Roulettian Intermezzo - Photo of the Week

Girl Feeding Birds in the Snow

It's cold out, snow is falling, and the birds want to eat, too!

Siege and the Fate of Things, Part II

One time, I went to the market and at this time the bombing started. We were not permitted to walk in the streets during the bombing raids, and I decided to hide in the vestibule of a big building. A lot of people were already there and they did not want me because they said that they were already so crowded that they could not breathe. I did not want to argue, and I went to the other side of the street and I stood under the gate of another building. Ten minutes later, I heard the whistling of a bomb and it fell on the building from where I got expelled. All the people who were in the vestibule died. I was in shock, and I could hardly go home to the children. I could not believe that I was still alive.

-- Anna Khodikel, Memoir of the Leningrad Blockade


What luck! What fate! How to account for the unexpected choices -- or decisions forced upon us -- that change a life in unforeseen directions? Anna was an incredible winner in Petersburg roulette. Not only did she come through the bombing attack unscathed, but amazingly she and her four children survived the three long years of Blockade. Where did they find the food? For along with falling bombs, the main survival concern was food. There was simply nothing to eat. People keeled over dead in the streets in the thousands, malnourished, exhausted, frozen. The Blockade of Leningrad resulted in the worst famine ever in a developed nation -- over a million people died.


Meanwhile, Red Kirill and I leave the bullet-pierced helmets behind, and head to the food section of the flea market. It's a plentiful cornucopia.  Piles of cookies, cheeses, yogurts, sausages, breads, coffee, tea, candy, and chocolates lay stacked on tables and in large boxes on the ground.  Kirill packs his bag full of staples, saying "Now I have food for a month. I won't have to leave the apartment, it's hunkering down time. Yes, batten down the hatches! Who can go outside anyway when it's so freezing?"  

Books, skates, clothes, shoes, lampshades, electronics -- there really does seem seem to be everything here. 

As we head back past the crazy randomness of flea market treasure, searching for Lawyer Misha, Kirill changes to his favorite unfavorite subject, "Of course I understand why the masses might support Putin. Because he has the power, he's strong, it's a case of might over right. They want to be on the winning side, the side with the powerful fist. Me, I suffer from all of this. How am I supposed to present my art in a country where I understand that the leaders are swindlers and crooks?  How can I throw my pearls before this swine?  Hey! What a great corduroy jacket! True, it's tan, but I'll dye it red. How much?" And so Kirill picks up the jacket for $3.00, and we find Misha snagging records by Alan Parsons Project, Pink Floyd, Genesis, and Deep Purple for $20 each. 

Putin seems to understand the psychology of the masses per Kirill's diagnosis. This election billboard reads: 

"V. Putin 2012. A great country deserves a strong leader!"

Now it's back to Misha's heated apartment where, happily, his wife, Spanish Teacher Tanya has baked a large meat pie and delicious toasty apple crepes.

"Who am I supposed to vote for?" Tanya asks, as we warm up over cognac with "Smoke on the Water" blasting from the record player, "not Putin, of course. But I can't vote for Zyuganov, he's a communist and the communists killed my grandfather. Prokhurov -- he's rich, he'll help the 5%. What's that going to do for us in the 95%? Zhirinovsky is a clown, what a farce. And Mironov is also compromised, a flip-flopper. No, there is simply no one." She sighs as she reaches for another crepe, "you know, I don't think I'm even going to vote."

In fact, that seems to me the attitude of most of my friends. They are against Putin, they are for no one -- and so they won't be voting.  No wonder Putin has the winning edge.

Siege and the Fate of Things, Part I

The city is dead. There is no electricity, no trams. Warm rooms are rare. No water. Almost the only form of transport is sleds, carrying corpses in plain coffins, covered with rags or half clothed. Daily six to eight thousand die. The city is dying as it has lived for the last half year -- clenching its teeth. ~Nikolai Markevich, Diary, 24 January 1942 

The Blockade of Leningrad was the most lethal siege in the history of the world, ever. For 872 days, the city hungered, from 8 September 1941 until 27 January 1944, during which time the Germans sat entrenched, encircling the city only miles from the historic center. They tossed bombs in its direction, prevented supplies from reaching the starved civilian population, and waited for capitulation. Hitler optimistically predicted the city would "drop like a leaf," and menus were printed for the gala celebration that was planned to take place in Leningrad's posh Astoria Hotel. Instead, civilians dropped like flies in an enclosed microcosm with virtually no food, no heat, no supplies. Hundreds of thousands of people died. But Leningrad never surrendered. 

Meanwhile, Lawyer Misha and Red Kirill take me along as they head out to the vast Ydelnaya Flea Market on the outskirts of the city. Despite the subzero temperatures, sellers are out in fairly large force, displaying their wares on tables or on blankets spread out on the snow.

