Having a wonderful time reminiscing about all my past travel (and other) adventures. Hope you’ll share them with me in my blog, “All Roads Led to Russia.”
Maria, age 69, and her two kittens sit on a bus waiting to leave the city she has lived and worked in for 30 years, because the shelling and bombing and missile strikes are now too close for comfort. Her city — Pokrovsk, Ukraine — had a population of 48,000 people just two months ago; today, half of them have already left. [Abdujalil Abdurasulov, BBC News, September 9, 2024.]
Relatively few people in other parts of the world have heard of Pokrovsk. But to Ukraine, it is a key transportation hub that is depended upon as one of the main supply routes in the area. If Pokrovsk were to fall to the Russians, it would effectively mean the loss of nearly the entire Donetsk region — which has been a key goal of the Kremlin from day one of the February 24, 2022, invasion.
This is what President Volodymyr Zelensky and his troops hoped to prevent when they launched an offensive into the Kursk region of Russia. Their intent was to force the Russian military to divert offensive troops to the defense of Kursk in sufficient numbers for Ukraine to be better able to defend its remaining territory in the Donbas region.
Defending Pokrovsk
But one thing Russia has in seemingly endless numbers is people — human bodies to throw into the front lines, wave after wave of them, conscripted from Chechnya, from friendly foreign countries, from mercenary groups like Wagner (now called the Africa Corps), and even from their own Russian prisons. Human cannon fodder. According to Pokrovsk’s military administration, the ratio of fighting forces in that area is ten-to-one in Russia’s favor. [Id.]
And they have the equipment and the weaponry, much of it also supplied by friendly countries including China and Iran . . . while they continue to protest Ukraine’s use of American and other Western armaments.
On Sunday, Russia claimed to have taken control of the village of Novohrodivka, just 10 kilometers (about 6.2 miles) from Pokrovsk. One unconfirmed report says that Ukrainian forces have retreated from there. [Id.]
Pokrovsk, Ukraine
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And so, Maria sits on the bus with her two precious kittens, waiting to be taken to the next phase of her life . . . wherever and whatever that may be. Hopefully, she will be safer there.
For once, there is some good news to report — although it’s not exactly happy news, because Hvaldimir is indeed still dead. But the big, beautiful beluga whale did not expire as the result of man’s inhumanity to a fellow mammal; he was instead the victim of the sort of hazard that faces all sea creatures: a floating object.
Hvaldimir – 2019
A police autopsy — or necropsy, if you will — has concluded that “human activity” did not cause Hvaldimir’s death. What they did find was that a stick had become lodged in his mouth, and that what were initially thought by some to be bullet holes were just some “completely superficial” injuries. [Tom McArthur, BBC News, September 9, 2024.]
So, whether he was a Russian-trained spy whale who decided to “come in from the cold” and retire in the free world, or just a big bleached ball of blubber with a poor sense of direction, his last years were spent as a sort of folk hero to a lot of good people in Norway.
Once again . . . hvil i fred (R.I.P.), Hvaldimir; and know that you are missed.
Evan Gershkovich — the first U.S. journalist to be arrested in Russia on charges of spying since the end of the Cold War — was one of the sixteen prisoners released in the momentous spy swap on August 1st of this year. It seems that, as he was being released, Gershkovich — in what must have been a brilliant display of courage, wit and irony — asked Vladimir Putin to grant him an interview. [Dmitry Antonov, Lucy Papachristou, Reuters, September 9, 2024.]
Evan Gershkovich – Free At Last
To my knowledge, that comment was not widely reported at the time — or, at least, I never saw it amidst all the coverage of the event. But for some reason, Kremlin spokesman (and my all-around favorite Russian government official) Dmitry Peskov was asked today whether there was a response to Gershkovich’s request. And in his usual straightforward manner, this was Peskov’s reply:
“So far, we are not interested in such an interview. In order for there to be an interview with foreign media, and a specific one at that, we need to have an occasion. So far we don’t see such an occasion.” [Id.]
Dmitry Peskov, With the Boss
I have one question for you, Dima: What was the “occasion” for the specific interview granted Tucker Carlson in February? Was it because you were able to find the one Western “journalist” who wouldn’t ask the tough questions, but would agree to a scripted, almost completely one-way conversation with the boss?
You know that Evan Gershkovich would never play that game. And that strikes fear in Vladimir Putin’s cold, black heart.
August 1993. Petrovka 38 was one of several buildings in Moscow that no sane Muscovite would ever want to see from the inside — right up there with Lubyanka (KGB HQ) and the notorious Lefortovo Prison. They were sure that, once they entered Petrovka, they would never again see the light of day. That may have been an exaggeration in most cases, but there was always that possibility.
