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.

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.

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.

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 . . . )

*. *. *

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.

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 . . .

Brendochka
5/4/23 (re-posted 12/8/23)

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.

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.

*. *. *

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

TTFN,
Brendochka
4/27/23 (re-posted 12/6/23)

* NOTE: In deference to the tragically and brutally besieged, independent nation of Ukraine and its strong preference for the use of its own language, I have switched to the Ukrainian spelling of its capital city, Kyiv, rather than the Russian “Kiev.” Slava Ukraini.

*. *. *

Things had changed.

The day after Christmas of 1991, the Soviet Union had ceased to exist. In its place were now fifteen independent nations that previously had been Soviet Republics. And in the summer of 1993, most were still in the process of establishing their chosen forms of government, legal codes, and the institutions required to administer them. Ukraine was one of those fifteen nations, and as part of its development had established Embassies in various countries around the world . . . including neighboring Russia. It had also created official crossings along its nearly 7,000 miles of border abutting seven countries . . . also including Russia.

When I arrived in Moscow in May of 1993, much of this work was still in the process of being completed by the Ukrainian government, and my first train trip to Kyiv was easy and seamless. But by the time I was planning my second visit there, it was a whole new ballgame. There was now a Ukrainian Embassy in Moscow, and so I called to inquire whether I would need a visa to cross the border as a U.S. citizen with an American passport. It took a while to find someone who would even attempt to answer that question, and when I did, I was told that people with U.S. passports did not require visas to cross into Ukraine. Good news.

It was especially good news because this time I would be traveling with two American companions. Scott was working with the Foundation in the U.S., assisted by Michelle. Neither of them spoke Russian, and would be relying on my limited translation skills during the trip.

The fun began when we arrived at the Kyivsky Train Station in plenty of time for our scheduled evening departure. There was a woman taking tickets and checking I.D.s, and when she looked at our passports, she asked, in Russian, “But where are your Ukrainian visas?” Stretching my linguistic ability to the max, I explained to her the details of my call to the Embassy and what I had been told about not needing visas with U.S. passports. And she said, quite authoritatively, “Nyet!” I had apparently been given bad information, and her instructions were to see visas from everyone — Americans included.

I also explained that we had to leave that day as we had meetings scheduled the following morning with Ukrainian government officials and could not postpone our departure. She asked how we would get back into Russia, and I said we could get our return visas in Kyiv. She then asked what we would do about the border crossing. At that point, I moved a little closer to her, smiled conspiratorially, and whispered, “Well, that’s the Ukrainian government’s problem, not yours. Right?” Something from her lifetime of Soviet upbringing must have clicked into place. She smiled, handed our passports back to us, and said, “Khorosho” — “Fine.” And we boarded, three foreigners en route to Ukraine without visas. What a great start!

It got even better when the same lady who had taken our tickets showed up as concierge on the train and offered us tea. She obviously wore two hats for her job with the railroad, and I wasn’t crazy about this one, to say the least. She knew we didn’t have visas. What was going to happen when we reached the border? She would be blamed, unless she had a plan in place. This did not bode well for us, but it was too late to do anything about it now. We were already underway, captive on the train for the next 14 or 15 hours.

Michelle and I were sharing a two-bunk sleeper compartment, and Scott had a single at the far end of the same car. I was glad of the company, and we all sat up late in the “girls’ dorm,” swapping stories from our life histories, eating the food we had brought with us, and drinking good Russian tea, before finally kicking Scott out to his own quarters and locking our door. We had dressed comfortably for the trip, and something told me that Michelle and I should sleep in our clothes that night. I was later to be grateful for that decision.

The movement of the train soon lulled us to sleep, and it was around dawn when we were awakened by the screeching sound of brakes being applied and a whole lot of rattling and clanking going on. We had arrived at the border. Suddenly our door — the carefully locked door — was unlocked and slammed open with great force. Michelle and I both bolted upright in our bunks and were confronted by a very tall, very young, heavily-armed Ukrainian border guard, who stuck out one hand, palm up, and demanded, “Passports.”

