Chapter 17 - International Relations at 55 East Tenth Street

 According to Boy: After Evie and I got married, but before she joined me in New York, I moved from the Fifth Avenue Hotel to a somewhat less luxurious abode—55 East Tenth Street. This residence was also owned by NYU, and it served exclusively as a residence hall for NYU students.

Here the arrangement was more like a suite. There were two rooms, and a single bathroom. Fred (not his real name), my roommate at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, remained my roommate at the new residence. The fact that he choose to remain my roommate surprised me a little, because I really didn’t think he liked me at all. We never associated with each other outside being roommates. He was a business major (working on his MBA), and I was in the School of Arts and Sciences. I can’t say that I liked or disliked Fred. He never greatly irritated me, and that was really all that mattered.

The two fellows in the adjoining room made life very interesting. One was a visiting scholar from Germany, and one was the son of Russian parents, both of whom were university professors—one taught at Columbia, and I am not sure where the other worked, but they both taught Russian Literature. I do not remember the first name of the German gentleman, but the Russian was named Dmitri. I am not sure about his last name, but I do recall it being very Russian.

I had ton of fun with Dmitri. He was like a gentle giant. He stood well over six feet, and was put together like an Abrams Tank (that would be a larger and tougher version of the Sherman Tank). The really unique thing about Dmitri was that he was born in the Soviet Union, and managed to escape with his parents.

Dmitri spoke fluent Russian. Of course, it would have been impossible for me to know that from personal observation. But Dmitri was an on-air talent for Voice of America. For those who are not familiar with the Voice of America, it was a federally-funded international broadcasting system, ostensibly set up to promote the English language. But in reality, its primary focus was to promote American culture and interests. Originally it was set up under the auspices of the Office of War Information, but later it was placed under the control of the  U.S. Information Agency. In 1968 it was a major U.S. weapon in the cold war.

So, I would guess that if our government chose Dmitri to produce, read and broadcast U.S. propaganda throughout Eastern Europe, his Russian must have been pretty good. I imagine his parents had much to do with landing him the gig.
  

He usually chose to record his program during the day, when all three of his roommates were in class. Unfortunately (for Dmitri), my schedule was relatively flexible. I really liked Dmitri—he was a genuinely nice person. But the mere fact that I liked and respected him did not stop me from being my normal trouble-making self.

It was very common for me to stop back at 55 during the day. I would carefully unlock the door, and enter. I got so I could do it without making any perceptible noise. The entry door led into a small hall, with a common closet. From that small hall, I could look into my room, and also into the room Dmitri shared with the German. I would always gently open their door, peek in and greet my two friends—it was just the neighborly thing to do.

Many times I would hear Dmitri recording his broadcast tape. I would carefully open his door a few inches. When he was recording, he would be standing behind his drapes. I suspect that the acoustics were best behind them. He would be talking into his mic, squeezing out every ounce of energy he could muster. I never had any idea what he was saying, but it really sounded great.

I would then close the door back, just until it almost touched the jam. I left it open just a crack so that I could see the lump behind Dmitri’s drapes. Then I would re-open the door that led out into the residence hall, and slam it.

Without fail, Dmitri would let out a startled shout. Sometimes he would even drop his equipment. I would then peek in the door, and apologize. Dmitri would stick his friendly smile out of the drapes and greet me. He was such a nice person. I sometimes wondered if he might have been a spy. Spies have to be nice, don’t they? At least until they kill you. Who knows?

 

Dmitri’s size and demeanor really came in handy in one instance. It was about 2 a.m. I had been sleeping, when a group of six or seven partiers exited the bar across the street, and wandered over to my side of the street, directly beneath my window. We lived on the seventh floor, but they were so unbelievably noisy, that they totally disrupted both Fred and me.

Finally, I went over to the window, opened it, and told them to "Shut up!" It did not work. They took offense to my "request." It just got worse.

I knew better than to go down there, in spite of their unanimous invitation to join them. So I did the next best thing—I delivered a glass to them so they could fill it up for me. I aimed it to hit the sidewalk a foot or so from the building, and tossed it with medium force. It traveled straight the first forty feet, but then caught a little air, and it drifted the last thirty. It smashed right at their feet. They really did not like what I had done. They were yelling something about kicking my ass. But they did disperse. I thought the problem was solved.

Unfortunately, they were sober enough to figure out my floor and room number. About five minutes later there was loud pounding on the door. I reasoned: "Steel door, steel jam, I should be okay." I had not taken Dmitri into consideration. He answered the door.

"Oh, God! I’m dead!"

But Dmitri was every bit as clever as he was big, and nice. He opened the door and started speaking Russian. The guys outside the door knew that the guy (me) that had yelled down at them was not a Russian. So they did not figure out who this guy (Dmitri) was. I guess they assumed they got the wrong room.

I am sure Dmitri knew what was going on, but we never discussed it. He simply opened the door, and did a very good "Vladimir Klitscho-esque" routine. Of course, he could have responded to these drunks in impeccable English. But why should he?

Probably the most criminal act I ever committed had to do with Dmitri’s German roommate. I am so thankful that I never got busted for it. I am definitely not proud to have done it. But I did the deed, and I will not hide from it.

I wanted to go back to Grand Rapids to see Evie. I was lonely, and bored, so I cooked up this scheme. I decided to order a round-trip plane ticket, and have it sent to 55 East Tenth Street, under the German’s name. Then I would just check the mail every day, and intercept it when it arrived. Back then, you could do things like that. My plan was to get the tickets, and then pay for them with a bad check at the airport (I think they call it "kiting").

I knew that it was possible to have the airlines mail you the ticket (I had done this before), so I thought I might be able to pull it off. I would wear some sort of disguise when I paid for the tickets. I would be gone for only a couple days, and I knew enough about the banking system to be certain that my check could not clear before I got back.

I reasoned that the airline could never prove that the German ordered or used the ticket, so he would not get stuck with it. I saw no reason for my plan not to work. But it didn’t.

Somehow I missed the mail on the day that the ticket arrived. I heard the German talking about it with Dmitri. And I heard Dmitri tell him, "Let’s go talk to Mike. He’s from Michigan. Maybe he might know something about it."

So they came to the door, and knocked. "Do you have any idea what this is all about?" Dmitri asked me. The German did not speak English very well, so Dmitri did all the talking.

I have no doubt that Dmitri knew exactly what was going on. It was a good thing for me that my roommate, Fred, was not home. Had he been, he would have bent over laughing about my getting busted. Instead, I simply denied it.

As I said, that was just about the worst thing I ever remember having done. I am not proud of it. I did remain friends with my roommates, and I never tried anything like that again.

In retrospect, I think it miraculous that anyone listened to Reagan when he demanded of his Russian Counterpart, Mikhail Gorbachev, to "Tear down this wall." That had to have happened in spite of me.