Suvorov's Science of Victory

By Lina Zeldovich

Александр Васильевич Суворов

Said to be one of the few commanders in history who never lost a battle, Alexander Vasilyevich Suvorov (Александр Васильевич Суворов) had waged wars on nearly every nation that shared borders with the Russian empire. From Turks to Prussians and from Swedes to French, Suvorov had a spectacular and surprisingly long military career for someone who spent his life on the frontline.

No one in his family expected little Sasha Suvorov to become a soldier. A sickly child who spent much of his time in bed, Alexander was deemed unfit for a military career by his father.  Vasiliy Suvorov, a senator and a general-in-chief, knew the army reality all too well, and didn’t think his frail offspring could withstand the hardship. But, captivated by the battle strategies and tactics, Sasha devoted his time to studying the works of renowned historians and military figures – from Plutarch to Cornelius Nepos to Julius Caesar. Determined to join the army despite his ailments and his father, he put himself through vigorous exercise to improve his health and his strength.  

When Sasha was 12, he met General Hannibal, a Russian military commander most known for being a great-grandfather of Alexander Pushkin, the famous poet. Taken by the young lad, who, in addition to his fascination with martial arts also spoke French, German, Italian, and Polish, Hannibal convinced Suvorov senior to let his unwavering offspring pursue his passion.

And true passion it was. Alexander Suvorov spent more than 50 years of his life on the battlefield. He made a colonel by 33, a general-major before turning 40, and a field marshal a few years later. He led the Russian troops through many a battles in their war with the Ottoman Empire, took part in the famous siege of Ochakov, and won a great victory in a clash at the river Rymnik, for which Catherine the Great bestowed on him the title of Count Rymniksky. In terms of awards and insignia, Suvorov earned pounds of medals and a slew of regalia–from Military Order of Empress Maria Theresa to Alexander Nevsky, and a couple of pages worth of titles: Count of Rymnik, Prince of Sardinia and even Count of the Holy Roman Empire. His last title, which he earned at the age of 70, was generalissimo, the highest military rank possible.

In between marches and sieges, Suvorov penned The Science of Victory, a manual on how to do it right, in style and with flare, which has been used as the holy bible of combat stratagem by a few generations of militants. He coined a few famous sayings venerably recited by Russians to this day, literally and figuratively: "What’s tough in training is easy in a battle" and "Perish yourself but rescue your comrade!"  

Alas, at the end of his career, Suvorov fell out of favor with the royals: Catherine the Great’s son Paul I took offence at the warrior’s sharp tongue. After a few years of forced retirement, Suvorov was called to lead the troops against Napoleon but despite his burning wish never met him in a battle. He is, however, famous for crossing the Alps in winter, a maneuver historically achieved only by Hannibal. Alas, the move was not to wage a spectacular attack on the French but to save the greatly outnumbered Russian troops. Still, that was the maneuver that netted Suvorov his title of the fourth generalissimo of Russia, only days before his death. He never rested on his hard-earned laurels–Tsar Paul, true to his dislike of the old soldier, skipped the ceremony. (Vasily Surikov later painted the legendary Suvorov’s Troops Crossing the Alps, now in the Tretyakov Museum in Moscow.)

Warrior’s luck wasn’t as favorable to Suvorov's son, Arkadiy, who followed his father’s footsteps into the military stardom. Fighting the Turks where the undefeated patriarch did twenty years earlier, he drowned in the very river Rymnik that had brought his father so much fame.

The Sinful Sushki

They're irresistible. They're addictive.
They're the guilty pleasures of the Russian reality.

By Lina Zeldovich

Oh, sushki!

They're irresistible. They're addictive. They're the guilty pleasures of the Russian reality, its rainy autumns and icy winters, when homes, restaurants, and your friends’ kitchens welcome you in with a cup of hot tea and a bundle of sushki next to it. The Western world binges on chips and popcorn, but Russians are hooked on sushki. Walk into a Russian store anywhere in the world, and you find them. Actually, you’ll find a variety.

Sushki are dry bread crackers – in fact the name comes from the word “sushit” which means "drying out." Circle-shaped with a hole in the middle, they are too low in sugar to earn the sinful title of dessert, but satiating enough to grow into a delightful addiction. Think of them as a cross between bagels and tea biscuits. Or a hybrid of cookies and pretzels. Worse, they aren’t just tasty – they are also fun to play with. You can twirl them on your fingers. And if you’re still in that blissful age of under ten, you can hang them on your ears.