Uh-oh. The moment of truth had arrived. Thank goodness we were spared the indignity of having to face it in pajamas!

I told Michelle to hand over her passport and to say nothing. Suddenly, I found myself in charge. Yeah, right. He was the one with the sidearm, not I. And he knew it. He also knew — compliments of the ticket-taker/tea service lady — that I spoke some Russian, and that we had no visas. But he dutifully scanned through our passports before saying to me, “Where are your Ukrainian visas?” Once more, I went through the whole story of the telephone exchange with the Embassy in Moscow. Then the following dialogue — in Russian — ensued.

Guard: “But you must have visas.”

Me: “No, they told me we didn’t need them with American passports.”

Guard: “But you must have them.”

Me: “We will get them in Kyiv.”

Guard: “No, you must get them in Moscow.”

Me: (Looking dramatically at my wristwatch): “But it’s too late.”

Guard: (Repetitiously): “No, you should have gotten them there.”

Me: (For the umpteenth time): “But they told me we didn’t need them.”

Guard: “Well, they told you wrong.”

That was when my patience ran out. I recalled what someone had told me years before, in an entirely different context: that you have as much power as you can make other people believe you have. So — from my still-seated position — I slammed my hand on the small table attached to the wall between our bunks, making the water bottles and glasses do a little dance, and angrily declared, “Well, that’s not my fault, is it?!!”

And there stood one very surprised border guard, wondering who this tough-talking, unintimidated, Russian-speaking American woman might be. At best, I probably reminded him of his mother; at worst, I could have been the First Lady of the United States for all he knew. He clearly had no idea of what to do next. So he did what came naturally: he passed the buck. Taking two steps backward into the corridor, he beckoned to someone farther along the car, and suddenly we had two young, tall, well-armed border guards in our little compartment. They began whispering between themselves, and all I could catch were what sounded like “psst-psst-psst-Americans,” and “psst-psst-psst-no visas.” Then the second guard looked at me and asked, “You will get your visas in Kyiv?” to which I replied, still with supposed authority, “Yes; I already said we would.” Shaking an index finger at me, he came back, “You be sure?” And as I waved a hand dismissively toward the door, I replied, “Yes. Now you get out!”

And by some miracle, they did just that. I had known all along that they were just waiting for me to offer a bribe (undoubtedly to be shared with the tea lady who had tipped them off), and I was prepared to pay if all else failed. But when I didn’t offer, they backed off as any schoolyard bully would have done. But I also realized that they had had the power to put us off the train in the middle of nowhere. Thank God they were young and inexperienced!

When they were gone, Michelle finally exhaled and asked what had just happened. I shrugged and told her we would get our visas in Kyiv. No worries.

After more rattling and clanking sounds, the train started forward, and Michelle and I looked at each other and in unison exclaimed, “Scott!” He had been on his own, with no visa, and not speaking a word of Russian. As we rushed out into the corridor to find him, he was walking toward us, grinning from ear to ear. He asked if we were all right, and I said we were fine — that I had managed to talk our way out of it. But how had he gotten through it? Still smiling broadly, he replied, “Oh, I just kept babbling at them in English until they gave up and went away.” There’s frequently more than one way out of a tough situation, and Scott had found his.

P.S. For the remainder of the trip, we saw no more of the tea service lady. Perhaps, being Russian and not Ukrainian, she was dropped off at the border.

*. *. *

But as clever as Scott had been on the train, he nearly got us into big trouble in Kyiv. On an afternoon when we had some spare time between meetings, we decided to go for a stroll through a nearby park. We were delighted to come across two elderly gentlemen playing chess at a permanently-affixed stone table — a classic scene, just as you see in practically every movie about Russia. I talked to them for a few moments, introducing us as American visitors, and leaving with a traditional Russian farewell, “Vsevo khoroshevo” — “All the best.”

