Watermarks Freedom to Dance by Bil Leidersdorf

During the spring of 1974, I flew from New York to my London studios to photograph the Kirov Ballet. Except for seeing old friends from Russia, the sessions promised to be routine, lasting about five days. The studios were filled with wall-to-wall people, for the Russians loved to travel with huge entourages made up of costume and makeup people, artistic directors, family members, and interpreters. Russian interpreters were not interpreters; they were KGB agents sent along to make sure no dancers defected to the West. We used to call them "handlers" because they were always getting in other people's way and handling other people's affairs. They had ways of making one very nervous.

Although hectic, the first couple of days went very well. My third day started out pretty much the same as before, with half the day reserved for the Kirov's principal male dancer. About an hour into the session I suggested to the dancer that we might be able to do something to lighten his makeup, and that I had a new artist who was working wonders. He liked the idea, so I sent him off downstairs to be redone while I went to my office to make some neglected phone calls. After a bit of time, I wandered past a now-snoozing handler down to the makeup room. I arrived to find no artist and a very pensive dancer.

He turned as I entered the room; his expression changed to one of complete helplessness, and as he approached he said, "You must help me," and passed me a small folded piece of paper. Looking at me he pleaded, "Please."

I'm not sure what one would call it, maybe a sixth sense or intuition, but the moment he passed me that note I knew what he wanted and the danger he had placed himself in. Collecting myself and acknowledging what he had done, I went and found the makeup artist and said that we had twenty minutes before we would start shooting again. On my way back to my office, I was relieved to find the handler still napping. Reading the note at my desk confirmed my intuition--my friend was seeking asylum from the United States' Government.

Clearly I was in over my head, and I had twenty minutes to figure out what to do. The note briefly said that he was unable to perform any roles he wanted and that, in addition to the classics, he wanted to explore modern and other types of dance, something that was not allowed in the Soviet Union. Dancers were trained from a very young age to perform in three or four roles only for their entire careers. It would be like telling a Shakespearean actor that he could do Hamlet but not Macbeth. My friend's note concluded with a list of dates and locations of his performances over the next month.

Back in the studio, knowing I had to tell my friend something but not sure of what say or do, I continued the shoot. As the session ended, I asked if he could return late tomorrow afternoon to approve the photographs, to which he and his handler agreed.

After the Russians left, I let the assistants and apprentices go for the rest of the day. Back in my office alone, I took time to reflect. My friend had placed an awful responsibility on my shoulders, and if the Russians found out what he was up to, he would lose his considerable status in the Soviet Union and run the risk of becoming a political exile. It was time for wiser minds than mine. I first thought about the State Department bureaucrats; they normally handled political cases like this, but in the past few years, they had not been particularly sensitive to artists. I needed someone who would understand the problems. I remembered an old friend who now worked high up in the National Endowment for the Arts. I rang her up in Washington, and after a couple of hours of phone tag, I finally got her on the line and explained the situation. She felt that this was out of her league, but she would make a delicate enquiry. She asked that I fax her a copy of the note and told me she would call back shortly.

Sitting by the phone, I began to realize the enormity of the situation that had been placed in motion. Besides the risks my friend was taking, there was the potential damage that my studios might suffer. If it became public that I was involved, I would lose my Russian contracts and probably a newly-signed contract with the National Ballet of Cuba. The Russians did not pay very much, but there was a lot of prestige that went along with those agreements.

The phone finally rang and the voice on the other end announced that he was the Consul to the Secretary of State and that the U.S. Government was willing to grant full asylum. He went on to say that he had a copy of the note from the dancer I had faxed earlier. He felt, after looking at the tour dates, that Toronto would be the best place for the defection, and he asked if I would be willing to help.

It is amazing how fast our government moves when it wants to. And me, all I wanted was to hand this over to someone else and pray that everything worked out okay. Now I was becoming even more involved with something I knew nothing about. I told the Consul that I was no good for this, that I sweat in uncomfortable situations, that I look guilty if I try to pull a fast one, and that I had no legitimate reason for being in Toronto. He asked me to reconsider, saying that the State Department would handle the arrangements and that, in my position, all I had to do was to ask the touring company if I could photograph the performance in Toronto. I capitulated, and we agreed that a member of the U.S. Embassy in London would meet me the next day.

