From the outset the summer of 1991 did not seem to be yet another time to slow down at work and study and head down to the Black Sea and other vacation spots – a favourite time of the year for multitudes worn out by cold winters and long line-ups at food stores just to procure some basics such as milk, bread and sausage. The lines, of course did not cease to exist in any summer, but standing in t-shirts and sandals surely beat other, more fury, alternatives. Moreover, in summer regular Soviets could indulge not only in outdoor swimming and picnicking, but also got a chance to replenish their immune systems with plentiful cherries, plums, water melons and other un-winterized grub.
Everyone seemed to be more optimistic and easy-going. Young kids stayed up way past their usual bedtimes and the soccer ball did not stop its frantic pace until nearly midnight darkness swallowed the last chance for a decent target. Everyone was sweaty, but it did not matter. When the majority eschew the use of deodorant, armpit odours do not offend anymore than a waft of manure when driving by cow farms. While still individuals, we enjoyed our collective pride even in the middle of stinky hot summers.
After all, we were a part of the mighty multicultural edifice of the worker’ paradise – the place found wanting on just about any account of proper service to its owners. The very owners, who were supposed to feel rich after years of struggles - be it behind a tractor wheel or drawing board. Instead our efforts were paying less and less with every year. And yet, the overwhelming majority found it more than tolerable, mainly on two accounts – relative equality and sense of belonging. The former did not offer much other than equal share in very little, and the latter exalted our miniscule cog-like efforts to the level of grandeur and importance that was the state itself – Union of Soviet Socialist Republics!
And yet all this was about to change. Latest Moscow attempts at some semblance of reasonable economic reforms were not paying off. The prices were escalating and yet hardly contributed to anything muncheable appearing on store shelves. Suddenly, everyone with responsibilities of family or old age had to stress over bare essentials – forget about seaside holidays and endless strawberry feasts. All would have been nice had we all had to suffer in this together. Alas, a speedily emerging entrepreneurial class was driving a thrusting stake at the heart of this illusion. Now, the collective misery would no longer do, people starting suffering individually, evolution like.
The second great pillar of all hopes pinned on the state was showing even faster signs of deterioration – ethnic strife, nationalistic movements and the ever weakening hand of the Secretary General was rendering the whole ship rudderless. No more pleasantries of collective miseries, no more protective guard rails of certainty. Survival of the fittest was becoming not only the preferred modus operandi but the very order of things.
This new order gave much hope to young and relatively rich so that a surprising level of optimism was emerging right behind the crumbling edifice of uniformity. The whole society was tipping like a huge scale – the mighty Boss was losing its balancing grip – sending its subjects flying in opposite directions like a mighty Big Bang.
Being young, brash, relatively educated and somewhat connected my fortunes did not seem to be going anywhere but up.
Secret Skivvies
By this time I was more than a year into my translating gigs that had proven very eventful, educational and lucrative by Soviet standards. While my mom, the music teacher with family responsibilities was subsisting on an equivalent of about $20USD per month, my bosses were paying at least $40 per week plus room and board. Though I worked, on average, no more than two weeks per month, I had plenty of quickly wilting Soviet dough and dollars on hand to throw around. In addition, I supplemented my income with a clandestine currency exchange operation that counted as its top asset a pair of boxer shorts underwear with pockets, fashioned by whom else but my dear mother.
Whenever leaving for Moscow, the usual starting point for my gigs, the well-sewn pockets contained heavy stacks of soggy roubles. When coming home, the pockets rested under a light yoke of valuable greenery. This is the operation in the nutshell; the rest was a matter of contacts. Since currency exchanged outside Soviet Central Bank was deemed illegal and could not avail itself of nearly costless transfers between non-existent commercial banks, there was a geographic premium. For example, Moscow International Airport at Sheremetyevo could command an exchange rate of 1USD to 14 roubles when in Centre of Moscow it could go up to 15 and in the Ukrainian periphery it fetched easy 20. As you can see the spreads were humongous – a rather lucrative proposition for anybody having a first name access to US dollars in addition to a pair of sturdy underwear.
Plans
The summer heat and relative happiness of my situation did not manage to completely erase any concerns about the future. In those days, it did not take a prophet to see that something was going to give and any sort of calamity, material or otherwise, might be just around the corner. Plus, I was entering my mid twenties and preoccupations about a career and future geography were raising their profile. Continuing along an already existing path seemed a bit short-sighted and I needed to make some decisions. The key one was either to stay or try to emigrate. Staying had certain familiarity about it, but certainly lacked adventure and failed to satisfy basic curiosity.
Working with Americans, British and Germans was a blast, but I really needed to see the world or at least parts of it for myself. Otherwise, I was going to be forever bound solely to my meagre imagination. So, “going” was definitely tipping the scales. But where to – remained a key question.
Israel seemed to the easiest option with its embrace of anybody with proven Jewish ancestry. Many had already gone and even more were going this somewhat questionable route. The lull in the perennial Mid East dangers seemed to have suspended underlying tensions and made the option more palatable. Many simply did not care about Arafat, Rabin and company. All they wanted was a warm piece of bread, a pair of jeans, and a job that paid enough to have a car – an ultimate Soviet dream of material riches.
In a way it was not all that dire in the Promised Land. After all, the economy was still moving along nicely, providing many opportunities for newcomers in addition to the generous socialist-like state and a bunch of support. The prospect of learning a new language was an additional perk for my linguistic juices. So, on the whole I was sort of getting ready. The first order of business, of course, was to make sure that I was unquestionably Jewish as far as the Zion State was concerned. What could be easier you might ask given that I was fed Yiddish when I was two, my father bore a name of Schneiderstein and some called me a Kike in the high school?
Alas, Israel accepted one’s Jewishness only on the mother’s side and since my half-Jewish mother had a proud Ukrainian name and papers, this presented a slight problem. This could have been a huge issue to anybody hailing from Canada or New Zealand, the countries notorious for general lack of corruption. In the Soviet Union, on the other hand we lived, breathed and ate bribes, gifts and other forms of gratitude. In fact, two weeks and $50USD later, I had my artistically altered birth certificate that cried 100% Jewish.
Now, nothing seemed to stand in the way of yet another recanted Zionist returning to the motherland. And had it not been for one singular conversation with one particular type, whose name completely escapes me, it could have been exactly that. He told me “With English like yours I would not go anywhere by the US”…
The remonstrative refrain sort of stuck and I decided to switch gears and reconsider. After all I not only had the language but also a myriad of contacts I was so happy to brag about. Since my long-lost relatives in San Francisco and LA were not mentioned in my friends’ list, a more straightforward emigration path would not do. I had to resort to something way more convoluted that usually started with a tourist visa.
Cedric
Tourist visa required an invitation from a bona fide American. In this case, Cedric Jackman was going to be my man. Having worked in the Soviet Union for less than a year, this short, bolding and jovial chap in his early forties felt compelled to find a local bride. The search did not take long considering his flawless pioneer background, real New Hampshire address and amiable disposition that sent effulgently beaming smiles to anyone needing a boost. Both, Rita and he, wore large prescription glasses, smoked a lot and looked alike. A perfect match especially for me since now Cedric could be easily found in the neighbouring town of Zheltiy Vodi (Yellow Water – must be uranium or something…), where he spent much time between his projects in the small Rita’s flat complete with a balcony and the bride’s mother. Balcony was great for summer smoking feasts and mother was even handier for good diet and general happiness.