Our first meeting with Messrs. Pashkin, Bragin and Kostylev had been held in an auxiliary building around the corner; but our final gathering was to take place in the main building — a sprawling, dark, solid, forbidding structure fronted by sturdy iron gates. This was the headquarters of the Moscow Militia, and it was meant to be taken seriously.
Petrovka 38 – Moscow Militia HQ
Gil Robinson was not in Moscow at the time, so just Lena and I were on our way with our trusty driver Vitold — who wished us well and said he’d be waiting for us outside . . . when and if we came out. Lena really didn’t need his lame attempt at humor to add to her already obvious nervousness; but to her credit, she screwed up every ounce of courage she had and walked right into that building with me.
Already present, of course, were the Militia representatives, Mikhail Pashkin and Igor Kostylev. And with them stood my KGB watchdog, Vladimir Bragin, who seemed that summer to be everywhere, all the time. An early arrival was our local foodie, Mr. Pivovarov, who I was told was already in the kitchen preparing lunch. Lena and I were given a brief tour of the public parts of the building; thankfully, no one found it necessary to show us the cells or “interrogation” rooms. Pashkin told me I was only the second American ever to have visited Petrovka 38, the first having been a top (unnamed) U.S. Government official; but somehow I felt he might simply have been trying to make me feel important. True or not, though, it sounded good.
Then we were guided into the “dining room”: a large rectangular room, bare except for a very long, well-worn table surrounded by a couple of dozen chairs — obviously the lunch room for the lower-ranking officers. Seated and waiting patiently on one long side, facing us as we entered the room, were twelve of the biggest, scruffiest, meanest-looking, ugliest human beings I have ever seen gathered in one place. They stopped talking amongst themselves as soon as we entered the room, and were collectively introduced by Pashkin as undercover Militia officers (no names). They had obviously been chosen for their jobs based on their toughness and ruthlessness, and trained to deal with the worst of the worst of the Moscow criminal element — to whom they actually bore an uncanny resemblance. These twelve lucky winners had been selected to have lunch with their boss and the clearly crazy — for why else would she have been there? — American lady now taking her seat on the opposite side of the table.
As I looked at my luncheon companions, my first thought was: “Holy Mother of God! What have I ever done to deserve this?” On the one hand, I felt like Daniel in the lion’s den. But on the other hand, here was a truly unique opportunity to meet a radically different type of individuals from any I had ever known — a once-in-a-lifetime experience that I would surely never forget (and obviously never have). Unfortunately, I wouldn’t have been allowed to photograph them even if I had been foolish enough to ask. I still see them in my mind’s eye, though. And they’re still not pretty.
“Hey! Let’s Do Lunch.”
Lunch wasn’t quite ready yet, so it fell to me to try to make some sort of conversation with Moscow’s answer to the Dirty Dozen — none of whom, apparently, spoke English. Lena was there to translate, but what the hell do you say to these guys? “Where did you go to school?” “How’s business?” “Beaten anyone to death lately?” Not cool. So I started by telling them my name, where I was from, and what our Foundation was doing in Moscow, then waited for some sort of response. Nothing. Not a murmur or a spark of interest from any of them. I felt like a stand-up comic who had just bombed at the Comedy Club.
And just then, thankfully, the food arrived. There was Pivovarov, with a couple of conscripts from the kitchen, and a whole lot of veggie burgers and side dishes. The meal was actually quite well-prepared and tasty, and those twelve cops dug in as though they hadn’t been fed for days. Come to think of it, maybe they hadn’t, just to ensure their eager reaction to our food. In any event, they ate quickly, a couple of them belched in apparent satisfaction, and — on a silent signal from Pashkin — they all got up and left, still without a word. Had they been cautioned not to speak? Were they incapable of carrying on a normal conversation? Or had they simply forgotten how to say “thank you”? I considered calling out “you’re welcome” as they left, but decided it would be a waste of breath. Also, I wasn’t sure they’d appreciate the sarcasm — and I really didn’t want to annoy them! Any one of them could have snapped me like a twig.
*. *. *
At this point, I realized that I needed to use the ladies’ room, and asked if there was one. Yes, indeed there was . . . down the stairway and at the end of a long hall in the basement. Lena and I were not about to split up, so she came with me, whether she needed to or not. We found our way without difficulty, and were amazed to walk into a sparkling clean rest room in excellent condition. There were individual stalls, with doors and functional locks; and all of the plumbing was in perfect working order. Very impressive, indeed.
