Secondhand Time: The Last of the Soviets (17 page)

The trains clatter…and clatter…Strangers, what do you need here? What? All deaths are different…I had my first son in Siberia, he came down with diphtheria and just like that, he was gone. I keep on living. Yesterday, I went down to Sashka’s grave and sat there with him. I told him about Lizka’s weeping, how she’d banged her head on the coffin. Love doesn’t count the years…

We’ll all die…And everything will be all right.

*1
The Stakhanovite movement was a campaign initiated in the 1930s to stimulate industry by encouraging workers to surpass production quotas, following the example of coal miner Alexey Stakhanov, who was said to have mined 102 tons of coal in less than six hours, fourteen times his quota. Like the shock worker movement, this was also an example of “socialist emulation”—seeing who can work hardest for the common good.

*2
Victory Day. The Germans surrendered late at night on May 8, 1945, so it is celebrated on May 9 with the time adjusted to Moscow time. The choice of May 9 as Victory Day was also a way to emphasize the fact that the victory was the USSR’s and Stalin’s and not that of the Western powers.

*3
House goblin of Russian folklore.

*4
It’s Russian custom for wedding guests cry “Bitter!” during toasts, and when they do, the bride and groom must kiss. The idea is that the guests are bemoaning the bitterness of their vodka, which must be sweetened with the sight of the couple’s kisses.

My favorite holiday was always November 7
^*1
…A big and bright day…The most vivid impression from my childhood was the military parade on Red Square…

I’d sit on my father’s shoulders with a red balloon tied to my wrist. Up in the sky, over the marching columns, loomed the huge portraits of Lenin and Stalin…Marx…Garlands and bouquets of red, blue, and yellow balloons. Red everywhere. My favorite color in the world. The color of the Revolution and of the blood spilled in its name…The Great October Revolution! Today, they’re calling it a military coup, the Bolshevik conspiracy…the Russian catastrophe…Saying Lenin was a German agent and the Revolution was brought about by deserters and drunken sailors. I cover my ears, I don’t want to hear it! It’s more than I can take…My whole life, I’ve believed that we were the luckiest people on earth, born in the most beautiful and extraordinary country in the world. There’s no other one like it! We have Red Square, the Spasskaya Tower clock, that the whole world sets its time to. That’s what my father told me…and my mother and grandmother…“November 7 is a red-letter day…” The night before, my whole family would stay up late making flowers out of crepe paper, cutting out cardboard hearts. Coloring them in. In the morning, my mother and grandmother would stay home preparing the holiday dinner. We always had guests. They’d bring us wine and cakes in string bags…Back then, we didn’t have plastic bags…My grandmother would bake her famous
pirozhki
stuffed with cabbage and mushrooms, and my mother would work her magic on Olivier salad and prepare her essential meat in aspic. As for me, I got to be with my father!

There were many people out in the street, and all of them had red ribbons on their coats and jackets. Red flags blazing in the wind, the military brass band playing. Our leaders at the rostrum…and the song:

World capital, our capital

Like the Kremlin’s stars you glow

You’re the pride of the whole cosmos,

Granite beauty, our Moscow…

I wanted to keep shouting “Hurrah!” The loudspeakers cried, “Glory to the workers of the Likhachev factory, twice awarded the orders of Lenin and the Red Banner! Hurrah, comrades!” “Hurrah! Hurrah!” “Glory to our heroic Leninist Komsomol…to the Communist Party…to our glorious veterans…” “Hurrah! Hurrah!” Beauty! Ecstasy! People wept, overwhelmed with joy…The brass band played marches and songs of the Revolution:

He was ordered to move westward,

She was sent the other way,

Komsomol men marched away toward

Battle in the civil war…

I remember all the words to every single song, I haven’t forgotten a thing, I sing them all the time. I sing them to myself. [
She begins to quietly sing.
]

Vast is my beloved country

Full of forests, fields, and rivers.

I know there’s none other like her

Where a man can breathe so freely…

I recently found our old records in the closet, so I took the record player down from the storage cabinet and spent the whole evening reminiscing. The songs of Dunaevsky and Lebedev-Kumach—we used to adore them! [
She is silent.
] And there I am, high up in the sky. My father lifts me up…higher and higher…The most important moment comes: Powerful vehicles pulling covered missiles, tanks, and artillery are about to roar down the cobblestones of Red Square. “Remember this moment for the rest of your life!” my father shouts over the noise. And I know that I will! On the way home, we’d stop into the store and I would get my favorite lemon soda, Buratino. That day, I was allowed to have anything I wanted: toy whistles, rooster lollipops…

I loved Moscow at night…the lights…When I was eighteen…Eighteen! I fell in love. The moment I realized that I was in love—guess where I went. That’s right, I went to Red Square. The first thing I wanted to do was spend those moments in Red Square. The Kremlin walls, black spruces dusted with snow, Alexander Gardens shrouded in snowdrifts. As I took it all in, I knew that I would be happy. I would definitely be happy!

