As the Chopin Express slowed approaching the Czechoslovakian border the duration between the clicks of the wheels became almost excruciatingly prolonged. It was a black night in November 1977. The passengers in my coach, mostly Hartwick College students were unusually quiet. Light from the train then illuminated a steel cyclone fence about three feet from the windows that reached up perhaps 20 feet. No one was going to jump off this train. Night became day - courtesy of strategically placed flood lights. The train lurched to a stop next to a platform populated with soldiers, weapons and dark dogs on chain leashes. Yes - I was intimidated. Passport Control swept through the coaches checking passports and visas. This was followed by another security search that reexamined documentation and randomly some luggage. A half hour later we were on our way - but things felt different. Behind us fifty kilometers was beautiful, free Vienna - 1900 kilometers in front the locus of the commissars - Moscow.
For twelve hours the train powered across Czechoslovakia, Poland and now approached the border with the Belarus Soviet Socialist Republic. The train crawled out of the night and entered a cavernous structure. Here each coach was to be jacked up and the wheels and axles (i.e. the "bogie") removed and replaced with a bogie of the narrower Russian gauge. As this work occurred Soviet Passport Control causally proceeded through the train examining passports and stamping visas. Next a custom's inspection and passengers were asked to open their luggage for inspection. As luck would have it a few of my students were discovered to be carrying "forbidden literature".
Back on the Hartwick campus I tried to prepare my Soviet program participants for entering the USSR - always keep medications in the container with the prescription information; this is Russia - bring extra socks; do not lose your passport; "and for God's sake always be courteous!" Concerning reading material my advice was "Bring what you want to read." The Soviet laws regarding "forbidden literature" were of course discussed. But my revulsion concerning censorship laws that forbade the works of Boris Pasternak, Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn and others was always apparent. "What about Playboy?" (Also illegal but enormously popular in the USSR.) My answer was "If you are reading it - bring it - at worst forbidden literature will be confiscated." There were some additional titles that I had assigned to be read as part of the program. I also admit I wanted my students to experience some hard nosed censorship - as a kind of inoculation that would make them defenders of free expression for life.
Soviet inspectors opening Bill and Peter's luggage immediately found copies of Dr. Zhivago and One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich. Three soldiers then paraded my two students out of the carriage and onto the station's platform. There they stood under flood lights amid a swirl of police and soldiers. I experienced a rush of anxiety. All the students were now crowded in front of the train's windows. Three female students were sadly waving and whispering "Good bye Bill! Good bye Peter!" I experienced a rush of panic. Peter having been taken off a train in the middle of the night entering the USSR was elated. Hands on his hips he dropped into a squatting position and began to do Russian dance kicks. Immediately he had an audience of smiling or puzzled soldiers. This side of the train window there was laughter and a small cheer. I started breathing again. Peter was asked to stand up and the two of them were led out of sight.
It takes about three hours to change the bogies. After two hours my stress tolerance collapsed. I burst out of the cabin and down the aisle into the next carriage. I saw a conductor walking in my direction.
"Where the hell are they?" The conductor screwed up his face and waved his hands telling me to relax. He told me the students were fine and would be back on the train in a few minutes. He then asked me if I would like to trade some dollars for rubles. I declined. To the immense relief of all our new heroes returned and the train was underway a few minutes later.
So what happened we asked? "They wanted to know why we were carrying forbidden books into the USSR".
So what did you say? "Because our professor made us."
Where were you for two hours? "They took us into the barracks and we watched television."
The train was now rolling along in darkness across the utter flatness of Belarus. Brilliant moonlight reflected off a patchwork landscape of snow and earth stretching out to the edge of the earth. Students were standing shoulder to shoulder in the aisle looking out the windows - Russia! A couple of female voices began softly humming Lara's Theme and others joined in. In the Soviet Union Lara's Theme was illegal - forbidden music.
Gypsy - 7 years old, probably abused - HSSC. Escaped from
foster care July 2013 on Long Boat Key, FL.
