On Wednesday, September 18th, Vladimir Putin’s war against Ukraine came closer to home again, when Ukrainian drones struck an arms depot in the Tver region, some 200 miles north/northwest of Moscow.

The Kremlin said the area had been hit by falling pieces of drones that had been destroyed by Russia’s defenses. But the evidence says otherwise: the blasts were strong enough to have been detected by earthquake monitors, and NASA satellites sensed intense heat sources from an area of about five square miles at the site. Multiple detonations were heard, and social media videos and photos (as yet unverified) showed the purported result of the strike. An entire nearby town was evacuated. [Lucy Papachristou and Lidia Kelly, Reuters, September 18, 2024.]

According to Russian military blogger Yuri Podolyaka, “The enemy [Ukraine] hit an ammunition depot in the area of Toropets. Everything that can burn is already burning there (and exploding).” [Id.]

A Ukrainian source said the drone attack had destroyed a warehouse storing missiles, guided bombs and artillery ammunition. But the governor of the Tver region, Igor Rudenya, downplayed the damage, saying merely that the drones had been shot down, a fire had broken out, and some residents were being evacuated.

The storage facility had in the past been touted by former Deputy Defense Minister Dmitry Bulgakov as “protect[ing] them [the stored weapons] from air and missile strikes and even from the damaging factors of a nuclear explosion.” [Id.]

But one woman, on one of Russia’s VK chat groups, had this angry response to the attack:

“Why wasn’t the ammunition underground?! What are you doing???? In Kudino, houses were blown away! Why is the forest burning and no one is there… What kind of negligence is this!!!!” [Id.]

Sounds like more than a simple difference of opinion to me.

*. *. *

Russia, of course, calls this aggression; Ukraine and its Western allies know it for what it is: a successful counteroffensive.

And this was accomplished without the use of the controversial long-range U.S. missiles that Ukraine has been seeking permission to use. That decision remains to be made by the U.S. and its NATO allies, and Vladimir Putin continues to threaten retribution if permission is granted.

This week, outgoing NATO chief Jens Stoltenberg dismissed Putin’s warnings, saying:

“There have been many red lines declared by him before, and he has not escalated, meaning also involving NATO allies directly in the conflict. He has not done so, because he realises that NATO is the strongest military alliance in the world. They also realise that nuclear weapons, nuclear war, cannot be won and should not be fought. And we have made that very clear to him several times.” [Dmitry Antonov and Lucy Papachristou, Reuters, September 18, 2024.]

Strong words, indeed. And who should emerge to respond to them but the Russian media’s best friend in the Kremlin . . . drumroll, please . . . Dmitry Peskov. Of course, he was not amused, and offered this:

“This ostentatious desire not to take seriously the Russian president’s statements is a move that is completely short-sighted and unprofessional” . . . adding that Stoltenberg’s position is “extremely provocative and dangerous.” [Id.]

Thank you, Dima . . . it’s always good to hear from you.

And so, as another winter approaches, Vladimir Putin’s “special military operation” in Ukraine drags on; more people die, are wounded, and are displaced; and the world’s two superpowers stand toe-to-toe on that metaphorical red line once more . . .

. . . while I have flashbacks to 1962.**

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
9/20/24

** The Cuban Missile Crisis: October 16-29, 1962.

This is it: the final installment. Thanks for staying with me to the bitter end. - Brendochka

It was done. I had chosen my own way, and that path had led me to places I never dreamt I would be. Now that it was over, there were decisions to be made, a new course to be plotted. And I was totally unprepared.

I had always known, of course, that once Yuri Shvets’ book was published, that part of my life would be behind me. What I hadn’t foreseen was the resultant unraveling of my long relationship with Russia: my business, my travels, and — most painful of all — my Russian friendships.

The KGB had kicked me to the curb; the FBI no longer needed my help; and my friends in Moscow were afraid to talk to me. My business plan was defunct, and my bank account was in desperate need of an infusion of cash. It was as though it had all been a long, weird dream, and I had awakened still groggy and not quite sure of what was real and what wasn’t.

So what do you do when you reach the dead end of a road? As I see it, you have two choices: you can fall apart, or you can look for a new road. I momentarily considered the first option; but then I gave myself a good lecture, pulled myself together, updated my resume, and went searching for a job. It wasn’t that difficult in Washington in those days; we used to say D.C. was recession-proof. In a matter of days I found my place — a good one — and I stayed for 21 years.