Misha, broad and placid, places himself in front of a stack of records and methodically goes through them one by one, searching for his favorite bands. I tag after Kirill, who speeds along the packed snow, talking non-stop. "What is the fun of shopping in stores? How predictable! How boring! So much of the same thing! But here, it's an adventure. You never know what you will find. Just look at all these lost treasures from people's lives!"

Indeed, it's such a random assortment of various items, who can guess the stories behind all of these unpredictably diverse objects -- skates, books, plates, bottles, clothing, coins, electronics, dolls, lampshades, guitars, Lenin statues, $2.00 bills (selling for $4.00) -- and on and on it goes.  How did all these things land on blankets in the snow in this crazy flea market? How to account for the value of objects that have years of unknown history behind them?

"Oh," cries Kirill suddenly, "take a look." Lying on a blanket is a collection of battered remnants from World War II -- helmuts, grenades, shovels, canteens, bullets and so forth -- excavated by scouting adventurers who scour the land around Petersburg with metal detectors, looking for Blockade loot. Some of the rusty helmets have small, round holes in them.  Kirill actually becomes pensively quiet for a few moments, shakes his head and mutters, "Bullets..."  

These soldiers would be dead by now anyway -- after all, the war ended almost seventy years ago -- but the thought of life suddenly snuffed out by random bullets puts a damper on the enthusiasm of the moment. What might those soldiers, returned to civilian life, have accomplished -- or also suffered --  in the long years that were taken from them? The helmets stand as a silent monument to those hapless losers of an old brutal game of roulette.

May the losers of the game also rest in peace.

Roulettian Intermezzo - Photo of the Week

Walking on Thick Ice

Despite sunny blue skies, the Canal Griboedova has frozen over after days of continued subzero temperatures -- so why not take a stroll on the ice?

Assassinations and Protestors

Alexander II, renowned for his liberation of the serfs in 1861, survived more assassination attempts than any other Russian Tsar. Three were unsuccessful. But on 1 March 1881, when he was traveling to the Winter Palace in his enclosed bullet-proof carriage (a gift from Napolean III), the roulette wheel spun in a different direction. Members of the radical terrorist group People's Will awaited his entourage on a strategic corner near the Catherine Canal (today Canal Griboedova). Two bombs were thrown but they missed the carriage and landed amid the accompanying Cossack guard. Once again, Alexander had escaped unharmed. Make that 3.5 survived assassination attempts. And had he but remained in his carriage and headed for safety like a bat out of hell, he could well have survived the next terrorist installment. Instead he imprudently insisted on checking the condition of the wounded Cossacks, and at this unprotected moment, a third bomb was thrown. It exploded near the Tsar's feet, blowing off his legs; fragments of clothing, epaulets, and bloody chunks of human flesh lay scattered in the snow. Shortly thereafter, he died from his wounds. Ironically, earlier that day liberal (by Russian Tsarist standards) Alexander had taken the monumental step (for autocratic Tsarist Russia) of approving the creation of two legislative commissions consisting of indirectly elected representatives. Russian history might have taken a more peaceful and pleasant course if this progressive action had not been repealed by his reactionary son and heir.


Meanwhile, on the site of Alexander's assassination was built one of St. Petersburg's most iconic landmarks, the Church on Spilled Blood, replete with fantastical onion-shaped domes and elaborate decorations, and it was here that the most recent demonstration against Putin took place on 4 February.

Despite the really frigid temperatures -- it's hovering around -5 degrees Fahrenheit [!] -- the turnout is large for Petersburgian circumstances, at least 5,000 people.  The usual anti-Putin sentiment is present in full force and the chants that receive the most enthusiastic cries from the crowd are "Putin is a Crook!" and "Russia without Putin!" 

"Down with the Autocracy!"

Or more simply:  "Putin, you're an idiot!"

And referring to the fact that Putin is a native Petersburg boy, the sign in the back reads "Putin, Petersburg is ashamed of you!"

Supporters of all factions have appeared: the monarchists, the communists, the nationalists, the liberals, the imperialists, the radicals and those of no particular party who simply want to revel in the excitement. It's a colorful mixture and one of the speakers addresses this point, shouting, "We stand under flags of different color, but we are united in one thing! Putin must go!"

The slogan on the balloons reads "For a dignified life".

The Communists are out in full force, and in fact, after Putin, received the most support in the preliminary (rigged?) elections back in December. 

 "Our cause is just. We will be victorious."

A rather disturbing placard among this Babylon of philosophies is the one supporting well-groomed Stalin. 

As always, the riot police stand ready at edge of the crowd, present and alert, but not aggressive.

In the midst of the gathered masses, I run into Red Kirill. He never misses a chance to demonstrate against Putin, no matter how wretched the weather, and he's easy to spot in his omnipresent red clothing amidst the general basic black. We grab some steamily hot tea that's being dispensed free of charge on the edge of the demonstration and Kirill makes reference to the plethora of groups, organizations, and parties, saying, "Yes, yes, of course they're all against Putin, what else do you expect? But that, my dear, is where the agreement ends. They all have very different ideas of what should happen once he's gone. Oh no, there's no common understanding there. That will be an entirely different story!"