Cedric and I were pretty close given the dearth of people he could speak English with. We shared humorous disposition, some cigarettes (mostly his) and a complete lack of similarity in appearance. His conqueringly monolingual tendencies hardly allowed for much interaction other than those with his English teacher wife and me. Since her English was somewhat stultified by rambunctious and indifferent hordes of children from a backwater town, my flamboyant and bright linguistic tendencies might have even put her in a jealous bent at one time. But not to worry, her current spousal status of a certified earner of hard currency was enough to cure any awkwardness in her pronunciation and grammar. In fact, we all were having fun with the exception of my not having a right visa. I even had to play a silly role of the best man at his civil wedding ceremony conducted in the best Soviet traditions (grey suits, vodka and mounds of food). After that I was nearly a family member with motherly dinners and good smokes spilling my way on more than one occasion.
Now came to time to ask for an important favour – an invitation. When asked, Cedric gave me another slow once-over worthy of a true patriot and said “OK”. Having reservations about me staying behind did not bother him so long as nobody from the US Immigration showed up on his doorstep some time later demanding an explanation. I, of course, gave carefully worded assurances to the contrary. After all, a six-month stay in the US looked like eternity to resolve all possible issues. Besides, as it turned out later, the ability of the US Immigration to deal with paper was limited to say the least. So much so that Cedric’s invitation was unlikely to be dug out from under the mound of other useless forms and statements.
Summer Snores
Armed with the invitation I was ready to go Moscow for my visa. However, it was the middle of August, it was hot and I did not feel like taking a hot and stuffy train ride to Moscow. It could certainly wait. Instead, packing some books and a radio for a camping trip to a quiet river location sounded like a splendid idea. Mother and I rented a small cabin right by a small beach amid refreshing aromas of surrounding pine trees. I indulged in prolonged reading sessions, BBC radio broadcasts, countryside jogs and not much else. It was truly relaxing and I was looking forward to every minute of our time there.
On the morning of August 18, I got up early with the sunrise shortly before 6AM and turned on my radio for an early briefing from my trusted BBC sources. The smooth and soothing voices in flawless Queen’s English kept their flawless pace amidst interest rates, Middle East and housing prices. Suddenly, the broadcast signal sent a worrying piercing signal. The broadcast went dead…After a twenty seconds or so, the connection was reinstated with a stifling voice announcing that something wrong had gone down in Moscow.
Quick Change
Apparently Gorbachev had not been seen and heard from for days and as of this morning the Soviet TV went classical, as classical music was played on all four channels - a “tell-tell” sign that somebody on the top had died. Suddenly, interest rates and commercial housing did not matter any more, all news were about Moscow, Russia and Crimea where Gorbachev had been seen last. After a couple of hours the picture was getting a little clearer. Gorbachev was either dead or incapacitated and the power was claimed by some of the most conservative political personalities bent on turning back the clock of Perestroika and Glasnost. To ensure that their plan was going down smoothly, they ordered a considerable troop built up right outside of Moscow with many tanks and armoured carriers showing up on the city’s outskirts. It felt like 1941 all over again. Then the Soviet forces managed to rebuff all German efforts after months of fighting. Was there anything to stand in the way of tanks this time? Was the nascent democratic movement capable of preserving its recent advances? All was up in the air and a cold clammy waft of the Stone Age was upon us once again. I could just imagine Stalinist repressions, prison camps and children waiting in vain for their parents’ return.
The time to sit and wait was over. It was time to get out and pronto. Within a couple of hours I made a decision to get to Moscow as soon as possible in order to get my visa before they totally shut the borders. Forget about pine cone idyll, I jumped on the first bus home. There everything looked sort of normal save for huge line-ups at the Aeroflot counter. Luckily, the cashier I frequently dealt with was working that day. She did her best to find any connection to Moscow. The earliest available flight was departing that very night at 10PM, which meant that I would arrive in the fateful capital close to midnight. Not the best option but it will do.
New Reality
The plane was full to the brim and more. Some, having paid someone outside the official cash register, found themselves sharing a galley with flight attendants and crowding out toilet access for more fortunate with real tickets. No worries I could wait for a pee break, as long the overloaded hardware held long enough to get us to Moscow in less than two hours and preferably in one piece. This time the machine held… And we got dumped in the middle of the wilderness that surrounded the smallest Moscow airport – Bykovo. The overcrowded reception hall betrayed a typical summer travelling nightmare that was the Soviet Union. People were everywhere – sitting, standing, smoking and slouching. Many, unable to find seats, doused off right on the top of their luggage. You had to literally step over bodies just to get through the door.
Some flickering black and white TVs were on and here for the first time I heard the official propaganda – Gorbachev was gravely ill in Crimea, his Party lieutenants took over the controls with declaration of the state of emergency (the first since the WWII) to protect “working” people. In essence, the constitution was suspended and any resistance was to be dealt with harshly. Recent freedoms, daring reforms and floundering economic changes were just a part of a soothing dream that had just transmogrified into the nightmare of reality.
I needed to get to the centre of the city as soon as possible to try my luck with freedom loving Yankees. With time ticking past midnight I did not want to disturb my friend, Vladimir, and instead I opted for the last bus into town. This one stuffed with bags, garlic breath and sweaty bodies felt like a jar of pickles. Standing and clinging to a small portion of an overhead rail was the only option. Lulled by lumbering pace of the rickety bus and exhausted by day’s worries I kept falling asleep standing. Every time my mind drifted off I released my grip on reality and plunged on the shoulder of the next customer. “Bang!” – rudely awakened by a sharp bony shoulder and a momentary lack of gravity, I would tense up and gather myself – “sorry…”
After twenty or thirty of these mini-sleeps we were coming close to the centre of town. And here for the first time in my life I saw tanks. I do not mean tanks gracing museum pedestals or rolling on training polygons. No these tanks were rolling along city streets with their hatchets drown and ready for battle. This was a very startling sight not to mention many a soldier on foot with Kalashnikovs on the ready – just like jungle military raids in the movies, except this was not a movie and the jungle was substituted with regular apartments blocks.
Our route lay right through the very heart of the city. When crossing a bridge near the Kiev Railway Station, we got within direct eyesight of the “White House” – the building of the Russian Parliament. The massive building of white marble was illuminated by hundreds of searching projector lights softly shimmering against pitch dark sky. Here nobody was sleeping – it was the headquarters of the defiant Yeltsin and his supporters. Earlier in the day, upon hearing of the Putsch and the state of emergency, Yeltsin promptly climbed on the first friendly tank and threw a gauntlet to the Putsch leaders. He and his democratic supporters would fight to their last breath any incursions on near and dear freedoms. Promptly, his office in the White House became the official headquarters of the resistance.
