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Vol 1 No 2 November-December 2001 |
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| . | .Page 4..........................Return to Russia As I See It Page 1- - - - - - Turn to Page 2 - 10 Days In August - - - - - - RETURN to PORTS of SPIRAL SEA INDEX - - - - - - | |||||||||||||||
| Shirley Timashev, foreign correspondent | ||||||||||||||||
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A Summer Storm
Ten Days in August Russia: 1991
by S. H. Timashev Courtesy Vitalia |
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End of an Era
In late spring 1991, a young man named Vladimir Koterev accompanied his boss, Igor Bogdanov--a member of the Supreme Soviet of then Soviet Russia--on a speaking tour of American universities. Florida Atlantic University in Boca Raton, Florida was one of the stops on their busy itinerary. Enthused by their involvement in some of the advance publicity and planning for Bogdanov's visit, students in the FAU International Business Club followed up on an invitation to organize a student exchange trip. Short months later, as an unexpected consequence of this initiative, 16 of us, 12 from FAU and 4 from other universities, found ourselves in Moscow in the midst of an extraordinary moment in Russian history. Of course, at the time we hadn't a hint of what was to come. August 10, 1991 Moscow Arrival We arrived in Moscow too excited to be tired, in spite of a twelve hour overnight trip without much sleep. As arranged, we were met at theairport by Vladimir Koterev -- the polite, dark-haired aide who had come to the U.S. months earlier on an official visit. Vladimir grandly presented each of the women in the group with a welcoming bouquet of roses (the guys got handshakes). We passed through Passport Control on our own, but the process of getting through Customs was smoothed for us by Vladimir's cohort, Sergei. The customs agent was either told in Russian that we were a bunch of innocents with nothing of interest in our luggage, or that we were an important delegation sponsored by a member of the Supreme Soviet -- both statements were half true. Or Sergei might simply have said, "There's something in this for you if these guys don't get hassled." Whatever method Sergei used, we were soon through Customs and pushing through heavy steel and glass doors into the bright sunshine of a summer afternoon. Our jet-lagged bodies were telling us that it was eight hours earlier. The time zone difference was the first of many adjustments we'd have to make. Behind the solid gray bulk of the airport terminal, planes roared skyward, their fuselage shapes seeming familiar enough, but blazoned with Cyrillic characters. The name "Aeroflot" starts and ends with letters that look the same in Russian and in English, but the Russian variant has in the middle what looks like a Greek phi and a Greek lamda. Our group had studied Russian with varying degrees of dedication, but now that we were actually here, it was unnerving to realize how challenged we were going to be to communicate. A minibus was already awaiting us at the curb, giving us little time to look around. Nothing resembling Moscow proper was visible, and for good reason. It turned out to be quite a drive from the jetport into the city. As we loaded our luggage, we were helped by a thin young man who introduced himself as Andrew. Andrei was his real patronymic -- his given name -- in Russian. Days later, he became, simply and fondly, "our Andy." A description of our Andy is appropriate here. He reminded us of Barishnykov in build, and Yakov Smirnoff in humor. When he first greeted us, he was wearing a T-shirt that read, "Democracy for China, June 3-4, 1989." He wore this same T-shirt for several days, until suddenly he started showing up in T-shirts given to him by members of our group: "Florida Gators," "Chiles for Governor," etc. Andrew was officially our translator, not a guide, but for those parts of the trip when there was no person along with local expertise, Andrew delighted us with a running parody of guidespeak, cheerfully inventing historic trivia on demand. Those demands began early, on the bus ride into Moscow. Andrew responded instantly with non-stop quips in response to our many questions. "Yes, the KGB is powerful. The highest echelon handles documents so secret that they are marked, 'Burn before reading.'" "Rationing? Rationing is a way of life in the Soviet Union. Ration cards are issued in strips for three months at a time. They limit each person to l/2 kilo of meat, and 1 kilo of sugar, and so on for 16 items. Then there are these three blank spaces at the bottom." He paused, then invented, "Those are for air, water, and sunshine." The beltway for the city of Moscow has a circumference of some 100 kilometers, we were told. To test our mental sharpness after what now totaled, 14 hours of travel, we tried to figure out the radius of the city in miles. The answer we got was about 10 miles, which didn't sound all that big until we further calculated that Moscow must therefore cover an area of 314 square miles! That sprawl helps explain why this city of 10 million people is called "the big village." The ride from