Host: Meg Bowles

[Uncanny Valley by The Drift]

Meg: [00:00:12] From PRX, this is The Moth Radio Hour. I'm Meg Bowles. When The Moth reached its 20th year, we all celebrated. We celebrated 20 years of stories and storytellers, 20 years of staff and volunteers and all the people behind the scenes who worked passionately to keep The Moth alive over the years. 

I remember the first Moth show I ever went to. I had met the founder, George Dawes Green, one afternoon through mutual friends, and he invited me to come to an evening of stories they were producing at Lansky's Lounge. It was the speakeasy down on the Lower East side in Manhattan. It was behind the now closed Ratner's deli. You had to go through this alley to get to the entrance. It was a really cool place. It didn't hold that many people. I remember when I walked in, it was packed. 

Jonathan Ames and Malachy McCourt told stories. There were others, and I fell in love. The energy in the room was so infectious. And not to get too overly sentimental, but it really felt as if the stories connected the room. Such a simple thing, storytelling. People standing up, telling true stories from their lives, laughing at their mistakes, marveling at the chaos life can sometimes throw at you, but mostly being willing to admit they're human. 

The Moth has grown and changed over the years, but the stories keep coming. In this hour, we bring you three stories. Our first story comes from Aaron Naparstek. He told it in an evening we produced at the Avalon Hollywood in Los Angeles, presented by local public radio station KCRW. Here's Aaron Naparstek, live at The Moth. 

[cheers and applause] 

Aaron: [00:01:44] Thank you. Okay. It was December 2001, and I was living in this one-bedroom apartment on the third floor of an old brownstone on Clinton Street in Cobble Hill, Brooklyn. And it was a nice place, very affordable, had three big windows facing the street, got lots of great light. There was just one problem with this spot, and it was the honking. Endless, nonstop car horns directly beneath my three big windows. 

At the time, I was working as a web producer. I was what you called back then a community producer. That was the person who set up and ran chat rooms and message boards and did a lot of the stuff that today you would just call social media. 

I was living and working by myself most of the time in this apartment. I really got to know the honkers [audience laughter] in this situation. I could tell from just the sound of a honk without even seeing it what kind of vehicle it was. So, the bright major chord with a bit of a dual note, that was the Ford Crown Victoria, the yellow cab. Real blood pressure spiker. The deeper, more bone jarring, discordant honk, that's the Lincoln Town Car, one of the worst sounds in the world. 

I got to the point where I felt like I could understand the honks. Like, I could translate this awful monosyllabic language into actual thoughts and feelings and meaning. And so, the sort of the quick honk-honk over there by my living room window, that's somebody saying, “Hey, buddy, the light turned green.” The deeper honk over there by my bedroom window, that's somebody who's eight cars back and can't really see anything and is telling the guy in front, “Yeah, you should run over the pedestrians, because we got places to go.” [audience laughter] So, I thought I'd heard pretty much all of the honks that you could hear on Clinton Street. I had cataloged them, knew them. 

Then one day, I was sitting down to work on a mindfulness and meditation website that I happened to be producing at the time. [audience laughter] I hear this kind of honk that I've never heard before. It was essentially just a honk, you get the idea. Whereas most honks have a clear start and end point, this honk was just infinite. It didn't stop. And so, eventually, as the honk passes the three-minute mark, I come up to the window to see what's going on. I look outside and I can tell it's coming from this blue sedan directly beneath my window. But then, I notice that this honker is actually honking at a red light. This just seems unacceptable. I decide in that moment, I'm going to my refrigerator and I'm getting a carton of eggs and I'm returning to my window. And if this honk is still continuing, by the time I get back to the window, he's getting an egg on his windshield. 

So, I return to my window and I start pelting, because the honk is still going. And my first egg misses, but I was a pitcher in high school. I feel like I've got this. My second egg explodes across the roof of the blue sedan in this very satisfying thud, and it stops the honk. I probably could have left it there. That could have been it. [audience laughter] But I kept throwing. I kept throwing the eggs. And now, the honker is out of his car. By the time the egg is actually splattering across his windshield, he's standing in the middle of Clinton Street, he's staring up at my third-floor window and he is going completely ballistic. 

