During the 1920s and 1930s, the Soviet Union was putting all its energy and money into a frantic effort to convert from an agricultural to an industrial economy, so that it could compete with the nations of the Western world. To help in this momentous conversion, the Soviets relied heavily on foreign engineers, offering them attractive contracts to work in the U.S.S.R. for varying periods of time.

My father signed a contract with Amtorg, the Soviet Union’s trade commission, to design and manage a factory to build radiators for Russia’s expanding truck industry. We lived in Moscow between 1930 and 1935, a period bridging the first and second Five-Year Plans and a time of political unrest.

As they raced toward industrialization, the Soviets developed an immense, omni-present propaganda machine to publicize their accomplishments. They always believed that bigger was better, and they were eager to be first with technological achievements.

In the early 30s, the Central Aerodynamic Institute designed and built several large aircraft. One was the Maxim Gorky, a huge eight-engine airplane with a 210-foot wingspan that was capable of extended flights at the impressive speed of 150 miles per hour. Outfitted with printing presses, radio transmitters, and a photographic laboratory, the Maxim Gorky was designed to be a propaganda vehicle. This behemoth, which flew with a crew of 23 and could hold 40 passengers, was built entirely by Soviet engineers, technicians, and labor and was financed by public subscription.

Among its functions, and one of considerable propaganda value, was the offer of rides to outstandingly productive people—farmers, miners, artists, musicians, writers, or even students—who were held up as heroes of the revolution.

Because my father continued to meet his production goals in the radiator factory, he was invited to fly on the Maxim Gorky on May 18, 1935. He was able to secure additional passenger permits for my brother, Sidney, aged 10, and me, aged 15. How excited I was! I had never been in a plane, and now I would fly on this one.

Finally, the great day arrived. A company car was to pick us up and take us to Moscow’s Central Aerodrome for the 12:30 P.M. flight. But our driver arrived late, we were further delayed in traffic, and we somehow made a wrong turn. When we reached the airport, we found the gates closed and bolted. The Maxim Gorky had departed on schedule. We had missed the flight. Bitterly disappointed, we returned home.

The following morning, we were horrified to hear that the flight we had missed had crashed, killing everyone aboard. The New York Times’s late edition of May 19, 1935 reported the crash on page one, calling it the worst aviation disaster in history.

The Maxim Gorky had gone aloft escorted by two smaller planes. One was there to take pictures of the giant in flight. The other, a smaller