ inch slices

2 cups sour cream

1 small bunch dill, snipped

In a large kettle, over medium high heat, sauté the onions in the butter for 8 minutes.  Stir in the beets, turnips, celery root, parsnips, tomatoes, bay, brown sugar, salt, peppercorns, vinegar, and 2 cups of broth.  Stirring constantly, bring to a boil, then cover.  Reduce heat, and simmer 30 minutes.  Make sure vegetables don’t run out of liquid.  Add remaining broth and potatoes, and cook 15 minutes.  Add cabbage and cook 15 minutes.  Add sausage and cook 15 minutes.

Serve in soup plate and pass sour cream and dill for toppings.

Best made hours or days ahead.  Freezes well.

Taking Pictures

I wasn’t aware that there were not many photographs of Sergei until a reader called it to my attention.  She had just come across my blog and sent me a very touching email.  I did a quick Google search to check it out for myself.  I found about a dozen pictures that are actually of Sergei Kourdakov.  I didn’t count the repeats or the different book cover photos.  The other hundreds of pictures that popped up in my search were related in some way or other to the word “Sergei.”  But they were not what I was looking for.

I also checked the photographs in each version of Sergei’s book.  My hardback copies of The Persecutor and Sergei each have the same twenty-seven pictures in them.  My paperback copy of Forgive Me, Natasha has only thirteen pictures.  My sister’s paperback copy has even less photos in it.

One reason there aren’t many photographs of Sergei is because he only brought a few with him when he defected.  He stashed personal papers and photographs in a waterproof pouch that he fastened securely to a belt.  He hoped they would survive, along with him, during his treacherous swim to freedom.  Sergei showed me his photos and identification papers that were secured in the plastic pouch.  All these items are pictured in the hardback version of his book.

There would have been a lot more pictures of Sergei if he had lived longer.  No one expected Sergei’s life to end so suddenly at the age of twenty-one.  In retrospect, I wish I had taken a few more pictures, but I don’t like interrupting the moment to pose for the camera.  I prefer to keep many memories to myself.

After hearing from another reader, a young French student, I decided to add two more pictures of Sergei to the side bar of my blog.  I wanted to share the humorous side of Sergei.  If you read The Persecutor you wouldn’t know Sergei even had a humorous side.  In one photo, Sergei surprised me when he suddenly scooped me up in his arms.  In the other picture I retaliated by trying to pick him up.  Sergei was so startled by my actions that he was almost knocked off balance.  He threw his head back and could not stop laughing.  I had never seen him so completely carefree until that moment.

I was young . . . I thought we had forever to take pictures.

It Was All a Mistake

It would be great if there were “take backs” in life.  Sometimes we get our wish and sometimes we don’t.  I remember when I was twenty-one and got a traffic ticket while I was driving to work.  I was stopped at a traffic light before a major intersection.  I knew not to stop in the service road that ran parallel to the main street.  One, because it blocked the service road, and two, because the Arlington County Police had been parked there all week ticketing people for doing just that.

As I waited for the red light to change, a Police Officer walked over to my car, signaled for me to roll down the window, and asked to see my driver’s license and car registration.  I had no idea why he was questioning me.  Right after he checked my documents he told me he was giving me a ticket for blocking the service road.  I was shocked and indignant as I told him I wasn’t blocking the service road.  I was a little bolder than usual that morning and slightly on edge after having another sleepless night.  It was to be expected…Sergei Kourdakov’s funeral had just been a month ago.

The Police Officer asked me to get out of the car.  He then politely pointed to a foot-wide, white line on the pavement before the service road.  He told me I needed to stop before that line in order to not block the intersection.  I stood there and stared blankly at the white line as traffic maneuvered all around us in every direction.  The wheels of my car were not over that line, but the front end of my car protruded over the white line by about two feet.  And for that he was giving me a ticket!  I pointed out that cars were indeed able to pass by on the service road as we stood there talking.  It didn’t matter.  Those cars had to jog a little to the left to avoid my car.  I thought life is unfair sometimes.