As we left the ladies’ room and retraced our steps along the hallway toward the stairs, I noticed an alcove in the wall that I hadn’t observed from the opposite direction. And in that alcove was something I certainly hadn’t expected: a pile of bones. A gigantic, perfectly cleaned and preserved, stark white . . . rib cage, lying on its back on the floor. I came to a screeching halt, at which point Lena saw what I had been looking at and clapped her hands over her mouth to keep from screaming. What — or who — was this??!!!
But a second look told me those bones couldn’t be human; they were much too large. And then of course I couldn’t resist. Placing the back of my hand dramatically against my forehead, and in my best Shakespearean voice (which admittedly is not very Shakespearean at all), I intoned: “Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him well . . .” And Lena laughed, also realizing by now that these could not possibly be the bones of a human being. Still, what were they, and what on earth were they doing there, in plain sight? But whatever the answer, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity. I had a small camera in my purse, and Lena stood watch while I hurriedly snapped a couple of pictures. Then we headed back upstairs, giggling like a pair of schoolgirls, before someone thought to ask what was taking us so long.
“Yorick! Have you lost your head?”
I had wondered why our hosts hadn’t eaten with us, and I got my answer when Pashkin announced that he had a little surprise for us. We were led into what was apparently the “executive” dining room, with a somewhat smaller table nicely set with real china, where we were presented with yet a second repast: huge servings of tender, perfectly-prepared steak with all the trimmings — and of course, vodka. This was indeed an honor. But why, then, had they let Lena and me eat all that other food? It’s not as though either of us looked malnourished. But eat, we did; and this time Messrs. Pashkin, Kostylev, Bragin and Pivovarov happily joined us. I found myself wishing I could ask for a to-go box so I could bring my portion to poor Vitold out in the car, but . . . well, no. That would have been unspeakably rude.
(Hey, wait a minute! Could those bones have been from the steer that gave its life for our steak dinner? Hmmm . . . )
Dinner
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As our second feast was winding down, and we were all basking in a warm, vodka-induced glow, I found a moment to quietly ask Pivovarov about the Lenin portrait. He smiled and inquired whether I had a car and driver with me. When I said I did, he requested that we drive him to his office — he had the portrait ready for me. I was thrilled, and had made sure to bring along enough cash, just in case. It would have been simpler if he’d brought the picture with him; but I understood that he wouldn’t have wanted any witnesses to his little transaction, which was most likely against one or more laws regarding the “liberation” and sale of government property for personal profit — and especially not here, in Militia Headquarters.
Then as we were saying our farewells, Bragin asked what time my flight was scheduled to leave the next day, and said that he would pick me up at my apartment and drive me to the airport. I thanked him for the offer, but told him that Vitold was available to drive me . . . but he insisted that it was no trouble, and told me what time he would be there, around two hours before flight time. It was not a question. And when in Russia, it’s seldom a good idea to try to argue with the KGB. So I thanked him again and said I’d see him in the morning . . . and then spent the rest of the night wondering why I continued to warrant such royal treatment. Again, my mental meanderings led me to question whether it might have anything to do with Valentin Aksilenko, and if so, what was going on that I didn’t know about.
Vitold, of course, was waiting patiently in the car across the street when we left the building, and was clearly relieved to see us. I explained that Pivovarov needed a ride to his office as he had something for me there, and we took off across town once again. Lena and Vitold waited in the car while I went upstairs to the office, where I found the Lenin portrait still hanging on the wall above the desk. But there was another one, slightly smaller, that he had probably scrounged from another office or a dusty basement somewhere and had carefully wrapped in newspaper and twine. He pulled back a corner of the wrapper to show that it was the real thing, and I paid him, thanked him profusely, and headed downstairs with my bounty. When Vitold saw me, he asked how on earth I planned to get that thing home; and I realized I hadn’t figured that out yet. Oops. But I knew I’d manage it somehow; it was just too good to leave behind.
Homeward Bound
And so we finally headed back to the office. I still had some packing to finish, a framed portrait to deal with, several dear friends to bid farewell, and an early flight to catch. I could make up for the sleep I would miss that night, on the plane tomorrow.
*. *. *
But even leaving Moscow was to prove out of the ordinary — yet another tale for the next chapter. And until then, dear readers, I remain faithfully yours . . .
Looking for inspiration for an article or two . . . and naively hoping for something perhaps a bit more cheerful than the Israel-Gaza disaster, the Russia-Ukraine disaster, the Japan-China-Philippines typhoon disasters, or the latest mass shooting disaster . . . I started my Sunday by scanning the headlines.