LOST
The Foreign Service Officer said "Good morning" and motioned for me to sit down. He also waved his arms around to remind me that the room was bugged. "What can I do for you?" This was a spacious office in the US Embassy in Leningrad (St Petersburg) and the year was 1977. I told him that I had just arrived in the USSR accompanied by 25 students from Hartwick College. The problem was that my students had become involved in the flourishing Soviet counter economy, aka the "black market". For the listening walls I emphatically noted that there was no dealing in drugs or gold, no way, not my students - and they all still had their passports. "So in what are they involved?" the FSO asked. "Consumer goods - military belts, hats and some minor currency trading" and left it at that. In fact I had students that had acquired army, navy and KGB uniforms, gray, brown and black great coats, hats, belts and boots - they loved the boots. I was afraid to know how many had traded dollars for rubles but had noticed a couple of my charges sporting rolls of rubles. The FSO was very responsive and offered advice. "Take them into a park and explain how dangerous this can be - tell them not to trade currency. Remember the Soviet authorities do not want trouble. Remind them they will only be in the USSR a month unless . . . " That night at dinner I watched two students arrive proudly wearing Army boots mostly covered by their jeans. In the morning I noticed other students ordering bottles of champagne with which to wash down breakfast and paying with rubles. So far my students loved traveling in the USSR.
By the time the Red Arrow Express rolled into Moscow 24 hours later I had decided that metaphorically, I had to get inside the tent. I informed a few of my students, Karl, John, Charlie and a couple of others that at the next opportunity I wanted to do some "bizness". Three hours later several of my students and I walked into a "hard" currency store. These shops were restricted to foreigners with western currencies (including the yen of course) and Soviet elites with access to special ruble certificates. Here one could purchase goods generally not available in Soviet stores - Johnny Walker Scotch, Marlboro cigarettes, sable, artic fox, mink hats and coats, Japanese pearls, French perfume, western televisions and refrigerators. I witnessed one young Russian roughly arrested for simply entering one of these shops. My bizness deal was to buy $15.00 worth of American bubblegum and with considerable guilt I piled it on the checkout counter in front of a surly clerk. I then presented the bag of gum to my student's contact - a middle aged man. As I requested he rewarded me with 13 Soviet military patches (I only asked for 10) and one Red Army belt with its shiny brass buckle. I was extremely pleased with my deal and my students were proud of me. Shortly there after I promulgated the Lindell Rule for this and all future groups I would accompany to the USSR. When traveling in the Soviet Union always obey Soviet law. But if you should succumb to seduction by the black market keep your deals at $20.00 or less. All my groups were repeatedly informed that if they followed this rule and got in trouble "I shall if necessary go to the wall with you." But if they did not - and if they traded in drugs or large amounts of currency then I wished them luck. They were told to send me a postcard, or more likely a scrawled note from wherever they were in Siberia at the first allowed opportunity. (A few years later the rule would appear in an international guide for those traveling in the USSR.)
The rule had minimal impact but it did provide a guideline. In a later tour another student named Carl came to me and said he and a couple of Russians had been picked up by Militia and questioned. "What did you do Carl?" He had traded $15.00 for a rabbit fur hat and was even allowed to keep it. "Forget it" I said. Carl was reassured but not much. For the next five hours wherever I went, whatever I did, I had only to look near my right elbow and there was Carl, smiling - "Here I am Professor."
The train left Tbilisi, Georgia early in the morning bound for Baku, Azerbaijan. It was 1983. Word spread rapidly throughout the train that a group of American college students were on board. A few people began to come into our carriage seeking to trade. My group of about 25 had been in the USSR for three weeks - they had bonded, traded and felt like Soviet experts. Quickly noting the visitors they organized - stationing two or three of their number at each end of the carriage. Students in the cabins piled up what they had left to trade. Now when someone entered the carriage a student would ask what goods they sought; jeans, sweatshirts, sneaks, books, magazines, currency, electronics (calculators, Walkman). They would then be directed to a cabin offering the desired goods or simply was less busy. Soviet shoppers were allowed to try on some apparel for size. I was about midway down the carriage causally looking out the window watching the hills and valleys of the Caucasus' slide by. Amid the now raucous din of a bazaar I was experiencing high anxiety but also intense pride. Then a deep voice speaking English rose clearly above the babel. "Mike, sweeten up that deal - throw in a couple of pens and a book!"