the northwest side of the beltway to the southeast side took us through pretty countryside of white-trunked birch forests and open fields.almost ready for harvest. When we arrived at the Institute of Youth, our lodging for the next several days, we drove through a swinging gate into an aging wooded estate that held just a few dormitory buildings. Upon first inspection of the dorm rooms, the students in our group agreed, "Yep, dorm rooms are dorm rooms." We unloaded and headed inside, some of us anxious to use the facilities. We discovered, however, that there are bathrooms, and then there are bathrooms. At the Institute of Youth, bathrooms were unisex communal facilities with little privacy, with no toilet paper, and no soap. The last two features we had been led to expect -- most of the world does nicely, thank you, without Charmin and without Camay. Any degree of cleanliness, however, had not been a feature of this place since it had been built. Shortages in the Soviet Union extend far beyond soap to include all cleaning products, and there's only so much that can be done with a dirty mop.
First Eve in the Big Village We were quite happy to leave the Institute of Youth and go out for an evening on the town. The minibus took us into the heart of Moscow, right to Red Square. For dinner we went to a grand place, a mansion built during the Imperial Period. The mansion had ballrooms, large dining halls and smaller intimate rooms that had been converted to separate restaurants. The one our hosts had chosen for us was called Restaurant Moscow. As we ascended a marble staircase to the two-story gallery, the impression we got is that it would make a perfect location for an art museum. It was also a good place to party, and along with dinner we were treated to a floor show and an orchestra for dancing. A long table was set for the 20 of us. There were platters of cold cuts, salads, and breads. Lined up, down the center, were dozens of bottles of drinks--Pepsi, Fanta, mineral water, vodka, and champagne. The toasts started with champagne and then went to vodka. Long after we had eaten our fill, we were surprised to be served hot plates of food, followed by ice cream for dessert -- teaching us a lesson, namely, never confuse hors d'oeuvres for the main course! The dance music and the vodka soon got everyone on the dance floor. Some of the American girls were asked to dance by Russians from other tables. The boldest of these, who literally threw money around, were the mafia hustlers that give business a bad name in Russia. To cap off the evening we took a stroll through Red Square, which is well lit up at night and is quite beautiful. We saw the building that houses Lenin's tomb and that world-famous symbol of Moscow, the onion-domed, colorful towers of St. Basil's Cathedral. Tired, still full, and somewhat stunned from our long travels and experiences of the evening, we were bussed back to our country institute for what proved to be a brief night indeed. August 11, 1991 Another day in the Big Village The next day started early. At 4:05 a.m., to be exact. We all agreed that this was entirely too early. At 60-degrees north latitude there is not a lot of night in the summer. Sunset occurs around 8:00 p.m., sunrise about eight hours later. In view of this, I have a modest proposal for the Russians: that they institute Darkness Savings Time in the summer. By pushing the clocks ahead one hour, they could stroll Red Square in daylight until 9:00 p.m., then sleep undisturbed until 5:00 a.m. Still just eight hours, but somehow it just sounds more civilized. Breakfast at the Institute was ample. We had our choice of oatmeal, eggs, cheese and bread. Coffee was available, but sweetened hot tea was what the Russians partook. The more adventurous in our group tried the little cups of smetana, a product that is a cross between yogurt and sour cream, eaten with a spoon. Our morning tour started off with a minibus trip back to Red Square and the Kremlin. We learned that Red Square, or Ploschard Krasnaya, originally meant Beautiful Square. (Red you see, is beautiful.) We stopped at the somber Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, which bears the inscription, "Your name is unknown, but your deeds are unforgettable." A chauffeured wedding party was stopped there because it is a Soviet tradition to lay wedding flowers at the monument. Moscow, of course, had very nearly fallen during the Second World War, and was saved only by the combination of a deadly, terrible winter, and the most heroic sacrifices on the part of the Russian defenders. T he patriotic feelings these sacrifices engendered in the citizens of Moscow endures even today. The Kremlin in Moscow is actually a fortress within the city, with walls that are 6.5 meters thick. The grounds inside include three magnificent cathedrals that date from the l5th century and before. The cathedrals are topped with gold-leafed domes that shine like the sun. Outside the Kremlin gates there were some child beggars, gyspy children who appeared pathetically blind. They would have been happy to receive a few rubles, but angry words in Russian from our guide made them open their eyes wide and run away. Shocking behavior
