Medical Examination Lazarus Trubman   © Copyright 2025 by Lazarus Trubman

Photo by CDC on Unsplash

It was a long hour, an agitating hour, as I, my wife and our two daughters waited patiently in the spacious lobby of the First City Hospital on the corner of Chisinau Street and Dostoevsky Boulevard. I held the folder with all the necessary documents under my armpit, as if afraid that it might suddenly disappear into the thin air.

Exactly three months till our departure for America.

I was nervous: they can always find a reason to prevent a family of “traitors” from leaving the country or at least postpone the departure for an unspecified number of days, months, years. My daughters brought a book and read it together to keep their minds occupied by an imaginable world. Without the certificates of good health, which later had to be presented to the Director of the Municipal Health Department for an approval, we were doomed. 

With my eyes on a painting by a local painter, which had to atone here for having been bought by the hospital’s administration, I sat between my wife and our quiet daughters, surely one of many who saw this picture before me. An old woman, tiny, a gnome, her wrinkled shoes and her floppy hat were already far too big for her, so were her false teeth, a citizen fighting for a place in one of the termite-eaten old-age homes, had been in front of us, and I had promised to keep my fingers crossed for her, which I naturally forgot to do as soon as I was alone with my family and the eleven o’clock chimes, worried about our own future, while she was now sitting in front of the all-powerful Medical Officer, an M.D. and a former member of the Communist Party, the tiny woman with false teeth and hair on her upper lip; she had been there ten minutes already. The eleven o’clock chimes would have been finer with the window open, more booming. With my glasses on my face, I sat patiently, now thoughtless. All the documents were in order – thanks to my wife, who was always great in filling out official papers. What we needed now was a considered soul, a Medical Officer with the understanding of our situation, great understanding as a matter of fact. 

The eleven o’clock chimes have fallen silent.

“Dad,” asked my younger daughter Elvira, “why do they draw blood?”

“To see if there are any invisible sicknesses inside our body,” I said, trying to remember the story of three bogatyrs, heroes of Russian folklore, whose painting occupied the wall behind the reception. “And then again: it’s always beneficial to refresh your blood once in a while, isn’t it?”

No response to that.

Yes, the Medical Officer would have to be very understanding.

Instead of the chimes, I now heard the tapping of a typewriter in the next room, probably to console the old woman by allowing her to give all her particulars over again, date of birth, names of her parents, the place of residence, the address of all her children, etc. Anyhow, something was being typed. Not without a beating heart, I thought over the answers I will give to this typewriter next door. It shouldn’t be a problem for my wife and daughters: they have never affiliated themselves with any secret societies, underground groups, etc., etc., lived peaceful, obedient lives, obeying the constitution and ground rules of the socialist country. Every now and then, I closed my eyes, to get the feel of the lobby without seeing it, to trust my ears instead. What always opened my eyes again, often after only a few breaths, was not curiosity as to what I could see, not primarily; I knew what the lobby of a local hospital office looked like. Perhaps it was already a sign of age that everything the eyes can see looks like a lobby. Nevertheless, we always open our eyes again. The retina is a protection against the premonition that almost every sound arouses in us, and against time; we see what the clock is showing, and clock always shows now; a protection against memory and its abysses. 

Once, when I was checking the time, an official went through the lobby, a black file in his hand, without a word and without a nod, perhaps he knew already the Jewish family of four, anyhow, nobody nodded, neither the official nor I, and then I was sitting alone again, my daughters now sleeping or pretending to be asleep, my wife reading the abandoned novel, thinking about advantages and disadvantages…

I decided to be simply truthful.

Another half an hour passed.

At last, I’ve been invited inside.

My wife will go next. Then our daughters.

Trubman, Lazarus J, born at such and such a place on such and such a date, it’s all in the passport, which the Medical Officer, after sitting down comfortably, looked at without curiosity. The passport seemed to be in order, to judge by the Medical Officer’s mute indifference.