A little farther on, we came to the banks of the Dnieper River, and followed it for a while, enjoying the sound of the rushing water. And then we found ourselves at the edge of the park, on a quiet street alongside a large office building. Turning right, in the general direction of our hotel, I wondered what the building was used for, saying I was feeling an eerie vibe from it. Of course, Scott and Michelle laughed at me. So when we saw a local lady walking toward us, I stopped her and asked, “Excuse me, do you know what this building is?” Her facial expression changed dramatically as she looked all around and over her shoulder. Then she whispered, “KGB.” I just mumbled a quick “Thank you,” as she hurried on her way. I was right about that vibe, and didn’t hold back from rubbing it in.

But Scott had an idea of his own. When we reached the corner and looked at the side of the building, we saw the name clearly engraved above the entrance: Komitet Gosudarstvennoi Bezopastnosti — “Committee for State Security.” KGB. Suddenly calling out “Take my picture,” Scott went charging up the tall staircase to the landing at the entrance and struck a pose, shouting for one of us to snap a photo. Knowing that it’s never a good idea to photograph a government building in that part of the world — and especially the offices of an intelligence agency — I yelled at him to get the hell out of there and refused to photograph him. But he decided this was fun, and wouldn’t budge. Finally I convinced Michelle that we should just walk away, and after a momentary pause he grudgingly gave up and joined us.

And as we left, I noticed a car parked just yards from us, with two men seated in it. Just sitting . . . and watching. And I knew we had been spotted by KGB security. I quietly pointed them out to Scott and Michelle, both of whom finally realized that I hadn’t been joking and that we all needed to behave ourselves. The Soviet Union may have broken apart; but the KGB was, unfortunately, still very much alive. Needless to say, we had no further trouble with Scott on that trip.

In two days we had wrapped up the business side of our visit — my last one ever to Kyiv — and headed back on another long train ride to Moscow, this time with our return visas safely in hand. Scott and Michelle left for home a couple of days later, and I began preparing for the big event scheduled at Militia Headquarters: Petrovka 38.

‘Til next time,
Brendochka
4/20/23 (re-posted 12/5/23)

July 4, 1993 – So far, so good. I had been in Moscow for nearly two months, and I was still alive and unscarred. In fact, I was thoroughly enjoying myself. And with the occasional unscheduled drop-by visit from Vladimir Bragin of the KGB, I was feeling well protected.

I had received a surprise phone call earlier that week from a friend in Washington, Mary Saba. (You may remember her from the London and Prague episodes.) Her husband, Joe, had just left on a business trip to one of the “Stans” — the five Central Asian Republics of the former Soviet Union whose names all end in “stan” (Kazakhstan, for example) — and Mary and their teenage son, Colin, were going to join him there. Since they would have to travel through Moscow and had never been there before, she and Colin were planning to stay over for a couple of days, and she was letting me know of their imminent arrival.

I was thrilled to be seeing a good friend from home. When she told me where they were staying — a Soviet-style hotel on the outskirts of the city — I told her they would find that to be both inconvenient and generally miserable, and that I would pick them up and bring them to my apartment, where I had two spare bedrooms. It didn’t take much to convince her.

The Sabas are the kind of people who fit in anywhere. They’re smart, funny, caring, personable, and genuine — that rare breed known as completely lovable, good people. Mary got along beautifully with Olga, Lena and Tamara; and Colin managed to find common ground with Tamara’s two teenaged daughters, even though they didn’t speak each other’s languages. We did the usual sightseeing tour, and then Colin said he had a special request: he wanted to see the Moscow Military Museum. Tamara’s husband was an Army officer, and he gladly offered his services. He arranged for our admittance, and five of us crammed into his little car.

But first came lunch — at McDonald’s, of course. Doesn’t every American travel 5,000 miles to eat at a Mickey D’s? Colin and Mary were just curious to compare it to the ones at home; Tamara and her husband had never eaten there, because it was too expensive for them as a family of four. So off we went, my treat. Cheapest restaurant meal I ever had — and surprisingly good. Far better quality than in the U.S., in fact. All of the meat and vegetables were locally sourced, and the rolls freshly baked. It was worth the wait in line.

At the museum, admission was free — but I found that I had to pay one ruble (about 1/10 of a cent at the time, as I recall) for the privilege of taking pictures with my own camera. These, of course, were the days before cell phones, so my camera was simply that: a camera — and with actual film, as it was also the pre-digital age. (God, I am old, aren’t I?)