At this top tourist spot, foreigners are always approached by hawkers with souvenir goods to sell-- postcards, matrooska dolls, Soviet Army goods... If Andrew wasn't happy to see us engaged in this commerce, then he was positively shocked by our next purchases in a regular shop. The shop was in a tourist hotel, and we found out that they had imported bottled water. The group purchased all they had, 20 bottles, at 200 rubles each. Andrew later explained in a strangled voice that we had just paid, for each small bottle of water, more than he made in an entire month! His stipend as a student was 150 rubles a month. At the current exchange rate of 32 rubles to the dollar, this meant Andrew was earning just $4.69 per month. We had paid $6.25 for each bottle of water, equivalent to two years’ wages for our poor Andy. But we were not yet through shocking the Russians. On the street there was a big, burly guy with spiked hair and an enormous boa constrictor. For a few rubles he would let a tourist pose with him while he was grappling with his fearsome snake. Jennifer Dawson, who has several boas as pets, walked right up and cuddled the long, pliant reptile’s body around her own. Cooing softly to it, she tamed the big boa and encouraged it to give her a little kiss. For the surrounding crowd it was no longer possible to look at that snake as anything but a sweetie. Shortly, we headed back to the Institute for lunch, then walked across the road to visit the Kyskovo Palace, which had been built in the 18th century by Prince Pyotor Sheremetyev. Kyskovo was just a summer residence of this very rich family. I don't know how much property they owned, but I do remember that they owned 150,000 serfs. In the evening we were treated to a concert performance of the Pyatnitsky Chorus. The members of the chorus are frequently on world tour as cultural ambassadors who perform Russian folk songs with great artistry. The musical performance would have been a delight even to the hearing impaired, because the visual aspects were breathtakingly beautiful. The costuming was gorgeous, and the stage movements were a kaleidoscope of color. As we left the theater, we passed the one single Moscow location of Pizza Hut, and the group found the temptation of comfort food irresistible. There was a chorus of requests to stop at Pizza Hut. For our hosts, such a request was outside of any expectation. We were their guests, and Pizza Hut was an unaffordable hard currency restaurant. We of course said that we would happily treat them to the pizza. The Russians with us had American style pizza for the first and perhaps last time in their lives. August 12, 1991 Several members of our group wanted to visit the well known GUM (pronounced "Goom") department store. We found it to be a large arcade that had housed independently operated shops when it was built during czarist times. The Soviet period had not been kind to it, although on the outside it possessed stylishly decorated windows which would catch the attention of any shopper. But whoever was responsible for decorating the windows was not asked to do anything about the interior. The color scheme inside was gray and brown, dust and dirt. Well, I exaggerate. There were actually a few islands of color inside GUM, and one of them was a boutique of Estee Lauder products. Lipsticks there were priced at 30 cents, which prompted one member of our group to figure on financing her next trip by taking home tons of Estee Lauder products for resale at U.S. prices. Her plans were dashed when she found out that she could not buy even a single tube of lipstick. Goods rationing is so strict that you must be a legal resident of Moscow to buy many things, even with hard currency. We were supposed to have our noon meal that day with Igor Bogdanov, the democratic member of the Supreme Soviet who was responsible for our trip. Bogdanov had been detained, however, in his home city of Nizhny Novgorod -- a circumstance of little significance to us at the time. We partied without him at Restaurant Praga. The unusual feature of Restaurant Praga is that it is almost entirely set up for private affairs. Suppose you are a Communist bigwig. When you are making private deals, you don't want the proletariat observing such things. You don't even want other Commie bigwigs watching you. So each Commie bigwig wants his own dining room. Restaurant Praga can be appreciated by anyone with a taste for decadent living. The room reserved for us was called the Garden Room, and it opened onto a private patio. Our multi-course meal had duck pate for starters, filet mignon for the main course, and ice cream as always for dessert. The stemware and china were of high quality, and the waiters had the kind smooth skill that is required of those serving at state banquets. In a mellow mood from the vodka at noon, we were ready for a stroll down Arbat Street, the main shopping boulevard for the tourist trade. Andrew told us that prices on common items would be cheaper in the town of Nizhny Novgorod, where we were to go the next day. Still we all came back from our stroll with such things as traditional matryoshka dolls and T-shirts that proclaimed in Russian, "I Am An Agent of the KGB."
