The Few Who Got Out

"How many Jews live in the Soviet Union?" runs a current joke.

"About 3,500,000."

"And how many of them want to leave?"

"About 5,000,000."

Hyperbole aside, it is estimated that perhaps 300,000 Soviet Jews would leave the country if they could--not to mention any number of non-Jewish Soviet citizens. Few get out, whatever their religion, but Moscow now grudgingly permits about 2,000 Jews to depart annually. Most emigrate to Israel: last week, for example, Physicist Boris Zuckerman, a leading Soviet authority on magnetic resonance, arrived in Jerusalem with his wife and two children. Like those who preceded him, however, Zuckerman may well be in for a few jolts.

Using Their Elbows. Israel's policy is to accept Jews of any nationality or circumstance and to treat them with exceptional deference. The Ministry of Immigrant Absorption, headed by Russian-born Nathan Peled, spends nearly $300 million a year, more than any department except defense. Arriving immigrants are met by social workers, lodged in apartments secured by the ministry, offered low-cost loans and allowed tax exemptions. So generous are benefits that arriving Soviet army veterans resume the pensions they lost when they left the Soviet Union.

In spite of such largesse, the Russian immigrant usually has a rough time adjusting. "Once he is here and we have put him on his feet," says Peled, "he is sometimes shocked by our informal and democratic way of life. This is when his problems begin."

Few understand Hebrew, and even those who do still seem to have more problems than other new arrivals arrivals--even those from East European countries, most of whom spent at least part of their lives under non-Communist governments. "They use their elbows," said the head of one of Israel's 25 immigrant centers, referring to the East Europeans. Not the Soviet Jews. Most are so accustomed to life under totalitarianism that they speak in whispers, distrust all government functionaries and shy away from decisions. One Leningrad doctor, hired by a health insurance company, was aghast when his new boss told him to pick a vacation date. In Jerusalem, a newly arrived photographer from Moscow hesitated when TIME Correspondent Marlin Levin bought him Coca-Cola at an outdoor cafe. "It was a reflex action," the photographer explained sheepishly. "In the Soviet Union, Coca-Cola is the archsymbol of the imperialist and the aggressor. But here in Israel it's safe to be an aggressor, no?" He drank the Coke.

Other immigrants are at first disenchanted by life around them. "They envision the Israeli soldier as a superman," says Yaacov Yannai, a Sovietologist born in Riga, "and they are terribly disturbed when they see that some soldiers are undisciplined and sloppy. Dirt in the street bothers them as does the brusque, discourteous manner of some of our people. Their puritanism is dealt a blow when they go to a Tel Aviv movie and see naked women on the screen." Many complain about the relatively high price of tickets for operas, concerts and plays (rarely more than $3 for first-rate Moscow performances), and about the fact that music teachers actually charge fees.

Clear the Store. The immigrants from the Soviet Union are so disillusioned with Communism, however, that many initially become enthusiastic supporters of Israel's extreme right-wing party Herut. They condemn anything that smacks of socialism, most notably the kibbutzim or cooperative farms.

But while they fight the Soviet system, they also identify with it in various ways. Thus, when a Moscow tailor who settled in Tel Aviv experienced his first slack season, he demanded, "Why doesn't the government provide me with clients? In Moscow, the government sees to it that everyone gets his share." A Russian woman shopping with her Israeli brother in a Jerusalem department store was indignant when he exchanged greetings with another shopper, who turned out to be Finance Minister Pinhas Sapir. "You mean," she asked disapprovingly, "they allow government ministers into a store without first clearing away the people?" Another woman complained about the limited bus service in her suburban Tel Aviv apartment development. "In Moscow," she said, "the buses run empty, but they run often."

Israeli officials estimate that it takes as long as five years for Soviet immigrants to accommodate to life in Israel. "Those five years can be difficult for them and for us," admits one. A Tel Aviv psychologist fears that if Moscow were to open the gates to every Jew who wanted to emigrate to Israel, "that could come close to ruining us, sociologically and financially." That is a remote prospect, of course, but even if it were an imminent one Peled insists he would not be unduly concerned. "We will fight the problems," he says. "Under no circumstances will we restrict the numbers."

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