A "Michael Phelps" world class, water loving dog
photo - A Savin
The shore of the lake lay ahead down the snow packed street. On either side were small, colorful houses with yards - sites of the sometimes infamous "garden plots" of the Soviet era. Many yards contained a fruit tree or three. Others had a few stacked cages for rabbits. At the end of the street Lake Pleshcheyevo's 20 square miles was clearly spread out on this cold, sunny day. I gingerly put one foot down testing where I believed the lake began - it was like stepping on granite. I began walking east across the lake's southern edge towards the center of Pereslavl-Zalessky. A thin layer of snow covered the lake and periodically a gust of wind would create a snow spout or better yet a Rimsky-Korsakov snow maiden undulating in the distance. There were some fishermen - tiny, dark figures crouched down on the ice. There are a reported sixteen species of fish in Pleshcheyevo. But they were probably after ryapushka - fresh water herring. It is a fish so delicious that it was sent to the dinner tables of the Tsars.
I went ice fishing twice - once with Alex, his five year old son and ten year old Dima. My second outing was with a physical education director, two army officers and a "top" noncom. Twice - bundled in a great coat and boots I sat with my back to the wind on a steel can and stared down at a six inch hole in the ice. My numb fingers held a fishing line equipped with multiple hooks and baited with wasp larvae. Occasionally I would pull up the line and remove a three inch ryapushka and drop it on the ice in front of me. Within a minute it was frozen rock hard. With Alex I caught two herring. But with soldiers of the Red Army - feeling pressure to show that Americans "can do" I caught six. Typically my companions had twenty-five to forty herring spread at their feet. Time for a snack -four of the five items my army colleagues brought I found wonderful - bread, hard boiled eggs, one inch squares of pure lard, vodka and camaraderie. Later with darkness settling in we collected the day's catch and proceeded to the director's apartment. There his wife fried almost 200 herring. We ate the entire catch with bread, butter, salad and vodka. As I remember this meal I salivate.
My walk continues across the lake with the shore about a half mile to my right. I took care not to slip on the patches of ice the wind had exposed. Somewhere to my left up on the hilly shore was the Botik Museum, a small classical structure devoted to Peter the Great. Between 1688 and 1693 Peter probably learned to sail on Lake Pleshcheyevo and a replica of his small boat is in the Museum. Pleshcheyevo must be a great lake on which to learn to sail. It is an expansive body of water, 82 feet deep in the center with extensive shallow water along the encircling 17 miles of shore line. In summer the lake water is warm - swimming in June I found the water almost bath temperature. In the beautiful River Trubezh - it flows into the lake - the moving waters were cooler. The entire Pleshcheyevo area has a beauty winter and summer that could be the brilliant setting in any Nikita Mikalkov film. For good reason the Russian government created the Pleshcheyevo National Park designed to offer camping and outdoor recreational opportunities and (hopefully) protect the lake from encroaching industrial pollution.
As I approached the point of the shore where I planned to exit from my walk on the waters, I noticed the cupola of an old church tucked behind dense, bare branches in a corps of trees. Altering my direction 45 degrees I headed straight for it. Climbing off the lake and through some snow placed me in front of a decrepit Orthodox Church. Lined up to my left were several long, wooden lake boats partially submerged in snow. I approached the front doors of the church and gently pulled at one. It opened. I entered and moved toward the center of the structure. Next to the walls were piles of line with buoys attached. Standing against the walls were oars, paddles and a few molding life jackets. The Soviets had taken this small Orthodox Church with its waterfront view of Pleshcheyevo and converted it into a boathouse. Scanning the walls I could see where large areas of decorative masonry had fallen away. But one could still see places where wall and spots of paint from frescoes remained. I looked straight up at the inside of the cupola. It was a barren brown except for one small area with some black, blue and white. Studying it for some time I was able to determine that it was the partial remains of the single eye of a profoundly agitated and furious god. I quickly departed.
