As an undergrad back in the early 1980s I took a year of Russian language as part of a planned minor in Soviet studies with Air Force ROTC. Let me first admit that a single year of a foreign language is not entirely useless, but it is close. When I eventually traveled to Russia on business in 2000, my miniscule Russian language skills were practically of no use. I could still read and pronounce the words, though. The problem with knowing just a few sentences is that the person you are speaking with assumes that you are fluent and starts talking. That’s where you shrug and they get the idea with noticeable disappointment.

The professor teaching the Russian language course was a Ukranian by birth. He was near retirement at the time and had a thick accent. It took only a short time for me to prove to him that I had little talent for foreign languages generally and Russian in particular. But, I did have the best accent in the class. My high school German classes were an early indication of the slippery Teflon coated language region of my brain where nothing sticks.

The professor’s name was Ivan <redacted> (pronounced ee-VAUGHN) and he had a average frame topped with a big shock of white hair. He was always in suit and tie and had a gregarious personality. He was an accomplished and inspiring teacher and would even teach Russian off-campus at night when asked. He sponsored the campus Russian club whose members were especially fond of the art of pysanky, or Ukrainian Easter eggs.

The professor had an interesting past. As a child growing up in Ukraine, as he tells it, his family’s village was overrun by the Nazis in WWII on their way east. Figuring that the Nazis couldn’t be any worse than Stalin, they stayed put in their village and survived the invasion. But later in the war when the Red Army pushed back the Nazis to the west, they were reported to kill villagers who did not fight to the death or flee to the east. Anticipating this, the whole family packed up and fled west. He said that their group was fired upon by aircraft as they left. Eventually they ended up in some kind of camp in western Europe. After a year post-war in the camp, the family moved to Brazil where he completed his education and acquired teaching credentials. He eventually made his way north to the USA and became a university professor.

Who knows, maybe the story is embellished a bit. Doesn’t matter. I feel lucky to have made his acquaintance and to have picked up just a tiny bit of his language.