He's a middle-aged guy, balding, 40-ish, indeterminate ethnicity. And his general message to me, which I will have to paraphrase, is “I am coming back tonight, I am going to kill you and I know where you live.” [audience laughter] So, clearly, a flaw in my plan that I had not thought about ahead of time. [audience laughter] The guy drives off, but I am just shaken. I'm so agitated and I can't focus for the rest of the day. I can't focus for a couple days and I find myself milling about my apartment looking for household items that would make for good self-defense weapons. I actually went to sleep with a large plumbing wrench next to my pillow. I realized I need a different way of handling the honking. 

And so, the next time it really starts to bother me, I decided to take some advice from my meditation and mindfulness website that I'm working on. I decide to sit down, take a deep breath and just observe the honking on Clinton Street. And then, I take those observations and I start boiling them down into three-line 12 syllable, 575 haiku poems. [audience laughter] And I call them Honku. [audience laughter] It feels good to do this. It feels good to write them. And my first Honku was this, “You from New Jersey honking in front of my house in your SUV.” Just simply a snapshot, [audience laughter] the essence of Clinton Street. And this really pleases me. 

So, I print up that poem. I print up 50 copies of that poem and I go out very late at night, because I'm embarrassed about this and I tape the Honku up and down Clinton Street on the lamp posts, many blocks in either direction. This becomes my regular honking therapy regimen. So, whenever the honking really starts to bother me, I sit myself down, I write some Honku, and toward the end of the week I pick my favorite one from the latest batch, I print 50 copies, I go out very late at night, I tape them up. It feels like I'm honking back now in my own quiet way [audience laughter] and I have some like power over the honkers. 

So, one night, I'm out there taping up my Honku. I've been doing this for about a month. I'm still very surreptitious and a little embarrassed about it. I turn around and I see that a woman is standing right there. She'd been out late walking her dog. She sees me standing there, caught red handed with my heavy-duty tape dispenser. I brace myself and she comes up to me and she says, “Excuse me, but are you the bard of Clinton Street?” [audience laughter] I'm like, “Yeah. Okay, I guess so.” She gets very excited. She's like, “Well, we just love your work. It's fantastic. We're so sick of the honking. My daughters, they're now writing Honku too. [audience laughter] Would you sign one? Could I get your autograph? My husband would love that.” 

So, as I make my way down Clinton Street that night, I notice that a few other Honku written by strangers have popped up on the lampposts. [audience laughter] I'm like, “Okay, this is interesting.” And over the next few days and weekends, many Honku blossom on the lampposts of Clinton Street. I realized suddenly, like, okay, I'm not alone here. There are other people. 

And the next time I go out posting Honku, I decide to put a website address on my poem, honku.org. And at honku.org, I create a message board. I do my online community producer thing. I created a message where I call it the Lamppost. Within days of putting this thing online, there are dozens of neighborhood people and they're hanging out on the online lamppost. They're chatting with each other about problems in the neighborhood, trading Honku, talking about solutions. And I say, “Guys, why don't we--? Let's get together in person. Let's meet in person. Why not? Saturday, 11:00 AM on my front stoop, come on out.” 

About a dozen people actually show up. It turns out to be this great, diverse, funny, smart group of people who we've all been living next to each other in some cases for years and had never actually met. We're having a good time, and someone notices on the lamppost on my own corner, there is a sign very high up that says, “No honking, $125 penalty.” I've seen this thing here before and I never really thought much about it. But everybody gets excited about it, like, “Hey, the law is on our side. Let's make this city live up to its no honking ideals.” 

And so, that afternoon, I go home and I type up some letterhead for something called the Honku Organization. I start firing off letters to my local elected representatives and community organizations. I start attending community meetings too. I show up at the monthly community meeting of the 76th Precinct, the police station. It's probably the least dotcom place you can imagine. It's got the puke green subway tile on the walls, the fluorescent lighting, the burly mustachioed cops. I'm easily the youngest person in the room by a good 20 years. They seem like regulars. I'm really nervous. I'm like, “What the hell am I doing here?”

But the first guy stands up and he's like, “Look, this new bar that moved next door to me, he’s making too much noise. Got to do something about it.” Woman stands up, and she's complaining about the speeding and the double parking on Court Street. Next guy stands up, he's angry about his neighbor's dogs barking all the time. It slowly starts to dawn on me, these are my people, like, I have found the place that possibly where I most belong, like in this meeting. I'm getting up the nerve to raise my hand and speak, when in walks this 6-foot 5 inch tall, smiling, bearded guy very late into the meeting. The commanding officer of the precinct is like, “Hey, everybody, welcome our brand-new city council member. He's just been on the job for a few weeks now. Bill de Blasio. Come on in, Bill.” 