The law firm was Foley & Lardner LLP; I was assistant to one of the firm’s top corporate partners, Steve Chameides, whose extensive background included work for Russian and Ukrainian shipping and cruise lines. I was hired in part for my Russian language skills and knowledge of the country, so there was still some attachment. On the downside, there was no opportunity for travel, and I was no longer my own boss; but the work was interesting, the people were great, the location on the Potomac Riverfront in D.C.’s Georgetown neighborhood was ideal, and the pay was good. Was it exciting? For the most part, no. But it had its moments . . .

I had only been with the firm for a couple of weeks, and was still finding my solid footing, when Steve was asked by another partner to join a meeting with some potential new clients, one of whom was from Russia. At one point, Steve rang and asked me if I could get someone from our copy center to pick up some documents to be duplicated right away. Rather than waste time delegating, I decided it would be quicker to take care of it myself and went directly to the nearby conference room. Looking only at Steve, I took the documents, left the room, and headed for the copy center. On the way, I happened to glance down at the top page of the sheaf of papers in my hand, and saw a familiar name: the name of Valentin Aksilenko’s brother-in-law from Riga, Latvia, who had been the conduit for the exchange of messages between myself and Aksilenko for a while in 1993.

I stopped walking and began leafing through the papers. And there was the other name I was looking for: Valentin Aksilenko himself. By one of the most bizarre of coincidences, he and his brother-in-law were partnering with a former client of Steve’s, an American man, in some sort of commercial transaction. Aksilenko had to have been in that room! Of all the law firms, in all the cities, in all the world, he walks into mine . . . (Oh, sorry — couldn’t resist channeling Casablanca.)

So now what should I do? First I took the papers to be copied, and instead of leaving them for someone else to bring back to Steve, I decided to wait for the copies and return them to the conference room myself. I just had to know. And when I walked back into that room, there was Aksilenko — seated across the table, facing me as I entered, and looking as though he wanted to slide under the table and disappear. His face was flushed, and he clearly did not know what to expect. Was this too much of a coincidence to actually be one? Was I going to say something? He was in as great a state of disbelief as I was.

But I had had time to compose myself. I handed the documents back to Steve and left the room as I had entered: without a word — but not before looking directly at Aksilenko to let him know I had seen him. I went back to my office, sat down, and waited for the shaking to stop — it seemed I wasn’t quite as composed as I’d thought. And then I called Eric at the FBI. But he was strangely unconcerned, and simply asked me to keep him advised of the outcome of the meeting. I was clearly an outsider now, and this encounter was no more than a little glitch to him. But to me, it was a disturbing indication of how small a world this really is. What’s that old saying?

Later, when the meeting broke up, I did what I had to do: I told Steve the story of my history with Aksilenko, and assured him that I would recuse myself from all work on any projects the firm might undertake for him and his colleagues in order to avoid even an appearance of any conflict of interest. As it turned out, though, that wasn’t necessary; it had already been decided that their proposal was not of interest to the firm and they were not going to be taken on as clients. But Steve was fascinated by my story, and we developed a great working relationship over the next two decades, and a friendship that continues to this day.

*. *. *

That was early in 1995. I have not seen, spoken to, heard from, or in any way communicated with either Valentin Aksilenko or Yuri Shvets in the ensuing 28 years. But they have never been far from my mind, and a little over two years ago — by then in retirement, with plenty of time on my hands — I decided to give voice to my memories. I began writing: not this blog, but a book. I have a nearly completed draft manuscript and a book proposal now, and I’m on a search for a publisher or literary agent. My magnum opus may never see the light of day, but writing it has been truly healing. If nothing else, it will be a legacy for my children.

And from that book was born this blog. It’s been a great way of sharing parts of my story with friends and others around the world who may be interested. And I’ve found writing a blog to be much more relaxing than writing a book: no in-depth research, no pressure, no need for grammatical perfection. No money either, but that’s beside the point.

As for all of that research, I had to do a lot of reading before I could even begin writing. And in the course of that reading, my name popped up in some unexpected places, the most fascinating being a book titled “One Nation Under Blackmail – Vol. 2,” by one Whitney Webb. It is largely about the late (and not so great) Jeffrey Epstein. In Chapter 20, the author writes about Epstein’s connection with the Edge Group, “an exclusive organization of intellectuals . . . created by John Brockman.” Yes, the same literary agent John Brockman who sold Shvets’ book to Simon & Schuster all those years ago.

