My Russian Family

by Lilia Sariecheva

  He retreated into the house without a word and I never saw him again. His wife and I chatted for awhile and she said that she remembered the incident. She told me that when he came home from work that day he bragged, “Some bitch did not stop for me last night on my way to work. Well, I caught her this morning!”

  His wife and I parted friendly and I felt better. It was obvious that he was a drinker and that his wife did not like him. It was finished and I no longer felt like a victim. I had closure and was contented with the outcome except for the thought that perhaps I did go a bit too far. The older I become, the more I feel that I did push too hard.

  Another memorable event in my life involved the elegant Metropole Hotel in Moscow. The Metropole is very beautiful and luxurious inside, or so people tell me. It has a dining room with excellent food and service, live music, and lavish surroundings. Occasionally, my father would take my mother there for lunch or dinner and Mom would just rave about it. Once when I was about 18 or 19 years old, I had a shopping trip planned and Mom told me to eat at the Metropole. Late that afternoon I arrived at the hotel, tired and exceedingly hungry. As I tried to enter, the door attendant turned me away. I am not bashful and I gave him a loud earful, but to no avail. I was not a foreigner with foreign money, nor did I have KGB identification.

  I boarded a bus to another area and found a French-style bistro with good food, but no chairs, only tall and tiny tables to stand around while eating. I got my food and sat on the floor, against the wall, as I gorged myself. The employees were upset with me and tried to make me stand up to eat but my fatigued legs did not agree. I finished my plate and never returned.

  Another time, when Mom and I were shopping together, we tried to enter the Metropole Hotel for lunch. They also turned us away. Mom did not have KGB identification either. She was quite embarrassed and I teased her, saying that she must greatly respect her husband who could gain her entry into such an elegant establishment.

  There was another disturbing event during the time I was working on my second degree at Moscow University. The university is several hours distant from any friend or relative of ours living in Moscow, thus housing was a problem. The campus housing was not available for students working on their second degree because a second degree was a luxury and thus not supported by the government. Usually four or so of us girls would rent an apartment close by. However, one time I had to be there for two weeks for yearly exams not scheduled during the school year. After several conversations with Dad, he decided that I should just rent a room in a hotel. Fine! But, how can an ordinary Russian citizen obtain a room in a hotel in Moscow? It was quite impossible.

  One of my girlfriends had a brother who was the close friend of a minor official in the energy efficiency section of the Ryazan Agricultural Department. He gave me a stamped paper that indicated I was somehow important and deserved a room in the desired hotel. That got me in, but only for a week. I ended up in an expensive hotel on the top floor with several rooms, all by myself. I verbally wrestled the additional stamp for the second week from the hotel, which required about half a day’s work.

  One problem led to another. This hotel had a small eating area on my floor that provided several kinds of sandwiches and some drinks. None of this appealed to me except the caviar sandwiches. Actually, I hate sandwiches and, like most modern Russians, I enjoy caviar or ikra. Russian connoisseurs can pontificate about caviar for hours, like Western aficionados do for chocolate, wine, cigars, and cheese. The peasants and workers in the old days never saw caviar but Communists’ bosses in the Kremlin and earlier royalty during the tsar’s era always enjoyed it.

  Anyway, I asked the female attendant for a red and a black caviar sandwich. She asked me if I had foreign currency. Of course, I did not and I responded with, “What? Why do I need foreign currency? I am hungry and I want a sandwich!”

  She answered, “I am not allowed to sell food for Russian rubles!”

  Usually I remain cool in these situations. But there was something that got to me. Where were my rights? Our argument rapidly heated up. Foreigners seated at the tables listened to us as they enjoyed the food that I could not purchase.

  “I am not leaving. I want a sandwich and you are going to sell me one!” I gestured toward the tables. “Why is their money better than mine? This is Russia and I am a Russian, give me my Russian sandwich! I am sure that you eat these sandwiches, why can’t I eat one?”

  We both were very angry and talking offensively. She told me to leave. I threatened to grab a sandwich and she threatened to call the police. I told her to go ahead and tomorrow all the foreign newspapers would have a nice story about her! The customers were now openly staring at us and despite the language barrier, most of them probably knew what was going on. One of the foreigners approached us and in fragmented Russian he expressed a desire to purchase food for me. I considered the situation and told him yes, provided I pay him. He refused the money, but in the end I ate several caviar sandwiches and left the money on my table. I told him as I left, “Take this money! I do not want that woman to have it.”

  I was dressed up in high heels, an attractive dress, and a beautiful hairdo, the epitome of fashion, and I made my exit with what I hoped was a stylish flourish!

  Relating this story to my father, he asked, “Why didn’t you just go out and find another place?”

  I angrily responded, “Why should I have to? I was tired and hungry and the food was there. Why should I have to run around like a doggy?”

  Father never did understand my anger in this incident. The rationale for providing goods and services to foreigners, which are not available to Russians, was simple: The Russian hierarchy wanted the noncommunist world to assume that Russia had plenty of the best of everything. This is a aprime example of Soviet propaganda.