Sources; Wikipedia; Advantour; WikiTravel
Dozer - Bull Mastiff - a perfect companion.
" . . . a multicoloured rainbow, its arch thrown across all of Moscow, stood in the sky, drinking water from the Moscow River. High up, on a hill between two copses, three dark silhouettes could be seen. Woland, Koroviev and Behemoth sat in the saddle on three black horses, looking at the city spread out beyond the river . . ." Mikhail Bulgakov *
Red Square*
Thursday, March 28, 1991 - The USSR established in 1922, was now fracturing into its' constituent Republics. Lacking the will to use the violence necessary and short of national suicide the capacity, the Soviet leadership allowed for the nation's first free elections. During 1990, the fifteen Republics each held competitive elections. The Communist Party lost in Armenia, Estonia, Georgia, Latvia, Lithuania and Moldova. In May 1990, Boris Yeltsin was elected Chairman of the Supreme Soviet of Russia and he soon resigned from the Communist Party. In June the Russian Congress of People's Deputies declared the Russian Republic's desire to secede from the USSR. Meanwhile Mikhail Gorbachev, President of the USSR was desperately trying to prevent total political and economic collapse. In addition to Republics declaring their independence the Soviet Union's "command economy" was in a death spiral. On March 10th, 1991 an estimated 500,000 people demonstrated in Red Square demanding that President Gorbachev and the Communist Party resign power. Soon to be President of Russia (June 12, 1991) Boris Yeltsin called for another demonstration to occur on March 28th. President Gorbachev announced that such a gathering would be illegal and was forbidden. The stage was set for another clash between the USSR and Russia.
At 8:00 AM on March 28th, a middle aged van pulled up in front of the Frigate Hotel in Pereslavl-Zalessky. I opened the slide door and climbed in. My boss Ludmilla was in the front passenger seat and pleasantly chatting with the driver Yuri. We bounced through our first series of potholes and began the two hour drive southwest on the Yaroslavl highway toward Moscow. The purpose of the trip she had announced was to find me a small souvenir for my recent work - and by the way to see if we could buy some good meat and oranges. Curiosity about the impending demonstration was also casually evident.
As we approached Moscow the Yaroslavl highway had been transformed by German construction from two to four lanes. The traffic intensified. After slowing to a crawl to pass a police checkpoint Yuri started to accelerate - suddenly he changed his mind. The Soviet Army lorry roared past on our left belching exhaust and doing twice our speed. A second six wheeler followed hard on as if short chained to the first. The third followed at a safer distance but the same speed. We also had a chance to examine the contents of this latter truck - soldiers with young faces under fur hats, brown great coats and shiny boots - they were busy conversing - no signs of stress. We were passed by many Soviet military vehicles that sunny morning. President Gorbachev reportedly moved fifty thousand soldiers into Moscow to prevent/control this demonstration. I remember having felt excitement at the prospect of being in Moscow during a great democratic demonstration (riot?). The sight of load after load of Red Army troops being rushed to the scene of the confrontation I found quite sobering - I could feel my macho, revolutionary impulses, my desire to be near the core of the action - draining away like so much gas from a balloon.
Moscow Ring now - the drive continued amid dense, slow traffic. Yuri pointed out his window. To the left in the distance a large building had dense smoke pouring out its' top floors. The building of ten stories was the United States Embassy. Several extension ladders were stretching up trying to reach those floors with two or three firefighters on each ladder. Two hundred individuals had fled the burning structure and remarkably no one was injured. Later reports claimed that KGB officers posing as Moscow firefighters had used this fire as an opportunity to ingress the building in pursuit of American state secrets. Absolutely no one on earth was surprised.
