The Russian Century: A Hundred Years of Russian Lives

My legal studies did not take up much time or effort and I came up with the idea of combining jurisprudence with the simultaneous study of medicine in order to save time. But such a circumstance had been anticipated by the administration. The university office to which I went for the required paperwork explained that to be concurrently registered in two academic divisions was impermissible. The only solution was to continue the study of law in Moscow, and medicine—abroad. A romantic affair that had already commenced with my cousin Mania, my future wife, helped me to arrive at that decision. She had also chosen medicine as her field of education. She had no chance of entry into a Russian medical school without a medal [of academic excellence] and decided to go to Heidelberg. In three months, with my help, she was prepared for a supplemental exam in Latin. This was accomplished in approximately the same rapid-fire fashion that was used during World War II in the United States to train officers of the army and navy in Russian, Chinese, Malaysian and other languages.

Despite qualms, my parents nevertheless agreed to send me abroad and finance my trip. I was given only one mandatory condition: the university in which I was to enroll could not be the same one in which my cousin was to study. “Draper-Spencer” instilled the belief that marriages between close relatives did not lead to any good. And mother had good reason to fear that the event, which she definitely did not wish for me, might occur. I accepted the condition without hesitation, aware that the other university could well be close to mine. Let my cousin go to Heidelberg; I would go to Freiburg, only a three-hour ride away.

In the autumn of 1903, while still a third-year student in law school in Moscow, I left for Freiburg, in Baden, to study medicine. We left together with my cousin and my friend Boris Lunts, the son of a Moscow doctor to whom my family went in the event of a serious illness. I parted with my friends in Heidelberg, not without sorrow and sadness, and continued on the same train to Freiburg. It was not difficult to find a room and get set up—the charming town lived off its university and students. I set off for the post office to register my address in case I should get letters for general delivery. The clerk immediately gave me a telegram that was already waiting. It was from Heidelberg: my cousin informed me that she was leaving for Freiburg. I was amazed, happy, and saddened. It was unclear as to what had happened. The forthcoming meeting was gladdening while the cognizance of a broken promise was troubling.

The matter was a simple one. Heidelberg’s medical school felt itself to be overburdened with female students and rejected the new entrants. My cousin had no choice other than to come to Freiburg, at least for mutual consultation as to what to do. Ultimately, it was not difficult to convince myself that a

Mark Vishniak, In Two Worlds

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promise made under a set of totally different conditions cannot be considered binding. I kept my word honorably, but external circumstances proved stronger than I. I did not yet know the multi-leveled excuse of “rebus six stan-tibus” [given the current circumstances]. But I was already familiar with “force majeure,” and that it was imperative to distinguish between “form” and “content” or essence.

It was much harder to convince my parents, to make them understand and believe everything had happened in precisely this way, that it was not the result of a plan worked out in advance.

As soon as my cousin was settled—in a room with a marvelous view of the famous Freiburg castle—we both took to the pen to inform our parents of the events. My parents were used to trusting me. “Our children don’t lie,” my mother liked to emphasize, boasting, and encouraging us to maintain our high reputation. And this tactic justified itself: I never deceived anyone. In the worst case, I stayed silent or did not speak the whole truth. But in this case, I sensed that I could not possibly convince them that all that had occurred was exactly as I described it and not contrived in advance. I attempted to make the letter reflect all the powers of conviction and sincerity that I possessed. But, nevertheless, I realized that had something similar happened to others, I would not have believed them myself. Everything happened too perfectly— this is not how things usually work.

I did not know to what degree my parents believed me. The withdrawal of fire and water, i.e. of the means necessary for my room, board, and tuition did not follow. In fact, I did not fear this. Our family relationships were too close. But there was no other reaction from my parents. They remained silent on this matter and this was, of course, the wisest thing, for even the sharpest rebuke would not have altered the situation.