  Lilia, 1980

  Several days later, a high official appeared looking for a room so they gave him half of my suite. We just locked the door between the two rooms. We shared a bathroom but it was down the hallway, European style. I told him I was studying and needed quiet, no radio or television, and he was graciously accommodating to me. It all worked out in the end and I did fine on the exams, but the hassle for the housing was preposterous!

  Everyone complains that time goes by too fast and I agree. I find myself using events to place a perspective on time, as every year becomes shorter. Am I getting old or what?

  All of a sudden, my son was 12 years old and I recall Andre bouncing into the apartment. He had just returned from school and he was so full of things to tell me that he could hardly contain himself. The next day his class was going to a local collective farm to harvest potatoes. The girls would dig them out of the rich dark soil and the boys would carry (or drag) the burlap sacks to a waiting truck. This truck, one of many, displayed the banner of his school, and his schoolmates filled the entire truck. The farm paid his school for this work and the money would be spent on the students for field trips, equipment, supplies, and such. In addition, these specific potatoes would be processed and then sold to Andres’s school and a large banner would proclaim the event. The students were elated about this half-day of grownup work and loved to brag about their role in this national program. It was an effective money raiser with no downside.

  During the summer, as various crops are ready to harvest, Russian schoolchildren spend up to a month on a large collective farm. No one can make them go; this is a volunteer-only project, which includes virtually all children. They earn board, room, and a little pin money. They work usually from eight to twelve noon. The food is excellent. There is a cinema, plays, dancing and singing, suntans, some calluses and blisters, many new friendships, and a better understanding of farm life and food production.

  Many university students also earn money to support their education on these huge farms. The older students usually do special projects such as construction. There are many variations of this harvest money for students, but the end result is beneficial to all.

  I wa
s a baby-boomer and as we school children got old enough to work on farms there were so many of us that the farms did not need all of us. My son’s generation is less populous and they all worked on these farms.

  Agriculture in the Soviet Union had a very difficult history, especially with Stalin. The priority was always industrialization and agriculture was only a source of cheap food and materials for the cities. The bulk of peasants were compelled to join collective farms, and farm mechanization was limited. The entire system was planned to provide produce at low prices. However, the production quotas were usually unattainable. Khrushchev in the late 1950s and early 1960s brought investment programs and policy changes that improved prices. Brezhnev continued this in the 1960s and 1970s. Despite these huge efforts from Moscow, the output rose slowly and costs rose quickly. Incentives to work on the large state and collective farms were ineffective so millions of townspeople were mobilized annually to help with the harvest. I was frequently involved in work on collective farms and I have no complaint over that.

  Young Andre, 1985

  Lilia, 1985

  A basic complaint of mine would be the ridiculous time-consuming red tape and bureaucracy and the bribery that is required to make everything function. Most countries in the world accept this as a part of doing business, but it still gives me an unpleasant taste in the mouth.

  If I had to make a list of my sworn enemies, it would not include the Veetyas of the world. It would be the bureaucrats, the officials, and the politicians that held that power over me!

  53. The Rug

  A major problem under a communist-style socialism was that everything was complicated. The fulfilling of desires required both wisdom and a willingness to fight.

  The Soviet Government did not make it easy for people to obtain luxury items. The reality of this was obvious in St. Petersburg and Moscow, the only two places where foreign tourists congregated and where one could purchase “luxury items.” The government considered many items a luxury, like gold, jewelry, crystal, a set of china, diamond watches, a second university degree, and even simple rugs.

  My husband Nikoli and I had a serious problem that required help to resolve. We needed a huge rug, about four by six meters (about 100 square feet) for my parent’s apartment, a replacement for a rug that had become permanently stained. It was 1979 and heart disease had kept my mother Mareika bedridden for over a year. Dad was retired from the KGB and worked as head of security for a large plant.

  Money was never a problem for my parents or for Nikoli and me. Our problem was that money, under Soviet Power, was almost worthless. Even those with it could buy very little since there wasn’t much available to buy. Choices were minimal. Theoretically, if the government provides everything and makes all the choices for its citizens, they are not burdened by responsibility. They don’t have to worry about daily decisions. It leaves them as free as a bird. Actually, it was not a life but an existence.

  We organized our plans. It involved going to Moscow and waiting in line for at least 24 hours outside a store. Nikoli is a medical doctor and I worked with handicapped children, so we had to schedule our vacations. To get lodging in Moscow one needed a friend or relative living there to stay with because hotels were available only for foreigners or privileged Russian officials, not for simple Russians citizens. That was all right; we had many friends in Moscow. The most difficult thing to do was to find out which store had large rugs on a specific day.

  My father’s advice was to stay with Pavel Chulpenyev and his wife Nadezhda, as she worked in a grocery store and thus was in a good position to hear rumors. These longtime family friends invited us to stay in their apartment and agreed to help with our quest. He was 60 and she was a few years younger.