Definitely underestimated by the Putsch leaders, the nascent democratic forces in Russia were not only ready to die for their country but also numbered a great deal more in their ranks than ever previously envisioned. The population might have been divided on the event but the progressive camp clearly counted on some braver hearts. In fact, the White House was surrounded by a wide perimeter of barricades made up of cars, trolley buses and concrete construction road blocks. Behind the ominous signs of the impending confrontation there were thousands upon thousands of people ready to defend their stronghold with bare hands. As our bus was passing over the bridge, the history itself was unfurling its unforgettable panorama right in front of us. Bewildered and awed by the moment, I could not help but gaze and wonder what would happen next. It looked a little hopeless for the good guys. Being hardly more than a mile away from Kremlin, the heart of the conspiracy, they did not seem to stand a chance to fight off cold tank armour and aerial assaults. They needed a miracle and soon, as the geographic proximity of camps and their clashing views would not survive for long. Something had to give. It was frightening, fateful and even ironic that the future of the biggest country in the world would be resolved in a tiny space of few square kilometres.
Eventually, the bus took us to the central Aeroflot terminal that exhibited just about the same level of chaos I saw back in Bykovo. It was nearly two and the subway was not running for another four hours – a small patch of cold granite floor was the only solace. By six o’clock I dragged my aching limbs to the nearby subway station. Many others were waiting there in the fresh air of dawn. It was invigorating and birds were chirping, unwittingly celebrating a new day. The scene would have been worthy of yet another “Idyllic morning in the workers’ paradise”. Alas, instead of contemplating artists of Bolshevist ilk imbibing in the atmosphere and hunting for inspiration worthy of a next “worker stature”, the air was filled with one worrying topic – the Putsch. Apparently something was amiss in the conspirator plans. They were clearly losing some valuable time by not challenging Yeltsin. In addition, now they had to countenance a stiff resistance out in the periphery, most notably in the Baltics and in Leningrad. To top things off, there were plenty of rumours about some army battalions switching their allegiance to Yeltsin and his allies. The air hang thick with unspent gun powder…
Vladimir and Co
Once at Vladimir’s, I could not any better than to catch on my sleep right in the middle of his single room apartment. His old worn out carpet smelling of dust felt like a king’s bed after the granite of the air terminal. Refreshed I was ready to partake in whatever Vladimir had in mind and his upstairs had a plenty of bubbling activity. As a Russian partaker of American movie fortunes spawning all sorts of unhealthy violence, language and bodies; his cinematic future had a lot to lose behind a re-installed Iron Curtain.
A couple of friends of his, Sergey and Tonya, in their mid-twenties shared the same attitude. They liked their jeans, sneakers and foreign tobacco products, but most of all they appreciated new opportunities that their ambitious nature craved. Predictably, they fervently supported resistance and were quite vocal about it. I was not far behind in my fervency – after all earning dollars was a little more exciting than surviving on a rouble diet.
It was after lunch, Vladimir’s apartment was small and stuffy and our collective energies an outlet for action. To sit and watch state TV did not seem that great of an option. Listening to Voice of America and BBC was way more entertaining, but who could resist the real deal as the drama was unfolding just miles away. No, waiting to be fed democracy with a silver-spoon did not sound all that exciting. Instead, we all jumped into Vladimir’s old Lada and sped up towards the future. The latter looked a little messy right now with ever-growing barricades along the perimeter of the White House. The resistance had a couple of tanks that switched allegiance earlier in the game plus few AK-47s and smaller munitions to boot. Other than that, the thousands of supporters in and out of the defensive perimeter were mostly disposed to the WWIV type of warfare – sticks, paving stones and Molotov cocktails.
Red Guard
Seeing the mayhem once again was a little sobering. This time we stood a chance of doing something really important or stupid or both. In any case, we unanimously decided to enlist our help in more official capacity by volunteering to man a portion of a barricade. A young, brisk and moustached descendant of 1917 generation dressed in a leather jacket and worn-out jeans took our names and assigned us to a spot behind some overturned trolleybuses. Everything around was chaotic and full of frightful expectations. Hardly anybody seemed to have any idea of what it all could lead to. Instead to stub very real and gnawing fears, everybody resorted to some favourite methods – anxious chatter, silence and cigarettes. Some, expecting a long wait, started a fire to warm up. Other engaged in constant relaying of any news and rumours swimming in the wide ocean of fear and determination. Clearly, something was not going right for the Putsch instigators otherwise the place would have been wiped clean hours ago. They were procrastinating and it did not bode well for their prospects. In fact, many were predicting new army defections to the Yeltsin’s camp. All of it sounded reassuring but apparent results were not quite in yet, as two lonely tanks persisted to cover the position right in front of the building.
For our gang, everything was going surreal once again since we have crossed a vast bridge between watching TV and being on it. Everything had happened so fast that we did everything almost automatically – driving to the White House, walking through the barricades and talking to the leather bound revolutionary felt like a distant memory although it had happened literally moments ago. Bewildered in our tracks, we got pelted by a sudden onslaught of rain. Refreshing downpour cleared our minds by exposing our key weakness right away – we did not have anything but t-shirts and the night temperatures were likely to get into single digits. This sounded like a perfect excuse to leave the barricades for a while, and re-assess our revolutionary fervour. Not much was going at the moment and I did not feel bad leaving for a while. Relieved, we left only to be substituted with new recruits arriving in one incessant stream of people’s conscientiousness.
Better dressed and fed, we showed up again few hours later. Fortunately, our old position was filled to the brim with new recruits, so we decided to take on a more freelancing and less frightful role of casual supporters. No stones, sticks and Molotov cocktails for us – just maintaining the overall body count was important, since now the proceedings were beamed out to the whole world by some fearless and entrepreneurial TV types sneaking in and out of the crowd. The world was rooting for us and it felt great. Some even helped in more tangible ways with the nearby American Embassy compound serving pizza to the hungry resisters.
The rain had now turned into a perpetual drizzle, everyone around sort of cuddled to a net man to get through the night. Around 9PM, a big meeting at the back of the building opened up. Speakers, mostly elected Russian officials and presidential confidants with human and bullet proof barriers in front of them, offered much encouragement – the latest news were not that great for the Putsch and it was about to fall. But the ordeal was unlikely to end without spilling some blood that simply would not be very Russian. To do it though, the leaders of the Putsch would have to open fire at civilians, us, - not a very comforting thought to someone with an unexpired cabin lease by the river side. Oh well, the general mood was sombre but optimistic, full of hope for soon resolution. The speeches went on till almost midnight, but I did not even notice the passage of time. It stood still like crowds in the rain. The country was at a complete standstill, deep in the bottom of proverbial political black hole.
Night Stroll
Feeling haggard, our brave group of four joined by a couple of other Vladimir’s friends, decided to take a short stroll in the direction of Kremlin, the nest of conspirators. Despite potential dangers, time of the night and complete absence of traffic, Kalinin Prospect was just teeming with people. It was almost like a celebration of some kind. Nobody could stay away, especially young people who came in droves to witness history first hand. It even felt exhilarating – in a weird sort of way.