We drove on approaching but not entering Red Square. Crowds of people seemed to gather here and there and then simply move about - a fine spring day. There were militia everywhere and militia cars, all seemingly Mercedes Benz - but no soldiers. Yuri stayed with the van while Ludmilla and I explored a vast outdoor marketplace. The Soviet economy was crumbling - goods were moving from the state stores out into the farmers markets and private kiosks and sold at inflated prices. Ludmilla found some meats but no oranges. We visited a couple of other markets, had some ice cream and began the drive back to P-Z.
The March 28th demonstration occurred as Yeltsin had urged but with only 200,000 or so participants - far fewer than on March 10th. Legend has it that Izvestia had great trouble deciding whether President Gorbachev or President Yeltsin had won this confrontation. At stake was Izvestia's front page. Fist fights among Gorbachev and Yeltsin supporters reportedly broke out in the news and press rooms. The dispute was settled by publishing two front pages - the first with Gorbachev's picture and claim of success. On the reverse side of the same page was Yeltsin's image and his claim of victory.
On December 25th, 1991, Mikhail Gorbachev resigned as President of the Soviet Union declaring the office extinct and the USSR dissolved.
Sources: * Mikhail Bulgakov The Master and Margarita Trans by Pevear and Volokhonsky p 376; 1997.
Photo - Red Square by Raul P - Wikimedia.
Hi Christine,
I thought you should know what is going on at the kennels in your absence. Black, rolling clouds laced with lightning have formed over HSSC and refuse to move. Inside the buildings in the misty gloom dogs snarl and snap while staff and volunteers, bent over in misery shuffle about their tasks muttering "What would Christine say?" What would Christine do?" On occasion a volunteer simply disappears! Days later investigators find perhaps a belt buckle - on a greasy spot. "This never happened when Christine was around" they mutter. Meetings have become filled with simple chit-chat. They have become like a Bolshevik Congress without the genius Lenin or The Apprentice without The Donald.
In any event you are missed - Best wishes for the Holidays and Happy New Year ! !
:-) John
Christine Christian - A Memory Book Contribution - Humane Society of Sarasota County -
Ann Patterson editor. January 15, 2013.
(1) What has Christine taught me about dogs? Just about everything - five years ago I thought I knew something but was clearly wrong. I have taken CC's Manners Classes for years now and have learned much. CC is very patient - today I am better informed, practiced and eager but remain an apprentice dealing with dogs. Also thanks to CCs instruction I still have all my fingers.
(2) What has Christine taught me about volunteering? I remember a noncom looking up into my eyes shouting "Fool, never, never volunteer for anything!" So in retirement I volunteered at HSSC with lingering trepidation about any such activity. CC has dramatically improved my attitude toward service. She is so talented, dedicated and valuable a component at HSSC it is hard for me to imagine the organization without her involvement.
(3) What has Christine taught me about myself? Underneath my wild, bold, confident, bronze facade there is an introverted nerd - CC has given me a new found confidence to deal with dogs that really are more intelligence, powerful and confident than me - for instance Bruno, Troy, Cooley, Emmitt, Sarge and I could go on and on. In addition because of CCs instruction and leadership I no longer get as down on myself, which in turn means I make fewer trips to the car wash, where I usually go to recharge.
(4) What has been Christine's biggest contribution to HSSC? CC contributes tremendous intelligence, substance and structure to the activities at HSSC. There are hundreds of dogs that have had a life and a dramatically enhanced chance of a great life because of her knowledge and effort.
(5) What do you admire most about Christine? CC is one of the most impressive people I have ever met. She is a prize and it is a great pleasure to know and work with her.