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The House of Congresses, Moscow
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August 13, 1991 The trip to Nizhny Novgorod-- city of dissidents We boarded the evening train to Nizhny Novgorod and found the first class accommodations clean and attractive. There were four people to each compartment, with bunks that were better than our beds at the Institute. The small table in each compartment was graced with linen and a potted fern. In the morning we were served hot tea from the samovar-like device in our car. That soothed the nerves of some late night partyers who had had their sheets whisked out from under them by the babooshka, who treated them as inert lumps. By this time, Frank Virella and Our Andy were becoming good chums, and Andy said he felt a real kinship to Frank. He surmised that somehow they were related, this ethnic Russian and this American of Puerto Rican/Italian descent. Putting his arm around his pal, Andy announced that he and Frank were descended from the same great-great-great-great ape. We knew nothing about the city of Nizhny Novgorod before our arrival, but that had not stopped us from having preconceptions. "Novgorod" literally means "new city," so we expected something new. We found that the architectural style that is cuphemistically known as "Soviet realism" blights only a part of Nizhny Novgorod. Many of the avenues are lined with gracious l9th century buildings like those found in Vienna or Paris. On the narrower streets, ancient trees form a green canopy, and flowers brighten public areas. At the center of Nizhny Novgorod there is a kremlin. Yep, another fortress. The place dates back to bow and arrow days, 1212 A.D. The first kremlin here was made of wood; the "new" kremlin was built of brick in 1515. It's two kilometers long, making it the second largest in Russia. It has 15 towers. Five are square, and serve as entry points to the interior; eight are round, built for garrisons. (Yes, that accounts for 13 of them. I don't know what the other two are.) The kremlin housed the original settlement, sitting high on the embankment above the Volga River, although the modern city has of course expanded far beyond. Hotel Oktyabrskaya, our lodging for the stay in Nizhny Novgorod, was situated with a great view at the top of the Volga embankment. It was built in 1987 for the Communist elite, and it is ranked in the top ten hotels in the Soviet Union. We could have guessed that from the fact that there were color TVs and bar refrigerators in the rooms. The cost for these accommodations, we found out later, was a pricey 200 rubles per night for foreigners; for Russians the cost was more reasonable at 20 rubles, or 63 cents. Andrew got to stay with us, a welcome change in accommodations from the dorm room which houses him, his wife and his young baby. After checking into the hotel, we headed off to one of the most important places to visit in Nizhny Novgorod, and that is the place where Andrei Dimitryevitch Sakharov lived in exile. Sakharov is one of the most famous dissidents Soviet Russia has produced, but many other political prisoners have been held in this city. For centuries Nishny Novgorod has been a way station to Siberia. The city was renamed for the Soviet author, Maxim Gorky, in 1932 and closed to foreigners. Nizhny Novogorod, or Gorky, was therefore a logical place for Brezhnev to choose when he exiled Sakharov, the honored physicist who had dared to speak out against the war in Afganistan. Sakharov (in Russian it's written Caxapob and pronounced "Sa-Hka-rov") was born on August 21, 1922. He studied physics and had a brilliant career that included pioneering the design of the Soviet H-bomb. But after his first wife died and he met Elena Bonner, he devoted his life to the protection of civil rights and intellectual rights. When he was restricted in exile, he lived in a four-room flat and was rarely granted the right to have any visitors except relatives. He had no telephone for seven years. One day a phone was put in, and it was for a special call. Gorbachev wanted to tell him that he was to be freed. Although grateful for that call, Elena Bonner turned bitter toward Gorbachev, because it was after a public argument with Gorbachev that Sakharov had a fatal heart attack. She didn't think Gorbachev deserved the Nobel Peace Prize, and when he won it, she wanted to give back Sakharov's Peace Prize, so that his name would not be associated with Gorbachev’s. Sakharov of course is still revered today, and his memory is kept alive in Nizhny Novgorod. His flat is now a museum