I was born in Moscow in 1975, the only child of Valeria Konstantinovskaya and Boris Belov. When I was born, my mother was 40 and my dad 46. My mother always told me that they waited so long to have a child because they were afraid of nuclear war with the U.S. I find that this sentiment is familiar to many Americans of that era. My dad was a Russian literature teacher, a chess coach, and a poet. I can still remember him reciting his own poetry by heart, as well as the poems of the great Russian poets such as Pushkin, Lermontov, Pasternak, and Mandelshtam. My mother was an English teacher and a puppeteer. Growing up, I spent countless hours making puppets and rehearsing the plays in her children's theater.

Anton Belov (Photo by Peter Schaaf)

My dad was a typical member of the Russian intelligentsia, and by definition a dissident. He was never quite happy with the regime, making fun of the leaders and secretly listening to the Voice of America at night. His poetry always reflected his independent attitude. He was a free thinker and a free spirit. When he was a very young child, he had contracted polio. As the result, he was crippled for life. He always walked with a cane and was never perfectly healthy. Still, it was a shock for my mother and me when he was diagnosed with leukemia.

In 1991, my mother became involved with a cultural exchange program with the U.S. She contacted an American woman who was a puppeteer like herself. This American puppeteer—Christine Rugullies of Lisbon, Me.—invited my mother to this country, and my mother gladly accepted. She wasn't planning to stay; however, through some friend, and by some incredible miracle, my mother found an American doctor who agreed to treat my father, free of charge. My mother sent my dad and me an official invitation that said "urgent"—but it took Soviet bureaucrats more than half a year to issue our documents. For these six months, the most difficult of my life, I took care of my bedridden father. By the time our passports were finally issued, my father's condition had deteriorated horribly.

Finally, I was ready to go to the U.S. embassy to receive our visas. I woke up early on the morning of August 19, 1991. My grandmother told me that she did not think we would be flying anywhere, and that I should listen to the radio. The radio was playing classical music—and in Russia, that was always a sign that something is wrong. When Brezhnyev died, all you could hear on the radio and TV was classical music for three days straight. This time, however, the music was interrupted every five minutes by the following message: "Dear comrades, Michael Gorbachev is out of office due to extreme worsening of his health condition. The Emergency Government is urging the citizens to keep calm." I took this message at face value: Gorbachev's stomach is hurting; his buddies are trying to help him. My dad was much more skeptical. "Something's up," he said. "Be careful in the city."

The American embassy in Moscow is just blocks away from the "White House" as it is called—the Parliament of the Russian Federation. When I walked out from the subway, I saw thousands of people on the streets and the rising barricades. This was the historic day that changed Russia forever. The Americans at the embassy were rather shaken up. Perhaps that was why our visas were finally issued without much difficulty. My father and I left Russia three days later.

Anton Belov sings the title role in the J.O.C. production of Eugene Onegin. Read an article about the opera by Gina Levinson, Russian diction coach.

Now, I must say that it was never my intention to immigrate. I was 16, and life in Moscow for a teenager was vibrant. I felt that Russia itself was going through a period of adolescence, just as I was. Since 1984—the beginning of Perestroika—Russia's political life had been in turmoil. Being a teenager in that society was actually a lot of fun. Being a rebel to start with, I grew my hair long; already, by the age of 12, I had refused to wear a Pioneer's red tie to school. I called myself a hippie; of course, I was too young to be a hippie, but I sincerely believed that I was. I listened to the Beatles, Pink Floyd, and the Doors. There were massive demonstrations in Moscow every day. Change was in the air; the country was awakening from a long sleep and life for a young person like me was becoming very exiting. That is why I packed lightly, and I told all my friends to expect me back in two to three weeks.

The flight across the Atlantic was a dreadful experience. I can hardly describe the color of my father's skin. It was neither white nor earth tone; instead, it was some shade of gray and green. By then, I knew that I was bringing my father across the ocean to die. We arrived at the J.F.K. Airport and for a while we could not find my mother. Imagine being in a foreign country with a dying father who is desperately trying to walk through the terminal, and having only these two heavily accented words in your English vocabulary: "senkyou" and "velcome."

My father passed away two months later. I was planning to go back-but life had something different in store for me. As it happens, our host family had seven children: three boys and four girls. To make a long story very short, I met the girl of my dreams—Naomi, now my wife—the day after I came to America. We have been together ever since. In June we celebrated the first birthday of our daughter, Nadia.

Naomi and I loved to travel around New England together. We had a 1977 blue Volkswagen van with a huge dent in the front. We use to drive all around Vermont, New Hampshire, and Maine. On one of our trips, almost by accident, we discovered an Orthodox Church of Holy Resurrection in Claremont, N.H. It is a vibrant community of mostly American converts, as well as some people of Russian descent. The rector of this church was Fr. Andrew Tregubov, an immigrant from the Soviet Union. His father, Simeon Tregubov—a graduate of Moscow Conservatory and a former professor of voice at the Moscow State School of Theater—will celebrate his 90th birthday this year. One day, this wonderful old man called me into his studio, put me in front of a piano, and said: "Sing!" Well, ever since I was a little kid, I always sang: in the school choirs, and just simply by myself. I would walk around and sing or whistle; it often drove people crazy. I sang folk and rock songs with a guitar. I knew a hundred songs by heart. But now, this old man who was an opera singer tells me, "Sing!" Well, I sang a little, the way I thought was O.K. He said, "You have a good voice, but it's unpolished. Come three times a week, and I will teach you. You do not have to pay me anything."

This old man proceeded to teach me for free—sometimes three times a week, sometimes more—for four years. The role, which he performed more than 96 times, was Eugene Onegin. In fact, Onegin's aria was the first operatic aria I ever learned.

A lot happened during those four years: I got married. My wife and I worked for our living. At first we both worked on an organic farm in Vermont—a very, very Vermont thing to do. Then I found a terrific job as a custom furniture maker at Charles Shackleton Furniture. My boss, a terrific Irish designer, Charles Shakleton, is actually related to the famous Antarctic explorer, Sir Ernest Shakleton. I worked there for two years. Woodworking is still one of my passions. There are several pieces in our house that I built myself. I was singing in that Orthodox Church's choir and sometimes even replacing our regular choir director. Then suddenly, one night, he passed away from a heart attack. I became the full-time choir director-a position I held on a voluntary basis for three years.

Meanwhile, although I had taken all these lessons—sometimes driving from a full day of physical work—I never actually intended to become a professional singer. In fact, my dream was to become an Orthodox priest. My intention was to go to Saint Vladimir's Theological Seminary in Yonkers, N.Y. It is a graduate school—so, at the age of 21, I entered Keene State College in New Hampshire to earn my bachelor's degree. By the middle of my freshman year, I had become more serious about music and decided to transfer to the New England Conservatory. I owe a lot to that school, and especially to my late teacher, Richard Hughes, who passed away just as I was graduating from N.E.C. in 2000. I must also mention John Moriarty, head of the opera theater program at the time. I spent my senior year working with him, and found his instructions very useful and practical.

In 2000, I entered the Juilliard master's degree program, which has been a terrific experience. I am grateful to all my teachers and coaches, but especially to my principal teacher, Mr. David Clatworthy. His teaching brought my singing to a completely different level. For the past two years, he has been not just a voice teacher, but also a great source of support to me—not only a guide, but also a friend and a counselor. I am delighted to be coming back to the Juilliard Opera Center this fall to perform the title role in my first teacher's favorite opera, Eugene Onegin.