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SEVEN
So many wonderfully fine women can hardly be seen in any country in one assemblage.
–Cassius Marcellus Clay, the Kentucky abolitionist Lincoln sent as America’s emissary to Alexander II
ANOTHER STREAM OF PROSPECTORS had started in the last days of the old USSR. American men, weighted with middle age and regret, began to come to Moscow to troll. Back then they were searching for a woman they had heard of, the charming and servile Russian antifeminist, the alluring woman who could be wife, lover, cook, cleaner, and mother all in one. Moscow, the American lonely hearts believed, would be their mecca. For thousands, it was.
In the hotel bars and nightclubs you ran into all sorts: human rights lawyers and postdoctoral scholars, cardiologists, and even astronauts. Most of the men spoke no Russian, knew nothing of Tolstoy or Pushkin. To them, the girls were “Natashas,” one and all, and Moscow was heaven. That was in the pioneer days. As time moved on, the marriage market slumped. “Russian bride” agencies still claimed a strong niche, but many of the men who came to Moscow now wanted only one thing. Sex ruled the night, and the dollar was the coin of the realm.
During Bill Clinton’s last presidential visit to Moscow, Mia and I went for a beer at a new hotel on Tverskaya, Moscow’s main drag. We found half a dozen Secret Service agents lining the bar. (After Tatum’s murder the White House was relieved that a new American hotel had opened in Moscow.) Nearby sat several other Americans, from their banter, junior-level White House adjutants. The Secret Service on that night was more than happy to share a tip. “Go to Night Flight,” one agent in a pinstriped suit said, “and you’ll never regret it.”
Night Flight was Swedish run and scarcely resembled a bordello, but it was famed for offering Moscow’s most beautiful, and most expensive, prostitutes. (“DO IT TONIGHT,” said its ads at the airport, tempting new arrivals.) The cover was steep, the Secret Service agent said, twenty dollars after 9:00 P.M. “But,” he added, “it’s the best twenty bucks you’ll ever spend.”
If Night Flight was the high end, the Hungry Duck anchored the low end. Run by a Canadian innkeeper who opened his first bar in Moscow in 1993 and housed in the old House of Culture for Soviet Workers in the Arts, a few minutes’ walk off Red Square, the Duck, as the bar was known among ex-pats and natives alike, grew world famous. The Washington Post even dubbed it “the wildest bar in the world.” While it lasted, it was certainly one of the most vulgar, with drunken sex in its dark corners and vomit on its floors.
The first time I braved the Duck, I ended up bartending. I had come to interview the club’s impresario, Stanley Williams, a black deejay from Brooklyn who had recently emerged from a Moscow prison cell. Caught up in a sweep targeted against African students in a Moscow disco, Stanley had been arrested for possessing “less than an ashtray” of marijuana. In the end the charges were dropped, but by then he had spent nearly two years in Moscow’s worst jails. I was writing a story on the miserable state of Russian prisons – the prison population had risen to more than a million, and the prisons had become one of the world’s leading TB incubators – and I wanted to talk to Stanley.
I arrived too late. Stanley was already behind his turntables. So I was put to work, pouring beer behind the bar. All eyes were fixed on the male strippers who paraded on top of the long bar that ringed the center of the club. “We usually get upwards to eight hundred in here on Friday nights,” Stanley screamed as Puff Daddy blasted out from huge speakers. (Nine hundred and twenty girls, he said, were the house record.) Stanley had stacked the speakers on top of one another, building a barricade to protect him from the sweating masses. “It can get a little–” I could not make out the end of his sentence. But I saw what he meant.