dedicated to depicting his life. Andrew made sure that we had a bouquet of flowers to leave there in memorium. When a member of our group noted that Gorbachev didn't seem to be too popular with Russians (an approval rating of no more than 15%), the comment was made that our own president might be more popular overseas than he was at home. Someone suggested that we trade Gorbachev for Bush. Andrew was indifferent to the deal. One politician for another. The deal he would take, he said, was to trade Gorbachev and rubles for Bush and dollars. Another politician we found none too popular was one whose name and face were everywhere: Vladimir Lenin. For a while the problems,of Communism were blamed on the perversion of its doctrines by its followers. The founding father was excluded from this criticism. But lately, people dared to criticize even Lenin. Frank found that out one day in Moscow when he was looking at the subway map. A young Moscovite by gesture asked to borrow the pen in Frank's shirt pocket; the fellow used the pen to strike out the name of Lenin from one of the subway stops. If graffiti of that sort catches on in Russia (we didn't see the random writings so common in New York), there will be plenty of Lenin remembrances to deface. Students to students Late in the afternoon we went to the Institute of Foreign Languages to meet the Russian students who would be with us for much of the week. The meeting was held in a classroom set up with a large U-shaped table. The Russians sat on one side and we sat on the other, although two brave souls from opposite camps had to sit next to each other. All twelve of the Russian students were male (we noticed that right away). Eight of the American students were female (they noticed that right away). The Americans started with a round of self introductions: "Hi, I'm Lori... Hi, I'm Kerstin... Jennifer... Susan... Tracy... Rika... Carol... Frank... Jeff... Rich... Stuart... Surresh..." Then the Russians introduced themselves: "Hello, I'm Stava... Vadim... Sasha... Oleg... Sergei... Eugene...Dimitri... Dimitri... Andrei... Andrei... Andrei..." We looked across the gap between us and saw a lot of Andreis and several Dimitris. We lobbed a conversational ball toward them and it fell flat at the net. "What are you studying now?" " What do you like to do when you're not studying?" Silence. We chatted on as if a conversation were taking place. Frank talked about what it's like to be a college student in the United States. Tracy talked about extracurricular activities. Silence. The Russian professor Mikhail Ivashkin, director of linguistics studies, said a few things. American professor Charles Newman also spoke up. More silence. Then one of the Russian students spoke up, and we were fascinated by his story. It was Yevgeny (Eugene, to us) who spoke. He told us about a translation job he had done for a Dutch businessman who had wanted to contract with a Russian shipyard for ten barges. The Dutchman wanted barges in several sizes to fit canals of different widths. Yevgeny had therefore traveled to the seaside town of Arkhangelsk on the Arctic Circle, where a former Soviet Navy shipyard was supposed to be converting its output to peace-time products. But the director of the shipyard didn't like the idea of making custom orders. "I'll build you barges," he said. "Any size you want -- but all of the same size. I'll make you fifteen barges instead of ten. But they've all got to be the same." Eugene obviously had felt frustrated when the negotiations broke down, with himself in the middle. We could identify with him, especially because he actually sounded like an American, speaking English with not a trace of accent. That was one story. What about the other seven students? None volunteered a word. Oddly, the little speaking we had heard from them had also been, like Yevgeny’s, close to perfect. It didn't seem that the barrier was language. Some of us exchanged puzzled looks. Once the formal meeting broke up, we found out in about 30 seconds that what had held the others back was neither shyness nor lack of fluency in English. The formality of the circumstances had been intimidating to us all, but apparently even more so to the Russians. Out of the confines of the room with seating on opposite sides, the Russian students eagerly latched onto individual Americans to engage in conversation. The first bonds of friendship were quickly formed. August 14, 1991 The music we had been hearing on AM radios was almost always historically ancient rock and roll. It was therefore of great significance that Frank caught notice of something