Ms. Webb goes on to write more about Brockman, including his involvement with Shvets and Aksilenko in 1993-94 . . . which is where my name shows up, mostly in quotes from that old New York Times article. Nothing negative about me, but who would ever have thought I’d be mentioned, even marginally, in a book about a notorious, convicted, and now dead sex trafficker like Jeffrey Epstein? My name is even included in the Index! My grandmother would have been horrified — she used to preach that you’re judged by the company you keep. She was right, of course; but at my age, I figure any publicity is good publicity and can only enhance what’s left of my reputation. So, all in all, I’m fine with it.

*. *. *

And there we are (pictured above) at the beginning: Valentin Aksilenko, far left; Yuri Shvets, second from right; John Brockman; his wife and business partner Katinka Matson, far right; their son Max; and — in the middle of things as usual — yours truly, with the red hair and an inexplicably odd facial expression. The red hair was an accident of birth; I can’t explain the expression except to say that it was early in the morning, just prior to leaving for the city to meet with publishers, and I hadn’t slept well the night before. And judging from everyone else’s somber expressions, neither had they. Or perhaps the photographer just forgot to say “Smile.”

[NOTE: The photo is from John Brockman’s archives. Two corrections: the date was April, not June, 1993; and Yuri Shvets was a Major in the KGB, not a Captain, at the time of his retirement.]

And here I am today, retired and living in the great state of Georgia, navigating a quieter path, and still missing the excitement of Washington, Moscow, and all the other world capitals I’ve been privileged to visit . . . but grateful to be able to write about them. In my view, a life devoid of tales worth telling would be a life only half-lived.

And what about the other characters in this story? Where are they now? Also in the course of my research, I inevitably ran across articles on Aksilenko and Shvets. It appears they’ve long since become U.S. citizens, enjoying the benefits of living here rather than in Vladimir Putin’s Russia. Aksilenko, true to his nature, has kept a lower profile, reportedly running a business, writing a book of his own, and speaking from time to time before various private and governmental organizations.

Shvets, on the other hand — always the more flamboyant of the two — has maintained a somewhat more public persona. Despite his allegations that he continues to live in fear of retribution from certain forces in Russia and thus must keep his exact whereabouts secret, he has appeared frequently in print and on TV. He also has his own YouTube channel, wherein he expounds on matters of international political importance — in Russian, without English subtitles. I wonder: to whom is he speaking?

In any event, they both seem to have enjoyed the rewards of living in the land of the free. Good for them.

As for the self-proclaimed superspy Aldrich Ames, now 82, he continues to live out his life sentence, without possibility of parole, in Federal prison. Has the identity of the person or persons who blew the whistle on him ever been made public? Not to my knowledge. There were those, nearly three decades ago, who suggested it was none other than Valentin Aksilenko; but others said no, and offered a few different possibilities. I doubt we’ll ever know for sure.

But, if it should happen that Aksilenko — or even Yuri Shvets — was that person, then I would take great pleasure and pride in knowing that, in some very small and indirect way, I helped to make it happen. And if not, then at least it was . . . well, not fun, exactly . . . but undeniably interesting. Not everyone can say they spent two years hanging out with the FBI, the KGB, the CIA, the Russian Mafia, the Moscow Militia, two Russian defectors, and an extraordinary assortment of bit players. But I can.

And if I could turn the clock back to that cold February day in 1993, would I choose the same road again?

Would you?

FINIS

Brendochka
6/1/23 (re-posted 9/20/24)

It really was uneventful here as far as any sort of fun was concerned, but that’s not what I’m talking about. You know those national and international “holidays” that sound like a lot of laughs? Well, there weren’t any today. Here are the three that made it onto the “official” list:

Batman Day.

The cleaners lost my cape, and Robin quit when I couldn’t afford to pay him any longer, so this one didn’t work out too well.

*. *. *

Talk Like a Pirate Day.

Don’t. Just don’t.

*. *. *

National Dance Day.

Anyone remember how to foxtrot? Didn’t think so. It might have been fun, if the Glenn Miller Orchestra had shown up. A little spooky, too, considering . . .

