Aleksei Gorchakov, The Long Road. 1949

One future refugee from the Soviet Union remembered that physical culture parades seemed very different from the marchers point of view.

When I returned to Kiev in the fall, a great shock awaited me. Valya and Borka. had entered the glider school. Not as students -but to work there, carrying glider parts, scrubbing and cleaning gliders, and doing similar unimportant tasks. But they had the opportunity to sit in the pilot seat and work the controls. I had never in my life even touched a real glider, and was terribly envious.

My friends understood this and arranged to have me join them. Soon I was monk eying around the gliders, happy and satisfied.

The anniversary of the Revolution was approaching. The glider pilots were to be graduated and it was announced that during the parade on November 7th they would march in full uniform. When the uniforms were being banded out, the director of the glider school called us.

Come here kids," he said. "Because you have been a great help to us, I am giving you these uniforms. Don't forget, I procured them for you myself, No one has the right to take them from you. Wear them happily in payment for those trousers which you tore climbing around under the gliders.

Then he told us that we were to march at the head of the column of glider pilots.

"Hurray!" we yelled, running across the airfield holding our old clothes in our arms. We were already wearing our brand new green uniforms with blue lapels. Beyond the gate we fell into step-the uniform demanded that.

I rose early on November 7th and put on my uniform. Then I noticed my torn shoes. I plugged the holes with cotton to keep my socks from showing. When I got out into the street, I saw the cotton creeping out through the holes. I had to sacrifice my good handkerchief I climbed under a truck, smeared it with grease, and blackened the bulging cotton so it wouldn't show. It looked pretty good.

The glider pilots marched behind the civilian fliers. At an intersection, our column and another one met head-on. Everything became entangled and disorganized, but the pilots kept pushing through.

"Stop! Let the others go through first!" screamed Grinko, who was running around with the red arm band of a traffic director. He ran to the head of our column and spreading his arms attempted to stop us.

"Out of the way, louse," a six-foot-four pilot thundered at him, and with one hand he pushed Grinko aside.

Grinko stood there at a loss. Going by, I couldn't resist the urge and stuck out my tongue at him.

As we entered the big square, the band struck up the "Aviators' March:

And higher, and higher, and higher...

My heart beat at a terrific speed and a lump came into my throat. Soon we were marching past the reviewing stand. As we went by, I looked closely at the men assembled there. Instead of joyful and happy expressions, I saw the sleepy and indifferent faces of the Party leaders. It made a disappointing picture. Could they be unfamiliar with the notes of our cheerful march? Didn't the valiant fliers bring out their enthusiasm? Weren't they glad to see the blue lapels on the pilots' uniforms? I wondered.

I was not the only one who had been so poorly impressed by the men on the stand. When our column was halted and the fliers broke formation, they also had something to say:

Did you see those guys?" a young fellow nodded in the direction of the square. "Probably were getting drunk all night long, and now they're working off their hangovers.

"Yes, they live well, not like us sinners," the tall pilot, who had shoved Grinko out of the way, assented.

"How old are you, lad?" he slapped me on the shoulder.

"Thirteen," I lied; I wasn't even twelve.

Long live our future relief! Hurray!

They began to throw us into the air, as high as the trees.

This was my first flight.

Source: Louis Fisher, ed. Thirteen Who Fled (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1949), pp. 61-63.