A few weeks later I sat alone in the court room waiting for my case to be called.  No lawyer, no parents, just me.  I was sure the judge would see things my way.  He had to.  I got a ticket because two feet of my car protruded over a white line and didn’t block traffic!  As I nervously sat listening to the other cases, I glanced across the aisle and noticed the Police Officer who had ticketed me.  He looked up at that moment, caught my eye, and signaled for me to come with him.  We quietly walked to the back of the room while court was in session.

The Police Officer showed me the ticket and told me he had reconsidered.  He said he made a wrong decision that day.  He should have given me a warning and he was taking back the ticket.  I told him I didn’t know what that meant.  What happens now? He said I was free to leave.  It never happened.  He took back the ticket.  I couldn’t believe what he was telling me.  I thanked him for reconsidering and scurried out of the court room, my high heels echoing loudly on the tile floor.

I took a deep breath of cool winter air when I reached the outside.  It was a relief after the stuffy confines of the building.  I headed to my car, anxious to get back to the office.  As I quietly drove through the streets of Arlington I thought about the unexpected outcome in the court room.  I thought about Sergei and how life is unfair sometimes.  I wished someone would tell me that it was all a mistake…that a wrong decision had been made and I could take back the last month…and Sergei was still alive.

On Course

January 1971 . . . the wheels are now in motion.  Sergei Kourdakov would soon be aboard the ship that brings him near the coast of the United States and Canada.  His plans to defect from the Soviet Union are always in the back of his mind.  That very same month, I accepted a new job offer that would take me out of the Pentagon to the office where we would eventually meet.  We were still teenagers that January . . . only nineteen years old.

* * *

Excerpt from The Persecutor:

“I knew in my heart I would not be coming back—not to that.

With my decision firmly made, I plunged back into my studies and duties as Chief of the Youth League, eagerly waiting the time I could go to sea.  A month later, in January 1971, I graduated from the naval academy as a radio officer and was commissioned Cadet Second Lieutenant Sergei Kourdakov of the Soviet Navy.  I was assigned immediately to sea duty and shipped out aboard a Soviet destroyer.”

- Sergei Kourdakov, The Persecutor (Chapter 19, pgs 231-232)

* * *

Excerpt from A Rose for Sergei:

“I don’t know what I was happier about, the promotion or a chance to work in a building where I could tell if it was day or night or snowing or raining.  I had windows and sunshine.  My new office was located on the fourth floor of the Pomponio Building in Rosslyn, Virginia.  The area where my desk was situated had a wall of windows at the end of the room.  I had a view to die for that overlooked the Key Bridge and Georgetown.”

* * * 

Unbeknownst to us we were on course to meet in the fall of 1972.

About Face

As a child I grew up on U.S. military bases.  The term “about face” was understood at a very young age.  I knew it was a drill command in which a soldier makes a 180° turn and heads in the opposite direction.  Keith, my older brother, used to march us all over the house when we were kids . . . left, right, left, right.  Halt.  About Face!

It wasn’t until several years later that I realized the phrase, about face, had an altogether different meaning.  It can also be used to refer to a complete change of one’s plans, ideas and actions . . . a change of attitude or point of view.  And that is exactly what happened to Sergei.

* * *

In Sergei Kourdakov’s book, The Persecutor, he describes the last raid he participated in.  Sergei was angered when a woman prayed for him.  He was stunned that she didn’t ask for help for herself when she saw his arm raised to strike her.

“I started to swing.  Then the strangest thing happened to me.  I can’t describe it.  Someone grabbed my wrist and jerked it back.  I was startled.  It was hurting.  It was not imaginary.  It was a real squeezing on my wrist until it actually pained.  I . . . turned around to hit him.  But there was no one there!

I looked back.  Nobody could have grabbed my arm.  And yet, somebody had grabbed me!  I still felt the pain.  I stood there in shock.  The blood rushed to my head.  I felt hot as fright swept over me.  This was beyond me.  It was confusing, unreal.  Then I forgot everything.  Dropping my club, I ran out . . . .”

