Frank Deaver Peace Editorials

     Allow me to introduce Nina Sergeevna Raziborskaja, whom I met in Leningrad (now St. Petersburg), Russia, in 1975.  Our personal encounter was brief, but intense.  Our subsequent correspondence was infrequent, but meaningful.  Our acquaintance was not through a Rotary event, but through an outgrowth of a Rotary event.

     Group Study Exchange sent six of us from Alabama to Sweden for an eight week schedule.  Due to the intensity of the program, it was routine to give team members the fifth week for free travel.  While others went to Switzerland or to Majorca, two of us elected to go to Russia.

     My translator and guide in Leningrad was a young woman named Galya.  Her English was almost flawless, and she credited it to her teacher, Nina Sergeevna.  “And would you like to meet her?” Galya asked.  “She’s a poet as well as a teacher, and even though she’s retired from teaching, she still writes poetry.”  Of course I wanted to meet this lady.  She sounded charming.

     Galya and I climbed a crumbling concrete staircase to a third-floor apartment that can best be described as, well, modest.  More correctly, it might be suspected that the building had been shelled by German artillery in 1942, and was still awaiting repair.  The apartment walls were covered with faded and peeling wallpaper, but it was hardly visible for all the pictures, clippings, certificates—all sorts of memorabilia that could be held in place with pins or tacks.  Furniture was similarly covered with items that were obviously personal treasures.

     Nina Sergeevna was at first apologetic about her humble abode, but when I responded that obviously she was surrounded by precious memories, she relaxed and began to speak of some of them.  She told me about “the great war,” about the four-month siege of Leningrad, and about the suffering that residents endured.  She told how she, then a young lady, had said good-bye to the man she intended to marry, as he went off to submarine service in the Baltic Sea.

     He never returned.  She never married.

At Galya’s encouragement, Nina Sergeevna read for me a poem she had written to her lost sailor’s memory.  A portion, in translation, says:

               Permit me, my love, to come to the beach,
               Where the cold, gray Baltic breakers
               Will bring your silent love to me,
               From somber depths of the Gulf of Finland.

     Emotions welled up within me as I listened.  When she had written those words—in 1943—her country and mine were allies in World War II.  As we visited together—in 1975—the Cold War cast our two societies in the role of at least potential enemies.  Unspoken torrents of thoughts were undoubtedly in her mind, as they were in mine: “Why must our two countries eye each other so suspiciously, when we two meet individually as friends?”  An additional thought occurred to me: “What we need is a few GSE exchanges between our two countries.”

     As Nina Sergeevna poured tea and we continued our visit, I became aware that eye contact was frequently lost, as she stared at the pin in my lapel.  Finally, she gathered the courage to ask.  “That pin that you wear; what is it, and what is its meaning?”  “That is my Rotary pin,” I replied.  “It means I belong to an organization called ‘Rotary International.’”  “And what is the purpose of that organization?” she queried.  Previous thoughts about wars and cold wars inspired me to explain Rotary primarily in terms of the fourth avenue of service, the concept of “international goodwill and understanding.”

     Rotary, I told her, is an organization “that is dedicated to helping people from different countries come to know each other in a personal and friendly way.”  I told her that perhaps the programs of Rotary can help nations, as well as individuals, be better friends, and thus further the cause of world peace.

     “That sounds like such a good purpose,” she said, nodding her head as a teacher approving a student’s recitation.  “And do we have local clubs of that organization here in Russia?”  “No,” I had to reply, “there are no Rotary Clubs in Russia.”  “That’s a pity,” she said.  “With such goals as you describe, we should have Rotary Clubs here, too.”  She shook a school teacher’s finger at me and demanded, “Don’t you think so?”  “Yes, of course,” I agreed.

     Years passed.  Occasionally I had a letter from Galya, and once or twice from Nina Sergeevna.  Then came the end of the Cold War.  Then came the introduction of Rotary into Russia.  Then came Galya to graduate study in Buffalo, New York.

     Galya called me long distance one Sunday afternoon, to tell me she was in this country, and to bring greetings.  In the course of our conversation, I said, “Tell me, please, about Nina Sergeevna.”  Galya’s tone softened.  “I’m sorry,” she said.  “Nina Sergeevna died last year.”

     It had to be.  A decade-and-a-half earlier she was already growing old and feeble.  But I wondered:  “Did Nina Sergeevna learn of the introduction of Rotary into her homeland?”  “Did she remember how, in 1975, we agreed that it should be?”

     I silently hoped that, before she went to be with her sailor, she had learned of Rotary in Russia.  If not, perhaps she’ll look back, see what has changed, and smile.