The cousins of American bagels, sushki are smaller, crunchier, and more resilient – keep them in a dry place and they will stay crispy for weeks without ever growing the blue dots of mold. Bite into them too hard and you’re risking breaking your tooth – but that’s part of the fun. The little crunchy fragments with a mild delicate sweetness melt in your mouth oh so satisfyingly. They sneak up on you too: suddenly you realize you’ve eaten half the pack. Some people dip them in milk and others in butter – depending how much they are prepared to sin!

Suddenly you realize
you’ve eaten half the pack!

Besides bagels, in Russia sushki have even more dough cousins of various sizes and “toughness” – bubliki and baranki. They are all members of the same family of bread products made from dough that has been boiled before baking. The dough is made from flour, eggs, water and salt, and then cut and rolled into thin strips; for sushki thinner than a quarter of an inch. The strips become little circles which are dropped into boiling sugary water and then baked in an oven. Traditionally, sushki were sold stringed on a twine, from which you’d bite them off if you were a kid or just crush them with your palm and munch on its crunchy wreckage fragrant with vanilla and sometimes honey.

They are also almost an ideal junk food. They work perfectly with tea. They work with milk. They work as a nighttime snack, a midday mood booster, and even as a quick morning bite when it’s too early to even think of breakfast. It’s five o’clock and you're craving carbs? Sushki are literally the golden cure for you only need a few yellow-brown rings to chase away your afternoon blues. And they are a calorie-friendly comfort food – low in food and high in comfort.

But most amazingly, this lovely combo of snack and dessert also used to serve as travel provisions. Sushki don’t spoil. I don’t think I've ever seen them go bad. Such impressive toughness made them easy to store and transport. Traveling across Russia years ago, merchants brought bundles of sushki on their journeys. Even if everything else turned sour and moldy, sushki wouldn’t!

Keep them in a dry place and they will stay crispy for weeks
without ever growing the blue dots of mold!

The White Halloween

You may laugh at me, but I think that what was truly supernatural, was the snow storm we had in New York this weekend.  Worse, the snow didn’t melt, but happily sat on backyards, roses that still bloomed and fig trees that still carried fruit. I can only imagine how freaked out were the poor unpicked pumpkins in their patches. In New Jersey, people still don’t have Internet and some still don’t have power. I called it White Halloween, but the outcomes of the freaky fluke of nature wasn’t that pretty.

The heavy wet snow fell on trees that had their foliage, breaking off branches worse than a hundred miles an hour wind. 

Because of the fallen trees, obstructed roads and torn wires, the State of Connecticut declared an emergency and a dozen Massachusetts towns postponed Halloween celebrations. So did some 20 Connecticut cities and towns, including the capital city of Hartford because “no amount of candy was worth a potentially serious or even fatal accident,” said their governor. Wait till you hear the damage math.

The snow might’ve held the ghosts in place, but it surely made the freakiest Halloween in history. Here it is in pictures.

 

Dude, what's happening? I've never seen this before.

Hey, Ghosty, you look cold.

Help! I am NOT a Snowman!

 

Oh, no! It's snow!

Hey, Rose, you chilling?

 

Yo, Pumpkin, do I look scarier in lace?

What is this weird stuff, anyway?

Hell, it's too cold! I'm going back down!

Off The Beaten Track: For Whom You Were Named - Inspiration in Brighton Beach

Emily Rubin’s fiction has been published in the Red Rock Review, Confrontations, and HAPPY. Stalina won the Amazon Breakthrough award and was published in January 2011; it is now being released by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt on November 15^th. Emily is a past nominee for the Pushcart Prize. In 2005, she began producing Dirty Laundry: Loads of Prose, a reading series that takes place in laundromats around the United States. She divides her time between New York City and Columbia County, New York, with her husband, Leslie, and their dog, Sebastian.