In fact, some of this dissonance appears on the stage when a nationalist speaker denounces homosexuals. The crowd starts booing, people shout, jeer, cheer, and shortly thereafter he's more or less pushed off the stage.

The elections are one month away: 4 March is the day of decision.  But even most of the protestors realize that no matter what happens at these demonstrations, Putin will be victorious. Kirill also agrees with this assessment and says that things are only going to get worse, worse, worse.  We're completely frozen by now and despite fierce political convictions, decide to ditch the demonstration to pick up some piping hot donuts and coffee at a nearby trendy ex-Soviet cafe. As we walk off, we see one last sign:

"My grandma sent me to get milk.  I'm here by accident."

Church, Vodka, Song

"Religion is the opium of the people: this saying of Marx is the cornerstone of the entire ideology of Marxism about religion. All modern religions and churches, all and of every kind of religious organizations are always considered by Marxism as the organs of bourgeois reaction, used for the protection of the exploitation and the stupefaction of the working class."  
-- Lenin


Armed with this sort of ideological background, it's not astonishing that the Communist regime actively tried to eliminate churches across Russia, confiscating and destroying their property with a fiery vengeance. In the accompanying philological battle, street names with religious overtones were not left untouched. Thus, Petersburg's Nativity Streets -- ten modest streets near the Moskovskii Train Station christened in honor of the nearby Nativity Church -- were renamed Sovietskaya in 1923.  The architecturally impressive church was destroyed in 1934.


The Church of the Annunciation on 5th Nativity, now 5th Sovietskaya, had somewhat better luck. It was transformed into a governmental edifice and today bears the name "The Central State Science-Technology Archive." But times again are a-changing. After enduring years of defamation, the church (at least the Russian Orthodox Church) is once more officially accepted. So the archival files are being slowly transferred to other locations and the abused building, whose former grandeur suffered much during its bureaucratic incarnation, is supposed to be restored to former ecclesiastical glory. 

Meanwhile, Tour Guide Natasha and Soprano Polina invite me to join them as they set off to visit Pianist Kirill, who lives across the street from this former church, now government archive, at some point in the undetermined future again to be church. Kirill greets us at the door under the spread wings of a large stuffed owl. We're somewhat overwhelmed by his sprawling apartment, which as Natasha repeats several times, is the perfect example of "good old Petersburgian intelligentsian style."  A variety of antiques from different historical epochs are scattered about the spaciously cluttered rooms, books are piled up to the high, ornamented ceiling, the chandeliers are laden with crystal, the wallpaper is heavily floral, and Matvei, a luxurious orange cat, views us with aristocratic disdain.

We sit down to boiled potatoes, pickled cucumbers, salted fish, salami, bread, and greens -- and of course, vodka. Polina has somewhere gotten quite a head start on us and isn't about to rein in now. Eventually she slides to the floor with the grace of a ballerina, but she’s incredibly petite, so we manage to prop her back up on her chair.  Then her boyfriend arrives with cigarettes. He's driving and therefore not drinking, and sits at a distance, dourly leafing through a glossy magazine that seems to contain a lot of ads, every now and again futily whispering "Polina, Polina, come on, enough already."

Despite the vodka, it's chilly as a draft creeps in from the balcony door. Outside the temperature is hovering around 18 degrees Fahrenheit and the door doesn’t shut tightly.  "Yes," sighs Kirill, "I’ve been meaning to tape it  -- but it’s already almost February. Soon it will be March and then April and then the weather will get warm again, so it seems like why bother?“ What can one say? Especially when Kirill is the only person I know who has actually read Spengler’s The Decline of the West.

Polina gets a second wind of alcoholic frivolity that seems to mask desolate melancholy. Both she and Kirill are exceptional musicians and and he sits down at his Red October piano to provide accompaniment to her rich, angelic voice. Even though at the moment she can't remember half of the words, Natasha and I are almost reduced to tears by her song.  

Back at the table, more vodka is poured and Natasha and Kirill start exchanging jokes.  

Says Natasha, "An American, a Frenchman and a Russian get stranded on a desert island, where they catch the golden fish.  The fish says, 'Spare my life and I will grant you each three wishes.’

Says the American, 'Send me back to America, give me power and money.’  
Poof, he's gone.

Says the Frenchman, 'Send me back to France, give me wine and women.'

Poof, he's gone.

Says the Russian, 'Give me a bottle of vodka, and oh yeah, bring those other two back!'"

Heavens, mon Dieu!  Those poor guys. Is that ever losing in the roulette of life!

Roulettian Intermezzo - Photo of the Week

Grey and Gold

The gilded dome of St Isaac's Cathedral towers over the frozen Moika Canal. The yellow building on the right is the palace of the once vastly wealthy Yussupov family. It was here in the basement that Rasputin was murdered by Felix Yussupov in December 1916.