Meet the Muscovites: A Review of “My Perestroika”

By Kelly Raftery

In my lifetime there have been enormous sweeps of history, most notably the Collapse of the Soviet Union, which I wrote about in a previous post. A number of years ago, I used to torture my undergraduate students by pretending that all the work they had done in class was being thrown out and a new teacher would be arriving with an entirely new syllabus and would be assigning them new grades based on completely different material. Once we got through the shouts of “No fair!” and “We will protest!” I asked them to write how that exercise made them feel. Then we started our unit on the end of the Soviet Union. 

How I wish I could have shown them “My Perestroika,” a documentary film about five classmates from Moscow School Number 57, who came of age in the waning days of the Soviet Union. Intimate interviews of each of the film’s subjects trace their histories from idyllic young childhoods to adulthoods in a nation on the cusp of change and to their lives today, over twenty years after the Soviet Union ceased to exist. The film is, at its essence, the sweep of history told through the lives of five people who were childhood friends.

Mikhail Gorbachev, last leader
of the Soviet Union

We are first introduced to Lyudmila (Lyuba) and Boris (Borya) Meyerson and their young son, Mark, in the small Soviet-style apartment where Boris was raised. The Meyersons are both history teachers at the school they attended as children and are thoughtful and philosophical about their own histories in relation to the political change that their country has seen. What is most striking at the start of the film is Lyudmila saying that as child she would watch the news from America, see the shootings, the violence and think to herself, “Oh my God, I am so lucky I live in the Soviet Union!”  You know at this moment that this film is going to make you see the other side in a very real way. 

Boris Yeltsin in an iconic photo during the Moscow Coup.
image by www.kremlin.ru

Boris’s best friend Ruslan was anti-establishment as a young man, forming a punk band, and today is a bohemian musician who lives outside the system, teaching and playing music for cash. Olga, the “prettiest girl in school” had her life turned upside down when the banker she was supposed to marry was killed via car bomb. Olga was left with her young child homeless, jobless, and with no resources. Today she lives with her sister in their childhood home and services automatic vending machine style pool tables for a living. Andrei was the true believer as a child, wanting to be a border guard when he grew up, until he was refused membership in the Community Party (the only way to gain success under the old system) on the grounds that he “might commit a crime” after they admitted him, and that would be bad. It was at that moment that he understood how corrupt and ridiculous the system was. Today, Andrei is the owner of a chain of prestigious clothing shops that sell imported shirts and ties from France. 

While the portraits of the lives lived against a backdrop of dramatic historic events are fascinating, what is more compelling about the film are the home movies and archival footage from the Soviet era that are constantly juxtaposed against the footage of Russia today. The end of the film features modern footage of young Mark Meyerson playing badminton alongside home movies of his father doing the same. The images cut back and forth as the birdie sails across the net in different eras, a game seemingly being played between father and son.

The Soviet footage shows a Moscow devoid of advertising, with limited traffic, whereas Moscow today is awash in billboards and neon, and Olga opines that her dream is to have someone else do the driving for her. Whereas all the children started from essentially the same equally Soviet place, the economic divide of today’s Russia is evident in the apartments shown in the film, from Andrei’s spacious, modern Western-style apartment to the Meyersons’ small but comfortable living room, which also doubles as a bedroom. 

There is so much for Americans to learn from this single simple understated film about the last twenty years in Russia that I cannot recommend it highly enough. Take the time to sit down and watch the fascinating stories of these five people who lived through some of the most dramatic moments of history of the 20^th century, you won’t regret it. 

Watch “My Perestroika” on Netflix, or visit the website at www.myperestroika.com to find out if there will be a screening near you soon.

Night of the Small Swiss Knife

By Kelly Raftery

I held back tears when saying an unexpected good-bye to an old friend at the airport recently. We had been together for a very long time and had some amazing adventures. But, TSA says “no knives” on board flights so I reluctantly relinquished my battle-scarred and always trusty Swiss Army knife.

Even my husband said we should just mail it home, he knew how close we were – I had owned that knife longer than I have been married, after all. But, we have five or six of them now and the one that was confiscated by security was chipped on the outside and the tools almost impossible to use, it was that badly in need of a good oiling.     

As the knife left my possession, I could not help but think of all the times it had come in handy during my travels. I literally never traveled anywhere without a red-handled portable knife in my purse. Not that I used just the knife, oh no. Let’s review – there was a corkscrew and we used that for predictable purposes too many times to count. Red wine, white wine, you name it, we drank it. In the days prior to screw cap technology being used in Russia, we also used it to open vodka bottles, which had a sort of odd permanent metal covering to be breached before one could get at the clear fire inside.

Then there were the tweezers, which came in handy for splinters of all types and for getting at little things – most recently this tool was used to dig a CD out of a laptop’s drive that had been inserted improperly by little hands. There was a small knife that was mostly used as an emergency screwdriver when we needed it – I wear glasses, so it was always good for an emergency repair, or for getting into narrow spaces. 