If you recognize the name, he is now the mayor of the city of New York. Bill sits right next to me. I notice on the stack of papers on his lap, at the very top of the stack is a piece of letterhead from the Honku Organization. [audience laughter] And I'm like, “Okay, I'm going to wait and see what Bill does.” He takes the floor immediately, as they do. It's almost like Bill is my downstairs neighbor on Clinton Street. He goes into the most perfect description of the honking crisis. It's not just a minor quality of life issue. This is a serious public health and maybe even a safety issue. He firmly but politely asks the police to get out there and enforce that no honking sign. Police say, “How's a three week no honking blitz on Clinton Street sound to you?” And I'm like, “That sounds incredible.” [audience laughter] 

The next Monday morning, for the first time in as long as I can remember, I oversleep. I do not wake up to the sound of horn honking on Clinton Street. When I do finally wake up, I jump over to my window to see what's not going on. I see guys from the 76th Precinct are standing there and they're talking to every single driver coming up Clinton Street. You know, the Honku Organization, I'll just be honest with you, we did not accomplish our ultimate mission of ending horn honking in New York City. [audience laughter] That battle is still there to be fought for someone else. But we did actually start to make a bunch of different changes and fixes on Clinton Street and the streets around it. This actually became my work and my career doing advocacy, and community organizing and media to make cities better for pedestrians and cyclists and transit riders. 

The real success though of Honku, the thing that I think was most significant was just that when I was walking down Clinton Street and when my neighbors were walking down Clinton Street, instead of being in our little bubbles of honk anger, we started talking to each other. We were really trying to fix something. Clinton Street wasn't just a street anymore. It was a neighborhood, and we were really producing community. Thank you.

[cheers and applause]  

Meg: [00:14:58] That was Aaron Naparstek. These days, Aaron is a journalist, producer and the founder of Streetsblog, an online publication covering urban planning and transportation policy. If you're familiar with the HBO series, Girls, this story might sound familiar to you. That was the case for some of Aaron's friends who started texting and tweeting him saying that a storyline they saw in the series sounded a lot like Aaron's real life. So, he watched and lo and behold, there was a whole story arc across multiple episodes where the character Ray Ploshansky, played by Alex Karpovsky, is slowly being driven mad by all the horn honking outside of his Brooklyn apartment. 

Over the season, he becomes a neighborhood activist. He shows up at a community board meeting to complain about the honking. He gets involved in local politics. It all seemed really familiar. It turns out that one of Aaron's neighbors during his Honku days was Jenny Connor, the co-creator and showrunner of Girls. She had moved out of the neighborhood and become a big Hollywood producer. They'd lost touch, but they were brought back together via Twitter when Jenny said, “It's not a coincidence. You were my muse.” 

The Honku website is still alive and kicking, as is the Lamppost, the online message board Aaron created. If you want to find out more about Aaron and see pictures from when he was invited to the set of Girls, you can go to our website, themoth.org. 

Coming up, a mother of triplets jumps at a chance of a lifetime, when The Moth Radio Hour continues. 

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Jay: [00:16:56] The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. And presented by PRX. 

[joyful and upbeat music]

Meg: [00:18:09] This is The Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Meg Bowles. 

Our next story comes from Ann Daniels. Ann grew up in Bradford, England, the youngest of five children, the only girl. She left school at 15 and got a job at a bank when she was 16 where she worked for many years until the birth of her triplets. Then everything in her life changed completely. 

[cheers and applause] 

She shared her story at the Union Chapel in London. The theme of the night was Coming home. Here's Ann Daniels, live at The Moth. 

Ann: [00:18:37] Thank you. My story starts on a warm August day in 1995. I was at home playing with my 18-month-old triplets, and I was given an advert asking for ordinary women to apply to be part of a North Pole expedition. 

Now, I had no outdoor experience, but something in this advert spoke to me. I knew my marriage was ending, and I had a bleak future and there was hope in there. And so, I thought, well, they're asking for ordinary women and I'm definitely that. It didn't occur to me at the time that I should have some outdoor experience or at least have spent a night in a tent. [audience laughter] It said “Ordinary.” And I was a mother of triplets. If I could do that, I could do anything, surely. 