As we wandered through the several rooms and I snapped away, I lost track of how many pictures I had taken, and suddenly ran out of film. I only realized it because my camera told me so, when it started beeping . . . and beeping . . . and beeping. At the unfamiliar sound, all of the other visitors in the room froze where they were standing, and two armed guards came rushing in from the next room, hands on their holstered weapons, to find out who had the bomb. When I saw them, I instinctively held the camera up in the air and called out, “Nyet, nyet! Fotoapparat! Fotoapparat!” (I’m sure you’ve figured out that that means “No! No! Camera! Camera!” I have no idea why I said it twice.) That quick action saved me, though, and I was neither shot, tackled, nor arrested; but the guards and I had managed to scare the bejeezus out of each other . . . and quite a few more people besides. Clearly, I still hadn’t mastered the art of quietly blending in. Come to think of it, I never did.

Mary’s trip happened to fall over the 4th of July weekend, when it turned out that there was to be a show given by some Broadway musical performers at the Estrada Theatre in the renowned (or infamous, depending upon the year) House on the Embankment. Just one of the many outsized Stalinist monstrosities still dotting the landscape throughout the city, this one was completed in 1931 specifically to house the government elite of the time, many of whom later became victims of Stalin’s paranoid political purges. (Sorry — I just seem to keep alliterating). Anyway, someone had given Gil Robinson a pair of tickets, but he wasn’t going to be in Moscow that weekend, so he passed the tickets along to me. Leaving Colin in the safe company of Tamara’s family, Mary and I set out for a girls’ night on the town. As we had done in London, we managed to make it a memorable one.

Vitold had offered to drive us to the theatre, and said he would be happy to come back to pick us up as well, but I felt that would be too inconvenient for him. The traffic pattern in front of the building was a total mess, and there was no way of knowing what time the show would end. I knew there was a taxi stand in front of the Kempinski Baltschug Hotel, about a 15-minute walk from the theater, so I told him we would manage to get home on our own. Brave words.

For once, Vitold managed to get us to our destination without being stopped by the police for speeding, running a red light, or nearly knocking down any pedestrians. We actually arrived a little early, and since it was a lovely, mild evening, we stood outside the theatre for a while, watching the arrivals and chatting with a couple of acquaintances I had seen in the crowd. The U.S. Ambassador, Thomas Pickering, had already arrived for the occasion. As a motorcade of three or four expensive foreign cars flying Russian flags pulled up, I knew that a Russian VIP had to be in one of them. President Yeltsin was out of the country that week, so I was curious to see who might be taking his place that night. As a man emerged from the car and started up the steps toward us, flanked by three improbably large bodyguards, he passed within a few yards of us and I recognized him immediately. I drew a sharp breath and grabbed Mary’s arm, exclaiming, “Oh my God! It’s Yevgeny Primakov!” Mary wasn’t familiar with the name, and when I told her he was the head of the KGB, she was startled, but also delighted to have a story to bring home to Colin. The crowd then began to move inside, and we headed to our seats.

The show was outstanding. The performers were members of the supporting casts of several hit Broadway shows, and had the audience in the palms of their hands from the get-go, singing and dancing to Broadway tunes and a few patriotic songs to honor the holiday. First, however, the orchestra had played the national anthems of both countries, for which everyone stood in unison, but with the Russian and American halves of the audience singing their respective anthems in turn. I am proud to report that our half was louder and much more enthusiastic. Living in Moscow — fascinating though it was — made you all the more proud and happy to be an American.

The performance ended much too soon, as all good things seem to do, and we filed out into the dark Moscow night around 11:00 p.m. The crowd was huge, and some of the people were walking, as we were, in the direction of the Baltschug, so we didn’t feel at all uncomfortable. And as we approached the hotel, we could clearly see the line of waiting taxis. They were facing away from us, and we had to pass the entire row of about a half dozen cars in order to get to the first taxi in line. No problem.