I would have missed: Believe it or not, Metallica's "Enter Sandman" was aired in Nizhny Novgorod just one day after its (Western) world-wide release. Nizhny Novgorod is without a doubt a true city of culture. This day was a dress up day for us. We were to look like American business people scheduled for meetings with local officials. Our first session was with no less than the Chairman of the Committee for Economic Reforms in the Gorky Oblast. So what's an oblast? In brief, an oblast is a good-sized geopolitical unit of government. The Gorky Oblast, for example, is bigger than Belgium and Holland combined and has a population of 3.7 million. Nizhny Novgorod is the metropolitan center, and it is one of the oldest cities in Russia. It has 75 research centers and manufacturing plants that produce automobiles, jet airplanes, electronic equipment, nuclear power equipment, and many types of military goods. The forested northern regions of Gorky Oblast have historically supported industries for paper and wood products manufacture. Unfortunately, reforestation was not being practiced until recently, consequently the area has become an importer of wood for its factories. Joint ventures with Finland are modernizing their practices. Agriculture in this oblast has also suffered over the years. It is hard for the region to feed itself when the weather permits just a short growing season. Poor crop rotation habits, and a lack of fertilization materials, have made matters even worse. Another problem area is pollution control. "We have not been attentive to that," one of our reforms committee hosts admitted. "We are situated where two great Russian rivers come together, and unfortunately the industry of this city is spoiling them." The next speaker started out, "Dear friends, we want to reconstruct our house, which has been constructed very badly... In the West, you routinely apply pressure to reduce prices, for the benefit of the consumer, by decreasing costs. But here in Russia there has been no such philosophy. Our production figures have always been inflated. My own job, until recently, involved going to the Committee on State Prices and lying to them." Essentially, the philosophy had been, "tell the leadership what they want to hear." One overriding preoccupation for all of Russia’s citizenry is the chronic shortage of housing. State policy is that every person should have at least 7.5 square meters of living space (that's 81 square feet).. If you have less than that, what you get is your name on a waiting list. And if you have, say 8 square meters of space, you officially don't have a problem. August 15, 1991 On this day we went to the Popov electronics plant. We learned that some reforms started in 1988 when there was growing resistance to production according to assigned quotas. The latest quotas have been drastically lowered, and after those minimal levels are met the factory managers are free to establish their product mix and determine a profitable production level. That's the good news. The bad news is that 95% of their output is marketed at a fixed price. And while selling prices are fixed, supply costs are rising. There's an economics lesson in there somewhere. August 16, 1991 Breakfast this morning consisted of pan-fried potatoes and eggs with cups of sour cream on the side. The beverage selection included surprisingly salty mineral water, which one of the Americans described as tasting "like Gatorade before it was invented." Chuck Newman and I took a scouting trip to a remote summer camp where the group would later be spending some time. Our driver was Mikhail Ivashkin, a faculty member at the Institute for Linguistics. Ivashkin's car, which was 11 years old, had been "kissed on the right," denting in the front door. It was also missing a side view mirror and windshield wiper blades, but we learned that Ivashkin had removed them himself to keep them from being stolen. He quickly remounted them, and we were off. Ivashkin doubted that he'd ever be able to buy a replacement car. His salary was 600 rubles a month, slightly above the average of 500. (In dollar terms his salary is equivalent to $18.75 per month) Gasoline costs 40 kopecks per liter, which is…er, 4 liters per 10 quarts, or…um, 4 rubles per 2 1/2 gallons, or …ah, 1.6 rubles per gallon, which is -- about 5 cents per gallon. When it's available, that is. A new car can be had on the black market for 130,000 rubles. It would seem that there would not be anyone who could afford that, but indeed there are some.There are even people who drive imported Mercedes and Volvos. It seems that crime does