And so, I sent an application form off with £75 that I actually couldn't afford. I wondered if I'd ever hear back, but I did. A thick brown envelope arrived on my doormat with instructions of the farm on Dartmoor, where the selection was to take place and a kit list. Well, I earned nothing on this kit list. I couldn't afford to buy anything. So, I made a few calls to some military friends of mine, and within three days I had everything I needed from the feet to my head. It was all a drab olive-green color, but it would do. I could now go and start this selection. 

I turned up on Dartmoor and I walked into the Barn and over 200 women had applied for this selection. I saw them all in their outdoor kit, bright colors, all worn from specialist outdoor shops and I am in my drab green army kit. I just stood out. So, I put my new boots under the nearest hay bale and just tried to look the par. The weekend started with a talk on the Arctic and then were marched out on Dartmoor. It was hell. I hated it. It was cold, it was rainy. We walked for mile upon mile upon mile. And after an hour, I was in so much pain, I didn't know what to do with myself, “What was I doing here?” I just kept going. That's all I could do. 

When it got dark and it was still raining, I literally sobbed with the pain, “Take me home. Take me home.” And we finished. I got to the end, that was about all I could do, and I was just going to leave it. This was not for me at all. And then, the media came down and they interviewed everybody, but particularly me, mother of triplets. After every interview, they said to me, “What will it be like to be part of this expedition? What will it be like to go to the North Pole?” 

Somewhere along those interviews, I suddenly caught the dream. This was my chance in a lifetime to do something, but I was crap. [chuckles] So, I had two choices. I'd give it up or I'd give it everything. Well, I wasn't going to give it up. So, I went home and I spent the next nine months on my own with three babies training. When they slept in the afternoon, I was in the garden running around, doing military style circuits. Friends taught me how to read a map, how to pack a rucksack. I went back in nine months’ time, and this time I was ready. 

I was chosen. I'd made it. It was the biggest achievement of my life. This expedition, it was a relay. It was my first expedition. Five teams of four women went in relay format to the North Pole. Actually, I never went the whole way. I did the first leg, 17 days, and then the next team took over from me. But it was here I fell in love with the Arctic Ocean. It was beautiful. The ice was amazing. The sounds, expedition was just fantastic. I'd found at the age of 30, what I was meant to do with my life. 

So, I came back. Five women from that expedition, we got together, we skied all the way across Antarctica, became the first British women's team to ski to the South Pole. I then began to guide expeditions in the Arctic. But the big dream really was in me. I wanted to go the whole way. So, I spoke to Caroline Hamilton and Pom Oliver, my polar colleagues, and asked them to join me. And at first, they said no. Very few expeditions had gone the whole way to the North Pole and no women's team had done it. Not the whole way. But I persuaded them and eventually they agreed that we'd have a go. Three women against the fierce Arctic Ocean. 

The hardest thing was raising money. We had to raise thousands of pounds for our kit, our food, our support team and logistics working in the High Arctic. But the hardest thing that we had to get beforehand was insurance. It's not your average holiday insurance, is it? [chuckles] Who would insure a group of unknown women, especially as a mother? We thought I would be the sticking point. The bad press that the insurance company would get if it went wrong. 

We were sitting in a posh office in Canary Wharf at another insurance company. We could see them turning off. Suddenly, unfortunately, Pom mentioned I was a mother. And we just thought, “Oh, God, Pom, that's it, no chance.” And they changed. One of the guys looked at us and went, “What? One of you's got children?” And I’m like “Yes, yes, yes, sorry.” And he said, “Well, actually, that changes things.” They had a big conversation and they decided that they would insurance, because I was sure to come back for my children. [audience laughter] 

So, we got it. The last piece of the puzzle, the last jigsaw of puzzle, we were going to make this happen. I couldn't do anything without my parents. They moved into my home. They looked after my children who were excited to be with granny and grandad. And the hardest moment was when we said goodbye at the airport. I saw them being really brave, trying not to cry. That was a bit of a gut wrench. But I knew they'd be fine when I walked through the doors and they were back with granny and granddad. 

We flew from London to the High Arctic and then we took a Twin Otter aeroplane up to the very last piece of land, Ward Hunt Island. It's 500 miles of ice and snow. You walk across the Arctic Ocean to the North Pole. We had in our sledges everything we needed for the expedition, our food, our clothing, our kit and enough fuel to melt water. 