Bi-i-i-ig mistake.
Come with me, please, as we tiptoe through the titles — just the headers, no details, though maybe a snarky little comment or two — and you’ll see what I mean:
— The mother of the teenager suspected of killing four people during a Georgia school shooting called to warn a school counselor prior to the shooting. – Wasn’t anyone listening?!!
— Three Israeli border guards were killed in a shooting at the Allenby Crossing on the border between the occupied West Bank and Jordan. – How many more centuries . . . ?
— A manhunt continues for an “armed and dangerous” person of interest in the shooting that wounded five people . . . in Laurel County, Kentucky. – Guns, guns, guns!
— 65 people in nine states have been sickened by a salmonella outbreak linked to recalled eggs. – I guess that “recall” wasn’t loud enough.
— Russia takes Ukrainian town in advance on Pokrovsk. – Can we call Putin’s “special military operation” what it is, please: a WAR!!
— US believes Iran has transferred short-range ballistic missiles to Russia. – Same %*@#$%# war.
And to wrap things up:
— Her father listened as she was shot in the head at Taco Bell.
It’s been another quiet news week insofar as the American hostages in Russia are concerned. Once again, there have been no names to add to the eight still locked away in Putin’s prisons — obviously a good thing. But the eight are still there, in danger of being overlooked now that the most high-profile former prisoners have been released in the historic swap of August 1st.
And so we must remember them once again, and encourage them to stay strong and never give up hope — hope that negotiations for their release are moving forward behind the scenes.
In no particular order, they are:
Ksenia Karelina, dual U.S.-Russian citizen, recently convicted of espionage and sentenced to 12 years in prison for contributing $51.80 to an American charity providing aid to Ukraine.
Ksenia Karelina
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U.S. Army Staff Sergeant Gordon Black, who was stationed in South Korea when he fell into a Russian “honey trap.” He was on his way back to his home in Texas, on two weeks’ leave, when he was lured to Vladivostok by the Russian girlfriend he had met in Korea. He was arrested in May of 2024 on charges of alleged larceny and murder threat, and sentenced the following month to a prison term of three years and nine months.
Staff Sergeant Gordon Black
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Marc Fogel, a schoolteacher from Pennsylvania, was arrested in August of 2021 for possession of 0.6 ounce of legally-prescribed (in the U.S.) medical marijuana. In June of 2022 he was sentenced to 14 years in prison.
Marc Fogel
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Robert Romanov Woodland, a dual US-Russian citizen, was teaching English in Russia when he was arrested in January of 2024 for allegedly attempting to sell drugs. In July, he was sentenced to 12-1/2 years in a maximum security prison.
Robert Romanov Woodland
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Robert Gilman, already in jail in Russia serving a 4-1/2-year sentence (later reduced to 3-1/2 years on appeal) for kicking a police officer in 2022, found himself facing added charges in 2023 of punching prison staff in the head, and later also attacking a criminal investigator and another prison guard.
Robert Gilman
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David Barnes, an American citizen and resident of Texas, was arrested in January of 2022 while visiting his children, who had been taken to Russia from Texas by his Russian wife. He was charged and sentenced in the fall of that year to 21 years in prison for child abuse (allegedly occurring while in Texas), on his wife’s accusation. I really wish I knew more of this story!
David Barnes
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Eugene Spector, a dual US-Russian citizen already serving a four-year sentence handed down in June of 2021 on a bribery conviction, received additional charges of suspicion of espionage in August of 2023. No other details have been found, as the evidence is labelled “classified.”
Eugene Spector
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Michael Travis Leake, a rock musician and former paratrooper, was sentenced in July of this year to 13 years in prison on drug charges — specifically, suspicion of selling mephedrone, and organizing a drug trafficking business “involving young people.”
Michael Travis Leake
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Are any of these prisoners actually guilty of the charges leveled against them? I don’t know. But I do know that the recent timing of a number of the arrests, and the speed with which they were brought to trial, is a clear indication of Russia’s intentional roundup of American citizens to be used as (what I call) Putin’s Pawns.
What they are, quite simply, are HOSTAGES. And they will not — MUST not — be forgotten. Let’s shorten this list to zero.
You know you’ve got writer’s block when you start doing weird things when you should be tapping away at your keyboard . . . things like pulling at the skin on the back of your hand to see how loose it is; or counting the new freckles (why do they call them liver spots?!!) on your arms; or putting everything aside to go fetch the tweezers to get at that one stupid little hair that keeps growing back just inside your left nostril.