We barely managed to cover a couple of blocks when we heard the roar of approaching tanks. “This is what we have been waiting for” I thought. We stopped in our tracks mesmerised and then bolted back in unison, just like in an Olympic 100-meter dash, to see what was happening. As we reached, nearly breathless, the wide intersection between Sadovoye Kolco and Kalinin Prospect, we saw a column of tanks and infantry carriers rolling at us. The shrilling roar of steel demolishing soft summer asphalt was unbearable, it all sounded like sirens of hell, reverberating among tall neighbouring buildings with ever more dissonance. They were about four hundred yards away. The only thing between us and them was a pair of overturned trolley buses and some other scrap. Other than that we were in their direct sights.
For a minute, our side went completely silent. You could not do anything; you were hypnotised as if by a snake-charmer on an eastern bazaar. It felt and sounded like a dream, but dream it was not. After a couple of moments, some, recovering their senses, started to assume more defensive position. I was still standing bound by the unforgettable spectacle. Three hundred yards to go, two fifty, two hundred – now the tanks were rolling right in front of the silent and blacked-out edifice of the American Embassy.
“Boom! Boom! Boom!” – the skies were illuminated with hundreds of tracer bullets screaming just over our heads. Everyone in front of me fell on the ground, I fell too, only to get up and run down the ramp, opposite the tank approach side. Somebody shouted in pain, a screeching gut-wrenching sound of scraping metal followed. The air was filled with terrorising noise of large and implacable pieces of metal flying through the air and ready to obliterate anything in their way. I have been to a AK-47 shooting range once when in high school. The experience left me in awe of the powerful gun recoil and its tremendous destructive noise – I never wanted to be on the receiving end. Now we all were a target! Piercing bullets, shattered glass and urban echoes momentarily created a mini version of hell.
All six of us found a momentary refuge by the ground level entry into a store on the corner. While relatively safe behind a high concrete curb, the place did not offer much in a long run. “Boom! Scrraaap!” – the tanks hit the first trolley bus barricade. “Scrrrrr” – a horrid gnashing sound accompanied another tank ripping through the mangled metal carcasses. They were coming ever closer. Behind they had few infantry carriers with machine guns indiscriminately spraying the deadly metal into the air. Tracers seemed to be whizzing by within a touching distance. “Thud” – a sizeable glob of concrete flew off a higher floor just to splatter in a myriad of pieces – we could not sit there any longer. Any minute it seemed and tanks can plough right into us and moving out of their way seemed the only option. Moving but where?
Crossing the street was extremely dangerous as we would be directly in the path of wide open shots from machine guns. Running around the corner towards Kremlin appeared even less sensible. The only thing we could do was to run away from the tanks along the building to the next street corner where we could turn away from Sadovoye Kolco and get lost in the narrow streets and lanes of Arbat.
“One, two, three” we all took-off in a desperate push for safety. Carl Lewis stand aside please, our relay was about to break any record and our necks in the process. “Whew” – just around the corner and we are in a little dark park. Nobody is around even though the mayhem was taking place just steps away. We had enough time to catch a breath and make the next decision. Sergey seems to have the clearest of dispositions – “they are finally clamping down and it is going to be a blood bath out there. Being cut-off from the main barricades offers us nothing but retreat”…
To be quite frank, at this stage I could only think retreat anyway. Everyone in the gang agreed. It was time to use the complicated Arbat to escape before we get snagged by KGB dragnet that was certainly coming. After a few minutes we got to the Old Arbat itself. Usually bustling with tourists and locals alike, it was eerily quiet and deserted except for a couple of tanks on each side of the intersection. By now, the dreadful machine gun fire and booming sounds of tanks turning anything in their way into scrap were far enough to create a sensation that all of this was just a harmless sci-fi movie. We still could vividly hear the battle and see helicopters zooming overhead, bur being surrounded in the cloak of darkness and immediately surrounding silence, it felt almost fuzzy and entertaining.
Attic
Well, Vladimir did not think that way at all. In his mind we had to clear out of the area before they got us. Crossing Old Arbat was the only option. “One, two, three” – we dash across, ferociously pounding the pavement. Alas, Old Arbat intersections are not all straight, so we had to run about fifty yards along the Old Arbat itself to reach the next corner. Suddenly, a strong directed light from the nearest tank beamed right into our backs – they saw us! Even before my brain could generate its next thought – “Boom! Boom!” – two handgun shots were fired behind. Fortunately, unhurt we reach the corner and gallop down a narrow alley. It was short and abutted another major street. Scared enough we did not think kindly of another mad crossing, instead we decided to hide in an attic of the apartment building in the middle of the block.
Luckily, the doors were open and we flew up to the fifth floor in no time at all. The thick metal bars doors leading to the attic were firmly shut, leaving us crowding on the top of the staircase and pondering our further course of action. Drenched in sweat, pale and exhausted I just wanted to crash right on cold stony steps. Vladimir and the gang felt the same – taking a much needed smoke break was definitely in order.
We thought of trying to knock on some doors and ask for shelter. Predictably, we were not the only ones frightened to death. We tried several doors but nobody wanted to take any risks – some did not answer our calls at all, others told us to go to hell. Nobody was in the mood to tempt KGB. As such, all we could do was to listen to the battle, smoke and concoct believable alibis.
The shooting ended sometime before 3AM. The still and quiet sounds of the night returned – a hungry baby clamouring for mothers milk, cats fighting for a piece of garbage and occasional heavy truck driving over our rattled senses. The early 6AM sunset saw us leaving the doorway in the groups of two – all according to the made-up story of late partiers. Putsch – what Putsch? Yeltsin – Who is he? We knew nothing and it was clearly smudged over our pale undernourished faces, ya right…
Once back on the street and despite all our fears, the life outside appeared inexplicably normal. People seemed to be going about their usual business, doormen were sweeping freshly watered sidewalks and a passing trolleybus actually carried passengers. The tanks were gone from the Old Arbat and some stores fronts were coming back to life – incredible! Having asked around, we promptly found out that Putsch had collapsed, Yeltsin triumphed and Gorbachev was on his way back to the capital. What about the battle itself? Despite our impressions, the machine guns actually never did fire on the crowds and sent their bullets straight into the air instead. The clash between tanks and barricades was a real battle but only for a time, as only three lives were lost in the mayhem. But even this was enough for the Putsch leaders to lose their cool and call off the troops. By then it was a rather empty gesture, as majority of troops had switched their allegiance to the Yeltsin’s camp. We won!
Everyone seemed to be more optimistic and easy-going. Young kids stayed up way past their usual bedtimes and the soccer ball did not stop its frantic pace until nearly midnight darkness swallowed the last chance for a decent target. Everyone was sweaty, but it did not matter. When the majority eschew the use of deodorant, armpit odours do not offend anymore than a waft of manure when driving by cow farms. While still individuals, we enjoyed our collective pride even in the middle of stinky hot summers.
After all, we were a part of the mighty multicultural edifice of the worker’ paradise – the place found wanting on just about any account of proper service to its owners. The very owners, who were supposed to feel rich after years of struggles - be it behind a tractor wheel or drawing board. Instead our efforts were paying less and less with every year. And yet, the overwhelming majority found it more than tolerable, mainly on two accounts – relative equality and sense of belonging. The former did not offer much other than equal share in very little, and the latter exalted our miniscule cog-like efforts to the level of grandeur and importance that was the state itself – Union of Soviet Socialist Republics!