And as the plane took off, we were terrified. It was terrible terrain, really cold. All we had between us and the outside world, there was no man for thousands of miles, was a satellite phone. The nearest aeroplane was two days away in good weather. It was sincerely up to us to make this journey. We just had to make that first step. I'd been on the first leg of the relay and thought I knew what to expect, but this expedition was worse than any I had ever encountered. 

For the first 27 days, the temperatures were between minus 42 and minus 56 degrees Celsius on thermometer. With winter, we were simply surviving. Our sledges were too heavy. They were about twice our own body weight and we had to haul three of us, one sledge over every ridge as we moved forward. It was debilitating and so slow. And in the beginning, we all got frostbite. I can remember skiing at the front, and I had frostbite on my middle toe and my little toe and a little bit on my big toe. I could feel it getting worse, but I couldn't call a halt to the team to warm it, because we were too slow, we would never get there if we stopped. 

I can remember thinking, oh, God. Okay, okay, okay. I can feel my middle toe well. “Oh, hell, who needs a middle toe? I can live without a middle toe.” A little toe, well, yeah, I can live without a little toe. I can't live without a big toe. If it starts to go [unintelligible 00:28:12], that's it. We were literally bargaining with bits of our body in order to make this happen. I found on the ice that when I could think about things, I missed the children terribly. I could probably go about 14 days, 15 days. That seemed to be the limit before it affected my morale. And the girls were really good. They would give me time with the phone and the precious batteries, and I rang home. I always thought they'd miss me, obviously. [audience laughter] Then I'd call, and they were so excited to tell me about everything they were doing and how great it was. They chatted and I listened, and I put the phone down, and I was filled with them again and I could keep going. 

If I had trouble with frostbite, Pom was the worst, all her toes were frostbitten. After 47 days, we had a resupply plane that came in to give us new food and fuel. And on that resupply plane, Pom had to leave. I never thought about getting on that plane. The chances of us getting there were so slim. On day 37 of the expedition, before Pom left, we'd literally gone just 69 miles of the 500 miles. We'd gone a few more in the next 10 days, but we still had over 300 miles to go. It was still impossible, but we weren't going to give in. 

Although we missed Pom, when she left, half of our team had gone. It was now just me and Caroline. We began to use Pom as our motivation. We'll do this for Pom, we'll do another hour for her and we became one driving force. We swam through open water. We skied across thin ice. We added hours to our days. When I say that we were walking across an Arctic Ocean, the ice moves constantly, always against us. So, some nights, we would get into our frozen sleeping bags that we would have to break. As we slept, we would go backwards. Those were the tough nights. 

But eventually, after eighty grueling days, we knew we had two hours left. The planes had left two days ago and we were literally feet from the pole. We thought, “This is it. This is it.” Whilst we navigated with our watches and the sun in old fashioned ways, we actually pinpointed the North Pole with a GPS. Because to explain what happens, the ice moves on the ocean and the water that fast, that whilst the North Pole is a fixed place, it feels like it's moving as the ice moves you this way and that. You have no concept that you're moving, so, it feels like the North Pole is running away from you. 

So, we got the GPS out and zigzagged this way and that. We couldn't pinpoint it. As quick as were getting there, the ice was moving and we thought, “We can't be the first women to go 30ft on the pole.” [audience laughter] We stood there on a piece of ice, not sure what to do. We could almost hear the planes. We looked at the GPS and the numbers. As we looked, it started to count upwards. We watched it moving and moving. And that piece of ice, as we stood still, moved up to the magical 90 degrees north. [audience cheers and applause] 

We’d got it. I planted the national-- No, I didn't plant the national anthem. I planted the Union Jack. We sang the national anthem, and I asked Caroline if she would take a picture of me with my children, because I felt they were there with me. I could never have made the sacrifices without them inside my very soul. Thank you. 

[cheers and applause] 

Meg: [00:32:51] Ann Daniels was part of the world's first all-women team to walk to the North and South Poles. This has never been repeated, so they still hold that record. 

In 2005, Ann attempted a solo expedition from Russia to the North Pole. But after 21 days, the Russians removed all permits from every expedition and she was literally taken off the ice. In addition to the Guinness World Record and other accolades, Ann is the recipient of the prestigious Pride of Britain award. 

You can see pictures of Ann and find out more about her and her future adventures by visiting our website, themoth.org. 