The Duck’s managers, relying on the laws of physics and desire, had mastered the art of maximizing the sexual tension a single room can permit. The girls, many of whom had to survive long train journeys to get here, got in free. They drank – only hard liquor – for free. Men were allowed entrance only after 9:00 P.M. They gathered in a long queue outside the bar, like bulls locked in a chute awaiting a rodeo’s opening bell. The effect naturally was dramatic. The sweating mass of Russian teenaged girls danced harder and harder as the music grew faster and faster, while the older, mostly Western men lusted all the more publicly. As the fever swelled, one, then two, then many more girls took to the bar to dance. Before long they had ripped off their blouses and bras. It was not rare, Stanley would say, for the action to go farther, much farther than that.
In the years that followed the crisis, Moscow’s nightlife grew serious. As Yeltsin departed and Putin entered, a new stodginess threatened to reign. Many of the landmark stops along the ex-pat map of Moscow closed. The Duck was one of the last, but it, too, shut down. The woman who ran the former House of Culture that housed the club was eighty-two-year-old Olga Lepeshinskaya, a former Bolshoi prima ballerina. Still known as Stalin’s favorite, Lepeshinskaya was not pleased her beloved building was hosting a bacchanalia. She launched a campaign to evict the foreigners. The Canadian owners had survived countless death threats and an attempted kidnapping, but eventually the police raids, even though the owners had paid out some two hundred thousand dollars in bribes, killed the business.
One of the final blows came when a clutch of Duma deputies, of the Communist and nationalist bent, checked in on ladies’ night. They arrived just as Dylan, the Duck’s six-foot male stripper from Nigeria, wearing little but gold spangles, was “dancing” on the bar, with several young Russian females, to the blasting strains of the Soviet national anthem. Weeks later one of the Duma deputies in a speech on the parliament’s floor, grew red in the face. “If this were Washington,” he screamed, “they would hang that Negro!”
EIGHT
IN ALL THE YEARS I lived in Moscow, I never had a car. Each day I would step out onto the curb and raise an arm–“voting” the Russians call it – and almost always in an instant at least one car, sometimes an entire lane, would screech to a stop. For a journalist, few modes of transport could be more rewarding. For Muscovites, and Russians in cities across the country, turning your car into a gypsy cab is what even the most educated and skilled did – and do – to get by. Over the years I enjoyed my share of ambulances, hearses, KGB Volgas, and Kremlin Audis. In the privacy of their cars, I sat beside the dispossessed and displaced: a nuclear engineer who had helped to design the SS-20s once pointed at the United States; a Yakut wrestler who pulled off the road, opened his palm, and tried to hawk a two-carat Siberian diamond; an ex-KGB colonel who had spent his career reading dissidents’ mail and now complained that the state had abandoned him; an Armenian gas smuggler who drove an armored BMW he could no longer afford to fill with gas. Each day brought a new round of coincidental interlocutors. Rarely did they stay silent for long. Like the coachmen in the stories of Gogol or Tolstoy, they steered the talk effortlessly from the weather – the dreadful snow or the dreadful heat – to politics – the ineluctable triumph of the “den of thieves” in the Kremlin – before settling into a long disquisition on the country’s dreadful past and dreadful predicament at present. Each, above all, was certain to recite, as if by rote, his – and occasionally her – own canto of loss.
One hot and humid summer morning in the final days of Yeltsin, I was sitting with such a stranger, an out-of-work air traffic controller whose dove gray face streamed with sweat. We were stuck in his 1986 Lada on a two-lane street that divides one of Moscow’s largest cemeteries. For some unknown reason, he had turned onto this street even though it was bumper to bumper with cars. For nineteen minutes we had not moved. I watched the minutes tick off on the dashboard clock. The clear plastic cover of the clock was cracked, but the hands continued to move. I had long ago missed the interview I’d set out for when I met the man sitting next to me. He seemed a bright enough fellow, this man who once guided Aeroflot jets through the Soviet skies, but he did not realize that I was a foreigner and he had no understanding of why I could be exasperated.