pay. For ordinary people, goods that had previously been regarded as necessities now became luxuries. Consumer goods in general are now so scarce that there's not much point to queue up unless a store has a new shipment of something. Most of the state stores we passed looked forlorn. With no need for advertising they carried the plainest of signs. One common descriptor is simply "Products." As we drove to the outskirts of the city we saw log homes that had been lovingly preserved and dressed up with brightly painted trim. Small dachas on vegetable patches dotted fields near the city. Cooperative farm land followed, with tiny towns interspersed. One was named Truth Village (Pravdinsk). Another was Fast (as in hunger). Some unfortunate citizens lived in a village named Graveyard. Ivashkin talked while he drove, mostly about politics. The republics will have to stay together, he said, for reasons of economics. Armenia declares its independence, but it is entirely within the USSR. The Baltic states think they can be independent, however they forget how poor they were in 1939. The central government in Moscow helped them develop, and Lithuania, for one, has grown 86 times. In the small republics corruption is endemic. The central government would from time to time depose corrupt leaders; now they may stay in power. Even the schools are corrupt. Each teacher has the right to "make a fast buck" on accepting a particular pupil. A senior professor gets to exercise that right three times, and a dean gets more. Since medical students can virtually buy their diplomas from local schools, people who have good connections spurn local doctors and go to outside specialists. Medicine is a service profession, and one that is not particularly well paying. Ivashkin said that his older daughter is a well respected physician who earned a "red diploma" in school (receiving high honors) and then went on to become an ob/gyn. Her husband is an internist, and they have a 7-year-old daughter. Yet they are on a waiting list for an apartment. They hope that they might get something in a year or two; in the meantime they are living in a dormitory. August 17 Right after breakfast we piled into a minibus along with our new Russian friends, and headed out to the linguist summer camp. When we got there, some of the Americans challenged Russians to a game of volleyball. But at the insistence of the Russians it was not played as Us versus Them. "Never again, they said. So Russians and Americans teamed up on both sides of the net. They were all winners. August 18 The American college students organized a presentation to their Russian counterparts on a hypothetical business named "Florida Shoe Company." The purpose of the presentation was to explain how American businesses work. The Russians absorbed all they heard but did ask a few unexpected questions. For instance, "When you try to hire only the best people, what do you do when released prisoners are assigned to you?" We broke for lunch and then went on a sightseein trip to visit the Church of Christmas, built by Nagori Stroganov in the 1700's. This small church has a gleaming cupola that got its shine from 16 kilograms of gold. Peter the Great visited Nizhny Novgorod in 1722 and attended a service at this church. When he glanced at the icon of Jesus Christ in its usual place, he became angry and said that he wouldn't worship at the altar of an inferior. It seems that the icon of Jesus had a face that was flatteringly similar to that of the church's patron, Nagori Stroganov. August 19, 1991
The knock on the door at 7:30 a.m. was not the usual wake-up call. Andrew said urgently, "Something terrible has happened! I'll tell everyone the news just as soon as we are all together." It didn't take me long to get dressed that morning. "There's a report on the radio that Gorbachev has resigned," Andrew said. "No reason was given. A state of emergency has been declared and will last for six months. I don't know any more than that, because the news is given in a recorded announcement that is merely repeated periodically. All regular broadcasting has been suspended." "Will we get more news later in the day?" "No, I doubt it. This sounds like something from the Brezhnev era! It may be 20 or 30 years before we know what has really happened. Our children may know more about this day than we will every know." Andrew was imagining the end of glastnost. The end of any hopes for a better life. He didn't want to talk about it at all, but being Andy, he couldn't help but joke about it with a bit of black humor. "Hey, maybe Russia could leave the Soviet Union