*. *. *

So you see what I mean — a total bust of a day. But looking ahead, Saturday (the 21st) promises to be a beaut — eleven events, including Big Whopper Liar Day. I didn’t even know the Trumpster had a day named after him.

And on that totally boring note, I’ll be signing off now. See you back here tomorrow.

TTFN,
Brendochka
9/19/24

I’ve read your charming little foray into the rarefied world of poetry, and decided if you can do it, anyone can. So here is my pitiful stab at a response, just for fun (which I assume was also your intention):

Perhaps religion’s not to blame;
Grok* might be the culprit’s name.

Technocrats and AI freaks,
Billionaires, computer geeks,

“Migrants eating people’s pets,”
“No one’s shot at Biden yet,“

People with too many kids.
This whole world has hit the skids.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
9/19/24

(* Reportedly the name of Elon Musk’s AI chatbot)

Remember when your mail box — the one outside your house — used to be full of magazines and catalogs, bills, and the occasional letter or birthday card? And how at Christmastime you couldn’t figure out how the mail carrier managed to cram everything in there, because you needed a crowbar to get it all out?

Well, times have changed. There are still a few paper catalogs that find their way to me, and I actually enjoy looking at some of them — it’s the same as my preference for a real, hard-cover book over an e-reader. But let’s face it: nearly everything arrives electronically these days, and most of our shopping is done that way as well.

And once you’ve ordered something — anything — online, they’ve got you!

Who are “they”? Pretty much everyone. I wake up each day to an Inbox with anywhere from 60 to 100 emails, and once I’ve deleted all the crap, I’m usually left with fewer than a dozen that I need or want to read. And they keep coming throughout the day. You can find me, at all sorts of odd hours, deleting emails while fixing my lunch, doing the laundry, or sitting on the toilet. I believe it’s called multi-tasking.

But for some odd reason — probably out of sheer boredom — I decided today to actually look at the headers of some of those deleted items before clearing out my Trash box again. And quite a few of them were rather intriguing, so I thought I’d share them with you in case any of them sound like something you might need or want. For example:

Burning prostate. Instantly release a powerful pee stream. I won’t add a picture to this one — the mental image is quite enough. But I am compelled to remind the sender of that message that I am 100% female. Got no prostate, don’t want one — got all I can do to manage the feminine plumbing, thank you.

SonoBello Laser Lipo. I resent the implication that I may need, or want, liposuction. Have you seen me lately? Have you ever seen me? And even if I were morbidly obese, did it ever occur to you that some people might be happy that way? Just go away, you weight-obsessed freaks.

Advanced Dermatology. Fall in love with your skin. Just how ugly do these people think I am?!!

Conservative Intel. Yeah, right. If it’s political, it goes straight to the Trash bin. You don’t get to know my thoughts. Ever.

Byte Invisible Braces. Time’s running out on getting a new smile. I’m a very senior citizen. Time is running out on almost everything. I’m not spending what’s left of my time and money on braces.

Body Contouring by SonoBello. It’s Not Too Late to Get Your Body Back. Oh, yes, it is! And I’ve already said no to you a thousand times. Take the hint.

Huge stomach. Drink these herbs before 10 a.m. . . . Eeeeeekkk!!!!

“Mushroom Magic.” Take a bite, sit back, and let the good times roll. What is this — the ‘60s???? Is this even legal?

Hims Affiliate Offer. Get back in the game with Hims ED treatments. Again, guys . . . I’m a girly-girl. Unless “ED” stands for “extra donuts,” I couldn’t possibly care less.

Meet Seniors Dating Offer. Yeah . . . like I’d be the least bit interested in some old fart my own age. Sheesh!

Tommy Chong’s CBD. Well, now . . .

Manhood-booster. Drink 1 cup every morning to boost sex drive. I think we’ve already covered this. Next . . .

Insta Hard. The “Hidden Part” of your penis . . . Oh, my God! What is wrong with these people??!!!

There were lots more — a cure for testicular cancer, something to “clear away herpes,” and an offer to introduce me to beautiful Ukrainian women.

Just FYI, again — no testicles, no herpes, and I am a beautiful Ukrainian woman! Well, I was better-looking when I was much younger, but my grandparents were from Ukraine, so . . .

But there you have it: today’s version of junk mail — way more than would ever have fit into that outdoor mailbox in paper form. And most of it would have been illegal to ship through the mails in the first place.

