I love a good story, and this is as good as it gets. I write this in the hope that it will be in a future book entitled "the trials and tribulations of the chassidim in Russia under Putin" or something like that (written preferably by Mordechai Staiman o"h).
It was Friday, half hour before Shabbos. A huge, tough Shabbos too. This was to be our last Shabbos here for the next month, and we were trying to devour all the rest of our food. Also, 24 guests (exact amount) were showing up for Minyan and the Shabbos meal, the highest number we've ever had.
5 chickens were boiling somewhere in the oven, and our biggest pot was filled to the brim with bubbling soup. Chayale had finished preparing her Sushi, fried fish, kugel, cake, schnitzel, dips, and many salads, and was working on one of her last salads, while I was outlining my Shabbos speech, having set the dining room table and helped clean up. Chaim was asleep, Miriam was wandering the apartment looking for something to do, and our "dom rabotnitsa" (housekeeper) Lena was cleaning the glasses of our Shabbos licht.
When the door buzzed, I looked at the clock. 5:00. Half hour to Shabbos, an hour early for Minyan. "Someone needs to get his watch fixed." I thought. Lena answered, and said that it was a neighbour who had forgotten his key.
I hear the hum of the elevator, and then it went silent. About 30 seconds later, our doorbell rings. This time I stood up and looked through the peek-hole. 4 burly men. I cautiously opened the door, and one of the men flashed me a police tag.
"Immigration authorities," he said. "Can we see your papers?"
When I saw his badge was real, I invited them in, and fetched our passports. Lena started jabbering with them, and explained to me that apparently here in Stavropol there are occassional random checks on apartments. She said not to be worried, as it is a normal part of life.
They briefly scanned through the passports of Chayale and the children, and then started scrutinizing mine. And they took their sweet time with it. They were obviously looking for something. Finally, they started pointing at my registration card (you must register within 3 days of arrival to Russia so the authorities know who you are and how to reach you) and muttering among themselves.
Then they turned to me and said, "you must come with us. Your registration is at a different apartment. Bring your rental agreement with you."
As Chayale started frantically trying to reach our secretary, I tried to explain them that they couldn't have chosen a worse time. This was going to be difficult for them, and for us. I also told them that we were having 25 guests.
As we were speaking, Refoel Khaimov, a Jewish taxi driver and good friend, popped in. I had called him several hours earlier to ask him to do a chore for me. When he said he was out of town I told him to forget it and I did it myself. Now he was here to find out if I still needed his help.
Murphy's law sometimes works for you. We call it Hashgacha protis. Refoel explained the men the dilemma better than I could have. Finally one of them said that sometimes it's just 10 minutes of paperwork. When I heard that, I said, "ok, let's get out of here. Fast, because I can't sign in 25 minutes."
We rushed down, and I got into this big, fancy red car. We drove a couple of minutes and stopped at immigration headquarters.
Stavropol immigration headquarters is in a sad state. Paint peeling everywhere, floor tiles soggy and half of them missing. Dull yellow walls with posters on it showing drawings of Stalin hugging children (I'm serious). The light fixtures are as old as my weekday hat, and the desks are falling apart. Not impressive.
I sat down in an office, and they asked me if I need a translator. "I think so," I admitted. Then they asked me if I need a lawyer. "I hope not," I answered.
Then came the Russian paperwork. Alot of papers were already prepared, and legal books were already open to the correct pages or bookmarked (obviously they had prepared whatever it is they wanted to beforehand). But this poor guy had to write like 20 papers, and fill it with all the information I can possibly give.
I was looking at my watch, time was passing. Shabbos was close.
The translator came, and we chatted while the official wrote. She said that she had seen me in the street, and asked me about some Jewish rituals. I asked her if this usually takes long (no), and how often do English-speakers sit in my chair (rarely).
Meanwhile, Refoel had been standing around outside, but had to go. Igr Lerner had left his work in the hospital (he's a surgeon), and arrived to help. Whenever the office door would open, he'd wink and give me a thumbs-up.
With 3 minutes to Shabbos, I told the official that I had to sign now, since in 3 minutes, I'm not putting a blot of ink on paper. He handed me the pen, and showed me the 30 places to sign. I finished with 1 minute to go.
So I emptied my pockets (and for those of you who know me, they were FULL). My pens, mace, wallet, keys, coins, papers and business cards. I placed them on a shelf near the desk, and told the translator that on Shabbos I'm not allowed to carry.
I said I'd leave them there til after Shabbos. I told the official that since he was an officer of the law, I trusted him. Besides, I had no choice. At this point Igr came in, and said he'd take it, but I told him he is a Jew and not allowed to. So they dumped it in a bag, stapled it shut, and put it away.
Igr was impressed. I think he was enjoying seeing his Rabbi standing up for yiddishkeit in a tough time. I hope it did alot for his Neshama.
Finally he was done. It was 6:30. I stood up, stretched, and got ready for the 15-minute walk home. It was dark outside and wouldn't be fun.
Then the official told me I needed to get fingerprinted. "How?" I asked. He took me to a back room, and showed me. It was primitive. I had to dip my fingers in ink and then push them on a paper. This is also considered writing, and I told him so.
