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!