My first Russian teacher–a dark and handsome sailor with curly black hair, violet eyes and a wide white smile without a single metal tooth–disappeared after we were arrested for kissing in front of the Kazan church in Leningrad. A real comrade should have known better than to fraternize with a capitalist in public.    No more trouble, Student Affairs told me when she came to get me from the police station. “It was for the tongue,” I tried to explain. My Russian wasn’t all that good yet. “Native tongue practice.” The best way to learn a foreign language, all linguists knew, was to find a motivated native teacher,…