And yet all this was about to change. Latest Moscow attempts at some semblance of reasonable economic reforms were not paying off. The prices were escalating and yet hardly contributed to anything muncheable appearing on store shelves. Suddenly, everyone with responsibilities of family or old age had to stress over bare essentials – forget about seaside holidays and endless strawberry feasts. All would have been nice had we all had to suffer in this together. Alas, a speedily emerging entrepreneurial class was driving a thrusting stake at the heart of this illusion. Now, the collective misery would no longer do, people starting suffering individually, evolution like.
The second great pillar of all hopes pinned on the state was showing even faster signs of deterioration – ethnic strife, nationalistic movements and the ever weakening hand of the Secretary General was rendering the whole ship rudderless. No more pleasantries of collective miseries, no more protective guard rails of certainty. Survival of the fittest was becoming not only the preferred modus operandi but the very order of things.
This new order gave much hope to young and relatively rich so that a surprising level of optimism was emerging right behind the crumbling edifice of uniformity. The whole society was tipping like a huge scale – the mighty Boss was losing its balancing grip – sending its subjects flying in opposite directions like a mighty Big Bang.
Being young, brash, relatively educated and somewhat connected my fortunes did not seem to be going anywhere but up.
Secret Skivvies
By this time I was more than a year into my translating gigs that had proven very eventful, educational and lucrative by Soviet standards. While my mom, the music teacher with family responsibilities was subsisting on an equivalent of about $20USD per month, my bosses were paying at least $40 per week plus room and board. Though I worked, on average, no more than two weeks per month, I had plenty of quickly wilting Soviet dough and dollars on hand to throw around. In addition, I supplemented my income with a clandestine currency exchange operation that counted as its top asset a pair of boxer shorts underwear with pockets, fashioned by whom else but my dear mother.
Whenever leaving for Moscow, the usual starting point for my gigs, the well-sewn pockets contained heavy stacks of soggy roubles. When coming home, the pockets rested under a light yoke of valuable greenery. This is the operation in the nutshell; the rest was a matter of contacts. Since currency exchanged outside Soviet Central Bank was deemed illegal and could not avail itself of nearly costless transfers between non-existent commercial banks, there was a geographic premium. For example, Moscow International Airport at Sheremetyevo could command an exchange rate of 1USD to 14 roubles when in Centre of Moscow it could go up to 15 and in the Ukrainian periphery it fetched easy 20. As you can see the spreads were humongous – a rather lucrative proposition for anybody having a first name access to US dollars in addition to a pair of sturdy underwear.
Plans
The summer heat and relative happiness of my situation did not manage to completely erase any concerns about the future. In those days, it did not take a prophet to see that something was going to give and any sort of calamity, material or otherwise, might be just around the corner. Plus, I was entering my mid twenties and preoccupations about a career and future geography were raising their profile. Continuing along an already existing path seemed a bit short-sighted and I needed to make some decisions. The key one was either to stay or try to emigrate. Staying had certain familiarity about it, but certainly lacked adventure and failed to satisfy basic curiosity.
Working with Americans, British and Germans was a blast, but I really needed to see the world or at least parts of it for myself. Otherwise, I was going to be forever bound solely to my meagre imagination. So, “going” was definitely tipping the scales. But where to – remained a key question.
Israel seemed to the easiest option with its embrace of anybody with proven Jewish ancestry. Many had already gone and even more were going this somewhat questionable route. The lull in the perennial Mid East dangers seemed to have suspended underlying tensions and made the option more palatable. Many simply did not care about Arafat, Rabin and company. All they wanted was a warm piece of bread, a pair of jeans, and a job that paid enough to have a car – an ultimate Soviet dream of material riches.
In a way it was not all that dire in the Promised Land. After all, the economy was still moving along nicely, providing many opportunities for newcomers in addition to the generous socialist-like state and a bunch of support. The prospect of learning a new language was an additional perk for my linguistic juices. So, on the whole I was sort of getting ready. The first order of business, of course, was to make sure that I was unquestionably Jewish as far as the Zion State was concerned. What could be easier you might ask given that I was fed Yiddish when I was two, my father bore a name of Schneiderstein and some called me a Kike in the high school?
Alas, Israel accepted one’s Jewishness only on the mother’s side and since my half-Jewish mother had a proud Ukrainian name and papers, this presented a slight problem. This could have been a huge issue to anybody hailing from Canada or New Zealand, the countries notorious for general lack of corruption. In the Soviet Union, on the other hand we lived, breathed and ate bribes, gifts and other forms of gratitude. In fact, two weeks and $50USD later, I had my artistically altered birth certificate that cried 100% Jewish.
Now, nothing seemed to stand in the way of yet another recanted Zionist returning to the motherland. And had it not been for one singular conversation with one particular type, whose name completely escapes me, it could have been exactly that. He told me “With English like yours I would not go anywhere by the US”…
The remonstrative refrain sort of stuck and I decided to switch gears and reconsider. After all I not only had the language but also a myriad of contacts I was so happy to brag about. Since my long-lost relatives in San Francisco and LA were not mentioned in my friends’ list, a more straightforward emigration path would not do. I had to resort to something way more convoluted that usually started with a tourist visa.
Cedric
Tourist visa required an invitation from a bona fide American. In this case, Cedric Jackman was going to be my man. Having worked in the Soviet Union for less than a year, this short, bolding and jovial chap in his early forties felt compelled to find a local bride. The search did not take long considering his flawless pioneer background, real New Hampshire address and amiable disposition that sent effulgently beaming smiles to anyone needing a boost. Both, Rita and he, wore large prescription glasses, smoked a lot and looked alike. A perfect match especially for me since now Cedric could be easily found in the neighbouring town of Zheltiy Vodi (Yellow Water – must be uranium or something…), where he spent much time between his projects in the small Rita’s flat complete with a balcony and the bride’s mother. Balcony was great for summer smoking feasts and mother was even handier for good diet and general happiness.
Cedric and I were pretty close given the dearth of people he could speak English with. We shared humorous disposition, some cigarettes (mostly his) and a complete lack of similarity in appearance. His conqueringly monolingual tendencies hardly allowed for much interaction other than those with his English teacher wife and me. Since her English was somewhat stultified by rambunctious and indifferent hordes of children from a backwater town, my flamboyant and bright linguistic tendencies might have even put her in a jealous bent at one time. But not to worry, her current spousal status of a certified earner of hard currency was enough to cure any awkwardness in her pronunciation and grammar. In fact, we all were having fun with the exception of my not having a right visa. I even had to play a silly role of the best man at his civil wedding ceremony conducted in the best Soviet traditions (grey suits, vodka and mounds of food). After that I was nearly a family member with motherly dinners and good smokes spilling my way on more than one occasion.
Now came to time to ask for an important favour – an invitation. When asked, Cedric gave me another slow once-over worthy of a true patriot and said “OK”. Having reservations about me staying behind did not bother him so long as nobody from the US Immigration showed up on his doorstep some time later demanding an explanation. I, of course, gave carefully worded assurances to the contrary. After all, a six-month stay in the US looked like eternity to resolve all possible issues. Besides, as it turned out later, the ability of the US Immigration to deal with paper was limited to say the least. So much so that Cedric’s invitation was unlikely to be dug out from under the mound of other useless forms and statements.