He had a point. In Moscow, after all, time spent frozen in place was not without its lessons – even in a traffic jam. Soon the more enterprising drivers usurped the sidewalk. Still, they did not crawl far. Two black BMWs, their windows smoked, moved toward us, negotiating for space with the little blue migalka lights on their roofs: government cars. At the same time, a Mercedes 600, the largest model the Germans ever made, eased right to make good use of the sidewalk. In the Yeltsin years of excess the Mercedes 600 had become the chariot of choice among the Moscow elite. In one year in the 1990s, more shestsoty, as the luxury cars were known in Russian, were sold in the Russian capital than in all Germany. Others of course now tried to follow the Mercedes offroad, but almost immediately one follower, an old Zhiguli two-door, hit an asphalt crater and stalled. The sound of metal on stone hinted at axle damage.
The tension grew, but everyone stayed silent. A few men swore to themselves. No one honked. After nearly an hour we still had not seen the end of the block. I was staring at the same dozen drivers and their passengers and at the rows of tombstones that ran deep amid the lean trees. At the hour mark the honking started. It was naturally without purpose or direction. A Volga to our right gave out. The poor soul in it was forced to evacuate. There was nowhere to move the car and no one willing to help its driver. Instead, a burly fellow in a Land Cruiser read him the riot act. There is nothing as pleasing, it would seem, to a Russian driver as a stream of blue swearing. The yelling did no good. The Volga was rooted in place.
We inched forward. As the second hour approached, the driver said he did not mind the wait. When he worked the tower at the airport, he’d often have to stay awake for double shifts. Sometimes there were long stretches through the night when not one plane would land. I noticed that the gas gauge of the Lada was on empty, even to the left of empty. A young girl, perhaps fifteen or sixteen, rollerbladed through the maze of metal. She was blond and wore earphones. Three cars ahead of us, in the lane to our left, sat an army truck, with an open flatbed ringed by wooden slats. It held four or five large metal barrels. At first it was not clear what the barrels contained-until I saw the pool of liquid forming beneath the truck. Then I saw the trickle dripping from one of the barrels, the one lying on its side.
“Yes,” the former air traffic controller said. It was gas. “And in a second, when some fool drops his cigarette out the window, that truck will go up like an open oil well on fire.” We went on sitting in place. I began to smell the gas. We were in the middle of five lanes of cars. We could not move anywhere. I looked left and right. On all sides drivers and passengers and passersby were smoking. I counted nine lit cigarettes.
The scene became Felliniesque in its absurdity. Another car broke down. A young woman emerged from it. She had light brown hair and was wearing a white tank top and oversize sunglasses. Two volunteers abandoned their cars to come to her rescue. At the top of the second hour a crane, unattended and parked, appeared up ahead in the right lane. Nearby stood a truck with a green canvas roof On the back of the truck a small yellow sign stenciled in black announced LYUDI (“PEOPLE”). The truck was filled with conscripts. Inside the heat of the canvas, the soldiers were sweating. They did not, as is the usual practice, extend a hand to cadge cigarettes.
We inched again. Up ahead a new obstacle, a parked trolleybus. Its power lines unstuck, it was forced from its lane by the cars that had occupied the sidewalk. At last we reached an intersection. In the sea of cars, the roads, two central arteries in the middle of the Russian capital, were unrecognizable. The traffic lights changed colors overhead, but no one paid them any heed. Only one lone Mercedes 600, big and black, tacked against traffic to the far side of the road and managed to move ahead. “A whale,” the former air traffic controller said of the Mercedes as he and I sat in silence and watched it move slowly out of sight.
NINE
AN ADVENTUROUS documentary filmmaker, a friend informed me, spent a year touring the Russian outback as the last century closed. He visited dozens of small out-of-the-way towns and villages, everywhere asking the local children the same single question: “Who was Lenin?” Somewhere in his travels a little girl in an audience far from Moscow grew excited. “I know!” she exclaimed. “Lenin was the first amphibian who came ashore. He was the one who crawled from the water, learned how to walk, climbed atop an iron tank, and called for everybody to follow him.”