The Dreaded Writer’s Block
You’re sitting there trying desperately to think of a subject you haven’t covered before and preferably one that isn’t too depressing or downright morbid because that’s all there is in the news these days; and nothing seems to catch your attention. So you head to the kitchen to grab some ice cream from the freezer, and on the way you stop to play with the dog for a while, which makes her happy but doesn’t do a thing for your brain.
And after you’ve polished off a half pint of Haagen Dazs (that’s a made-up name, you know — maybe I could do an article on words that don’t mean anything), you glance down at your hands again, but instead of focusing on the chicken skin, you notice how prominent those big blue veins have gotten and you remember how pretty your hands used to look back in the days when you took the time to polish your nails.
Definitely Not My Color
So you turn on the TV, surf through the listings for a couple of minutes, and realize there isn’t one single thing on any of those 250 channels that you haven’t seen or would waste your time on for any amount of money, and you know you have to get back to work. I did watch one of those Jane Austen 18th-Century romances the other day, which was fairly entertaining except that all that bowing and curtsying started to drive me crazy.
Why does the skin on a chicken pull up like that? Is it only after the chicken has been killed, plucked, and cut into its various parts, or is it like that under the feathers when the bird is still alive and clucking? I’d really like to know.
Time for a fresh bottle of soda from the fridge, with a quick side trip to the bathroom to wash my hands after playing with the dog again . . . if only she wouldn’t lick so much! But she’s sweet, and . . . Hey! I never noticed that before, but my left eyebrow is thicker than the right one. Just like my left leg is 5/8 of an inch longer than the right one. But I’m right-handed. Does that mean anything?
Someone once suggested that I try my hand at writing fiction — a nice juicy mystery novel, for example. The truth is, I have tried . . . and failed miserably. I don’t know why, but my descriptions end up sounding like one of those old detective stories — you know, “She oozed her way into the room, her hips swaying from side to side like the pendulum of a grandfather clock” kind of thing. And my dialogue? Well, let’s just say that Jane Austen sounds more believable in today’s world.
“It’s all over, you bleached blonde bimbo!”
So it’s back to the drawing board. If something interesting doesn’t occur to me soon, I’ll have to start waxing rhapsodic about that one funny toe on my right foot.
I know I keep harping on it — talking about Vladimir Putin’s brainchild, BRICS; Xi Jinping’s “Belt and Road” initiative; Viktor Orban’s “Patriots for Europe“ scheme — as being a long-range plot to turn the world upside-down. But it’s not a made-up conspiracy theory; it is a real thing.
And now the heads of the United States’ CIA and Britain’s MI6 are describing the present international order as being “under threat in a way we haven’t seen since the Cold War.” [Gordon Corera and Jemma Crew, BBC News, September 7, 2024.]
Sir Richard Moore (MI6) and William Burns (CIA)
In a first-ever joint article for the Financial Times, the two intelligence chiefs addressed the issues of “resisting an assertive Russia and Putin’s war of aggression in Ukraine”; the work being done to “disrupt the reckless campaign of sabotage” across Europe by Russia; the push for de-escalation in the Israel-Gaza war; the rise of China as “the principal intelligence and geopolitical challenge of the 21st century”; and the urgent need to counter the resurgent Islamic State. [Id.]
In part, they wrote:
“There is no question that the international world order — the balanced system that has led to relative peace and stability and delivered rising living standards, opportunities and prosperity — is under threat in a way we haven’t seen since the Cold War.” [Bill Burns and Richard Moore, Financial Times, September 6, 2024] [bold emphasis is mine].
Without rehashing the entire article — which is well worth a read, by the way — I just want to say that, while it is certainly good to know that you haven’t been imagining or overstating things, there are times that you really wish you were wrong.
Judging from this list, it seems we go to war a lot in September. Let’s hope the trend doesn’t continue. But check out these past adventures (or misadventures, depending on your outlook):
1776: World’s first submarine attack. It’s hard to believe, but they really did have submersible crafts — if you can call this a craft — nearly 250 years ago. During the U.S. Revolutionary War, the submarine called the Turtle was used to attempt to attach a time bomb (yes, they had those too!) to the hull of British Admiral Richard Howe’s flagship Eagle in New York Harbor. It was unsuccessful, but General George Washington labelled it “an attempt of genius.”
Sounds to me like something out of a Jules Verne novel.