In the fall of 1997, I took a teaching job at the Neptune Avenue Campus of Touro College in Brighton Beach, Brooklyn. I was hired to teach “Oral History: Writing Your Story” to a class of Russian immigrants. The college was looking to expand its curriculum from computer, nutrition, and medical assistant training classes to include art courses in creative writing, dance, and fine art. A choreographer friend, who knew I had written plays and performance pieces based on stories I collected from my grandmother who was born and raised on the Lower East Side in 1898, recommended me. Rose Begun nee Kronenberg was one of eleven children of Eastern European Jewish descent who was born in an apartment on Cherry Street. Nanny, as my brothers and I called her, had very detailed recollections of life in that immigrant community at the turn of the century.  Even though I had a Russian background, my knowledge of Russia after my grandparents arrived in the United States and through World War II and after, was consigned to readings in history books, and films like Doctor Zhivago and others. I had visited Brighton Beach on many occasions to partake of the Russian food, life, and libations offered there, but I had never worked with anyone from that community.

 

I was looking forward to hearing my students’ stories and had no idea what to expect. As I trundled out on the F train to the Neptune Avenue every Thursday the evening’s lights of Brooklyn illuminated the neighborhoods. Elaborate decorations began to appear as fall turned into winter. Ghouls and giant spiders to crèches, menorahs, inflated snowmen, reindeer, and the occasional peace sign. As I noted the changes to the decorations of the homes that became familiar, I would contemplate the assignment I would give my class that week. I could see the front of the train from my last car vantage point as we swerved around the curves of the elevated tracks. The Atlantic Ocean peaked through the high rises as we approached the station. Seeing and smelling an ocean in New York City has always made me feel a connection to the earth, something that is easily lost in city life. My goal was to learn something about my students’ lives here and in Russia and perhaps show them something of what writing is all about. For myself, writing is often the act of taking difficult, sad, or awkward situations and making them humorous and poignant, and even beautiful. Early assignments were to write the story of the day they left their country, about a place where you felt safe or how they ended up in Brighton Beach. I thought how lucky my students were to live within earshot of the waves and could smell the salt air.  

The Touro College storefront campus was in a strip mall sandwiched between a Waldbaum’s supermarket and a Russian bakery, where I bought my weekly piece of chocolate babkha and a coffee to fuel my teaching adrenalin.

I had 25 students in the fall of 1997. They were in their 60s and 70s and had immigrated after the end of the Soviet Union to Brighton Beach. They all spoke varying levels of English, and many spoke several other languages as well. They had retired from professions as doctors, teachers, craftsmen, and physicists, and any pensions they were due in Russia had disappeared. The country was bankrupt; it was a sorry state of affairs for many of them. Touro offered classes and eligibility for public assistance if they were enrolled in classes. Not interested in the job training courses, many ended up in my class.

“We felt safe nowhere,” they would argue with me after I wrote the assignment on the board.

After all, they did grow up during World War II. A hellish time, but not without its glory. They expressed pride for the Russian Army’s victory over the Nazis. These were very tough people. At times, I found them affected to the point of snobbishness about their country. It was all justified nostalgia, with the truth of their experiences to back everything up.

“Okay, write about not having anywhere safe to go,” I suggested.  

Inevitably, they would come in with stories about their favorite blankets, cupboards, gardens, and barn lofts where they played and felt safe. They were well versed in the art of debate and would take every opportunity to engage in heated discussion, especially with me. These debates gave me an idea of how rigorous education in Russia must have been. They taught me something every time we met.

One week, I came up with the simplest but also most revealing assignment. I asked my students to tell me for whom they named. I thought about my own name. When my mother was pregnant, she was sure she was having another boy, so the name would be Willie after an uncle. When the name did not fit the little girl delivered on a cold winter night, my mother anointed me Emily. She had been at a friend’s house that weekend and their daughter, Emily, left an impression. I recently found out that my namesake was named for a family cat. I like that lineage. 


I have to preface the story of the assignment by saying that I had not thought about writing a novel at this point. I had segued from plays to short stories and had first started to submit to literary magazines. I had even recently gotten my first rejection, which at the time was kind of thrilling. I felt like I had made the leap and gotten over the trepidation of sending out my fragile little stories.

Even before this ‘name’ assignment, I felt inspired by the honesty and direct language my students used to write their stories. They were eloquent and courageous to write their essays in English.

Rather than write the stories, I had them tell us, as many of them wanted to improve their spoken language as well as their writing skills, and this seemed the perfect assignment to practice.