Tonka
The Armenian enclave of Nogorno-Karabakh, (aka Artsakh and since September 2, 1991, the independent Republic of Mountainous Karabakh - RMK) is located inside the Azerbaijan Republic. The history of how this occurred is convoluted. But as the USSR's power disintegrated fighting between Azeris and Armenians for control of this enclave began in February 1988. Until that year Baku, the capital of Azerbaijan had in addition to Azeris a large, diverse population of Russians, Armenians and Jews. But the outbreak of war in the mountains resulted in the expulsion of Azeris from RMK. Armenians living in Baku then experienced Azeri retribution and were forced to begin an exodus from the city. The fact that the Soviet Union favored the Armenians in this conflict also enraged the Azeris. In order to maintain control in Baku the Soviets rolled into the city an impressive military force and by January 1989, Baku was essentially under martial law.*
With its gritty cosmopolitanism and located on the shores of the Caspian Sea I have found Baku most appealing. One walks the streets to the unrelenting beat of Turkic music. Along the sea front there are parks, mostly deserted in winter, flocks of seagulls, a frigate wafting at anchor - a most serene place to jog. My Hartwick College group arrived in Moscow January 3rd, 1989, for a one month tour. It consisted of 25 undergraduates and two curious faculty members. My daughter Jennifer, a senior at Syracuse University was also in the mix. In my original itinerary I had requested three days in Baku - and in Moscow was informed that because of "problems in Baku" it might not be possible to visit there. Perhaps unwisely I renewed my request for Baku. Over time I have thought about why the Soviet authorities granted my request. There were at least two reasons - first the Soviets urgently wanted the appearance of "normalcy" in Baku and the second I have accepted as a personal compliment.
On January 16th we flew into what is today Heydar Aliy International Airport. Then in a modern, bright red "Intourist" bus on a sunny, cool afternoon we began the ride to downtown Baku. Traffic appeared to me to be normal. I had noticed that there were no other Intourist buses at the airport - we were the conspicuous "it". Then within a half mile from the airport in a grassy depression near an intersection appeared a large tank. Its cannon stretched forward the length of the chassis and then some. Everyone on the bus exhaled, Aaaaaaahhhhhhh ! Almost every crossroads on the way downtown was presided over by a tank or an armoured personnel carrier. At the Hotel Intourist on Neftyanikov Prospect there were two APCs parked nearby. Five soldiers on patrol studied us as we unloaded. In the lobby we had a meeting with the Hotel's administration and were informed of the curfew. Everyone had to be off the streets between 9:00 PM and 7:00 AM. Other than that all was normal - Welcome to Baku. The Hotel was not crowded. Our rooms were excellent - some with panoramic views of the Caspian Sea. The only incident that first day - three female students told me of someone hanging around too close. I told them to take his picture - they tried and he was not seen again. That first evening after dinner I experienced an anxiety rush - curfew at 9:00 PM - do I know where my students are? No problem - for three nights all members of the group were in the Hotel well before the appointed hour. As darkness gathered around 8:30 PM all were gathered on balconies overlooking the square below. At 8:50 PM the two APCs below would start their engines emitting a roar and bloom of exhaust. Then they would move - one would block half the street and turn off its engine. The other APC would pull parallel to the first and block the rest of the street. It left it's engine idling thus creating a formidable gate. In the near silence that ensued soldiers could be heard conversing amid the glow of cigarettes.
We spent three pleasant days in Baku. At a well maintained school we met 25 or 30 first and second graders, all scrubbed, smartly dressed, with black hair, dark eyes and totally excited at meeting American tourists. I gave the children and their school a rave review in an interview for Azeri television. At a rug factory there was an interruption of the work day so some of the workers (all women) could meet the visitors. I remember a beautiful Hartwick student - Erica, with black hair and dark eyes sitting with two Azeri women with similar physical attributes - it could have been a family gathering. As I passed nearby the Azeris were saying "You American?" Erica replied "Yes, honest!" "Nnnnnnooooooo!" One afternoon I was returning to the Hotel and noticed three of my group, my daughter and two other young ladies across the street mingling with three Soviet soldiers on foot patrol. The six of them were laughing with heads rearing back and forth in great amusement. I enjoyed the scene for a couple of minutes. An officer coming up the street also saw it, stopped about ten yards ahead of me and yelled something including an obscenity at the sergeant. He saw the officer, came to attention and saluted. Then stone faced the soldiers quickly shooed away the surprised girls like annoying pigeons. My students had plenty of street time in Baku. In the old USSR the streets were where students always learned the most. The Hotel meals were substantial with plenty of good Soviet/Azeri food - students of course complain about all food - I liked it. We departed Baku without incident on January 19th by night train for Tbilisi, Georgia.
