I know this post is longer than usual....but there was so much to say. It was one of the most fascinating experiences of my life. I hope you enjoy.
The ride was three hours, give or take. Even though it was summertime 1986, the seas were dark, nearly black, as we sailed south from Helsinki aboard the George Ots complete with hammer and sickle (picture). I was 24 and thought that I had the world by the tail. I mean, who else had the been dealt the opportunity to find themselves behind what was then dubbed the Iron Curtain? This smacked of the espionage of James Bond. We were under the pseudo camouflage of a German tourist group. Close to 40 of us, nearly all from the United Stats, all musicians, all young and thought we were something to be reckoned with. We had been briefed, numerous times, by a variety of folks who had been there before us. Don’t stand in front of hotel mirrors…they could be double mirrors and the possibility exists that they’ll be watching you from the other side. No talking about private or sensitive matters anyplace….microphones will be hidden in hotel rooms, buses, restaurants, museums. Don’t stand in a group together….always walk in smaller break-out groups. No staring, mind your own business. Don’t be surprised when strangers follow you….it’s just a member of the KGB or other officials tailing you. Use no real names, especially of those whom we meet in Estonia…..it could put their lives in danger even after we leave. Say nothing, do nothing, be nothing. Just a typical German tourist group on holiday to experience the Russian museums and sights. The only problem was that we were a Christian musical group from the United States and had underground Christian hosts waiting for us on the other side. We were on our way to participate in activities that the government had identified as illegal.
We docked in the port city of Tallinn, Estonia, under a warm July sky. We had no identifying t-shirts on, nothing except our passports and required visas, none of our musical equipment. And, I’m sure, the deer-in-the-headlights look. We were taking in only the clothes on our backs plus a backpack each filled with clothing, Bibles, Christian music and study tapes,. And there were four of us who had additional contraband. Letters and information coming in from the outside to people we didn’t even know in Estonia. I was an assistant director with The Continental Singers, now known, simply, as The Continentals. The other assistant, me, and our director and his wife held a variety of letters to be given to our yet-to-be-seen host. The customs area was busy. Filled with all kinds of people coming into and going out of the Soviet block. Most of us passed through without question. A few were detained for questioning in small, plain rooms along the side. Pulled in by ourselves, questions asked, wondering why we had tapes and books and who we were. I remember Russ, one quite unassuming young guy in our group. He had a bunch of Christian training tapes that he was questioned about. I can’t remember if they kept them or allowed him to keep them. What I do remember is that he was quiet, shy, and did his best to remain calm. The machines looked inside each of our bags. They could zoom in to any particular section of our bags to get a better look. Intimidating to say the least. Suddenly, we weren’t quite so cocksure.
Our government-approved host was to meet us and stay with us each day up until dinner time. She would show us the approved sights, museums, and the summer home of Peter the Great resting on the Baltic Sea. Following her departure each evening, we were to hang, as incognito as possible, near our hotel in the center of the city. There were only a couple of approved hotels for Westerners to stay in. I remember standing there for the first time, waiting, wondering, watching. Well, not watching too blatantly. The reality of it was, as I recall, that we were scared to death. A man or woman would be standing nearby, listening, watching us. We’d move away, they would follow. We kept seeing the same faces throughout our entire time there. Suddenly, a woman appeared near our group -- she knew us (we were hard not to miss, I’m sure). We did not know what she looked like. “Please, follow me,” she said to our director. “Be quiet and just follow…in small groups only.,’ she directed. And we did. She led us through the streets of Tallinn, on a light-rail train, across busy streets, down one side of a sidewalk and back up the other. Trying our best to keep up and, yet, remain unnoticed.
We entered the building through the back door via the alley. You wouldn’t believe it if you hadn’t been there. The place was packed, probably 500 people or so. Standing room only. The blinds had been pulled on the windows, no one could see in or out. The room erupted in violent, almost frenzied applause once we were all inside and the doors had been closed. These people had stolen their way through the streets too just to see us perform. Remember that we didn’t bring in any of our own musical equipment. But it was all there for us. Borrowed and begged. Instruments lying in wait to be used by us. We organized and tuned quickly. And we sang. Without microphones or a sound system. Having been forewarned that the KBG and other government police and officials could very well be in the audience. You never did know when and where they would appear. “All over the world, all over the world, god’s spirit is moving, all over the world.” Without our typical array of costumes, lights, and makeup. Just us, happier than ever to be creating memories for these warm and wonderful people. Oppressed, yet with deep smiles. That’s what happens when you’re held down for just so long. We held concerts in this building for several nights in a row. We also sang in an old church with a KBG listening tower high in the steeple -- right while a funeral was going on. The body lay right next to us while we sang. Weird. Each day spending time touring with our young, pretty Estonian host. And the evenings spent under the watchful eye of our underground Christian host. She and her former husband had been participating in hidden work for the Christian community for many years. They had welcomed those from the West with open arms. Until the day that her husband was killed in an airplane crash with a high-ranking Soviet official. As a part of the crash investigation, they discovered the work that she and her husband had been doing. They raided her apartment,…bland, plain, and simple government housing. And now, we were actually sitting right inside of that particular place (picture). They scared her children, turning all of their few belongings upside down and inside out. Their lives were now known. She would never again be far from the eyes of her government. And now we were there, with her, not knowing who was watching or when. She took a few of us privately down a few streets, in the alleyways, and into the simple home of one of her friends. A cup of tea. We talked, sort of. We looked at their hymn books. Get this…handwritten church hymns. No hymnals or printed music were permitted. She even invited four of us into her home. To this day, I think back to that warm evening, sitting in her horribly simple flat. Many of us gathered in her small living room, a cold drink of some sort in hand, not knowing who was listening or watching. Smiling, hugging, and carrying on…..carefully and calculated. Cautious with our words, names, information. Even after we left, she would continue to be followed and kept under thumb. I received letters from her for several years after my visit (picture).