The next morning a dapper young man appeared at my door from the embassy. It seemed that, overnight, many people had been very busy. It had been determined that the best place for the defection was during a postproduction party at the Casa Loma, a medieval castle on the north side of Toronto. My assignment was to take my friend from the ballroom to a small reception area at a certain time. The embassy official provided the necessary travel papers and airline tickets for me, and he told me that the Canadians were notified and that they were cooperative. He went on to say someone would contact me on my arrival in New York, and with that, he picked up his briefcase and was gone.

Late that afternoon the dancer returned with his interpreter to the studio so that we could go over his photos from the day before. I asked him to pick one photo he liked so we could blow it up and see how it looked. In reality, once we were in the darkroom we could talk in private. After closing and locking the door, I told him all that had transpired and what was being proposed.

Relief passed over him and he started to cry, saying, "You can not believe how I have been living the past few years--You have done so much in such a little time."

We talked some more about what he would do when he was free. He relayed that there was so much to do he would be very busy. He said the first thing was that we should have a celebration dinner at the Russian Tea Room in New York. He asked that I contact a well-known agent he had once met and appraise him of the situation. With all the arrangements made, we left the darkroom and finished with his photos. The next morning he was on his way back to Russia.

I was a nervous wreck and still had two dancers in the studio to wrap up the rest of my assignment with the Kirov Ballet. By Friday, everything had been completed and I was on my way back to my New York Studio.

Once back in the city, I felt a little bit more confident about what was going to happen in the next 24 hours. I had a call from my friend in Washington and brought her up to speed. A call from the State Department told me that I would be met at the airport in Toronto tomorrow afternoon. There was little else to do but get some well-needed sleep.

The next afternoon a young lady met me at the airport and whisked me off to a small customs office in the back of the terminal. There she went over the plans for that evening and assured me they had done this type of thing before without any problems. She gave me a phone number in case of any questions or change in plans.

From the airport, I went directly to the theater to confirm with the artistic director about the photos I wanted to shoot. I also wanted to find my friend to make sure he was okay, but was told he had not yet arrived. When I asked about his hotel, I was told I could not have that information. I left the theater wondering if everything was still on or if he had been discovered. After a snack, I returned to see if I could catch him in his dressing room before the performance, but was told he could not be disturbed. Although this comment is normal, it did nothing to relieve my fears. The best thing I could do at that point was to act normal and take my photographs. After the performance, I tried to get backstage, but security men turned me away again. So, with a troubled mind, I arrived at the Casa Loma for the party.

It was about 11:00 PM, and the dancers would not arrive for another half an hour or so. Waiting was becoming intolerable, so I thought a drink and some conversation with the production staff would help. Time dragged, and as the dancers started to make their appearances, my anxiety grew. Finally, across the ballroom came my friend with an older lady on his arm.

With a frustrated look, I started to ask a question, when he stopped me with a hand motion and introduced the lady as his mother, saying, "She is coming with us."

Panic! There was nothing in the plans about a mother or anyone else. I did not know if the plans could be adapted, and I relayed those fears, to which he said, "If she can't come, I will not."

We were fast approaching the hour of our rendezvous, and I had to make a decision. I felt the worst that could happen was that I would be left behind. I told him it was okay with me, but I was not the State Department. I said we had five minutes if he wanted to say goodbye to anyone; he smiled and said he did not. So, with that I led them off toward the reception area, and he turned for a brief moment at one of the porticos and looked back at the ballroom. We were met by the young lady from the State Department and two guys who looked like football players in suits. They rushed us down to a waiting car, then to the heliport for a short flight across the lake to Rochester. From there, they flew me to New York and my friend to Washington. On the plane, I found out that the State Department had all sorts of contingency plans, one of which covered defectors who brought along someone to leave with. It seems that Russian defectors were noted for this.

The men from the State Department decided to keep my friend under wraps for a couple of weeks. However, the Wednesday after his defection, much to my surprise, they arranged to have the Russian Tea Room opened very late at night, and we had our very private, very delightful celebration dinner. At the end, we toasted freedom with frozen Russian vodka.

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