Monday

Why Do We Pine for a Christian Nation?

He desperately wanted a drink, anything, water or wine, will do as long as could quench his thirst, to soothe this terrible onslaught of dry dust that so heavily swirled in the air reminding him of the dreary swamp mosquitoes of the his northern domains. The dry dust penetrated every crevice it could find and was so seething as if alive. And yet he did not call his servant and bore the lack of comforts stoically in keeping with his habit of sharing everyday hardships of bare military existence with his army. Here in the midst of the olive-beset hills though, these feelings could hardly be any more foreign tempting with an order to stop and rest, but not now. Simple pleasures of life within an easy reach of a spoken word would have to wait for much more glorious apogee. The never settling dust was churned by the warrior multitude in polished helmets, gleaming armour and with razor sharp swords that persistently glistened attempting to light up an already bright crisp day that promised to be anything but ordinary.

He was Constantine or rather Flavius Valerius Aurelius Constantine, the soon to be sole ruler of the immense Roman Empire. Very soon as it was about to unfold with Constantine consumed by his fateful quest to overturn the last stronghold of defence that was the Eternal City itself, still under control of his archrival Maxentius. The Tiber, the last obstacle, was finally within his perceptive gaze and the future of the Empire was within his grasp. Few hours later, on the late afternoon October 28 312 AD, Constantine will have enough wine to bathe in, the decisive battle of the Milvian Bridge will be over and Maxentius will be dead caught in the treacherous Tiber currents upon his hasty retreat from the slaughter raging behind. Could have this ended differently? Impossible! God had spoken to Constantine through a sign of the cross just a day earlier. Caught completely mesmerized, Constantine’s face shone brilliantly as he clearly saw a cross rising up in the sky above tomorrow’s battlefield. The voice of the Lord came to him and announced “In this sign you will conquer!” It could not have ended differently or at least to those who take the story at its face legendary value.


Constantine Legacy – Emergence of “Christian State”
And if in need of further proof of Constantine intentions one is inexorably led to the Edict of Milan that proclaimed legalization of Christianity and complete freedom of practise for its followers. What followed was a remarkable transformation of this vibrant and growing sect into perhaps the most powerful religious movement in human history. This event and many other similar historical turns should clearly be celebrated by anyone claiming an allegiance to Christ. And yet it is not always the case. In fact, frequently it is quite the opposite. And the message of what has followed since is quite a mixed one at the very best.

The famed edict and other important events that followed hardly propelled Christianity into something worthy of Christ – pure, incorrupt and inspiring. Instead it appears that Christ was set aside for political expediencies of the powerful, first and foremost. What ensued could hardly be characterized as victory for Christianity – savagery, intolerance and wars of just about any length, size or reason. This is hardly a palatable canvass to further the faith and many have shied away, quite understandably, from any association with such besmirched past. So much so that contemporary Christians much rather forget crusades, inquisition and slavery, the less glorious and appetising bits of our past. Forget they may but not before some facts are examined.

Now, some would like to vehemently object to the usage of the unsavoury and sometimes outright gruesome past as having anything to do with authentic Christianity of the Bible. And my answer to these folks “You are absolutely right!” What were the theological foundations behind the crusades? Why were many a non-conformist savagely burned at the stake? Which part of Christ’s legacy elevated one ethnic group over another? Of course, the answer, again and again, is a resounding “NO”. The fact however is that had it been not for the Bible the powerful would have conjured up other excuses to subject the poor; and had it been not for the Bible the cruel would have twisted the arms of the weak all the same. The Bible was simply used as a façade to undertake all kinds of ungodly acts. Remember how the pious Henry VIII rejected the Catholic Mass to facilitate his unlawful divorce from his first wife, Catherine of Aragon; how frumpish and very protestant Oliver Cromwell killed, raging against episcopacy; how very catholic Luis XIV built his unitary kingdom by rupturing peace with protestant Huguenots; and how Isabella of Castile endeavoured to commit her own version of Holocaust. Clearly all these avowedly Christian rulers fell hopelessly far behind anything even remotely resembling Christianity.