One afternoon during our time there, the other assistant director and I were to gather all of the Bibles, books, tapes, music, and clothes that we had all brought with us. We were going to pass these items off to someone that we didn’t know. We were to wait in a park right in the center of the city. Relax, be incognito, appear natural. Um hum. Sure. So, we were there, the sun beating down on us as we sat near a fountain in the park with several backpacks of goods to deliver. We had a description of the car that was to pull up. The car circled the park, we watched, and waited for it to stop. It pulled up alongside the curb. Near us, but not too close. We ambled that direction, nonchalantly as possible. The guy got out, opened the trunk, and we put the backpacks in the trunk. We nodded, said thanks, and turned to leave when he said, “You get in the car.” What? We were surprised. “You get in the car,” he said again. This was not in the plan. “It’s okay,” he said. “I know _____,.” the real name given to the underground host that we’d been working with. “I’ll bring you back here later on.” Oh my gosh, this was wild. Things were not going as planned. Rob and I piled in the backseat of the car and he started driving out of the city. He told us to relax and that there was nothing to be afraid of. He said he was good friends with ______, our host, and that she had asked him to help her. He also told us that we were, at that very moment, being followed out of the city by the police. They were right behind us! But, he said, don’t turn around or look. “They follow me all of the time,” he said. Pretend like there is nothing wrong. He assured us that everything would be fine. Rob and I exchanged very nervous glances as the car headed north, now out of the downtown core of the city. He took us on what seemed like a million-mile trip. In reality, it was probably only half an hour or so to a heavily wooded area, beautiful old tall trees everywhere, to a park, like a campground sort of forested park. We pulled into a parking space and he, again, told us that the police were right behind us and for us not to use any names or say anything that would get us, or him, into trouble. We got out and went over to the railing overlooking a small forested valley. The uniformed police pulled in right next to us and got out. They stood a few feet away -- talking, laughing, intimidating. To this day, I cannot believe that I was actually there and doing, what we called then, “god’s work.” The police finally left, leaving us alone and relieved. He continued to tell us a horribly detailed and intricate story of a project that he was going to ask us to help him with. He had numerous letters to be taken back out of the country and then mailed to various places in the world. These letters were not addressed -- no names, addresses, identifying marks at all. We were to keep the letters separate from the addresses until we were safely out of the country and then put them into envelopes, address them, and mail them -- all from outside of the watchful eye of the KGB and others. We were to carefully select those that would carry the letters. They must be trustworthy, quiet, calm, and as adult as possible. If questioned, they must know how to remain level-headed. He delivered us back to the park later. Safe and sound, the letters stuffed into our pants, pockets, under our shirts.
We picked out women who were less likely to be questioned than men. We had them tape these letters and addressed in between their breasts, in the smalls of their backs, and on their inner upper thighs. Less likely spots to be scrutinized. I can’t remember what I carried or where I carried it. I just know that we were all shaking and nervous as we cleared passport control and our bags were searched. They did want to know why we had no belongings or suitcases to take out. Where were our clothes and the things we‘d brought in? We made up some story and boarded the ferry for the ride back into freedom. The letters taped onto our bodies, the Bibles left to be handed out to the locals, and a few cups of hot tea in our bellies….served to us by some of the warmest, most perfect people in the world. I remember the last time I looked up at them, leaning over the balcony of their flat (picture). Knowing that we were being watched by the government, the official host who’d taken us to the museums and approved tourist sites, and also by the underground and hidden hosts who’d truly placed their lives on the line to have us there. I occasionally reread the ten or so letters that I still have from her (picture). In subsequent years, I’d be asked by an organization in Tulsa, Oklahoma, to marry this Estonian woman. Simply to get her out of the country and into safety. They were willing to move me, change my name, even perform a “fake” marriage, just to help her get out. My parents were really upset. And I was confused. In the end, I said “No.” I just couldn’t do it. I’ll never know if that was the right or wrong decision. I heard numerous years later that she had finally immigrated…..after many false starts and promises from her government. They liked to tease and taunt back in those days. Rumor has it that she first went to Israel, then to Switzerland, and finally, you won’t believe it, to Vancouver, Washington, just a few miles across the Columbia River from where I live today. In fact, out my bedroom window, I can look north, across the river and right into Vancouver where she may very well be living. I look over that way most nights before I climb into bed. Now that, my friends, is wild and crazy. You know those experiences in your life that you wouldn’t trade for anything? This is one of them.