and become part of the U.S. We do connect at Alaska, you know." We found that we could help Andrew with some information not available to most Russians. The Hotel Octoyabriska was equipped with a satellite downlink, and we had access to CNN. The official word, we learned from CNN News, was that Gorbachev had supposedly resigned for health reasons. A committee of hardliners had replaced him. The state committee included his hand-picked vice president, the head of the KGB, the Minister of Defense, the Minister of Interior, the head of the State Police, and three others. Andrew replied sardonically that he knew the composition of the state committee without being told. Our plans for the day were to go on as scheduled. As our bus headed for the nearby town of Semenov, Andrew sat by himself at the back of the bus. He closed his eyes for a while but it was hard to tell if he was really sleeping. Yes, he said, he did fall asleep, but he had a bad dream. "Isn't it good to be back to reality," someone said in full irony. Andrew's response was immediate and sharply depressing. "It will never be good again." The radio on the bus had an update on the news: · The Union Treaty, which was to have been signed on August 19, has been withdrawn. It will be amended before it is resubmitted to the republics. · The laws of the republics are hereby rescinded. The only valid laws are those of the Supreme Soviet. · All demonstations are banned during the six month state of emergency. · The policies of the State Committee are being designed to restore the respect that used to be shown for the power of the Soviet Union. It is intolerable that elements in the West express pity for Soviet peoples. At this time of cataclysmic change, we were driving into a town that looked like it had not changed in more than a century. Women gathered at the water pump, an indication that their houses were without running water. The major factory in the town produced handpainted folk art, a 300 year-old tradition. The folk art factory in Semenov produced brightly figured wooden trays, goblets, and small pieces of furniture. Artisans labored at long tables in rooms filled with potted plants, lit by natural light. It was a hospitable environment, and the workers didn't seem rushed. They chose their own designs, we were told, but first had to get each new design approved by a council of their peers. A council met to evaluate the merit of designs and to assess when an artist was ready to move to a higher ranking. At the bottom of the ranking are the apprentices. At the top are artists who are allowed to sign their work. The factory didn't have any goods for us to buy -- everything was produced to scheduled deliveries. So we returned to Nizhny Novgorod to do our shopping. The department store we visited did have a few pieces of folk art, but not nearly the selection that we knew was being produced at the factory only kilometers away. Strolling through Nizhny Novgorod, several of us stopped at a grocery store. There was a fair variety of fruits and vegetables, but the Russian student with us commented that anything available is not affordable, and what is affordable is not available. Indeed, most of the people in the check-out line had only a few items, and those were generally things picked up with ration coupons. Our purchases were more frivolous. We got bottles of Pepsi for 79 kopeks each. As we left the grocery store, we spotted a small crowd huddled outside the door. There was a type-written announcement taped to the doorway, and people were reading it in silence. It was a statement by Boris Nicholaiyevitch Yeltsin which had been sent to the city by fax, and posted around town by some brave souls. Yeltsin was telling his people that he was resisting "the illegal actions of the self-proclaimed State Committee." "I know how you feel," Yelstin's message said. "I am challenging their authority and declaring their decrees invalid. I will oppose them in every way I can and for as long as I can." Yeltsin's stance seemed awesomely brave. There was not much doubt in the crowd around us that any resistance would be crushed, although Yeltsin himself might be spared because of his visibility. But anyone who signed on to his resistance efforts might not be so lucky. Yeltsin's supporters were energized by his example. In Nizhny Novgorod they paraded to a central square where they held a rally. As they passed by some onlookers joined them in the street. Their chant was "Yeltsin! Yeltsin!" Not once, then or otherwise, did we hear anyone call out for Gorbachev. 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