Mary walked around to the left rear door, behind the driver, and I opened the right rear door. When we were both seated and had closed our doors, the driver turned to his right, looked over his shoulder at me, and said, “Rublevskoye Shosse shestnadtsat?” — my exact address. Rublevskoye Shosse 16. And my heart leapt up into my throat. What the hell . . . ???

My first impulse was: RUN! But that was obviously not an option. And I had Mary to think of. Since she didn’t know a word of Russian, she assumed the driver had asked where we were going. So I gulped my heart back down into place, smiled weakly at the driver, and said — in Russian — “That’s right. You have a very good memory.” Mary thought I was giving him our address.

Good memory, my ass! I hardly ever took taxis in Moscow — I had two drivers and an excellent Metro system at my disposal, so who needed taxis? Then who the hell was this guy? He simply nodded, smiled back, and began moving the taxi slowly forward. Once again, I mentally foresaw my imminent death. But as I watched to see the direction he would take, he drove straight along the quickest route, sticking to the main roads, and right up to my building and around to the entrance in the rear. He knew exactly where he was going, and never said another word throughout the 30-minute ride — quite possibly the longest half hour of my life. I thanked him, added a generous tip to the fare, and he waited until we were safely inside before driving off.

So, once again, who was he? How did he happen to be at exactly the right spot at exactly the right moment? If I had ridden with him once before and just didn’t remember, what were the odds of my getting the same taxi twice? Or of his recognizing me, in the dark, in a city of nine million people, and remembering my address? And not saying a word about the coincidence? Was this just another manifestation of Moscow paranoia, or was something spooky actually going on? Could Officer Bragin somehow be keeping tabs on me? But how would it even be possible to arrange such a thing? Again, too many questions without answers.

I still don’t know the truth, and never will; but I can still feel the fear in the pit of my stomach when I think back on that night. I never did tell Mary.

And while I give you a while to mull that over, I will be — in writing, at least — hopping another train to Kyiv, but this time with two American companions, and complications on the Ukrainian side.

TTFN,
Brendochka
4/13/23 (re-posted 12/2/23)

Back in Moscow following my first visit to Kiev, I had settled into a comfortable routine of busy days and quiet evenings. I’d even begun venturing out by myself on weekends. The nearest Metro stop was an easy walk of only about a kilometer, along a pleasant pathway that skirted a patch of undeveloped, public parkland; and it was a quick ride from there into the city. More often, though, I would investigate my own neighborhood, finding handy little shops and introducing myself to the shopkeepers who didn’t quite know what to make of the newly-arrived American lady in their territory. Or friends would take me to some of the non-touristy areas of Moscow, and invite me to their homes for some good food and “kitchen conversation” — the traditional Russian after-dinner talks around the table that go on for hours. I finally came to understand why my grandparents had rarely used their living rooms: the kitchen was the true heart of the home.

One weekend, Vitold offered to drive me to an amazing place called Izmailovsky Park on the outskirts of the city, which featured a huge weekend open-air market that quickly became my favorite place to find items for the apartment: hand-woven rugs, hand-embroidered tablecloths, hand-crocheted bedspreads, hand-sewn curtains — everything beautifully handmade. And there was the odd trinket, like the famous Russian matryoshka (nesting doll) — a couple of which are staring across the room at me even now, thirty years later, as I write this chapter.

Then one day the office phone rang, and I answered it to hear a man’s deep voice introducing himself as Mikhail Pashkin of the Moscow Militia — and specifically, head of the Moscow Police Workers’ Union. I waved Lena over to the phone to be sure I didn’t miss anything, as Pashkin was, of course, speaking Russian. She was understandably a little nervous, since no law-abiding (or other) Russian citizen wants to be involved with the law enforcement authorities for any reason, even over the phone. And we’d already had one unannounced drop-in by a uniformed officer, “just checking to see how things are going.” Why had we become the beneficiaries of such loving attention? Surely, I thought, they must have better things to do. Did they check up on all registered foreign organizations this way? Quite possibly. Or was there something special about ours? My association with Aksilenko, for example? There was no way of knowing.