Summer Snores
Armed with the invitation I was ready to go Moscow for my visa. However, it was the middle of August, it was hot and I did not feel like taking a hot and stuffy train ride to Moscow. It could certainly wait. Instead, packing some books and a radio for a camping trip to a quiet river location sounded like a splendid idea. Mother and I rented a small cabin right by a small beach amid refreshing aromas of surrounding pine trees. I indulged in prolonged reading sessions, BBC radio broadcasts, countryside jogs and not much else. It was truly relaxing and I was looking forward to every minute of our time there.
On the morning of August 18, I got up early with the sunrise shortly before 6AM and turned on my radio for an early briefing from my trusted BBC sources. The smooth and soothing voices in flawless Queen’s English kept their flawless pace amidst interest rates, Middle East and housing prices. Suddenly, the broadcast signal sent a worrying piercing signal. The broadcast went dead…After a twenty seconds or so, the connection was reinstated with a stifling voice announcing that something wrong had gone down in Moscow.
Quick Change
Apparently Gorbachev had not been seen and heard from for days and as of this morning the Soviet TV went classical, as classical music was played on all four channels - a “tell-tell” sign that somebody on the top had died. Suddenly, interest rates and commercial housing did not matter any more, all news were about Moscow, Russia and Crimea where Gorbachev had been seen last. After a couple of hours the picture was getting a little clearer. Gorbachev was either dead or incapacitated and the power was claimed by some of the most conservative political personalities bent on turning back the clock of Perestroika and Glasnost. To ensure that their plan was going down smoothly, they ordered a considerable troop built up right outside of Moscow with many tanks and armoured carriers showing up on the city’s outskirts. It felt like 1941 all over again. Then the Soviet forces managed to rebuff all German efforts after months of fighting. Was there anything to stand in the way of tanks this time? Was the nascent democratic movement capable of preserving its recent advances? All was up in the air and a cold clammy waft of the Stone Age was upon us once again. I could just imagine Stalinist repressions, prison camps and children waiting in vain for their parents’ return.
The time to sit and wait was over. It was time to get out and pronto. Within a couple of hours I made a decision to get to Moscow as soon as possible in order to get my visa before they totally shut the borders. Forget about pine cone idyll, I jumped on the first bus home. There everything looked sort of normal save for huge line-ups at the Aeroflot counter. Luckily, the cashier I frequently dealt with was working that day. She did her best to find any connection to Moscow. The earliest available flight was departing that very night at 10PM, which meant that I would arrive in the fateful capital close to midnight. Not the best option but it will do.
New Reality
The plane was full to the brim and more. Some, having paid someone outside the official cash register, found themselves sharing a galley with flight attendants and crowding out toilet access for more fortunate with real tickets. No worries I could wait for a pee break, as long the overloaded hardware held long enough to get us to Moscow in less than two hours and preferably in one piece. This time the machine held… And we got dumped in the middle of the wilderness that surrounded the smallest Moscow airport – Bykovo. The overcrowded reception hall betrayed a typical summer travelling nightmare that was the Soviet Union. People were everywhere – sitting, standing, smoking and slouching. Many, unable to find seats, doused off right on the top of their luggage. You had to literally step over bodies just to get through the door.
Some flickering black and white TVs were on and here for the first time I heard the official propaganda – Gorbachev was gravely ill in Crimea, his Party lieutenants took over the controls with declaration of the state of emergency (the first since the WWII) to protect “working” people. In essence, the constitution was suspended and any resistance was to be dealt with harshly. Recent freedoms, daring reforms and floundering economic changes were just a part of a soothing dream that had just transmogrified into the nightmare of reality.
I needed to get to the centre of the city as soon as possible to try my luck with freedom loving Yankees. With time ticking past midnight I did not want to disturb my friend, Vladimir, and instead I opted for the last bus into town. This one stuffed with bags, garlic breath and sweaty bodies felt like a jar of pickles. Standing and clinging to a small portion of an overhead rail was the only option. Lulled by lumbering pace of the rickety bus and exhausted by day’s worries I kept falling asleep standing. Every time my mind drifted off I released my grip on reality and plunged on the shoulder of the next customer. “Bang!” – rudely awakened by a sharp bony shoulder and a momentary lack of gravity, I would tense up and gather myself – “sorry…”
After twenty or thirty of these mini-sleeps we were coming close to the centre of town. And here for the first time in my life I saw tanks. I do not mean tanks gracing museum pedestals or rolling on training polygons. No these tanks were rolling along city streets with their hatchets drown and ready for battle. This was a very startling sight not to mention many a soldier on foot with Kalashnikovs on the ready – just like jungle military raids in the movies, except this was not a movie and the jungle was substituted with regular apartments blocks.
Our route lay right through the very heart of the city. When crossing a bridge near the Kiev Railway Station, we got within direct eyesight of the “White House” – the building of the Russian Parliament. The massive building of white marble was illuminated by hundreds of searching projector lights softly shimmering against pitch dark sky. Here nobody was sleeping – it was the headquarters of the defiant Yeltsin and his supporters. Earlier in the day, upon hearing of the Putsch and the state of emergency, Yeltsin promptly climbed on the first friendly tank and threw a gauntlet to the Putsch leaders. He and his democratic supporters would fight to their last breath any incursions on near and dear freedoms. Promptly, his office in the White House became the official headquarters of the resistance.
Definitely underestimated by the Putsch leaders, the nascent democratic forces in Russia were not only ready to die for their country but also numbered a great deal more in their ranks than ever previously envisioned. The population might have been divided on the event but the progressive camp clearly counted on some braver hearts. In fact, the White House was surrounded by a wide perimeter of barricades made up of cars, trolley buses and concrete construction road blocks. Behind the ominous signs of the impending confrontation there were thousands upon thousands of people ready to defend their stronghold with bare hands. As our bus was passing over the bridge, the history itself was unfurling its unforgettable panorama right in front of us. Bewildered and awed by the moment, I could not help but gaze and wonder what would happen next. It looked a little hopeless for the good guys. Being hardly more than a mile away from Kremlin, the heart of the conspiracy, they did not seem to stand a chance to fight off cold tank armour and aerial assaults. They needed a miracle and soon, as the geographic proximity of camps and their clashing views would not survive for long. Something had to give. It was frightening, fateful and even ironic that the future of the biggest country in the world would be resolved in a tiny space of few square kilometres.
