It got the attention of the CIA. Gindin wasn’t exactly a superstar, but he was what the Company called a person of interest. Field officers interviewed him several times in Rome and then again in the United States, piecing together not only his military knowledge but also the story of the mutiny.
Rome was a tough three months. The Gindins found a small apartment in the suburb of Santa Marinella, but there was no heat, so at night they slept with all their clothes on.
Among the few things they’d taken out of Russia were some souvenirs, nesting dolls, caviar, and silk and linen sheets, which they’d planned on selling or bartering for food. They took to the streets in Rome’s largest bazaar to peddle their goods so that they could have money for food. What they were doing was illegal without a license, which they couldn’t afford, so they kept on the move from spot to spot, always trying to keep from being noticed by the police.
The biggest worry was their visas. It was at this time that the United States started clamping down on allowing Russian Jews into the country. Every day the Gindins heard stories about other families who’d come out of Russia and been denied entry to the United States. For them the prospects of a bright future was gone.
But in February the long wait was over; the Gindins got their visas and flew to New York, where Uncle Vladimir met them at the airport.
“This is how we started our lives in America,” Gindin remembers, smiling. “I spoke almost no English, and we had only three suitcases of belongings and five hundred dollars in cash.”
He got a job as a mechanic at an elevator company, earning eight bucks an hour. Yana went to school to learn English and another school where she learned bookkeeping, and she got a job.
Eventually they landed nice positions with big companies and bought a small house in Connecticut, a short train ride from Manhattan, and their only child, Vladimir, graduated with a master’s degree in finance.
Only now and again will Boris stop to cock his head and listen for sounds from across the fog-bound Daugava River, smell the chill, damp air that night before the mutiny. Only now and again will he think of the base at Baltiysk and the
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