This day, however, Officer Pashkin was calling to invite me to visit him at Militia Headquarters, known to Muscovites by its infamous street address, Petrovka 38. He had heard of our Foundation and was interested in obtaining — gratis, of course — a quantity of our Veggieburger product “for the widows and orphans of Militia officers killed in the line of duty.” A nice way of making it impossible to refuse.

As luck would have it, the head of our Foundation, Gil Robinson, was due to arrive in Moscow in a few days. I relayed that information to Officer Pashkin, and we scheduled a meeting several days ahead in order to include Gil. That gave me plenty of time to work up a good case of nerves. But from a practical point of view, I decided it was better to have friends in certain places, in case I ever needed a favor. Spoken like a true Russian citizen.

A few days later, Gil arrived as scheduled. He decided that Maya should accompany us on the visit to Petrovka, mainly because she was the most self-assured of our three interpreters and least likely to be intimidated. So off we went at the appointed time, with Vitold driving but refusing to enter the scary building with us. He would wait in the car, no matter how long it might take, but would not set foot inside. We had been given directions, not to the main headquarters, but to a small, dilapidated old building around the corner. The guard at the desk was expecting us, and accompanied us up the stairway to the third floor (there was no elevator), gratuitously pointing out along the way the “interrogation room” on the second floor — mercifully unoccupied at the moment.

Oh, please! Was that really necessary? Did he actually think we’d enjoy a touch of gallows humor to begin our day? Speaking for myself, I could have done without it.

On the third level, three men were waiting in a small — really small — office: one seated behind an old, somewhat scarred desk, and one standing to either side and slightly behind him. There were three mismatched chairs on the front side of the desk for us. And that’s all there was room for in the office; it wasn’t exactly the executive suite. Gil took his seat in the middle, flanked by Maya to his right and me to his left.

The man seated at the desk was, of course, Mikhail Pashkin. He was movie-star handsome, dark-haired, with shoulders, pecs and biceps that strained at the seams of his short-sleeved, light blue shirt. This was not a man you would ever challenge to an arm-wrestling contest. If his intention was intimidation, he succeeded magnificently. (All right, now I’m starting to sound like a Mickey Spillane novel. Enough of that.)

Pashkin introduced the uniformed man to his left (our right) as Militia Officer Kostylev. And on Pashkin’s other side, now perched casually on a windowsill, was a pleasant-looking man in khakis and a plaid sport shirt, who introduced himself as Bragin. Just . . . Bragin.

After we three had identified ourselves, Gil began by politely asking a couple of questions as to the specific jobs of our hosts. Pashkin talked a bit about his work within the Police Workers’ Union, and Kostylev said that as an officer in the Militia, he was also a member of the Union. Then Gil turned to Bragin and asked, “Are you also with the Militia?”

And that was when the fun began. Bragin simply shook his head and softly replied, “No.” Obviously a man of few words.

Now remember, please, that Gil Robinson was a former Ambassador-at-Large with the U.S. State Department — supposedly a trained diplomat, right? In Washington, and every other world capital, when someone gives you a non-responsive response like that, you don’t press them; you assume their job involves some sort of classified work. And Gil, of all people, should have remembered that. But did he? Oh, no. Instead, he asked, “Well, where do you work?” And when Bragin responded, “A different department,” Gil incredibly went on: “Well, what department is that?” And Bragin softly replied, “It doesn’t matter.”

At this point, as Gil prepared to push the envelope with yet another idiotic question, Maya and I began elbowing him in the ribs from both sides, saying quietly, “Gil, drop it.” “Let it go, Gil.” “Just leave it.” Maya understood; I got it; but the professional diplomat remained clueless. Meanwhile, Bragin had caught my eye. Seeing that I was shaking my head in embarrassed disbelief, he smiled and nodded knowingly at me. In that instant I sensed that Vladimir Bragin (I learned his full name later) had become my newest friend in Moscow. He then looked at Gil again, shrugged resignedly, and said, in Russian, “КГБ” — which Maya and I translated for Gil, in unison: “KGB.”