Eventually, the bus took us to the central Aeroflot terminal that exhibited just about the same level of chaos I saw back in Bykovo. It was nearly two and the subway was not running for another four hours – a small patch of cold granite floor was the only solace. By six o’clock I dragged my aching limbs to the nearby subway station. Many others were waiting there in the fresh air of dawn. It was invigorating and birds were chirping, unwittingly celebrating a new day. The scene would have been worthy of yet another “Idyllic morning in the workers’ paradise”. Alas, instead of contemplating artists of Bolshevist ilk imbibing in the atmosphere and hunting for inspiration worthy of a next “worker stature”, the air was filled with one worrying topic – the Putsch. Apparently something was amiss in the conspirator plans. They were clearly losing some valuable time by not challenging Yeltsin. In addition, now they had to countenance a stiff resistance out in the periphery, most notably in the Baltics and in Leningrad. To top things off, there were plenty of rumours about some army battalions switching their allegiance to Yeltsin and his allies. The air hang thick with unspent gun powder…
Vladimir and Co
Once at Vladimir’s, I could not any better than to catch on my sleep right in the middle of his single room apartment. His old worn out carpet smelling of dust felt like a king’s bed after the granite of the air terminal. Refreshed I was ready to partake in whatever Vladimir had in mind and his upstairs had a plenty of bubbling activity. As a Russian partaker of American movie fortunes spawning all sorts of unhealthy violence, language and bodies; his cinematic future had a lot to lose behind a re-installed Iron Curtain.
A couple of friends of his, Sergey and Tonya, in their mid-twenties shared the same attitude. They liked their jeans, sneakers and foreign tobacco products, but most of all they appreciated new opportunities that their ambitious nature craved. Predictably, they fervently supported resistance and were quite vocal about it. I was not far behind in my fervency – after all earning dollars was a little more exciting than surviving on a rouble diet.
It was after lunch, Vladimir’s apartment was small and stuffy and our collective energies an outlet for action. To sit and watch state TV did not seem that great of an option. Listening to Voice of America and BBC was way more entertaining, but who could resist the real deal as the drama was unfolding just miles away. No, waiting to be fed democracy with a silver-spoon did not sound all that exciting. Instead, we all jumped into Vladimir’s old Lada and sped up towards the future. The latter looked a little messy right now with ever-growing barricades along the perimeter of the White House. The resistance had a couple of tanks that switched allegiance earlier in the game plus few AK-47s and smaller munitions to boot. Other than that, the thousands of supporters in and out of the defensive perimeter were mostly disposed to the WWIV type of warfare – sticks, paving stones and Molotov cocktails.
Red Guard
Seeing the mayhem once again was a little sobering. This time we stood a chance of doing something really important or stupid or both. In any case, we unanimously decided to enlist our help in more official capacity by volunteering to man a portion of a barricade. A young, brisk and moustached descendant of 1917 generation dressed in a leather jacket and worn-out jeans took our names and assigned us to a spot behind some overturned trolleybuses. Everything around was chaotic and full of frightful expectations. Hardly anybody seemed to have any idea of what it all could lead to. Instead to stub very real and gnawing fears, everybody resorted to some favourite methods – anxious chatter, silence and cigarettes. Some, expecting a long wait, started a fire to warm up. Other engaged in constant relaying of any news and rumours swimming in the wide ocean of fear and determination. Clearly, something was not going right for the Putsch instigators otherwise the place would have been wiped clean hours ago. They were procrastinating and it did not bode well for their prospects. In fact, many were predicting new army defections to the Yeltsin’s camp. All of it sounded reassuring but apparent results were not quite in yet, as two lonely tanks persisted to cover the position right in front of the building.
For our gang, everything was going surreal once again since we have crossed a vast bridge between watching TV and being on it. Everything had happened so fast that we did everything almost automatically – driving to the White House, walking through the barricades and talking to the leather bound revolutionary felt like a distant memory although it had happened literally moments ago. Bewildered in our tracks, we got pelted by a sudden onslaught of rain. Refreshing downpour cleared our minds by exposing our key weakness right away – we did not have anything but t-shirts and the night temperatures were likely to get into single digits. This sounded like a perfect excuse to leave the barricades for a while, and re-assess our revolutionary fervour. Not much was going at the moment and I did not feel bad leaving for a while. Relieved, we left only to be substituted with new recruits arriving in one incessant stream of people’s conscientiousness.
Better dressed and fed, we showed up again few hours later. Fortunately, our old position was filled to the brim with new recruits, so we decided to take on a more freelancing and less frightful role of casual supporters. No stones, sticks and Molotov cocktails for us – just maintaining the overall body count was important, since now the proceedings were beamed out to the whole world by some fearless and entrepreneurial TV types sneaking in and out of the crowd. The world was rooting for us and it felt great. Some even helped in more tangible ways with the nearby American Embassy compound serving pizza to the hungry resisters.
The rain had now turned into a perpetual drizzle, everyone around sort of cuddled to a net man to get through the night. Around 9PM, a big meeting at the back of the building opened up. Speakers, mostly elected Russian officials and presidential confidants with human and bullet proof barriers in front of them, offered much encouragement – the latest news were not that great for the Putsch and it was about to fall. But the ordeal was unlikely to end without spilling some blood that simply would not be very Russian. To do it though, the leaders of the Putsch would have to open fire at civilians, us, - not a very comforting thought to someone with an unexpired cabin lease by the river side. Oh well, the general mood was sombre but optimistic, full of hope for soon resolution. The speeches went on till almost midnight, but I did not even notice the passage of time. It stood still like crowds in the rain. The country was at a complete standstill, deep in the bottom of proverbial political black hole.
Night Stroll
Feeling haggard, our brave group of four joined by a couple of other Vladimir’s friends, decided to take a short stroll in the direction of Kremlin, the nest of conspirators. Despite potential dangers, time of the night and complete absence of traffic, Kalinin Prospect was just teeming with people. It was almost like a celebration of some kind. Nobody could stay away, especially young people who came in droves to witness history first hand. It even felt exhilarating – in a weird sort of way.
We barely managed to cover a couple of blocks when we heard the roar of approaching tanks. “This is what we have been waiting for” I thought. We stopped in our tracks mesmerised and then bolted back in unison, just like in an Olympic 100-meter dash, to see what was happening. As we reached, nearly breathless, the wide intersection between Sadovoye Kolco and Kalinin Prospect, we saw a column of tanks and infantry carriers rolling at us. The shrilling roar of steel demolishing soft summer asphalt was unbearable, it all sounded like sirens of hell, reverberating among tall neighbouring buildings with ever more dissonance. They were about four hundred yards away. The only thing between us and them was a pair of overturned trolley buses and some other scrap. Other than that we were in their direct sights.
For a minute, our side went completely silent. You could not do anything; you were hypnotised as if by a snake-charmer on an eastern bazaar. It felt and sounded like a dream, but dream it was not. After a couple of moments, some, recovering their senses, started to assume more defensive position. I was still standing bound by the unforgettable spectacle. Three hundred yards to go, two fifty, two hundred – now the tanks were rolling right in front of the silent and blacked-out edifice of the American Embassy.
“Boom! Boom! Boom!” – the skies were illuminated with hundreds of tracer bullets screaming just over our heads. Everyone in front of me fell on the ground, I fell too, only to get up and run down the ramp, opposite the tank approach side. Somebody shouted in pain, a screeching gut-wrenching sound of scraping metal followed. The air was filled with terrorising noise of large and implacable pieces of metal flying through the air and ready to obliterate anything in their way. I have been to a AK-47 shooting range once when in high school. The experience left me in awe of the powerful gun recoil and its tremendous destructive noise – I never wanted to be on the receiving end. Now we all were a target! Piercing bullets, shattered glass and urban echoes momentarily created a mini version of hell.