  We drove to Moscow and settled in comfortably with Pavel and Nadezhda. Then we looked around for our target store. After a day or two, Nadezhda picked up some rumors that a particular store would have the desired rug maybe tomorrow. She gave us the address with detailed instructions on which buses and underground metro lines to use. Moscow is a complicated city to navigate with a car and there is the risk of thieves stealing the car or taking parts of it, especially tires, which were also hard to purchase. Therefore, it was an easy decision to leave our car with Pavel.

  Nadezhda informed us, “You have to leave immediately to get in the queue. Sit down and eat fast. I’ll pack some more food for you to take with you.”

  Pavel stepped forward, “It will be cold outside tonight. I’ll get some heavy coats and a couple of blankets.”

  We left shortly, loaded down with food, drink, the always-lacking toilet paper for public restrooms, and various other essential supplies. It required a trip of one and a half hours via bus, the underground metro system, another bus ride and then a long walk to get to the special store. About 2:00 p.m., we arrived. The store was open with few customers and no rugs! What?

  We stood outside the store in misery. Then we noticed activity across the street. Small groups of people sitting on the grass in twos and threes dominated a huge lot. It resembled picnic time at a Gypsy encampment with food, blankets, bags, etc. Looking closer, we could discern that the small groups were queued one behind the other like beads on a Rosary. The beads strung around in winding and ever widening circles. We understood immediately that this was the line for rugs.

  We were dumbfounded by the large number of people as we headed for the end of the line. We had some reservations. My husband said that it was starting to look dangerous; there were too many people! He was right, of course, but what could we to do about it?

  We prepared our own picnic at the end of the line and settled in on the blankets. Nikoli was quiet but I started talking with those around us. “What is the latest word? What kinds of rugs will there be?” My questions were endless. The answers were quick in coming, “We sent in a scout and we know everything!”

  People were highly experienced with these lines. Someone had organized a numbering system and we wrote our assigned number on the skin of our left forearm. Our number was one thousand and something. I had experienced long queues many times before. My leather boots, leather pants, fur hat, fur coat, special dresses, and jewelry all required queuing in Moscow’s special stores.

  As the informants rattled on, everything became clear and we became happy. The huge store had only one front door but two back doors that opened onto a large courtyard with a very high wall. Our spy had climbed up on top of the wall and saw huge piles of rugs and many workers cutting them into either 2 x 3 and 2 x 4 meter rugs (one meter = 3.3 feet), which are the standard sizes used in Russian apartments. This was for convenience and it helped the line of people move faster. A few of the large rugs remained uncut for those special places that were not standard size. We noticed that many people toward the front of the line appeared unhappy and exhausted. They had evidently spent at least three days there and maybe even longer. Their darker complexions indicated that they were probably from the far south of Russia. I told my husband, “Well, they will be happy tomorrow morning when the store opens and they get a rug!”

  He smiled and another thought hit me, “Maybe tomorrow we will be unhappy because they ran out of rugs.” He gave me a bigger smile!

  We were in a new housing area with huge apartment towers. There were no public bathrooms! There were also virtually no trees, bushes, or landscaping. I became friendly with the women around me and as soon as it was dark, we organized an exploratory trip to locate a bathroom. I got out my toilet paper and received many compliments for such good planning. I replied that it was not me but my friend who had this great logistics skill. As we left the lot full of people, someone sang out, “Hey girls, if you are looking for a bathroom, listen to me. A construction site down that way has a few wooden outhouses.” He gave the detailed directions. However, it was more than two kilometers (1.24 miles) round trip, about half an hour of walking! But what else could we do? We started on the trip.

  We women returned in good spirits, laughing and ta
lking, prepared to spend the summer night in line. Nikoli and I carried a large sum of money so one of us always stayed awake. We kept warm and had full bellies so the cold was not too bad. I had a nightmare about the people waiting in line. They reminded me of a long, smelly, unwashed animal with thousands of goggle eyes. Sometimes the store doors were like a mouth that bit off part of the animal as it entered and then spewed it out like vomit as it exited. I woke up just as I arrived at the store door.

  At about six in the morning the queue moved and took new positions starting at the front door. The store opened at ten and we arrived at the front door by around 5 p.m. We had only spent 27 hours in line. Not bad at all!

  A gang of maybe seven store employees, all big, lean, and mean, were controlling the front door of the store. Customers were allowed in only one at a time to join the few already inside. A quick decision was required on which rug they wanted, and then they had to pay the bill and leave the store immediately. The rug delivery was quick and simple. The store guards tossed it out the front door over the heads of the crowd, the purchaser quickly claimed it, and that was it. Go home happy!

  An all too familiar complication arose when a small group of about ten men tried to break into the line near the front door. These troublemakers latched onto the rugs tossed out the door, then waved some money and tried to buy the rug from the rightful owner—usually with more money than the rug cost. No one wanted to sell because it would mean either going back to the end of the line or going home without a rug. However, a few people lost their rugs anyway. Say a rug sold in the store for 1,000 rubles, a con man would give you 1,100 rubles for it and then he could sell it elsewhere on the black market for say 3,000 rubles. It was good money and so the con men were motivated to use violence if required.