The students named Yuri, Stanislav, Ameilia, and Tatanya were named for uncles and grandfathers who were generals in the czar’s army, grandmothers who saved their children from Cossacks, and on and on. Then, a woman stood up. She had a Louise Brooks hair cut, long dark eyelashes, and heavy eyeliner. She wore a tight black dress, which she adjusted with a sultry swing to her hips as she got up to tell her story.

“My name is Stalina, and I was named for Stalin. My friends told me I should change my name, take the monster away, he killed so many. I told them no, I would not change my name, it is our history, terrible and sad perhaps, but it is who we are.”

The room became silent. I was taken aback, and thanked her and listened but was distracted during the remaining the stories from Tatanya, Anna, Vladimir, etc.

I am sure there were other gems, but it was Stalina who stayed with me. I left class that night and on my return trip to the Lower East Side, all my students’ stories began to swirl around my head. In Stalina, I had found a character to speak a story that would be an amalgamation of these forthright people, a coming of age and a coming of old story, and a filter for all the history of their country I had learned through the gift of storytelling from their very personal perspectives. Over the next five years, I wrote my novel. Several chapters were published in those literary journals that on occasion sent me the thrilling letter of acceptance. It was another five years until the novel would be published.  A long journey, but much like my trip out each week on the subway, so much was revealed as we came out from underground and the story found a way to be told.

Gzhel: to “Burn” or “Make Fire”

You probably have seen the glazed blue and white porcelain pots and tiles in more than one country – from China to Denmark, from Russia to Turkey. The popular art of painted porcelain dates back to the 14th century, and although some argue that the craft takes its origin in Turkey, it seems the Chinese discovered it first. While they fiercely guarded their secret, the Turks eventually learned the method, and from there, it found its way to Europe.

Whether the Russians guessed the Chinese method or slowly perfected their own, the Russian folk pottery was thriving in Russia centuries ago.  Famous for its rare white clay, Gzhel, an area about 50 kilometers southeast of Moscow, had been a potter’s heaven since the 14th century. A medieval Russian document chronicles that a man who discovered the clay exclaimed, "Nowhere did I see a clay whiter than this!" The very name of Gzhel derives in all likelihood from the Russian verb zhech, which means “burn” or “make fire.”

Gzhel pottery was originally created by potters in their homes, but soon they began to gather into workshops and later into factories. Eventually, the craftsmen developed their niches – some made the pottery, while others painted it. In the 17^th century, tsar Aleksey Mikhailovich learned about Gzhel’s clay, and an industry was officially born.

Nowadays, a Gzhel specialist creates a plaster model first. Using a potter's wheel with special attachments and a shaping device with a steel blade to scrape off excess plaster, he creates a working mold. Another specialist fills the mold with porcelain paste. The porous plaster of the working mold absorbs moisture from the paste and lets the porcelain harden slowly. After that, the piece is ready for its first "firing" or "burning." Once the initial burning is done, a painter takes his brush to it. The traditional Gzhel style revolves around floral and geometric patterns applied with quick brushstrokes. It is traditionally blue on white. A somewhat different style – a combination of blue, green, yellow, and brown – is called majolica.

The Gzhel’s tradition is passed from one generation to the next, and there seems to be no end to artists’ creativity. Gzhel produces samovars, vases, clocks, lamps, candleholders, and figurines as well as dinner and tea sets. As centuries before, all the pieces are hand made and hand painted, and every item is a piece of art on its own.

Music Under New York

Musicians and singers have been performing on the streets since before the roads were paved. Yet, modern urban artists get harassed for anything from panhandling to violating traffic laws. The New York Metropolitan Transit Authority approached the problem of the pesky artiste from a different angle. Tired of shooing classical violinists and African drummers off the subway steps and platforms, the MTA created Music Under New York, an officially endorsed program that lets artists perform on subways stations. The program supplies them with an MTA banner and schedule. However, it’s very competitive and not easy to get into.

Every year Music Under New York holds auditions in Grand Central Station for new performers, looking for musicians who reflect the New York City culture and diversity.  Auditions last a day and are open to public, but the applicants’ faith is decided by a panel of professionals from the music industry, cultural institutions, and MTA station operators.