“I’m Dr. Klochkov,” he introduced himself, “in time of war - Colonel Klochkov. We’ll have the certificates ready after all the procedures are performed to my satisfaction,” he gave the secretary a sign to put the first form into the typewriter. “The tests will be taken in the observation room: blood, urine and saliva, as well as the test of your lungs and the condition of your heart. Normally, it’s a free examination, but for people who made a decision to leave the country, the cost is thirty rubles, which you must pay today. Would you be able to fulfill your monetary obligation, citizen Trubman?”

“Yes, Comrade Colonel,” I said.

“Comrade Zubchuck will show you the way. Good luck!”

In the observation room I went through the same process with a different secretary; I had to repeat again the truth about myself, and the young lady typed. Her tense concern was not whether it was yes or no, true or false, but not to make a typing mistake; only that. And of course, the reaction of Dr. Klochkov who came in a few minutes later; I could see that the all-powerful Medical Officer distrusted the secretary – not me. She typed slower when he was present in the room. A nurse and another doctor, a real one, had been waiting silently for an order to start the procedures. The room would’ve surprised me if I hadn’t seen the same one before – a room of Spartan simplicity. 

“I’m finished,” announced the secretary and heaved a sigh of relief.

“We’re going to start right now, citizen Trubman,” said the nurse, and the silent doctor approved. The clock on the opposite wall showed 11:35; 25 minutes till lunch. No one spoke while they were drawing my blood and the blood of my wife and daughters who were now also in the room. Once the phone rang, and one of the nurses responded accordingly. I tried, while breathing into a tube, to think about my plans for tomorrow and the day after, the tickets and the future, but couldn’t: your mind cannot be everywhere at the same instant. I looked at the secretary who was getting ready to prepare the final certificates upon the completion of all scheduled procedures. She occupied the empty corner, rolled in a standard white sheet of paper into the typewriter and sat still and quiet like a deaf person.

No one went to lunch.

Some twenty minutes later, she was typing the medical certificates, slow as always, glancing around as if doubting that her presence was really necessary. I put on my shirt after the doctor had listened to my lungs and heart and stood next to the window, observing the outside view while both of my daughters and my wife had been checked by the nurse.

This was our last procedure.

Now everybody was waiting for Dr. Klochkov to come in to sign the certificates and have the last questions. He had just finished his sandwich and was drying his lips with a napkin. 

“Well,” he said, “seems like we have got a healthy family of four, haven’t we?”

“Some minor abnormalities in citizen Trubman’s heart, but that might be due to the circumstances related to his time in the correctional-working facility,” reported the doctor. “Some aspirin and moderation in the daily diet, no smoking and drinking would be my suggestions regarding this matter.”

“Heart abnormalities, you said?” asked Dr. Klochkov.

“Minor ones,” repeated the doctor, “due to the circumstances…”

“How minor, doctor?”

“A minimal arrhythmia, I suppose, possibly a slightly blocked artery - not dangerous at this time.”

“Is it possible that a long flight might put citizen Trubman’s life in danger?”

The doctor paused for an instant in order to come up with a convincing answer.

“This is a very good observation, Dr. Klochkov,” he decided to praise the Medical Officer before going into details, “on the other hand though, citizen Trubman is only forty years old, otherwise a healthy man, teetotal…”

“So, I have your word then?” Dr. Klochkov interrupted impatiently, glanced at his wristwatch and began signing the certificates, reading them first, drying his signature with an ink blotter, looking up suddenly, reading them again. Once, while waiting for the secretary to put the next certificate in front of him, he looked at me and smiled, and I didn’t like his smile.  

“I hope nothing will happen to your heart between now and the day of your departure, citizen Trubman,” he said.

“I hope so too, doctor,” I said. “Thank you for being so considerate.”

“You will regret your decision to leave your native land, citizen Trubman, as everyone who left before you,” said Dr. Klochkov after he signed the last certificate. “Many desire to come back, but not everyone is allowed back – keep that in mind.” 

“Thank you again for the appropriate warning,” I said, but the all-powerful Medical Officer was already leaving the room, and my appreciation hit the door and fell flat on the carpeted floor. Everyone was standing still as though afraid that at some point he might return and ask for more services.