All six of us found a momentary refuge by the ground level entry into a store on the corner. While relatively safe behind a high concrete curb, the place did not offer much in a long run. “Boom! Scrraaap!” – the tanks hit the first trolley bus barricade. “Scrrrrr” – a horrid gnashing sound accompanied another tank ripping through the mangled metal carcasses. They were coming ever closer. Behind they had few infantry carriers with machine guns indiscriminately spraying the deadly metal into the air. Tracers seemed to be whizzing by within a touching distance. “Thud” – a sizeable glob of concrete flew off a higher floor just to splatter in a myriad of pieces – we could not sit there any longer. Any minute it seemed and tanks can plough right into us and moving out of their way seemed the only option. Moving but where?
Crossing the street was extremely dangerous as we would be directly in the path of wide open shots from machine guns. Running around the corner towards Kremlin appeared even less sensible. The only thing we could do was to run away from the tanks along the building to the next street corner where we could turn away from Sadovoye Kolco and get lost in the narrow streets and lanes of Arbat.
“One, two, three” we all took-off in a desperate push for safety. Carl Lewis stand aside please, our relay was about to break any record and our necks in the process. “Whew” – just around the corner and we are in a little dark park. Nobody is around even though the mayhem was taking place just steps away. We had enough time to catch a breath and make the next decision. Sergey seems to have the clearest of dispositions – “they are finally clamping down and it is going to be a blood bath out there. Being cut-off from the main barricades offers us nothing but retreat”…
To be quite frank, at this stage I could only think retreat anyway. Everyone in the gang agreed. It was time to use the complicated Arbat to escape before we get snagged by KGB dragnet that was certainly coming. After a few minutes we got to the Old Arbat itself. Usually bustling with tourists and locals alike, it was eerily quiet and deserted except for a couple of tanks on each side of the intersection. By now, the dreadful machine gun fire and booming sounds of tanks turning anything in their way into scrap were far enough to create a sensation that all of this was just a harmless sci-fi movie. We still could vividly hear the battle and see helicopters zooming overhead, bur being surrounded in the cloak of darkness and immediately surrounding silence, it felt almost fuzzy and entertaining.
Attic
Well, Vladimir did not think that way at all. In his mind we had to clear out of the area before they got us. Crossing Old Arbat was the only option. “One, two, three” – we dash across, ferociously pounding the pavement. Alas, Old Arbat intersections are not all straight, so we had to run about fifty yards along the Old Arbat itself to reach the next corner. Suddenly, a strong directed light from the nearest tank beamed right into our backs – they saw us! Even before my brain could generate its next thought – “Boom! Boom!” – two handgun shots were fired behind. Fortunately, unhurt we reach the corner and gallop down a narrow alley. It was short and abutted another major street. Scared enough we did not think kindly of another mad crossing, instead we decided to hide in an attic of the apartment building in the middle of the block.
Luckily, the doors were open and we flew up to the fifth floor in no time at all. The thick metal bars doors leading to the attic were firmly shut, leaving us crowding on the top of the staircase and pondering our further course of action. Drenched in sweat, pale and exhausted I just wanted to crash right on cold stony steps. Vladimir and the gang felt the same – taking a much needed smoke break was definitely in order.
We thought of trying to knock on some doors and ask for shelter. Predictably, we were not the only ones frightened to death. We tried several doors but nobody wanted to take any risks – some did not answer our calls at all, others told us to go to hell. Nobody was in the mood to tempt KGB. As such, all we could do was to listen to the battle, smoke and concoct believable alibis.
The shooting ended sometime before 3AM. The still and quiet sounds of the night returned – a hungry baby clamouring for mothers milk, cats fighting for a piece of garbage and occasional heavy truck driving over our rattled senses. The early 6AM sunset saw us leaving the doorway in the groups of two – all according to the made-up story of late partiers. Putsch – what Putsch? Yeltsin – Who is he? We knew nothing and it was clearly smudged over our pale undernourished faces, ya right…
Once back on the street and despite all our fears, the life outside appeared inexplicably normal. People seemed to be going about their usual business, doormen were sweeping freshly watered sidewalks and a passing trolleybus actually carried passengers. The tanks were gone from the Old Arbat and some stores fronts were coming back to life – incredible! Having asked around, we promptly found out that Putsch had collapsed, Yeltsin triumphed and Gorbachev was on his way back to the capital. What about the battle itself? Despite our impressions, the machine guns actually never did fire on the crowds and sent their bullets straight into the air instead. The clash between tanks and barricades was a real battle but only for a time, as only three lives were lost in the mayhem. But even this was enough for the Putsch leaders to lose their cool and call off the troops. By then it was a rather empty gesture, as majority of troops had switched their allegiance to the Yeltsin’s camp. We won!
Smelly Carpet
Feeling a little woozy after the night of adventure I felt completely overpowered by the turn of events in the last few hours. Crushing on Vladimir’s smelly carpet was the best idea I could come up with. It was especially wise considering that for the next three days, the democracy celebrated its latest triumph. Everyone seemed to share in the happy outcome, as celebratory flag waving; honking and statue dismantling were becoming pervasive. The White House served as the epicentre of mad happiness that momentarily engulfed our lives. People refused to go home and sleep off their recent stresses; instead crowds did no subside as nobody could get enough of celebratory speeches. The army overwhelmingly pledged allegiance to the victors and only very few of those involved in the midnight skirmish had to fear any repercussions. The soldiers manning tanks in the defence of the White House became objects of popular adoration with tons of flowers draping every bit of their armoured beasts.
The funeral of three lives lost in the conflict turned into a massive demonstration on the Red Square. The spilt blood represented the last drops that overwhelmed the cup of patience – the Communist Party’s domination was over. Their central offices vacated and nearly trashed, their heroes’ statues pulled down (most notably that of the KGB founder Dzerzhinsky) and their livelihoods gone, many party functionaries were busy turning into ardent democrats. Even their boss, Gorbachev, renounced his leadership of the organization and became the last ruler in the ominous dynasty of the General Secretaries. The future looked bright and cloudless, after all who could stop us? Luckily, staying to find out the outcome was not the only option with my newly acquired US visa. Its wondrous watermarks of ponderous capitalist eagles managed to find their way into the foreign body of my red passport. This was a true miracle. Single, unattached, by property or inheritance, English speaking (I spoke Russian to the officer, just in case…) and young were not exactly the signs of someone willing to return back to the country of origin – the nearly singular concern of the US Immigration. And yet, due to the God’s unbelievable provision, I found myself in the lucky less than fifty percent!
One week later, the following full-page ad appeared in the Hollywood Reporter:
A.I.P. Studios USSR
Is proud of its employees
Vladimir Kirusha (guy with the smelly carpet)
Igor Medvedev (actually bid his time in Warsaw, Poland)
Alexander Posoukh (yours truly)
Who stood for freedom in the streets of Moscow for 3 days and nights side by side with Boris Yeltsin
Signed,
David Winters,
Chairman, A.I.P. Studios
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