The MUNY artists play everything from Beethoven to doo wop and from Spanish guitar to Russian harmonica. Many of them play unique instruments such as Chinese dulcimer, Senegalese kora, Andean pipes, and Aboriginal didjeridoo. Two or three musicians play a saw - yes, a large metal saw, which sounds like a cross between a violin and a flute.  But, even in this eclectic collection of creative minds, some stand out. Like The Opera Collective.

I could write about it, but instead I decided to post my radio interview with one of the Opera Collective members, Vaughn Lindquist, taken in the Times Square Subway stop to the accompaniment of the passing trains and rushing commuters.

Vaughn Lindquist: The New York Opera Collective

Off the Beaten Track: We Are What We Eat

Our guest today is food coach Susan Marque. Resolving her own health issues gave Susan a wealth of knowledge, as well as a deep reserve of compassion that led to 15 years of coaching. Susan makes nutritional-based modification fun with her easy recipes and hands-on approach. She created Revitalize, Slender Living and UPLIFT seminars along with Beyond Weight Loss. She lives in New York, speaks around the world, and is working on a memoir.

I did not set off to become a food coach, which seems to be the way with most of the great coaches I know. Food coaching was barely a profession when I started. I had grown up ill and almost died in college. I had to quit school and find a way to be well, and I also needed to do something with myself. Living in L.A., I chose to become an actress. While working hard on getting auditions, I spent far more time on researching, taking classes, and finding out about the connections between food and health. It was working. Everyone who saw me noticed the difference in my body, energy, and outlook. I was getting lighter inside and out, radiating so much vibrant energy that people were drawn to ask what I was doing or how could I possibly eat so much and stay so slender.

That was how it started. I began to teach those who were pestering me with questions. Even my teachers told me to go and teach. But I didn't want to give up on my dream of acting, so many years passed before I took the coaching more seriously than a side gig.

The acting taught me about human behavior, and I found I was adept at unhooking people from their stuck places. It made for a great combination because most of us with food issues have other, related issues. My clients began to find that not only could they start letting go of the obstacles they had with their bodies, but they could also start thriving in every other area of their lives. For myself, I find that my own life just gets better and better. I am continually amazed that there is no limit to how great you can feel if you practice things that take you there.

Now that the weather is starting to turn cooler, we get to enjoy a wonderful variety of produce - both the tail end of summertime veggies and the beginning of winter ones. I'm currently enjoying the last of the wonderful peaches and can't wait to go apple picking!

Apples contain acids that inhibit fermentation in the stomach. This makes apples one of the easiest fruits for us to assimilate, and like all fruits they digest quickly. Green apples are especially nice for helping cleanse the liver. Apples can also ease thirst. I always like to have an apple during or after airplane travel, and since they reduce fever, apples will help keep you cool.

Now is also a perfect time to enjoy sweet, organic corn. (Please get organic as all other corn is GMO – genetically modified.) Corn strengthens overall energy and can be useful in the treatment of heart disease. It's the only grain that contains vitamin A, and according to Asian theory, corn brings out joyfulness. Not bad for something that is so much fun to eat.

Another good source of vitamin A and potassium is the persimmon. I love this seasonal fruit when it’s fully ripe. Persimmons are terrific for those who live in dry climates as it helps to counter dryness and also can curb bleeding, helping those who suffer from bleeding hemorrhoids. If you have persimmons that have become overripe, don't fret. Slice them in half and freeze them for a wonderful and easy treat. The skin becomes the cup, and the flesh of the fruit turns into something very much like sorbet.

While you can find dandelion greens all year round, at this time of year they seem less bitter to me. With their incredible health benefits for just about every organ in the body, I'm enticed to find ways to utilize them in salads, stir fry dishes or where ever I can. Dandelion greens reduce inflammation, improve digestion and are anti-viral. So they can keep you from catching a cold or even ease that back pain. High in Vitamins A and C, they also have more calcium than broccoli, and that's saying a lot!

What would fall be without all of the fantastic, sweet winter squashes that come into season? They are some of my favorites. Filling, sweet, and satisfying, these warming vegetables are medicinal for the spleen, stomach, and pancreas. They help with energy circulation and digestion. I am particularly fond of kabocha squash, sliced and steamed. It's the only variety where you can eat the skin for an enjoyable, satisfying experience. Winter squashes are also great in soups, roasted, and tossed into many dishes from casseroles to desserts.