“May we go now?” I asked.

“You better,” said the nurse. “Colonel Klochkov is as unpredictable as tomorrow’s weather, and I won’t be surprised if he suddenly imagines your minor abnormality as a blanketed heart attack.”

“Is that a joke?” I asked.

“Not at all.”

We disappeared as if blown off by a strong wind.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                

“What’s wrong with your heart, dad?” asked Elvira.

We were already at the bus stop.

“Some minor abnormalities, I guess,” I said, getting our monthly bus permits ready.

“Minor is not really a bad word after what you’ve been through, dad,” said Florida, my older one.

“My thoughts exactly.”

The bus finally arrived and soon brought us home. We sat down at the dining-room table and toasted our certificates with a glass of young Cabernet. Then again. My daughters screamed and demanded more.

“And why not?” said my wife. “They’ll sleep better.”

Our family was given a clean bill of health. The director of the Municipal Health Department shouldn’t have any problems signing our permission to leave the country. The day when everything would seem like a long bad dream had just begun. Thanks to God. 

A week later I stood in the lobby of the Municipal Health Department, four certificates in my hand, dressed as if for a diplomatic reception. The line moved faster than I expected and half an hour later a thin woman, a skeleton in a long, black dress, with a voice which could easily belong to a man, escorted me inside the office and left. The wait wasn’t long. As soon as the director of the department walked in, he introduced himself as Comrade Bitov, asked me to sit down and began reading the certificates, and for a while it was dead quiet. I would’ve moved if I could. Suddenly the twelve o’clock chimes. He smiled. I smiled, too. My mind was occupied with only one thought: this man held the fate of my family in his hands. 

“So, Lazarus,” he asked, putting aside the certificates, “decided to try a better way of life, I presume?” He was a man of fifty, a bit overweight, and prematurely balding. “Very convenient, don’t you think?”

“What do you mean by that, if I may ask, Comrade Director?”

“What was so bad about your life in this despicable country of ours? You got your education, the best education a man could possibly get – and now you are running away at a speed of light, without a thank you, full of hatred,” he paused for an instant. “Unjustifiable hatred, I might add.”

“I’m really sorry,” I said, unable suddenly to come up with any sensible explanation that would satisfy the Director of the Municipal Health Department. “On the other hand, though, wouldn’t it make sense if all Jews leave the country? The way we were and still are treated…”

“Persecution of Jews was always highly overrated!” he interrupted. “And you, if I recall correctly, were not a humble sheep.”

“My reason is much simpler, Comrade Director: to reunite with my sister and my mother.”

“Every Jew I talked to had a simple reason.”

I wasn’t sure what to say to that.

“But every single one of them was full of hatred… What about your family?

“I can assure you, we’re not, Comrade Director.”

He turned the pages of every certificate, put them together in a short stack and said, “I can hold you and your family way beyond the date of your departure, without feeling guilty. Your minor heart problem is a good enough reason for my superiors to agree with that decision – you believe me, don’t you, citizen Trubman?”

“I do.”

“But I am not an animal, I am an educated and an intelligent man.”

“I’ve no doubts, Comrade Director. As a matter of fact, I have never, despite…”

“I’m familiar with the theory that a totalitarian system, which creates merciless cruelty, is attractive to people because it is a direct measure of power. Isn’t that what you believed in? You can’t deny it. You have told millions - risking your lives and freedoms - that we were cruel to our own citizens because we had unlimited power over them…you wish to say something, Lazarus? Go ahead, it won’t affect my decision regarding the permission.”

“You are overstating our abilities by saying millions, Comrade Director…”

“Andrey Pavlovich, if you will.”

“Andrey Pavlovich… But isn’t it the truth?”

“For some period of time – yes, but let me ask you a question: isn’t cruelty a common factor in human relations - regardless of the system?”

I kept quiet.

“Here,” he said, getting the pen and the ink blotter ready, “I’m signing your permission – you can speak freely.”