I miss the good old days.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
9/19/24

It seems the United States is once again being looked upon unfavorably by the Chinese government — which means by Xi Jinping — this time because of our friendly relationship with independent, democratically-governed Taiwan and the fact that we have had the audacity to sell weapons to the Taiwanese government for its defense.

Defense against whom? Well, the People’s Republic of China, of course — which, since its founding in 1949, has never, ever had sovereignty over Taiwan. But Xi — much like Vladimir Putin and his claims of Russian hegemony over Ukraine — tries to harken back to ancient times, ignoring the geopolitical changes that have occurred over the centuries.

In Xi’s mind, the U.S. is the bad guy for promoting democracy, and for refusing to comply with China’s demands that we “refrain from formal dealings with [Taiwan’s] leadership.” [Liz Lee and Bernard Orr, Reuters, September 18, 2024.] So he has taken steps to punish us, by freezing the assets of nine U.S. companies in China, and describing the actions as countermeasures.

Those companies are Sierra Nevada Corporation; Stick Rudder Enterprises LLC; Cubic Corporation; S3 Aerospace; TCOM Ltd Partnership; TextOre; Planate Management Group; ACT1 Federal; and Exovera. [Id.]

Spokesman for China’s Foreign Ministry Lin Jian, at a regular press briefing this week, urged the United States to “Stop conniving and supporting Taiwan independence, and stop undermining peace and stability in the Taiwan Strait.” [Id.]

Clearly, this is not a matter to be taken lightly. I hope it doesn’t become one of those tit-for-tat incidents, because, as of the end of 2022, there were approximately 5,000 Chinese-owned businesses in the United States, in such diverse fields as technology, manufacturing, finance, and real estate.

I’m thinking that that’s a lot of potential counter-countermeasures.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
9/19/24

One day they were Sophie, 11, and Daniel, 9 — the children of Ludwig Gisch and Maria Mayer Munos, Argentine citizens who had left their country to escape the high crime rate and resettled in Slovenia.

The next day, they were on a plane to Moscow, being told that they were not Argentinian, but Russian, and that their parents’ names were Artyom and Anna Dultsev — Russian spies who had been living as illegals since before the children were born, and were now returning to their real home, in Russia. For good.

Leaving behind their friends, their school, their neighbors, without so much as a goodbye. Being whisked away on a plane to Ankara, Turkey, where they boarded a second plane with their parents — who had spent the past year and a half in a Slovenian prison on charges of espionage, though the children had been told it was because of an immigration problem. This flight headed to Moscow as part of a multi-nation spy swap. And there, legally on Russian “territory” in a Russian-owned aircraft, they were finally told the truth.

How could this be possible? Who are we? Who are you? What is our life going to be like from now on? What are our real names? What language will we have to learn next? Has everything been a lie? We don’t understand!

All of these questions, and more, must have been going through the minds of Sophie and Daniel Dultsev as they tried to make sense of what was happening. Then they were on the ground, being welcomed to this strange place as celebrities, given flowers by an obviously important man they didn’t recognize, being told he was the President of Russia.

The President! Our parents must be very special.

The Soviet “illegals” program has been well documented, and has been the subject of numerous films, including arguably the best of the fictionalized versions, The Americans — a made-for-TV series that ran from 2013 to 2018. (Caution: extreme violence and sexual content.)

And Vladimir Putin has for decades been working to restore that illegals program to its former elevated status. These people are selected, not only for their intelligence and linguistic skills, but also for their dedication to their country, and their willingness to sacrifice any hope of a “normal” life in order to spy on the country to which they are sent. They marry the person to whom they are assigned, assume the identities of real people who no longer exist, raise families, gather information, spread propaganda . . . and live among us — our neighbors, co-workers, friends — undetected for years.

Even their children are unaware of who they really are — usually until they are old enough to understand and perhaps to be recruited to their parents’ cause.

But occasionally they are caught, as were the Dultsevs. Told that their parents had to go away for a while until their immigration status was straightened out, the children were placed with a family selected by their Russian handler. Still, they thought they were Argentinian until that unimaginable, life-changing day, August 1, 2024, when they learned the truth.