Submarine Turtle
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1813. United States nicknamed Uncle Sam. A meat packer named Samuel Wilson, from Troy, New York, supplied barrels of beef to the U.S. Army during the War of 1812. He stamped the barrels with “U.S.” (for United States); but because he was known locally as Uncle Sam, soldiers began referring to the food as “Uncle Sam’s.” The local newspaper picked it up, and it became the 1813 version of a meme.
Who needs social media?
Good Old Uncle Sam
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1864. General Sherman orders civilians evacuated from Atlanta. The other war on U.S. territory: the Civil War of 1861-64. General Sherman had already taken Atlanta, but needed to get the civilians out of his way because of a limited number of troops to guard the city, and limited supplies to feed everyone. So it wasn’t entirely altruism that caused him to evacuate the civilians — although he did say he didn’t want to be responsible for the women and children. So off they went. Sherman provided transportation out of the city, but thereafter they were on their own.
War is hell.
Sherman’s March to the Sea
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1940. The Blitz begins as Germany bombs London. Keeping with the war theme . . . this was unspeakably bad. For 4-1/2 seemingly endless years.
That really was hell.
London Blitz – World War II
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1968. Protesters disrupt the Miss America Pageant. A bunch of feminists — popularly known as the women’s liberation movement — disrupted the annual pageant in Atlantic City, protesting the “oppression” of women and declaring that the pageant reinforced “the degrading Mindless-Boob-Girlie Symbol.”
Equal rights for women have come a long way since then. But the Miss America pageant lives on.
Miss America Protest
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1977. U.S. agrees to transfer Panama Canal to Panama. The treaty signed on that date recognized Panama as the territorial sovereign in the Canal Zone, but retained the United States’ right to continue operating the canal until December 31, 1999. Under a separate Neutrality Treaty, the U.S. also retained the right to use military force, if necessary, to keep the Canal open.
Thus was the dictator Manuel Noriega overthrown in the U.S. invasion of Panama in1989.
Panama Canal
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Footnote: I don’t recall the exact date, but it was in the early 1980s, while Noriega was still heading the government of Panama. I was having lunch with my daughter in Washington’s Madison Hotel across the street from my office, when a man strode into the restaurant with an entourage of some of the toughest-looking bodyguards I had ever seen. My daughter saw them first and said, “Mom, is that who I think it is?” And when I recognized Noriega, I suggested we eat quickly and get out of there — just in case.
I love Washington — you never know who (or what) might be around the next corner.
August 1993. I was preparing for my departure from Moscow, and I was — to put it mildly — pissed.
I was supposed to have had a two-week hiatus at home, then returned to Russia for the remainder of the year; but I had just been advised by Gil Robinson that the Foundation’s budget had somehow suffered a shortfall and I was to be the sacrificial lamb, to be replaced by Maya — who worked (more or less) for a much lower salary, of course. I knew where the money had gone — nothing illegal, certainly, but definitely wasteful and irresponsible. Obviously, I was not a happy camper. And there was the fact that our American Foundation would be left without an American on-site administrator. However, fighting it would have proven divisive and counter-productive, so I chose to shut up and suck it up. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!
But enough grumbling. The fact is, I was preparing to pack it in within the next couple of weeks. And first there were things to be done: a good bit of Foundation business . . . and a couple of personal matters.
With the end of my time in Moscow approaching, I began thinking about some of the small but memorable incidents of the past months. Like the day I went for a walk in the neighborhood and saw two young women approaching with arms full of gorgeous pink peonies — one of my two favorite flowers (the other being lilacs). I stopped them and asked where I could buy some of the blooms, and they smiled, saying they hadn’t bought them, but had picked them somewhere. When they saw my disappointment, they asked where I was from, and when I said I was an American from Washington — remember, this was a time when we were much loved in Russia — one of the girls just handed me half of her armful of peonies and insisted that I accept them as a gesture of friendship. Those flowers filled my apartment with their fragrance for days, and the memory still fills my heart with joy. The world could use more peonies.
Pink Peonies: My Faves
Made you smile, didn’t they?
*. *. *
Then there was the woman in the Metro with a little girl around five or six years old and two big bags of groceries, but only two hands when she clearly needed three. As I was approaching the top of the escalator to head down into what looked like a quick ride to the center of the earth, the woman walked up to me, nudged her little girl toward me and demanded, rather than requested, that I help her child onto the escalator. With a crowd of people close behind us, there was no time to think, much less quibble; so I took hold of the girl’s hand, jumped with her onto the fast-moving escalator, and saw the mother jump on behind us, still clutching her groceries. They both were apparently expert at this maneuver.