STALINA: The Survival Expert

Russians have a peculiar habit of naming their young after poets, scientists and war heroes. Yet, it must’ve taken a special inspiration to christen one’s daughter Stalina after the ill-famed Soviet tyrant. Or, it may have been a brilliant attempt at survival: even Stalin wouldn’t send a Jew named after him to Siberia. While this cultural subtlety may not have been apparent to an American ear, it interested Emily Rubin, a New York writer, broadcast professional and stage manager, who herself had Russian roots. 

Emily met Stalina while teaching an Oral History class to Russian expatriates at the Brighton Beach Community College in 1997. Her students, the former USSR citizens in their 60’s and 70’s, told intense and vivid stories of the World War II, Stalin’s regime and life in their old country. Emily asked her students to tell her about the person for whom they were named. Each student’s account brought up stories of war heroes, scientists, painters and poets along with dreams for future generations. Among the Yuri’s, Anna’s and Tatiana’s there was a woman named Stalina. She stated very simply that she was named for Stalin.  With her name, she explained, she carried her country’s painful history. Emily said that in this stoic and alluring woman, she had found her main character.

A sixty-something émigré, Stalina became Emily’s inspiration for the book.  But, Rubin was interested not only by the woman’s life journey, but also by the Russian history and its citizens’ exodus of 1990s. To research her book, Rubin joined the Summer Literary Seminar’s program in St. Petersburg, Russia in 2002, where she conducted interviews, visited historical sites and read at the legendary Stray Dog Café frequented by many famous Russian writers and poets, including Anna Akhmatova, Vladimir Mayakovsky, Boris Pasternak and Marina Tsvetayeva. She also attended writing workshops at The New School.  It took her several years to finish the book, and her unexpected breast cancer battle had slowed down her progress, but she was determined to see her work in print.

Rubin’s vivid description of Stalina’s 18^th birthday instantly deposits us into the Leningrad’s reality of the 1950s.  Stalina is allowed to invite only three guests because Stalin is dangerously sick, festivities are banned and citizens are holding vigils at their radios. Seasoned survivors, Stalina and her friends find a way to celebrate without music and laughter: they agree to interact like their favorite silent movie star Charlie Chaplin. The talent of surviving with a smile becomes Stalina’s most distinctive quality. It carries her through the journey of leaving her motherland with a bag of bras and porcelain cats, and helps her make her American dream a reality as she transforms a short-stay Connecticut motel into a fantasy destination. It also fuels her revenge on the high-rank government official, who, years ago, was responsible for the disappearance of her father and her childhood dog Pepe. Once a professional chemist trained by the Soviets to “make things smell like what they are not” Stalina knows neither fear nor limits when it comes to choosing her weapons, including her mother’s ashes.

Stalina is a journey into an absurd world that nonetheless was reality for more than one Soviet generation. It won’t necessarily explain why Russians think the way they do, but it will put you into a Russian mindset for the duration.

Amita: A Brooklyn Center For Healing

Started by Tatyana Yakovleva, a healer and acupuncturist well-known in the New York Russian community for her alternative treatment methods, Amita Healing Center is more than a holistic clinic but a world of its own.

Unlike typical doctors’ offices, Amita doesn’t run standard tests followed by prescription drugs. No blood is drawn and no shots administered. Contrary to traditional diagnostics methods that take weeks, here patients discover their bodies’ medical status within an hour. Often problems manifest themselves in non-typical ways, masking root causes. Stomach problems can be caused by liver malfunction while shortness of breath may have nothing to do with one’s heart but rather one’s thyroid gland. The traditional practitioners often treat an issue in isolation,” Tatyana explains her healing philosophy. “We get to the root cause.”

Tatyana uses a computer-based diagnostics, Orion Bioscan, a device that analyzes, evaluates and treats a human body at the molecular level. Through a simple array of sensors, Orion reads the organs’ biological conditions by measuring the body’s magnetic fields and the wave characteristics emitted by tissues and cells. Similar to an MRI, it generates a picture displaying the problems, some of which can be corrected with Orion’s electromagnetic therapy. Others require homeopathic treatments, the effectiveness of which can be verified by Orion as well.   