DESPITE THE END OF the empire, the Seventh of November, Revolution Day, remained a holiday in Russia. In 1996, Yeltsin, having failed to bury the Party back in 1991, decided to try something different. He gave it a new name, the Day of Accord and Reconciliation. Like most of Yeltsin’s grand gestures, the rechristening was a failure. Sergei Kovalyov, the Duma deputy who spent ten years in the Gulag and served as Andrei Sakharov’s closest protégé after Gorbachev freed the physicist from his internal exile in Gorky, called it yet another foolhardy try at a top-down purification of the nation, the state’s attempt to relegate the old way of life to history.
“What does this mean, ‘Accord and Reconciliation’?” Kovalyov asked me one afternoon in his cramped Duma office. “These are empty words when people still carry Stalin portraits in parades. A day of national mourning would be a bit more appropriate. We don’t need a new holiday. We need to teach our children that Lenin and Stalin were the progenitors of a criminal regime, that they were mass murderers.”
Kovalyov, a shy, soft-spoken man who wore the same thick Soviet-style glasses as when I met him a decade earlier, was the first to say he had never wielded the clout of Sakharov. But amid the din of the Duma his voice resounded with moral sobriety. He shared a story that had stunned him. A student had come to see him. At one point in their conversation Kovalyov mentioned the passing of the writer Andrei Sinyavsky, once best known in the West by his pseudonym, Abram Tertz, who, along with another young Soviet writer, Yuli Daniel, was arrested in 1966 and imprisoned for publishing abroad.9 As Kovalyov recounted for the student the saga of the Sinyavsky and Daniel trial that attracted worldwide outcry, the student had laughed. “How can you laugh at a writer who was arrested?” Kovalyov had asked him. The student said he’d imagined the story was a joke. “He just couldn’t believe,” Kovalyov said, “it was ever possible to be sent to jail for writing literature!”
Five years after Yeltsin renamed November 7, a poll in 2001 found 43 percent of those queried yearned for the return of Revolution Day. Another pollster asked: “Imagine that the October Revolution is happening before your eyes. What would you do?” Of the respondents, 22 percent said they would support the Bolsheviks; 19 percent said they would cooperate with them in part; 13 percent said they would leave the country. Just 6 percent said they would fight Lenin and company.10
IN 1990S MOSCOW the remnants of the Soviet intelligentsia liked to talk about expiating guilt. The villains of Soviet power, the forlorn and graying dissidents liked to say, needed their own Nuremberg. They knew there never would be one. Russians have not embraced any attempt at a Vergangenheitsbewältigung, what Germans, true professionals in matters of national repentance, call the process of coming to terms with the past. It is said to be cathartic, offering a kind of deliverance. Russian has no such word.11 In Russia, no attempt on a social scale has been made to examine the totalitarian past, to learn not simply how the Soviet state functioned but how Russians themselves formed that state, to concede the crimes of the past.
One afternoon I stopped by a roundtable discussion held by several former KGB chiefs. Vladimir Kryuchkov, the true believer who had run the Lubyanka under Gorbachev until he turned against him in the coup of August 1991, went blank when a reporter, a Russian woman in her twenties, asked his opinion of the virtues of repentance. “What is there to repent?” Kryuchkov replied. He seemed more puzzled than angered. “We have nothing to regret; we only tried to save the Union. It’s those who unleashed the present chaos who should think about repentance.” History, I feared, had made a stunning return, only to be forgotten just as quickly.
IN SEARCH OF LEVITY in matters of remembrance, I learned to seek the gentle counsel of Semyon Samuelovich Vilensky. Semyon was in his early seventies when we first met, but his handshake, I was reminded each time I entered his two-room apartment on Moscow’s northwestern edge, remained a nutcracker. A short, stocky man with a white curly mane, Semyon had bushy white brows and soft blue eyes that flashed when he smiled. His face, expressive and animated, invariably reminded visitors of Einstein.