“May I answer with a question, Andrey Pavlovich?”

“How can I forbid that - you’re Jewish.”

“Why does the opinion of someone who is about to leave his country matter to you?”

“It doesn’t. I just wish to understand why you are so anxious to leave now, when things seem to get normal finally.”

“I can think of dehumanization, which could explain – conventionally - that people are able to do terrible things to other people only after having dehumanized them. In other words, when you fail to appreciate the humanity in other people, all sorts of evils show up, and suddenly there is no time to put on the brakes.”

“I see,” he said, “I see.”

“But it lasted more than 60 years, Andrey Pavlovich, and I’m still unsure that the last evil had been destroyed…”

“You cannot destroy an evil forever,” he interrupted, “but you’re mistaken, Lazarus. You’re referring to communists and people they had given orders to. The truth is though, that anyone is capable of being cruel under the right circumstances. Plenty of awfully bad things we do to people…”

“Because you don’t see them as people?”

“Possibly… But there is another side of that coin: a whole lot of horrible things we do precisely because we recognize them as people. No different from us, as blameworthy and cruel. And the unlimited power and Communist ideology have nothing to do with it. It’s not even required.”

“What about mass killings: GULAG, Babi Yar, etc., etc.?”

“It won’t happen again – you, of all people, should know that!”

“Memories never die.”

He finally signed the permission, dried the ink and said, “Here you go, it’s official now,” he fell silent. “I was only ten years old when Stalin died. I haven’t killed anybody and, thankfully, never gave an order, but I knew people who did. None of them is alive anymore…”

“They lived a good long life and died as heroes of their fatherland.”

“Probably… You can’t rewrite hisPhoto by Feodor Chistyakov on Unsplashtory. As far as mass killings? I’d say, they’re different. I actually think that people who did mass killings didn’t believe they were killing anyone. They’re been giving orders to achieve something, and people were in the way. It was sometimes as simple as that. I’ve stated already: I am not evil. What happened in camps and colonies was humiliating. People were tortured and died of hunger and cold because the thought was that they deserved it. No one questioned the high authority. The line between being a guard and a prisoner was as thin as a razor blade. A cigarette?” he offered.

“I quit, thank you,” I said. 

“Yes,” he said, exhaling a cloud of smoke to the side, “some experienced the pleasure of being dominant over another human; some were simply animals,” he exhaled another cloud. “But you lived through the sixties, seventies and eighties and you survived, Lazarus. Why not stay and participate now in a more honorable thing – to make our country different, prosperous, safe? Today, we need educated people more than ever before.”

He stood up and opened the window, letting the smoke out. 

I had no answer. It was possible that the worst evil had been defeated; I felt that intuitively after 1985. It didn’t take long though to realize that I was too sanguine about human nature. A change of that magnitude takes time, I knew that, and Gorbachev did make a few quick decisions after he came to power, but a year later things slowed down to the speed of a turtle on a sunny August day and at some point, came to a complete stop. Then I thought that our intuitions are wrong in just about every way they can be. Cruelty hadn’t died; it had changed its face, became more sophisticated, modern, because it’s not an accident or an aberration, it is always central to who and what we are, and there is no way anyone can fix cruelty quickly and harmlessly.  

“Here’s your permission, Lazarus,” Andrey Pavlovich interrupted my thoughts in a tired voice. “Hopefully, some far away day, you will realize that our abilities, as well as desires, to help or to change someone’s fate were heavily restricted,” he poured himself a glass of water. “My best and really only advice: don’t try to be a hero till your day of departure, don’t try to prove anything to anyone, don’t try to make anyone feel guilty; it won’t work – it will only hurt: in the eyes of this proud nation, you are traitors, always will be. Good day.”

He stood up, giving me a sign that the meeting was over.

“None of us ever thought that all party members were the same, Andrey Pavlovich,” I said. “I’ve known quite a few, and not necessarily Jewish, who, as we speak, are enjoying their lives in France, United States and Germany…”

“Good day, citizen Trubman!” 

I tried, but the director's bravery had its boundaries.