The big knife, though, was truly my lifesaver. It was used to cut up cheese, sausage, bread, apples, oranges, and all manner of foods. The big knife made for impromptu picnics on grassy fields next to laughing brooks, cut fishing line for big catches from a local pond, or to reach down into holes or drains to retrieve lost items.

But, perhaps most memorably, the big knife saved me from a world of embarrassment. I was in Moscow, accompanying a governmental delegation for high level talks. The head of the delegation was a Presidential Cabinet member, so of course our Russian counterparts arranged for an evening at the Bolshoi. I had attended the Bolshoi before, but these were the best seats I had ever been in, and the treatment was certainly a level above what I had been afforded on my last visit to the gold-gilded theater. I excused myself at some point during the performance to go to the restroom, a rather blatant faux pas I am sure, but I simply had to go. The cool, white marble restroom was almost a respite from the intense pressure and multiple personalities I had dealt with thus far on this trip. 

The Bolshoi Theater, Moscow, Russia

As I steeled myself to return to our front and center seats in the theater, I was not hugely shocked to find I was locked into the stall, as Soviet engineering never did run to efficiency or human friendly construction. However, after a few jiggles of the door, a couple of attempts to get out, I was a little stunned that I was still standing in the stall, unable to free myself. And of course, only the rude foreign woman would leave a world-class performance mid-way through, so there was no one to ask for help, either. I looked down at the only dress outfit I had brought on this trip and my heels and swiftly decided that shimming under the door was out of the question. Trying to climb over the door that was about a foot over my head was also not an option. My heels tip tapped impatiently on the floor and just for a second I panicked and thought about how embarrassing it would be for me and the important person I was accompanying if I had to be rescued out of the bathroom.

I started pawing desperately through my tiny evening bag, surprised to find my Swiss Army knife in there. I quickly pulled out the big knife and began working at the jammed lock on the stall door. It took me a while, during which there were many more flashes of panic, but eventually, I freed myself from my beautiful white marble prison. I nonchalantly sauntered back into the theater, calmly nodded my head to the remainder of the delegation, relieved they could not see how fast my heart was beating, having spun humiliating scenario after humiliating scenario in my head for the last fifteen minutes. 

I am sure the Russian delegation thought I was a rude philistine for ducking out of the performance for so long, but no one but me knew that my knife had saved
me once again. Swiss Army knife - never, ever travel
                                                                                                             without it.

Riding with Strangers

by Kelly Raftery 

I can’t count how many times I repeated this series of events when I lived abroad:  walk to the curb, stand perpendicular to the street, raise hand closest to street to half-mast, wait for a car to stop, negotiate a fare to wherever I had to go, agree on a price, hop in the front seat and grab a ride with a complete stranger. Sometimes the car that stopped was an official taxi, more times than not it was just someone picking up people to earn a little extra money on the side. I am sure my mother would be perfectly appalled to know that this was something I did many times a week when I lived in Russia. 

A rare beast, an official taxi cab.
Photo via Wikimedia Commons.

The chastnik is my all-time favorite form of transportation. Chastnik derives from the Russian adjective “chastnyi” which means “private” as in not official during the Soviet period. Anyone with access to a car could pick up anyone on the side of the road looking for a ride. The experience of a chastnik is completely random, which is why I love it. It’s not the metro with its regular stops ticking by like minutes on a clock, or the hurry, hurry, rush, rush that is air travel. I walk to the street, put out my arm and then who knows? What kind of vehicle will pick me up?  Who will be driving?  Will they think I am an American? Or will they believe it if I say I am Estonian?  If they don’t believe I am Estonian will I have to confess that I am an American and pay more than I agreed to in the first place?  Will the driver hate Americans and not take me all the way to my destination or demand dollar payment for the ride?

Negotiating a price before getting into a chastnik.
Photo by Jan Voigtmann from Wikimedia Commons.

One of my sharpest memories from my study abroad summer is of a chastnik ride. It was 1990 and change was in the air, but it was still the Soviet Union. Western student movements were still tracked and jeans were still a viable commodity on the black market. After months of abysmal dorm food in Leningrad, our group traveled to Moscow, and stood in line at the newly opened McDonald’s near Red Square, which was as close to manna from heaven as a group of college students ever saw. Going back to our hotel, a buddy and I hailed a chastnik. When the driver learned we were Americans, he reached deep under his seat and popped a cassette into the bulky tape player occupying the shotgun position. Moments later “Hotel California” came blaring out and the driver cracked a wide grin, taking delight in his obviously bootlegged stash of Western rock and roll. Today, every time a radio station rolls out this standard, my mind flits back to that chastnik ride and that surreal summer.

Soviet era apartment blocks loom over the street.
Photo via Wikimedia Commons.