My husband and I recently visited Moscow. And for the first time…For the first time, we didn’t go to Red Square. We didn’t pay our respects. For the first time…[
She has tears in her eyes.
] My husband is Armenian, we got married when we were in college. He had a blanket, I had a cot, and that’s how we began our life together. After graduating from the Moscow Medical Academy, we were assigned to work in Minsk. All of my friends went off to different places: One went to Moldavia, another to Ukraine, a third to Irkutsk. We called the people who were sent to Irkutsk Decembrists.
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It’s all the same country, go wherever you please! There were no borders back then, no visas or customs. My husband wanted to return to his homeland, Armenia. “We’ll go to Lake Sevan, you’ll see Ararat. Try real Armenian
lavash,
” he promised me. But we were offered jobs in Minsk. So we decided: “Let’s go to Belarus!” “Okay!” We were young, we had our whole lives ahead of us, we thought that we’d have enough time to do everything. We came to Minsk and ended up liking it here. There’s nothing but lakes and forests all around. They are the forests, swamps, and backwoods of the partisans; fields are rare among all these trees. Our children grew up out here, their favorite foods are
draniki
and
mochanka.
“They fry the taters, they boil the taters…” Their second favorite dish is Armenian
khash
…Still, every year, we’d go on a family trip to Moscow. How could we not? I couldn’t live without it, I had to walk around Moscow. Breathe the air. I waited…I couldn’t wait for those first moments when our train would pull into Belorussky Station and the march would play over the loudspeaker; my heart would jump at the words: “Comrade passengers, our train has arrived in the capital of our Motherland, the Hero-City Moscow!” “Roiling, mighty, undefeatable / My Moscow, my country, I love you most of all…” That’s the music you disembark to.

But then…Where are we? We were greeted by a strange, unfamiliar city…The wind blew dirty wrappers and scraps of newspaper down the sidewalks, beer cans rattled underfoot. At the train station…and by the Metro…everywhere you went, you saw gray rows of people peddling lingerie and sheets, old shoes and toys, loose cigarettes. Like in war movies. I’d never seen anything like it except in those movies. On beds of torn paper, in cardboard laid directly on the ground, you’d find salami, meat, and fish. In some places, it’d be covered in tattered cellophane; in others, it lay bare. And Muscovites were buying it all. Bargaining. Knitted socks, napkins. Nails and food and clothes, all side by side. People speaking Ukrainian, Belarusian, Moldavian…“We came from Vinnytsia…” “We’re from Brest…” So many poor people…Where had they all come from? Invalids…Like in the movies…That’s all I have to compare it to, old Soviet films. It felt like I was watching a movie…

On the Old Arbat, my beloved Arbat, I found peddlers selling
matryoshka
dolls, samovars, icons, and portraits of the Tsar and the royal family. Portraits of White Guard generals—Kolchak and Denikin,
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next to busts of Lenin…There were all sorts of
matryoshkas:
Gorbachev
matryoshkas,
Yeltsin
matryoshkas
. I didn’t recognize my Moscow. What city was this? Right there on the asphalt, on top of some bricks, an old man sat playing the accordion. He was wearing his medals, singing war songs, with a hat full of change at his feet. Our favorite songs: “The fire burns bright in the little stove, / Sap drips down the logs, like tears…” I wanted to go up to him…but he was already surrounded by foreigners…They started snapping pictures of each other in front of him. Shouting things at him in Italian, French, and German. Clapping him on the shoulder:
“Davai! Davai!”
They were in high spirits, clearly having a lot of fun. Why wouldn’t they be? People used to be so scared of us…and now…Here you go! Nothing but piles of junk, an empire gone up in smoke! Next to all the
matryoshkas
and samovars, there was a mountain of red flags and pennants, Party and Komsomol membership cards. And Soviet war medals! Orders of Lenin and the Red Banner. Medals! “For Valor” and “For Military Service.” I touched them…caressed them…I couldn’t believe my eyes! I simply couldn’t! “For defending Sebastopol,” and “For Defending the Caucasus.” All of them were real. Precious. Soviet army uniforms, jackets, and greatcoats…peaked caps with red stars…being sold for dollars…“How much?” my husband asked, pointing at the “For Valor” medal. “Twenty dollars. Or, for you, I’ll do a grand—one thousand rubles.” “And the Order of Lenin?” “One hundred dollars.” “And your conscience?” My husband was prepared to fight him. “Are you nuts? What rock have you been living under? These are relics from the era of totalitarianism.” Those were his words…Like these were just refuse, but the foreigners liked them, Soviet symbols are in style over there, so now they were hot commodities. I screamed…called a policeman over…I was yelling, “Look! Look…Ahh!” The policeman confirmed it, “These are relics of the totalitarian era…We only arrest people for drugs or pornography…” But isn’t a Party membership card for ten dollars pornography? The Order of Glory…or this: a red flag with a portrait of Lenin being sold for dollars. It felt like we were on some kind of film set. Like we were being pranked. We’d come to the wrong place. I stood there and wept. Next to us, Italians tried on military greatcoats and caps with red stars.
“Horoshow! Horoshow!” À la Russe
…

The first time I went to the Lenin Mausoleum was with my mother. I remember it was raining, a cold autumn rain. We had to stand in line for six hours. The steps…the twilight…the wreaths…A whisper: “Step in. Don’t dally.” I couldn’t see anything through my tears. But Lenin…he seemed to be glowing…I was little, and I told my mother, “Mama, I’m never going to die.” “Why do you say that?” my mother asked. “Everyone dies. Even Lenin died.” Even Lenin…I don’t know how to talk about any of this, but I have to. I want to. I’d like to talk, but I don’t know who to talk to. What do I want to talk about? About how incredibly lucky we were! Now I am fully convinced of it. We grew up poor and naïve, but we never knew it and didn’t envy anyone. We went to school with cheap pencil cases and forty-kopeck pens. In the summer, you put on some canvas shoes, spiff them up with tooth powder, and they’re pretty! In the winter, it’d be rubber boots, the cold would burn the soles of your feet—it was fun! We believed that tomorrow would be better than today and the day after tomorrow better than yesterday. We had a future. And a past. We had it all!