In 1997, Tatyana left behind a well-established holistic practice in Russia and came to America with her husband, a nuclear scientist who signed a three-month contract in Washington DC. When the contract turned permanent, she realized she was here to stay. She was neither fluent in English nor had an American medical degree. Besides taking English classes and legalize a gamut of diplomas, she faced a dilemma of what side of medical science to pursue. The traditional medicine offered an easier path to an established profession. The alternative was an unknown route. But Tatyana felt that an MD diploma limited her in her choices.   

“An MD is obligated to treat a patient a certain way or she may lose her license,” Tatyana says. “If a depression patient complains Prozac isn’t helping, I’d have to put him on another anti-depressant even with potentially dangerous side-effects. The same is true about chronic pain condition. Meanwhile, depression and chronic pains improve drastically with the combination of Orion techniques and homeopathy.”

Tatyana received her degree in acupuncture and alternative medicine from The New York Institute of Chinese Medicine in Mineola, Long Island. She is a Reiki master who completed numerous professional classes, certificate programs, and Orion Bioscan specialty training. After working in several alternative medicine clinics, she opened Amita in 2008, envisioning it expanding into a center of self-healing. “I wanted to spread the knowledge about solutions to pains and problems that harrow people for years,” Tatyana says. “I wanted to educate people on how to help themselves through various bio-energy techniques.” At Amita, patients can learn Reiki, Kundalini Yoga, and join a support group.

Beauty plays an important role in Amita’s mission. A similar bio-approach is used for a painless alternative to surgical face-lifting: a Micro-Current rejuvenation technique that stimulates the skin and muscles, resulting in increased blood circulation and collagen production. Coupled with toxin drainage, it reduces puffiness and dark circles under the eyes.

“While we certainly concentrate on the inner beauty a lot, a good-looking person feels more upbeat and self-confident,” Tatyana says. “When my patients leave relieved, rejuvenated and full of energy, I’m happy.  I love making people feel as good as they look. And vice versa.”

To learn more about alternative healing methods, stop by http://www.amitausa.com/

Shakespeare Meets A Nightmare Before Christmas

Last month, I happened to watch Salamander Stew, a play by Michael Fixel performed as part of the New York Fringe Theatre Festival. A cross between Shakespeare and The Nightmare Before Christmas, Salamander Stew is a verse Romeo-and-Juliet musical with a twist. Powered by love and a mighty joint, it takes you into a phantasmagorical world of slithering creatures, hungry spirits, and deceptive rather than deciduous trees. Everything we always read about the deep dark woods but were afraid to experience unfolds before our eyes in its native wickedness. If you are a Harry Potter fan, a Tolkien geek, or if Beetle Juice is one of your favorite movies, you will crave Salamander Stew.

‘Tis the premise – classically simple: Young, naïve, and lovesick Steven stumbles upon beautiful woodlands. It’s hard to tell whether the spell descends on him from the evil powers of the trees or the sinful potency of the grass he smokes, but once he takes a respite in the welcoming shade, the thicket takes him. His inflamed mind takes him on a psychedelic trip: he meets his love, he loses her, he wakes up in the lizards’ lair exhausted and hungry, but all he is offered to eat is a nauseating salamander stew.

A sprig of spinach

A slice of radish

Whiff of ginger

Paw of rabbit

Orange claw

Forest thatch

Lizard’s lungs

Down the hatch 

There aren’t many props on the stage: a leaf-covered layer and a couple of beautifully authentic stumps adorned with fuzzy yarns is all the magic. The treacherous forest as well as the evil inhabitants it harbors, are acted by the energetic cast of seventeen. They spend hours on their make-up, transforming themselves from human into sprawling plants, slithering serpents and ghastly gnomes. On the way to the theater, they practice jungle sounds, chirping like birds and rustling like leaves. Their efforts pay off: the moment we set foot in the door, we feel that instead of a theater, we have wandered into the endless woods.

A lot happens in this one-act musical: dancing, drumming, singing -- all in a quick aggressive pace that never slows down, moves the story forward and keeps our attention. So do the lighting effects, transporting us from the pitch black to the vampirish white to the soft shade of the love scenes. The cast works well together, especially when performing the Red-Eye dance in complete darkness, creating a believable illusion of dozens of hungry red eyes glowing in the infinite wilderness. A charmingly poetic old English script, executed in the best traditions of Stomp, has a lot to offer, but there is only one thing it doesn’t do.


It never explains what Salamander Stew really is.