The place had meanwhile emptied. People had gone home. Work was over. He folded his arms, upset. "What do you want me to do?" he said. "I respect your religion, but you have to make room for the law."
I told him that his law was liable to change any second. "Putin could call write now, and say that the new law is that no fingerprints are necessary. But G-d's laws never change." I then suggested that he close up, and go home. He can leave me here in a locked room for the night, and tomorrow when shabbos is over I'll sign.
He was not ready for that idea.
Then I had another idea. "Listen, I'm leaving Russia tomorrow night, and in order to leave I need my passport. Keep my passport here, and after Shabbos I'll pick it up and get fingerprinted!"
He thought for a second, and then when he got my word that I'll come down as soon as Shabbos was over, he agreed, even though it was after working hours (I did go tonight, and got fingerprinted. They should call it 'handprinted' in Russia, because he was printing my entire hand).
I walked to the door, and they told me that we now had to go to court. "What?" It's already 6:45! My guests are waiting! "Can I stop by my apartment to tell my wife I'm ok?" "No."
Ok, let's go! Fast!
"Ok, the car is here." They gestured. I stopped them. "I'm not allowed to drive or go in a car on Shabbos." I said. "Why?" "Torah says no lighting a fire, and when you turn on the engine you light a spark." "But what if I drive and you just sit here?"
I explained by telling them: "If you have 1 gallon of gas in your car, you can drive for example 10 kilometers in it. But if your car is full of heavy baggage, you can only drive 5. I add weight when I sit in the car, and it makes the fire bigger, the car work harder."
Now they were beyond annoyed. The interpreter was furious. "I will never forgive you for this." She said. What could I do? I tried telling them to send her home, that I'll manage, but apparently there is a law that states she must be there to the end.
One of the men offered to walk with me. Igr and the others went into their cars for the 5 minhute drive to the courthouse. Meanwhile, we started walking, the uphill trudge through the dark, past drunk people (and several obvious anti-Semites) for half an hour.
I can see this blew Igr's mind. He was proud of being a Jew at that moment.
We spoke on the way. The official was a really nice guy, and had lots of questions. I also asked him about his job, and how he knew to come to our apartment. He said that his boss told them to come. The guy on top.
When we got there, Igr was waiting with a big smile, his eyes shining. Everyone else was upset. I was keeping them all up late. The secretary of the judge was also upset. We went into court.
Court in Russia was nice and normal. Except for this huge actual cage in one corner.
Then we waited and waited. An hour went by before the judge came out. She then read me my writes (oh, I had a lawyer). Times was passing. I hoped Chayale was ok. I hoped the meal was going normally. I wondered if the guests were informed of the situation (Igr kept myteriously leaving the room every few minutes). With the translating and repetition of the exact number of the code of crime, and my name etc etc. it took forever to get through the formalities.
Finally the judge asked me why I was registered to the other address.
I told her the truth. "First of all, I'm sorry. I was wrong. When I arrived a year ago, I spent the first week in the hotel, where I registered. When I moved to my first apartment, the owner refused to register me. He said that we can register at the hotel or there's a lady who registers people. He gave me her number, and we've been registering with her since. I hadn't even bothered to ask my current owner to register s since I assumed the law was you had to be registered. I didn't matter where provided it was Stavropol."
My lawyer added: "please give him the minimal fine and allow him to stay in Russia."
Then the judge went to deliberate. This took another 45 minutes. She came out, and after a lot of blabber, and translated blabber, ruled that I had to pay a fine of 2000 rubles (in the bank sometime soon).
It was 9:00 when she was done. We left and when I walked out of the courtroom I was shocked. 5 young men from the community were waiting outside. They had bags of hot food, my Tallis, a Siddur and other stuff.
I'll leave it to Chayale to write what went on while I was gone, but suffice it to say that it was one of the proudest moments of my life. Without describing it, she Farbrenged with them, and they Davened (I have only started the Minyan 6 weeks ago!!!! They knew all the songs!!!). They had sang Shalom Aleichem and one of them had led in Kiddush and Hamotzi. They had sang Jewish songs, and Chayale had told them a Dvar Torah how Hamans rise up in every generation but we always overcome... But I'll let her fill in the details.
Two of the big ones escorted me on the 15 minute walk home, and up the seven flights of stairs. When I walked in at 9:30, I was mobbed like a hero. All 24 people had stayed up for me (usually our guests stayed til 8:15). Some had tears in their eyes. There were children, adults, grandparents. It was overwhelming. Anya Filatova started singing Shalom Aleichem...
I flew through Shalom Aleichem and Eshes Chayil, and made Kiddush and washed for Chaalah. Whilke the women scrambled to put together some food for me, I pulled out our fanciest bottles of vodka, and started a Farbrengen.
I told the Davidovs that they'd be making their house kosher soon, Igr that he'd be getting married soon to a good Jewish woman. I blessed them all, and then said a dvar Torah about how we are infinite, and what we do is infinite. I basically inspired them. Then we all sang some songs together, after which I told them that in your times, your true friends stand out for you. And today I saw my true friends.
They had to leave, the kids needed to sleep.
We were left to wonder, who told on us? it was obvious that they were well-informed. We also soon found out that the lady who registered us was called about two weeks ago and asked what kind of visas we are here on, are we working, etc.
Several theories abound, but now is not the time to write them all.