If the floor had opened up beneath Gil’s chair at that moment, he would have been a happy man. As it was, he was trapped in that little office, trying to worm his way out of a gigantic faux pas. His face turned several shades of reddish-purple, and he began to stammer. I believe the only word he actually managed to choke out was, “Oh.” To his credit, though, he did shift gears fairly quickly, turning from Bragin to Pashkin and asking what we could do for the good folks of the Militia; and the meeting then began in earnest.

When I looked again in Bragin’s direction, he was once more looking at me and smiling. You might say we bonded over Gil’s embarrassment, and I was to be the beneficiary of that connection throughout my stay in Moscow. He was my Russian krysha, literally “roof” — my protection — and it never cost me a thing. It didn’t change what he did for a living, of course, but he turned out to be a very likable fellow.

Now, you’re probably wondering where the Russian Mafia comes into play in this story. At that time in Russia — and I’m not sure how this may have changed under the current regime and with the rise of the oligarchs — it was difficult to know with whom you were dealing at any given time. The so-called “Mafia” families — actually just criminal gangs who named themselves after the Italian originals — were so seamlessly woven into the Russian hierarchy and society in general, you simply couldn’t avoid them.

In the case of Pashkin and his buddies at Petrovka, it all had to do with the final distribution of the huge shipping container of Veggieburger we were able to deliver to them. Information we later received indicated that the widows and orphans had enjoyed little, if any, of it. All or most of it went in the front door and right out the back, directly onto the black market, earning a sizable profit for both the “wholesalers” and the “retailers.” And those operations were generally controlled by the various Mafia gangs. So while I spent those months in Moscow for the most part steering clear of the criminal elements, it proved impossible to bypass them entirely.

One example of the steps we took to protect ourselves was the safe in the apartment. The ‘90s were a time of rampant criminal activity in Russia, sometimes referred to as “The Great Mafia Wars.” There were daily drive-by shootings; burnt-out vehicles by the side of the road; and kidnappings or slayings of individuals as they entered or left their banks with large amounts of cash — much like living in Newark or Detroit. So we had a sturdy safe in one of the bedrooms in which we kept the thousands of dollars periodically carried over by Gil Robinson for payroll, rent and other expenses. As with the front door, it would have taken a bomb to get into that safe; and it relieved me of the need to go near a bank . . . ever.

*. *. *

When I was preparing to leave D.C. for Moscow that May of 1993, people had frequently asked whether I wasn’t afraid to be going to such a dangerous location. At the time, I had been living in the metropolitan Washington D.C. area for most of my life, and I simply pointed out to them that I was already in what was then known as the murder capital of the United States. The only difference, I argued, was geography. I had long since developed a “que sera sera” attitude, and didn’t think too much about the daily hazards of life. My philosophy was, and still is, that we’re all born with a pre-determined expiration date — though it’s not stamped on our bottoms like a can of beans — and if my time was due to come up in Moscow, then so be it. I was going to have a grand time while I could.

And so I did, for the most part. But there were nerve-wracking moments as well. One of those involved the aforementioned need for my continuing contact with Valentin Aksilenko. We kept our telephone communications brief and infrequent, and only actually met a couple of times during the entire summer. He seemed relaxed enough, but again, I attributed that to his years of KGB training. We would “walk and talk” — strolling outside in busy places near my apartment building to avoid any electronic bugs that might be hidden in the apartment — and I think I managed to appear nonchalant enough. But my insides always felt as though I’d swallowed a gallon of Mexican jumping beans. I fully expected at any moment to be pounced upon by a couple of big thugs, dragged into a car with darkened windows, and driven to an isolated spot where I would be shot in the back of the head and left for the crows to feed on. But then, I always did watch too many bad spy movies. Obviously, I survived without anything of the sort ever happening.

*. *. *

But there were other moments as well. It seemed that even a holiday — specifically, in this case, the American Fourth of July celebration — could turn scary in Moscow, and not just from any errant fireworks. Join me next time for that memorable episode, which still gives me the willies when I think about it.

So long for now,
Brendochka
4/6/23 (re-posted 11/30/23)