When it doubt, Google it. According to Urban Dictionary, Salamander Stew is a code name for sex. Maybe it was a coincidence, maybe not. What do you think?

The Austro-Hungarian Jewels and Their Jews

Prague

Traveling through Prague, Vienna, and Budapest earlier this year, I admired the three jewels of the Austro-Hungarian Empire for their rich history and striking architecture. I was also impressed how inevitably intertwined were the local traditions and the Jewish culture. I thought I knew enough from literature and cinema, but it took the locals to have the history really unwrap for me.

Named after the Emperor Josef II who granted the Prague Jews the freedom to engage in commerce and attend state schools, Josefov, the Prague Jewish Quarter, is wedged between the Old Town Square and the Vltava river. The Jewish presence in Prague dates back to the 10^th century; so does the first pogrom, shortly after which Židés gathered within the walled ghetto and eventually gained a self-administration status. Old and new, truths and legends are tightly interwoven here: 20^th century buildings elbow historical temples reconstructed after the Communist regime while tales of Golem, the mystical character created by Rabbi Loew to guard the ghetto’s populace, coexist with WWII survival stories.

An Old Synagogue

As one can expect, Josefov is full of old temples, each of which has a tale to tell. Built in the 13^th century, the Old-New Synagogue is not only the oldest working shul in Europe, but also one of Prague’s original Gothic structures. The Klausen Synagogue is executed in the Baroque style and displays drawings of children from the Terezín concentration camp. The Spanish Synagogue owes its name to its striking Alhambra-like Moorish interior. The High Synagogue’s holds a Jewish Museum shop. The walls of the Pinkas temple display the names of the 77,000 Jewish Czechoslovak victims of the German occupation. But perhaps the most fascinating is the Maisel, named after Mordechai Maisel, a rich Jewish banker and once mayor of Josefov. It hosts an extensive collection of Jewish silver, prints, and books, scrupulously gathered and brought to Prague by the very people determined to erase the “chosen nation” off the face of the earth. There was a method to their madness: The Nazis were planning to establish a Museum of Vanished People in what they called Josefstadt. The entire ghetto was to represent an extermination memorial, but instead it became one of the greatest symbols of Holocaust survival.  


The present Viennese Jewish community is small, but on the brink of the 20^th century, Vienna was one of the most prominent centers of Jewish culture in Europe. In the 13^th century, Emperor Frederick II allowed the wandering nation to have synagogues and hospitals and later designated a special Judenrichter – a judge to arbitrate disputes between Christians and Jews. With the fall of the Hapsburgs, the Jewish population grew – until the annexation of Austria into Nazi Germany in 1938. Within the next two years, more than 130,000 Jews fled Vienna leaving behind everything they owned while also paying the émigré tax – the price of survival. The remaining 65,000 were deported to concentration camps; barely 2,000 lived. Since 1945, the Jewish culture and society have been gradually recovering – nowadays there are eight Ashkenazi and three Sephardic synagogues.

It is the city of Budapest that has the largest Jewish population in Eastern Europe today, but its Jewish chronicle is a complicated saga of history. In the 14^th century, the wealthy Zsidók participated in the royal ceremonies of King Mattahias, but eventually fell out of favor. They did better under the Ottoman rule and even sided with the Turks during the Austrian conquest, after which barely 500 of them survived. The Hapsburgs had mercurial tolerance for the Jews, alternating between accepting and expelling – until they finally relented on the brink of the 19^th century. From that point on until 1930, the Jews enjoyed peace and prosperity, partaking in the development of the capital and the country’s industrial boom. By WWII, the community grew to more than 200,000 people and boasted 125 temples.

Night view from Intercontinental Budapest. During WWII, its present spot was occupied by a Portuguese embassy that helped Hungarian Jews escape the country.

As Hungary initially sided with the Germans, it wasn’t occupied. About 30,000 Jews were sent to labor camps while others were made to wear yellow badges and eventually forced into a ghetto in 1944. They were supposed to be deported to Germany but were freed by the Red Army. The slot of land where Budapest Intercontinental Hotel overlooks the Danube River today has its own page in the Jewish-Hungarian history. During WWII, it hosted a Portuguese Embassy although in a different, older edifice. The Portuguese “smuggled” the Jews out to the United States, providing them with exit visas and sometimes hiding them in the building.

What a great idea for a book, don’t you think?