Exactly one year later Baku exploded in an anti-Armenian pogrom. During January and February 1990, Armenian residents were murdered, tortured, robbed and humiliated. Reports were that 90 Armenians and 21 Russian soldiers were killed and approximately 700 were injured. *
*See Baku, Wikipedia; Bill Keller, New York Times - 1990; Website of Republic of Mountainous Karabakh.
Samantha
The Aeroflot flight from Helsinki landed at Moscow's Sheremetyevo International at just about 1:00 PM on December 31, 1989. Passport Control was slow as everyone was scrutinized for several minutes by security officers. Staring back I remember that the officer studying my passport had fuzzy hair on his cheeks. I wondered if he shaved yet. Custom's Control was a breeze - "Nothing to declare." The Russians at this point would let just about anything that wouldn't explode into the country. I was collected by a representative of my host, the Pereslavl-Zalessky School District and a driver. We climbed into a minivan and were off - traveling north up the Yaroslavl highway. The drive to P-Z was over two hours of bouncing and swerving on a pot holed, two/three land road packed with roaring trucks belching clouds of exhaust. But kilometers of the ride were as always Russian beautiful - snow covered landscape, stands of white birch trees and church cupolas rising above villages in the frosty distance.
By the time I arrived at Yulia and Yuri's apartment I was starting to fade. The "rush" from arriving in Moscow was giving way to fatigue. Tea and snacks revived me and Yuri and I were then off to the "banya". This military banya had its own building and was restricted to officers. New Year's Eve - it was packed with men and their sons. After shedding our clothes we (there were now four of us) approached the door of the steam bath and it sprang open - out poured thirty or forty laughing, yelling men and boys. We rushed in and the bath filled rapidly. Defensively I sat on the bottom of four long benches . The door slammed shut - someone opened the furnace door and threw in a thick three foot log. I was impressed he could lift it. This was followed by a bucket of water. The ensuing shock wave of heat nearly flattened me. Ten minutes later we were out of the bath standing under cold showers. A vodka bottle appeared and we began toasting the New Year and everything else. Now I was getting "severely" tired. We returned to the steam room.
Back at Yulia and Yuri's we had a light supper - a table was covered with delicious dishes accompanied by vodka and wine. Then it was off to a New Year's Eve party at a friend's apartment - more meats, salads, caviar and of course vodka, wine and brandy. Exhausted but realizing that I was the only one in attendance who was not an officer or a wife I was careful to - as the vulgar expression goes "keep my shit together". Russians drink a lot - the only defense against alcohol annihilation is to either stop drinking which many hosts find exceedingly rude or to keep eating. I cotinued consuming food and measured drink.
New Year's Eve 1989 became 1990, the year before the extinction of the USSR. Five men, all slightly inebriated (the truly wasted had disappeared) sat around a table in a dimly lit room
having a dark conversation. Assume you are a fire control officer at an ICBM installation. And assume that a thermonuclear war erupts and amid a nightmare of firestorms and lethal radiation the earth is being destroyed, its population annihilated. Deterrence has failed. At this point you receive the order to "FIRE" your missile. Would you? A US Air Force study was cited that indicated in this situation perhaps 25% of US fire control officers would refuse to launch their weapons. I remember being surprised and impressed by the sympathy for the 25% that seemed to roll around the table. Then the only American present noted that 75% would fire - the agony of a dying planet be damned. There was some nodding, a depressed moment of silence and we moved on to another grim subject.
Sometime after 5:00 AM I remember staring down at a single bed - a combination of jet lag, a great banya, vodka, wine, brandy and the lateness of the hour had taken their toll. I aimed and then collapsed face down deciding along the way to skip the disrobing function. At 9:05 AM I was capable of lifting my head briefly - to check the time - then back to sleep.
Bruno
