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Sometimes I try to imagine myself in Elián's place. Suppose my mother had tried to spirit my 6-year-old self out of Russia and died in the escape, and I had ended up somewhere in the West with relatives I barely knew. Of course I would have wanted to be back with my father and my grandmother.

But I also know something about growing up under communism. I wasn't much older than Elián when I already knew that if I told anyone about the things my parents said at home -- for instance, that Vladimir Lenin, the founder of the Soviet state, was not really the greatest human being who ever lived (as we were taught at school), or that the Soviet Union was not really a shining beacon for all humankind -- mommy and daddy would go to jail.

I can't say that my childhood was horrible or bleak. Those who deny that communism is evil often point out that people in communist countries still laugh, have fun and enjoy close relationships with friends and family -- which, of course, is true. Simply because my family lived in Moscow, we were materially better off than the vast majority of the Soviet population -- though, by the time we emigrated in 1980, I had done my share of standing in line for food. I have a vivid memory of being nearly trampled in a store when, during a butter shortage, there was a surprise delivery of a batch of butter packs.

But the worst part of it was growing up knowing I was state property. "They" could do anything. When I was 14 or 15, a teacher assured us that a plan was underway to have everyone's occupation assigned by the government, because it was too disorderly to let people choose for themselves and none of us slackers wanted to work in factories anymore. There probably never was any such plan, but it was plausible enough to be scary -- just like the rumor circulating at school that upon graduation, we would be forced to "volunteer" for work on the much-hyped construction of a new railroad in Siberia.

"They" owned you. "They" wanted your allegiance, too. It wasn't just that you couldn't express "incorrect" ideas; you had to parrot "correct" ones and pretend to believe them. (In 1968, when Soviet tanks rolled into Czechoslovakia, every employee at every work place had to vote for a resolution supporting the invasion, at the risk of being fired or worse.) I wrote school essays on topics like "Lessons We Can Learn from Lenin" and felt dirty.

In ninth grade, the teacher in charge of our ideological stewardship demanded to know why I, alone among my classmates, had not yet joined the Young Communist League -- such a blot on the reputation of the class! -- and all I could do was mumble that I didn't feel mature enough. I also knew that unless I joined, I would have virtually no chance of getting into college (being Jewish didn't help, either).

My family didn't have to make a daring escape; we were among the Soviet Jews allowed to emigrate legally, in exchange for trade agreements with the United States. But it was still a risky venture; some of those who petitioned to leave were turned down and left in limbo, as virtually unemployable outcasts. Even with exit visa in hand, we were not sure we would actually get out until the moment our Vienna-bound train crossed the Soviet border. There had been cases of people being taken off trains, or planes sitting on the runway, of people being told there had been a mistake and their visa had been revoked. As long as you were in their power, "they" could do anything.

And so, of course, my view of Elián's situation is filtered through the prism of those memories.

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