And now what? The parents, Anna and Artyom, will no doubt be awarded good jobs and a pleasant place to live. But what about the children, who will enter school to begin learning the Russian language . . . and the Russian way of life under Vladimir Putin? Are they young enough to adapt easily, and to put aside their past lives in Argentina and Slovenia? Or are they old enough to resist the new life being thrust upon them?

Much will of course depend on the way they have been raised until now: how strict their upbringing has been at home; what they have learned in school and from friends about Russia and the war in Ukraine; whether they will ever again be able to trust their parents completely, or feel the same closeness to them. It all remains to be seen . . . and they may be just fine. But it won’t be easy.

And I worry about them, for they were given no choice.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
9/18/24

You never liked having your picture taken, which was silly because you were a very pretty woman. But since I don’t have any later photos of you, we’ll have to make do with this one. In the top left corner, you’re the bathing beauty on the left next to your mother (my Bubbe), with your father (my Zayde) seated and some woman I don’t recognize standing or kneeling behind you. I also thought you’d enjoy seeing some of the old pictures of other family members. Say hello and hug them for me, will you?

You would have been 117 now, if you hadn’t gone and died on Merna’s 58th birthday — this date in 1991. It’s been 33 years, and I just don’t know where the time has gone.

You’ve missed a lot of good stuff, including great-grandchildren, smart phones, and my blog — you always did enjoy my writing. But you’ve also been spared all the woes of the world since then, so maybe you’re the lucky one after all.

Today is Merna’s 91st birthday, you know. Please be sure to take her out to dinner, as I’m not there to do it. And remember — there’s no nagging in Heaven, so let her enjoy her dessert . . . and you pick up the check.

Also, you should order all the cholesterol you want — it can’t hurt you now.

Love,
Brenda
9/18/24

I don’t remember when we started calling each other “Merny” and “Brendy,” but somehow it stuck. And that’s how I still think of us.

It’s another birthday for you, and half-birthday for me. We won’t be going out to dinner as we always did, or reminiscing about the early years in New England and the coming-of-age years in Washington. And we won’t be laughing about how pissed Mother was that we never included her in our birthday dinners, and how she couldn’t understand that we wanted something that was just for us.

But I still remember it all — especially my 30th when I passed out in Costin’s Sirloin Room and embarrassed the hell out of you (again). And your 58th, when Mother decided to get even for all those missed dinners by dying right on the day, and we never did make it to dinner at Le Refuge that year.

I never would have believed, all those years ago, that I would miss you this much. But I do. You take care.

Love you,
Brendy

Well, actually, it’s both. But timing, delivery and inflection can make a huge difference.

Here we have Dmitry Medvedev, once officially President of the Russian Federation (2008-2012) while Vladimir Putin pulled the strings from the office of the Prime Minister during the constitutionally-required waiting period before he could resume the presidency for several more extended terms . . . Well, it’s complicated. Suffice it to say, Medvedev played the role beautifully, acting as the calm, reasonable, almost democratic foil to the more bombastic, authoritarian Putin.

Then, by pre-arrangement, in 2012 they switched places again when Putin was elected — not for another four years — but for six, in accordance with a constitutional amendment he had rammed through the Russian Parliament.

And Medvedev was right there with him, serving as Prime Minister for
the next eight years, until 2020 . . .

. . . when for some unexplained reason, he was shifted to his current role of Deputy Chairman of the Security Council of the Russian Federation.

If that seems like a demotion, don’t be fooled — it isn’t. The Chairman of the Security Council is Vladimir Putin himself, making Medvedev effectively Putin’s No. 1 right-hand security guy. And he has been taking full advantage of his position, making himself heard — loud and clear — at every opportunity. And what we are hearing is anger, and hatred, and vengefulness.

His is the dominant voice warning of a Russian nuclear response to any perceived threat from the West. And most recently, he threatened that such a response — in the event of Ukraine’s use of U.S.-supplied long-range missiles to strike deep within Russian territory — would have “irreversible consequences.”

Dmitry Medvedev has evolved over the past two dozen years from Mr. Nice Guy to The Face of Armageddon: the man who would love to push the button to begin the ultimate meltdown. How did that happen? Was it the result of years of association with Putin and his inner circle? Or is this the real Medvedev, previously cloaked in a patina of reason and gentility, only now permitted by circumstances to reveal his true self?

Whatever the answer, this “new” Medvedev is clearly not on Santa’s “nice” list. I foresee a lump of coal in his Christmas stocking.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
9/17/24