The little girl was adorable, with two big bows anchoring her pigtails in the old Russian style, and was obviously shy. In my most friendly voice I told her my name and asked hers, but she just stared down at her feet. I said I was from America, far away, but still no response. When we finally reached the bottom, we both jumped off, her mother following close behind. The little girl then ran to her mother’s side and they hurried off — without so much as a “thank you” or “goodbye.” Nothing. I assumed she had mistaken me for a Russian woman (which happened from time to time), and that this was just how things were done there; I really don’t know. But can anyone imagine an American mother entrusting her child to a stranger that way? “Hey, you, take my kid.” I must have a really honest face.
Moscow Metro Escalator
*. *. *
Another incident that has stayed with me had to do with an ice cream vendor in a kiosk located along our usual route home from the city center. Vitold introduced me to it, and I decided to stock the freezer with the yummy treat to share with my co-workers. There wasn’t much of a selection; actually, there was none at all. You either liked vanilla or you were out of luck. And it was sold by the “brick,” which as I recall weighed about a fourth of a kilo, or just over half a pound, each brick wrapped in some sort of butcher’s paper. So one day we stopped there, and while Vitold guarded the car, I stood in line at the kiosk. When it was my turn, I asked the lady, in my best Russian, for eight bricks, and held up eight fingers to be sure she understood me.
Oh, she understood, all right. But what she didn’t understand was what anyone was going to do with four and a half pounds of ice cream. So she demanded, in a voice resembling my fourth-grade teacher’s, “Eight?! What for?” Knowing that it would be the height of rudeness to brag about having the luxury of a freezer at home, I came up with a quick answer I thought would satisfy her: “For my friends at work.” And for probably the first time that day, she smiled. In fact, she liked my answer — and me — so much that when I came back again another day, she greeted me like an old friend and handed over my eight bricks of ice cream without even being asked.
Ice Cream Kiosk
By the way, there is — or was then — no such thing as low-fat ice cream in Russia. To hell with calories and cholesterol; you may as well die with a smile on your face — and a few extra inches on the hips.
*. *. *
I could have gone on daydreaming, but it was time to begin wrapping things up. Unbelievably, one of the first things on my to-do list was taking Maya to the American Embassy to obtain her visa in order to fulfill one of her long-time dreams: a visit to the United States. Yes, that’s right: somehow money had been found in the budget for her plane fare and a one-week stay for . . . I believe it was called on her visa application . . . “training,” or perhaps “orientation.” She was supposed to develop, in just one short week, the skills it had taken me thirty-plus years to hone. It doesn’t matter what you call it — it stank. But as the manager of the Moscow office, I had to vouch for her to our State Department. So we spent a couple of hours in the visa office, being grumped at by an American Consular officer who clearly wanted to be anywhere but where he was, until finally he was satisfied that Maya did not pose a threat to U.S. security, and approved her application.
U.S. Embassy, Moscow
On leaving the Embassy and heading toward the nearest Metro station, we had to cross a popular cut-through street that ended in a “T” at the busier road and had only a stop sign — which was mostly being ignored by the frazzled drivers turning onto the main road. Pedestrian right-of-way appeared to be an unknown concept in Moscow, despite the presence of crosswalks, and we stood on the sidewalk for a full five minutes, waiting for a break in the traffic that never happened. Predictably, I finally lost patience. With Maya shouting for me to stop, I decided to take my chances with an oncoming black Mercedes — a rarity in those days, and obviously belonging to someone of the criminal persuasion. It appeared to be slowing for the stop sign, so I stepped off the curb, walked to the middle of the street, stood my ground, and held out my right hand in what I hoped was a good imitation of a Moscow traffic cop. All I needed was a whistle.
As I looked more closely at the driver and the other occupants of the approaching Mercedes, I saw four rather tough-looking men, well-dressed, and sporting aviator sunglasses: clearly Mafiosi. I heard Maya screaming, “Brenda! Are you crazy? Do you know who they are???” Well, sure, I knew who they were — but I couldn’t back down now, could I? The car stopped; the driver looked at me for a moment with an angry scowl; then he unexpectedly broke into a huge smile, bowed his head toward me, and dramatically waved his arm from left to right in a gesture inviting me to continue across. I smiled back, bowed my head in return, mouthed “spasibo” (“thank you”), and continued on my way to the opposite curb. Once again, I had proven that you have as much power as you can make others think you have. Armed border guards, KGB officers, Mafia dons — no difference, really.
“Are you talkin’ to me?”
