Atlanta’s public housing is home to a dwindling Soviet immigrant community

The onetime Soviet army major and surgeon turned medical technician in Atlanta recalled his journey last week from the comfort of a couch in his Atlanta Housing Authority apartment in Buckhead, where he enjoys watching Russian television shows on cable TV and listening to “My Fair Lady.”

At last count, 12 percent of the housing authority’s remaining 2,240 residents was Russian speaking. It is the largest demographic after African American, said Pat Jones, the authority’s program manager of operations.

The housing authority has spent years razing housing projects and now owns and operates just 13 apartment complexes, 11 of them dedicated to senior citizens and the disabled. A survey last year found 276 residents came from the 15 former Soviet republics. Most came knowing little English and little of Atlanta, other than what they read in “Gone With The Wind.”

Soviet emigration to Atlanta started in the early 1970s, picked up later in the decade and had its largest surge around the Soviet Union’s break-up in the early 1990s, said Lenny Koltochnik, AHA’s policy research director and a Soviet-era immigrant himself, coming to Atlanta as a 7 year old with his family from Ukraine in 1978.

Many, if not most of the immigrants, moved to apartments along Buford Highway and the surrounding neighborhoods, helped by agencies like the Atlanta Jewish Federation and the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society and family members already here. Older residents with limited income or hopes of restarting careers in their new country found apartments in AHA senior high rises, notably on Cheshire Bridge, then Marian Road, Piedmont Road and Peachtree Road.

Most keep within their own clusters of Russian-speaking friends in the building or family. They are friendly with Americans but still largely divided by a limited grasp of English.

There are an estimated 50,000-plus Russian-speaking immigrants in metro Atlanta, making it the fourth or fifth largest Russian-born population in the nation. Dmitriy Goroshin, the publisher of RussianTown magazine whose parents live in the Marian Road complex, said the population is spread out across mostly in Atlanta’s northern suburbs

A few years ago, the senior high rises “had a lot of Russian immigrants, a lot,” said Koltochnik, who helped translate for immigrants interviewed for this story. He was struck by a sense of deja vu walking the long, drab halls of the Cheshire Bridge facility last week. His great aunt moved there in 1980 and he often visited as a child.

“Most of the Russians have done well,” said Koltochnik, who also teaches political science at Georgia Perimeter College and is earning his doctorate. Most families have moved on to the suburbs.

Those remaining in the high rises live in relative comfort in smallish apartments. Oriental rugs adorn the plain, industrial carpet. China cabinets display crystal, knick knacks from faraway places and photos of long ago times.

The AHA residents interviewed are accomplished, cultured and educated. There are two former army majors, a biologist, a mathematics professor, a music teacher, a literature teacher, a nurse, a newspaper editor. They left to escape anti-Semitism and improve their children’s odds in life. All brag about their children and grandchildren. Engineering seems to be a common vocation.

The older immigrants speak wide-eyed about the sense of sheer abundance they encountered on their first visits to supermarkets or big-box stores. And they marvel at the sense of security, freedom and opportunity they feel.

Some, like Emma Goroshin, Dmitriy’s mother, sometimes worries the younger generations assimilate too much.

“I do not want my children to lose their heritage entirely,” she said. “I see American family’s core values. The work ethic is eroding.”

Grigoriy Berman, his wife, Yelena, two daughters, a son-in-law and grandchild moved to Atlanta in June 1991 from Moldova as the Soviet Union collapsed and ethnic tensions roiled.

Yelena Berman, 83, laughed when asked what they brought with them. “Toilet paper,” she said. The necessity started disappearing as the Soviet Union crumbled, only available on the black market. They wanted to be prepared.

Berman, 84, a university mathematics professor, attended English classes but the new language was difficult to absorb for a man in his 60s. Has he taught since he came over? “Nyet,” he said, adding he tutored his two grandsons, one a Georgia Tech graduate and the other there now. America doesn’t teach math correctly, he said.

The Bermans, like all others, gushed about American largesse. Soon after arriving, Grigoriy Berman needed open-heart surgery.

“I thank the government for Medicare and Medicaid; I thank this country,” he said. “I am beyond grateful. I am overwhelmed. We live on Social Security income. We pay not very much [for rent], $278 a month.”

But his gratitude is much more than economic. Americans are quick to lend help giving directions or explaining cultural differences when they notice a language barrier. “We have received the attention one human being should give another,” he said. “We were not used to such hospitality.”

Yana Bari, who lives in the Piedmont Road high rise, came from Moldova with her teenaged son, Ilya, in July 1992.

“We came with nothing, nothing; one bag, that’s it,” said Bari, who is 61 and partially disabled with a withered right arm and internal problems. “We are refugees. I did not want to be an immigrant. You have to change your friends, change your life. But we had to save our lives. It was too dangerous on the streets. My son was beat up”

She fell in love with Atlanta. “I see a wonderful city. All the trees. So beautiful city. Here, I am in heaven,” she said.

She delved into the new culture immediately. “The first day, this guy takes us to McDonald’s,” she said, smiling. “They say we want to show you American food.” She ordered fries. “In Moldova, when I find fresh cabbage, I’m happy. You don’t know how you have it.”

Bari has been an officer in the American Association of Jews from the Former USSR; she translated at the Olympics and helps other immigrants negotiate through governmental agencies like the Social Security Administration. She’s thankful for the $674 government check she receives each month and is able to stretch it because “we are very practical.”

For years, Bari and other Russians at AHA have watched their ranks dwindle as older residents die and the immigration has largely stopped. A few years ago, there were 140 residents in building, now she said there are 85.

Vitebsky knows the feeling. His wife died in 2004. He believes radiation from the Chernobyl nuclear disaster played a part in her blood disorder. The Russian ranks in his building are thinning.

“There used to be 13 Russians on this floor, now there are only three,” he said. “And I’m the only one on my feet.”

Vitebsky walks four miles each day, converses with his remaining friends and visits his older brother in another AHA building. He acted as sort of a cultural director in his building, filling a room at the end of his hallway with donated Russian books for his neighbors to read. He opened the door to the cramped room and proudly pointed out the stacks of books.

“But there is no one to read them,” he said.

He is unsure what will become of his library; those who are younger are not much interested. They are involved in their own lives, he said, perhaps as it should be.

Bill Torpy, who usually writes about Atlanta and DeKalb County for the Sunday AJC, joined the newspaper in 1990.

He has covered many high-profile legal cases, including former Mayor Bill Campbell's corruption trial and the 2006 Atlanta police shooting of Kathryn Johnston, among many other stories. A native of Chicago. Torpy is a graduate of Southern Illinois University in Carbondale, and previously worked for the Daily Southtown in Chicago.