Am I trying to pick the most unappetizing pieces of history to the make the point? Yes, to some extent. What I am not saying, hovewer, is that the “Christian States” were completely evil and grotesque. Not at all as evidence aplenty of great piety in matters of political deeds, evoking cathedrals and inspiring art work. What I am saying is that these states on the totality of their deeds do not fare any better than those of infidels. What’s worse is that sometimes they fared distinctly worse when in direct comparison. Just recall the difference in treatment of Jews between the Spanish crown and its rivalling predecessors – the Moors, Islamic invaders.

No wonder that not many in the Christian circles celebrate the Middle Ages, precisely the times when Christianity and State were the inseparable. Even the fresh winds of reformation failed to produce much improvement in the state affairs while making incredibly progressive strides in all matters of theology. Maybe the state and church do not really mix, just like oil and water?

“Oh sure that was in the Middle Ages but what about now?” this is an inevitable question. Right!
And what do we observe? The general amelioration of the human condition replete in trappings of secular enlightenment! Hot secular fires of French revolution, nuanced Dutch mercantilism and staunchly communal Swiss provided much fodder for new ideas and ensuing developments. Now, we were still very far from any sort of an ideal and harmony as well-evidenced by indisputable evils of world wars and genocides of the past hundred years. And yet, our appreciation of multi-faceted nature of God’s creation has resulted in less intolerance, better cooperation and fairer laws. And all this is taking place at the time when the notion of “Christian State” is becoming ever more obsolete – fascinating…


God’s Own Experiment
OK all rhetoric aside, let’s talk about God’s own experiment in church-state creation - the institution of the state of Israel - the experiment that failed to produce anywhere close to the desired result. God Almighty gave chance and again to the recalcitrant sons of Israel only to witness perennially sinful disobedience cropping up, first in men’s hearts and then in their actions. God persevered and provided countless mulligan opportunities for redemption and restoration. God grew exasperated with his obstreperous children. He gave them carrots and sticks. Carrots of promises failed to work, sticks of devastation and defeats did not do much better. Finally, God brought his ultimate and unbeatable trump card – the sacrifice of his only begotten son on the cross. The emergence of Jesus drove the final nail in the coffin of church-state. From now on, church and state will go their separate ways. From now on faith and faith alone will be a uniting factor for those under the banner of the Lord. Territory, skin colour or language will no longer be a determinant of those serving the Most High. In fact, families will be divided and brother will rise against his sibling and parents will disown their own as the eternal boundary of the final judgement to come will cut through the most unlikely of places not sparing anything including the bonds of kinship and blood. And if in doubt on this count just listen to Jesus himself in John 18:36 – “My Kingdom does not belong to this world” said he when questioned by the authorative Pilot. Had it been he would not have taken up the Cross.

This is not new, of course, as just about any biblical scholar would concede that the prevalent Jewish expectations of that day were clearly at odds with the message of salvation. Yes, Jews expected the Warrior Messiah or President Messiah and instead received a Weak and Humble Messiah (Isaiah 54). Nothing emphases the disparity of expectations and reality more than Jesus’ refusal to deviate from the matters of the heart and plunge into the matters of the state. He did not deny or concede any taxation authority to Caesar; he was so utterly discreet as to use a fish’s mouth to produce a coin to pay taxes; and he hardly picked a quarrel with anyone but the teachers of the law. If anything he broke the rules, the rule the earthly state cannot stand without. He healed on Sabbath and eschewed ceremonial washing; he refused to see his family in the middle of a sermon; and made friends with the outcasts. If anything he was a rebel and an anarchist. He even fed the five thousand gratis without bothering with the moral implications of a free unearned meal; he destroyed public swine property in favour of delivering one little lunatic free of evil. He was above ordinary; he was not earthly except for his suffering; he was of God.

Maybe I am making too many strides in the wrong direction but what is clear is that Jesus went out of his way to make sure that his Kingdom was to be outside of the world as we know it and his singular allegiance was to the Father who was the only one to command his steps. These were not earthly state rules that he ever introduced; these were the matters unbound by earthly edicts; these were the matters of one’s heart and one’s heart alone.