One cold night I was making my way back from a friend’s house on the outskirts of St. Petersburg. Dwarfed by pre-fabricated identical block houses in a pitch dark night, I wondered if I would ever be able to find a ride back to the center of town or even to the nearest metro station. My feet grew cold and my eyes watered, the tears freezing my eyelashes together for a split second when I blinked and so when the first vehicle stopped, I simply hopped in, not caring who it was, or how far they could take me. I remember seeing the dark outline of a jeep, but it wasn’t until I found myself surrounded by baby-faced recruits in greatcoats and fur hats that I realized I had been picked up by a military vehicle. It was one of the most convivial rides I ever had. Another bitterly cold day, I was picked up by a “New Russian” in his tricked out BMW, with heated seats…I wished I could have sat there all day, so enthralled by the luxury of it at a time when the average Russian needed rationing coupons to buy cheese and sausage. 

On one very busy and intense business trip to Moscow, I absently hailed a car to take me back to my hotel. A sleek, black and slightly dangerous looking Mercedes stopped at the curb, with a young man in his early twenties behind the wheel. Too tired to play games, I told him my destination and then admitted to being an American when he asked. The driver promptly looked me over from head to toe and then snaked his hand over to rest on my knee. He then mentioned that he had never slept with an American, but he had already bedded British, French, Spanish and German women, as if this was somehow an inducement for me to follow suit. I looked over at him and said, “I am married.”  The driver looked sidelong at me and scoffed dismissively, “To whom? An American?  It’s no problem.”  I answered, “No, he is Kyrgyz.”  The hand immediately returned to the steering wheel. The rest of the ride passed in blissful silence until I stepped out a block or so from my hotel. It was only later that I explored with Russian friends what the average Russian stereotype is of Kyrgyz men – horseback riding, uncivilized barbarians. Apparently, my driver feared for his life in suggesting he mess around with a Kyrgyz wife, whereas cuckolding an American husband seemed safe enough. This story still garners laughs from Kyrgyz friends and relatives alike.

There is a bit of a thrill of not knowing how the ride will go in a chastnik, or what might happen once lives unexpectedly touch when traveling from Point A to Point B.

The Golden Ring of Russia

Christianity came to Russian in 998 AD and enjoyed an almost a thousand-year reign before the Communists introduced and successfully converted the vast majority of the populace to “scientific atheism.” Of which I happen to be a follower.

Unfortunately, as it always happens during turbulent times, the mutinous masses took to physical destruction of everything church-related: buildings, statues, artifacts, even culinary recipes perfected by monks over hundreds of years. The Cathedral of Christ the Savior in Moscow, together with the Kremlin monasteries and other numerous parish churches, fell victim to the communists' use of dynamite on objects of beauty. Russian Orthodox clergy refused to pledge loyalty to the Soviet regime. Many bishops and priests immigrated to Yugoslavia to set up a Russian Orthodox Church in exile. Most of those who stayed met their deaths in Stalin's labor camps where even Jesus was unable to save them. More than one generation was raised “godless,” snubbing all things religious. For them, the desecrated and ravaged church edifices were nothing but a bunch of broken old shacks.

During Gorbachev's perestroika, the pendulum slowly started swinging the other way. The abandoned monasteries were recognized as national assets and historical treasures. Millions of rubles and dollars were raised for restoration projects. Thousands of artists and historians were employed to restore the places of worship to their original glory. 

 

Encircling Moscow like a necklace, the twelve ancient cities form an open air museum boasting their recently restored monuments of Russian architecture, including kremlins, monasteries, churches and the famous Tzar Bell, the traditional Russian orthodox structures differ in design from their Greek counterparts and European cathedrals – they feature unique onion-shaped domes that usually come in fives: a larger bulbous form in the center and four smaller ones around it. The theories of the onion origin range from the artistic, “the Mongolian influence,” to the utilitarian, “a shape that prevents snow from piling on the roof.” Often churches were surrounded by massive walls inside which the villagers would hide from potential enemies.

Unlike Italy, Russia hadn’t been blessed with white marble but instead had plenty of trees, which is why the majority of its churches have wooden exterior and numerous wooden icons. Gold is often the prevailing color as it is thought to resemble the Heavenly Kingdom. Most Russian Orthodox churches have an iconostasis, which separates the nave from the holy altar. Covered with icons, the iconostasis is meant to impress the worshippers with its beauty and enable them to achieve spiritual divinity. The ceilings often portray Christ as a Pantocrator – The Ruler of All.

 

While the divinity aspect permanently fails on me, the beauty of the ancient Russian places of worship is unforgettable. A few years ago, we, as a family, took a four-day bus tour visiting the golden dozen one by one. We learned a lot about architecture, history, and the art of painting icons. We savored the hearty monastery food and drank medovuha (honey wine) in a local brewery. We also took about a thousand pictures. I hope you enjoy them. There is a reason why Jeffrey Tayler of the Atlantic Monthly once called The Golden Ring “a respite from the capital and an immersion in the past.” It is a rich and artful past, which for many transforms into a mystifying and heavenly present.