Coming up, more conflicts with the Russian government when 94-year-old Victor Levenstein tells about the day he was arrested by the KGB, when The Moth Radio Hour continues. 

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Jay: [00:34:14] The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. And presented by the Public Radio Exchange, prx.org. 

[pleasant piano music]

Meg: [00:35:29] This is The Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Meg Bowles. 

And our last story comes from Victor Levenstein. Victor grew up in Moscow under Stalin's regime. He said in those days, you were expected to go to high school, then college, and then you'd be assigned to a particular job and this would be your job for life. 

As a young man, 19 years of age, he and his friends would often talk about their dreams for a better life, a life of freedom, a life they read about in books. But they always knew even talking about these things could be dangerous, because just being a critic of Soviet life could get you arrested. Victor was 94 years old when he shared his story in Toronto, Canada. Here's Victor Levenstein, live at The Moth. 

[applause] 

Victor: [00:36:14] There was a hard knock at the door in the middle of the night. I saw three men in the military uniform. One of them, the KGB major, handed me warrant for my arrest. It was Moscow, the Soviet Union, May of 1944 and I was 21 years old. 

They put me in a black passenger car. After a short ride, we arrived to a large iron gates at Lubyanka Street. The gates slid open. The car drove inside the prison yard and I heard the rattle of the gate closing behind me. The car drove just few yards from the street and I found myself in completely different world. Growing up in the Soviet Union, I knew that parallel to our world, there is another mysterious and dreadful world where people are disappearing from our light. And among them, my father. 

Both my parents were arrested seven years earlier. My mom came back after a year and a half in KGB jail. My father was sent far north behind the polar circle to the labor camp. Many years later, I learned that this camp had killed him by cold, hunger and overwork. So, sitting in the backseat of the car, I was thinking, well, it's my turn. 

They put me in a small tiny cell with no windows. They call it a box. And the box, it was a meter by meter and a half. I didn't know how long they kept me there. The old sense of time was lost. Hours, maybe days. I had a feeling that they buried me in this box, this grave, for the rest of my life. But then, a prison guard led me to a large room. Huge portrait of Soviet hang on the wall. And sitting under the portrait was a puny man in the KGB uniform with pale rat-like face. He announced to me, “You have been arrested as a participant in the anti-Soviet terrorist group.” 

“Terrorist?” I didn't understand what he's talking about. I was confused. “What does it mean terrorists?” I asked. He said, “It means that you nasty little snakes were planning to kill comrade Stalin--" A chill ran through my body. It was the Soviet Union. I knew that they can arrest me for any reason they wanted, but planning to kill Stalin was absurd and it was scary. It means big trouble, the death penalty. 

I understood that nasty little snakes he was referring to were my friends and myself. Several of my friends were arrested recently. Some of them were my buddies from elementary school. We grew up together. We were very close. It was company of really bright kids. There was no TV. We read a lot and discussed books. 

In spite of the censorship in the Soviet Union, books like Jack London, Hemingway, Steinbeck was published in translation, because they consider authors as critics of the capitalist reality. We read this book and saw very attractive picture of this reality of the Western world, freedom. Writers were free to criticize. People free to speak, to travel, to do whatever they want, to change their profession, to go to Spain, watch bullfights, not like in our country. 

The officer start asking question. “What kind of anti-Soviet conversation was taking place in your company? Who participated in the anti-Soviet conversation? Who expressed his anti-Soviet views in your present? Did you express your anti-Soviet view? Did you have anti-Soviet view?” There was nothing like this. And I denied everything. But questioning continued the whole night. 

In the morning, I was brought back to my box. Sleeping in the daytime in prison was strictly prohibited. The guard watched me through the peephole in the door and kept me awake. The next day, I was back to questioning. One interrogator, then two. They showed me testimonies of my friends who already confessed and implicated me. They turned on powerful, very bright lamp and directed at me. They cursed me, they humiliated me, they threatened me. 

The officer would put his finger in the back of my head, “Here our KGB bullet would enter your damn enemy skull. Here it will come out. We will grind you into the dust. We will raise you into the camp dust.” This was going on night over night and sleepless days in the box. My feet were swollen. My eyes were irritated. I was so exhausted from the sleeplessness that my head from time to time would dive forward and down, and the officer would hit me with the toes of his boot to keep me awake. 