Semyon established the ritual of our visits: first tea, strong tea; then a beloved cigarette; lastly crackers or cake, whatever the kitchen held. Only then did we get down to business. The apartment seemed sparse, but it was crowded. The wall of cabinets in the living room was filled with manuscripts. For more than four decades he had collected the works-memoirs, short stories, poems, plays, novels, diaries-of the zeks, the prisoners who suffered in Stalin’s labor camps. “Zek” was camp slang, a word that grew out of the Gulag architects’ bureaucratic shorthand; z/k stood for zaklyuchennyi, a prisoner.
By now Semyon had thousands of manuscripts. It was a miracle they had survived. With a wide grin, Semyon liked to share his secret. “The babushkas,” he said. The grannies. “It’s all thanks to the babushkas.” For twenty-five years, from Khrushchev to Gorbachev, he traveled the country. He spent six months in Moscow, six months on the road. He was not wandering, though he said the warmth of rural Russia saved him. He was slowly, quietly saving the literary heritage of the camps.
“In those days where could you keep manuscripts written by zeks? Only in villages, far from Moscow, in the hands of old ladies. So I’d take to the roads of the countryside and walk. I’d go from village to village. And the babushkas took me in, and without fear or doubt, they took the manuscripts and hid them.”
He did not think his archive a great achievement. “Camp survivors like to write,” he said. “And by now their relatives know I will take anything and lose nothing.” Moreover, he was not happy merely to have rescued the manuscripts. He had vowed to put them into print. In the late 1980s, once glasnost began to free Moscow’s printing presses, Semyon started to reel in his scattered manuscripts. In 1989 he founded a group known as Vozvrashchenie (The Return), and although he was the sole full-time staffer, began steadily to publish the manuscripts. In 1990 he got a copying machine, a gift from George Soros. By 2001 he had published more than fifty volumes, but the copier remained his primary press. For a decade a repairman had fixed it gratis. “His father,” he joked, “must have been in the camps.”
Semyon of course was a survivor himself He served on the Kremlin’s Rehabilitation Commission, a body established by Yeltsin and chaired by Aleksandr Yakovlev, Gorbachev’s former ideologist, that attempted to restore the good names of the victims of Stalinism. He was the commission’s sole Gulag veteran. He did not, however, like to speak of his own experience. Only bit by bit did I piece it together. He had been arrested just after his twentieth birthday–“For poetry,” he said. It was in 1948. He had been an eager student of literature at Moscow State, and he had done a stupid thing. He recited one of his poems to a circle of friends. One of his lines–“Agents surround us and the first among them is Stalin” – caught the ears of an informer. He was accused of “anti-Soviet agitation” and “terrorist intentions” and jailed first in the Lubyanka, then in a transit prison before being sent off to the dreaded mines of the Kolyma camps in the Far East. As Zek No. I-1620 he spent more than six years in Kolyma.
In 1955 Semyon got out. In 1962 he tried to get his first anthology of camp literature published – by the Kolyma regional government. “It would have been an important beginning,” he said. He even secured a story from Varlam Shalamov, the camp survivor whose Kolyma Tales had earned Solzhenitsyn’s envy. The book was typeset in 1963, but “at the last minute Moscow ordered all writers not officially residing in Kolyma excluded.” They printed a collection of Kolyma works, but not any by camp writers, many of whom lay buried in the local cemeteries. Semyon vowed to right that wrong, a vow he had spent the next quarter of a century fighting to fulfill.
Tea at Semyon’s lasted for hours. He took his time. His anarchic brows danced, his hands flew through the smoky air. As he braided old stories for a new audience, a smile coiled up and flashed. His conversation sounded Socratic, his tales almost rabbinical. He liked to end his discourses with a moral. He dispensed them like benedictions. But he always arrived at the same destination, the tragic conclusion that these first years after the Soviet fall were no exception. Russians had never come to terms with their past. “We barely had enough time to ask the right questions,” he said, “let alone try to answer them.”
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