Then, of course, I had to wait another five minutes for Maya to make her way across the street. But it was worth it, just seeing the fear on her face when I confronted that Mercedes. (Yes, I know that’s sadistic, but she wasn’t my favorite person at that moment, and sometimes you just have to grab your pleasure when you can.) When she asked what on earth I had been thinking, I told her that those men — regardless of who they were — undoubtedly had mothers, wives, sisters, and/or girlfriends, and wouldn’t be likely to run over a woman unless she was pointing a gun at them. Another calculated risk taken . . . and survived. Moscow was such fun.
*. *. *
We were scheduled to present a luncheon promoting our much-touted veggie burger at Petrovka Headquarters on the day before my departure from Moscow, so there were still preparations to be completed for that event. Co-hosting the luncheon, and instructing the “chef” at Petrovka, would be one Vladimir Pivovarov, then head of the Department of Alimentation (Nutrition), whom I had not yet met. I had a meeting scheduled with him a couple of days prior to the luncheon.
When I arrived at his office — a second-floor walkup in an old building on Leninsky Prospekt, away from the center of the city — the first thing I noticed was a portrait on the wall of Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov, better known as Vladimir Lenin. Those mass-produced portraits had occupied a place of honor in every single government office and every single shop and factory throughout the entire Soviet Union. But since the dissolution of the USSR at the end of 1991, they had rapidly disappeared from most of those walls. The fact that Pivovarov still had his copy proudly on display spoke volumes to me about his political leanings. Or perhaps he was just too lazy to take it down. In any event, I suddenly had another of my diabolical little ideas.
Lenin
When we had finished our discussion of the arrangements for the luncheon, I stood up as though to leave, but then hesitated. Pointing at the Lenin picture, I asked, “Would you be willing to sell that, and if so, for how much?” Clearly taken by surprise, he said he had no idea, as he had never been asked that before. I told him I would pay $50 for it, and he could think it over until our next meeting two days later. In 1993, $50 in hard currency was a lot of money to an underpaid government apparatchik, and I was pretty sure I would be going home with Lenin in my luggage . . . somehow.
*. *. *
On the personal business side, there was also one more meeting to be held with Valentin Aksilenko before leaving. He came to my apartment on a Sunday, when none of my co-workers were there. We made small talk for a while about my departure, whether I was glad to be going home, etc. Then, pointing at the ceiling and placing a finger across his lips in the universal signal that someone might be listening, he handed me a plain, white, letter-sized envelope and gestured toward a desk drawer, indicating that I should get it out of sight. Finally he said out loud that he had to leave, and silently gestured that I should go outside with him. I replied that I would walk him out and we left the confines of the apartment, remaining silent in the elevator and as we passed the lady at the desk on the ground floor. I felt as though I was taking part in a really bad spy movie.
Rublevskoye Shosse 16 – My Home in Moscow
Directly outside the entrance was a rather busy parking area for residents of the building, so we walked around the corner toward the street. But he stopped along the side of the building and motioned to a specific spot where we should stand and finish our conversation. It was a rather odd place to stop, completely empty and exposed, and it appeared that he had pre-selected it. As I glanced at the neighboring building, just a driveway’s width away, I spotted a man standing on his second-floor balcony, leaning on the railing and making no secret of the fact that he was watching us — whether out of simple curiosity, or for some other reason, I had no way of knowing. I mentioned him to Valentin, but, without even looking up, he simply shrugged and said not to worry about it.
Not to worry? His nonchalance alone was cause for concern, especially considering his extreme caution just moments before. Did he already know the man was there? Had he intentionally chosen this spot to stand and talk? Who was that person? This was more than a little weird, and I was beginning to feel seriously creeped out.
We stood there and talked for ten minutes or so about Yuri Shvets’ continuing work on his book, during which time he also cautioned me to guard the contents of the envelope he had given me very carefully. I was to keep it for him until next we met, presumably in Washington. I didn’t like this at all. — Not. One. Bit.
Side of my apartment building where Aksilenko and I stood and talked
Then we shook hands and said goodbye once again. He walked away toward the street, and I wondered whether that would be the last time I would ever see him. I turned in the opposite direction and headed back toward my building entrance, catching a glimpse in my peripheral vision of the man still watching from his balcony. It took every ounce of self-control I could muster to keep from looking directly up at him. I slept fitfully that night, dreaming that people were trying to break into the apartment, and waking several times in a cold sweat.
*. *. *
But despite the lack of sleep, I still had to survive my final appearance the next day at Petrovka 38, where — unbeknownst to me that night — I would be facing a dozen terrifying plain-clothes Militia strongmen, Officer Bragin from the KGB, and a huge surprise in the basement. Details to follow, next time.
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