Finally, I stopped thinking clearly. I couldn't concentrate. Everything was in a fog. And on the sixth sleepless night, it was it. I couldn't take it anymore. I didn't care. I just wanted this torture to end. When my interrogator said, “Have you participated in this anti-Soviet conversation?” I said, “Yes, I did.” “Do you accept being a member of the anti-Soviet group?” And I said, “Yes, I do.” But interrogation didn't stop. Now, they wanted me to confess in planning to kill Stalin. And here, I don't know how but I found the strength to resist. Maybe in my subconscious the idea stuck that this confession will bring my death. 

They transferred me to regular prison cell. And interrogation continued for nine months, I never confessed in planning to kill Stalin. But then, one day, I was sentenced. It was not like an American court with big chamber with a judge and a jury. I was led to a small room without window. The KGB manager was sitting at the small desk. He handed me a piece of paper. It was my verdict, the resolution of the special board of the KGB. I was convicted as a member of anti-Soviet group and for anti-Soviet agitation, I was sentenced for labor camp for five years. As you can see, I survived these five years. [audience cheers and applause] 

But, but as soon as my term ended, I was sent to Siberia in exile for life. Then, four years later, friendly cosmic forces intervened in my life. Stalin croaked. He died. [audience cheers and applause]

And my exile ended. I came back to Moscow, completed my education, married Dora, the girl I fell in love with. Our son, Matvey, was born. Little by little, we built a decent life by Soviet Union standards. But as soon as door for immigration slightly opened, we applied for immigration and immigrated to the United States. I was 57 years old at the time. My wife was 54. Not the best time to start a new life in a new country. But we knew we have to go. I always remember years behind barbed wire and humiliation I suffered under this KGB interrogation. I knew we had to go. 

Many years later, when the Soviet Union collapsed and the KGB files became open for victims in Russia, I found finally the reason I was arrested. It happened to be that this company of independently thinking young people were under suspicion and under surveillance. So, the apartment of my friend was bugged. And using recording of our conversation, KGB fabricated this plot about Stalin's assassination. Why? To prove the importance of KGB, to prove that watchful eye of the KGB never sleeps, so dear comrade Stalin could sleep peacefully. 

13 young people were arrested. They made 7 confessed to this nonsense about killing Stalin. They didn't have any proof, but it doesn't matter. It didn't matter. They have confession and it was enough for sentencing. 3 young and healthy gifted guys didn't come back from the camps. The camps killed them. The camps took long years of life of others who survived. I am 94 now. [audience cheers and applause] 

And I am the only survivor of these boys who in faraway Moscow were reading Hemingway and Steinbeck, dreaming about freedom and paid a heavy price for daring to think. I live here in the west, and I came to realize that this life is the life we all dreamed about, life in freedom. Thank you.

[cheers and applause]  

Meg: [00:51:05] Victor Levenstein received a standing ovation that night in Toronto. He said that while he was on stage, he had this feeling he was doing something important for the memory of his friends. 

When Victor was a young boy, his mother often referred to him as her rybka, which means little fish in Russian. His friends heard it, and teased him and it became his nickname. When he got older, the nickname changed to the more masculine rybas, which means big fish. During Victor's interrogation by the KGB, one of the officers asked, “Who is rybas?” When Victor said it was his childhood nickname, the KGB officers accused him of lying and insisted this name was his alias, that his anti-Soviet code name was Big Fish. 

That's it for this episode. We hope you'll join us again next time for The Moth Radio Hour. 

[Uncanny Valley by The Drift] 

Jay: [00:52:06] Your host this hour was Meg Bowles. Meg also directed the stories in the show along with Maggie Cino. The rest of The Moth's leadership team includes Catherine Burns, Sarah Haberman, Sarah Austin Jenness and Jenifer Hixson. Production support from Timothy Lou Ly. 

Moth stories are true, as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by the Drift. Other music in this hour from Mark Orton, Stellwagen Symphonette, Ludovico Einaudi and Freddie Price. You can find links to all the music use at our website. 

The Moth Radio Hour is produced by me, Jay Allison, with Viki Merrick at Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. This hour was produced with funds from the Corporation for Public Broadcasting, the National Endowment for the Arts and the John D. and Catherine T. MacArthur Foundation, committed to building a more just, verdant and peaceful world. 

The Moth Radio Hour is presented by the public radio exchange, prx.org. For more about our podcast, for information on pitching your own story and everything else, go to our website, themoth.org.