-Sergei Kourdakov, The Persecutor (Chapter 19, pg. 226)

* * *

Sergei was used to always being in control, and he took great pride in his strength.  It was necessary for his survival.  But that night a greater strength held Sergei’s arm back.  What happened to Sergei the night of his last raid caused him to change his point of view about everything.  He had a sudden and complete change of plans.  He did an “about face.”

Worth the Wait

I think one of the best perks today is the drive-thru window at Starbucks.  You can just sit in the car, order your caramel macchiato coffee drink, and then pull up to the window and pay.  Fast, fun, easy and you’re on your way.  Most of the time.  The other day my car was number eight in the drive-thru lane . . . too far back in line to even be considered fast.  Like everyone else, I don’t like waiting in long lines.  I decided it would be quicker to park and go inside and order.  The line inside was even longer, but by then I was committed.  So I placed my order and waited along with everyone else.  I silently observed everyone take out their cell phones to check their messages and e-mail.  Life is so different today.  Before cell phones everyone stood in line patiently.  For some reason I refrained from pulling out my cell phone.

My thoughts drifted back, years ago, to when I had another long wait.  I had agreed to pick up some passes for a White House tour for my boss.  Mr. Logie had assured me it would be a quick trip over the bridge into DC during the middle of the day.  A driver would drop me off and wait while I ran into the office near the White House to pick up the passes.

When I entered the Government building, I was greeted by several security guards.  I showed them my security badge and explained I was there to pick up White House passes.  One guard checked a roster, didn’t see my name, and walked me to an office.  I was given some forms to fill out and asked to show several ID cards.  A half-hour later I was still waiting.  I couldn’t imagine what was taking so long.  Mr. Logie had said this would be quick so I was surprised by all the security checks.  I wondered why they kept making phone calls, too.  Forty-five minutes later they were ready to take my photograph.  I couldn’t believe it.  “I don’t understand why I have to do all this just to pick up White House tour passes,” I respectfully commented.

It turned out that the Security Staff thought I needed a pass to work at the White House—and that’s why they were making so many phone calls and having me fill out my life story on the forms.  The situation was quickly resolved and I was escorted to the proper office.  Two minutes later, after picking up the White House tour passes, I was politely escorted out of the building.

I was relieved to see the staff car . . . the driver hadn’t abandoned me in spite of his long wait.  A few minutes later I was back at my office in Rosslyn, VA.  “I’m sorry that took so long,” Mr. Logie said when I handed him the passes.  “What in the world happened?”

I laughed as I explained the mix-up.  “I guess you could say I got to know the Security Staff quite well.  They even thought I should apply for a job at the White House.”

I seriously considered the suggestion for several weeks, but never followed up on the idea.  A few months later I met Sergei Kourdakov in my office in Rosslyn.  And meeting Sergei was worth the wait.

Choices

I sometimes wonder what Sergei was thinking the night he chose to leave his country.  When he looked at the surface of that cold, dark water he didn’t know the dangers hidden underneath the waves.  But he chose to make that leap anyway.

“Numb with cold, I sized up the situation the best my tortured mind would allow.  I decided I would rather die trying to find real life than continue to live as I had been living.  I would not—could not—return to the life I had known.  Even if I drowned I must not go back.”

-Sergei Kourdakov, The Persecutor (Chapter 2, pg. 19)

We make choices each and every day.  Starting from a very young age we are encouraged to make decisions for ourselves—from the clothes we wear, who we choose to be our friends, to what we want to eat.  Compared to what Sergei faced, most of our choices are easy and somewhat inconsequential.  Sergei’s choices were for survival . . . I have no food, therefore I need to steal or beg for it.  I have no parents, therefore I must learn to take care of myself.

Sergei made a choice for a new beginning and a new life.  His leap of faith into the ocean was a difficult and life-changing moment.  Once he made that choice he looked forward, he didn’t look back.

He chose freedom.