Evidently, there were some incidences in which we might see a different angry Jesus, Jesus paying attention to burdensome Earth just as much as to the lofty skies, Jesus who sought an establishment of earthly rules as much as those outside of immediate human condition. His fiery onslaught on the market stalls in the temple is sometimes cited as one of such instances. Since he physically chose to overturn the tables of the money changers then by extension he in fact was willing to impose his ironclad will on unacceptably lax norms of the society. All is very well, except for the very fact that this took place on the grounds of the Holy Temple. And this can never be ignored - “My house will be called a house of prayer, but you are making it a ‘den of robbers”

Just imagine Jesus verbally attacking a prostitute on some market corner anywhere else, admonishing her for peddling her sinful ways – impossible! Jesus of the Bible could not have done that save for the very temple itself. And this is very significant. Remember that Jesus came to lucidly demarcate the line of decision, as earthly rules would no longer be a conduit of God’s will. It was Jesus’ very own shed blood that was going to determine the eternal destiny of the human race. However all this would come to pass a little bit later. For now, he was still treading the planet and the temple was the very link that held God in touch with his people. But people grew callous and did not take heed. They prayed publicly but cursed privately; they washed their hands thoroughly but left their hearts un-bathed blithely; they padded their pockets contently and yet forgot the poor frequently. So far they strayed from God’s will that even the Holy Temple was no longer off-limits. The only solution was to rip apart this very connection and leave the people with no viable choice but Jesus. But before Roman legions could actually destroy the physical temple, Jesus himself had to take an authority over it by claiming it with his fury. They will go together - the Temple up in flames and Jesus up to eternal glory. This was final and irreversible. This was never about the state and was always about the faith.


Pauline Admonitions
All these arguments might be convincing enough but what if I am mistaken, and that after all Jesus was as much about our earthly arrangements as about our celestial well-being. The only way to test this in my estimation is to proceed further down the Cannon, assessing the very rules of such earthly entanglements. In the scripture apostle Paul seems to be the one to go by. And that’s where we should look. Paul of course was extremely prolific on just about any misconception and trap that could befall the church. Whether it had to do with church duties, customs or general tenors of behaviour, Paul was always there to admonish, correct and encourage. When it comes to the outside world save for actual evangelistic advice, Paul becomes significantly sparser - at first as if to appear unconcerned with the fate of unsaved and disobedient. It is not so, of course as he did find few occasions to state his position in terse abundance.

In the Letter to Corinthians 5-9:11 we hear “In the letter that I wrote you I told you not to associate with immoral people. Now did I mean pagans who are immoral or greedy or are thieves, or who worship idols? To avoid them you would have to get out of the world completely. What I meant was that you should not associate with a person who calls himself a believer but is immoral or greedy or worships idols or a slanderer or a drunkard or a thief. Don’t even sit down to eat with such a person”. Now what exactly is Paul telling us here? Many things really, but what is a truly inescapable is that the rules of engagement that Paul sets out for the church are definitely not the same as those applied to the rest of the world. On the basis of this statement it appears that confusing the notions of the church and the state (the world) is nearly impossible. The state cannot be the church and the state cannot be the church. By extension, the notion of Christian cannot be applied to both at the same time. The competing parties cannot possibly share the same name with completely harmonic equanimity.

And if still in doubt Paul follows this up with yet another unmistakable salvo - “After all, it is none of my business to judge outsiders. God will judge them. But should you not judge the members of your own fellowship? As the scripture says “Remove the evil person from your fellowship”. Adhering to Paul’s admonishing the once celebrated adulterer was driven from the fellowship and the lesson was forgotten by many who in the centuries to follow would continue seeking to reconcile irreconcilable – church and state.


Persisting with “Christian Nation”
Paul’s direct call for separate judgement on the issues of the church and the matters of the state is scintillatingly succinct and axiomatic. There is no further need to discuss and postulate; the two just do not mix. And yet many under the guise of the Bible bolted in the precisely opposite direction. Starting with Constantine and continuing with modern day politicians and clerics many affirm the false need to preserve our National Christian Principles. I cannot fault Constantine personally for his conversion to the sign of the cross or for his liberalization of the Christian church from the jaws of persecution. The former is a very personal spiritual matter and the latter is the extension of the godly morality that calls “free will” as the cornerstone principle of genuine conversion. What I do fault Constantine and his numerous successors for is the usurpation of the name of God for mostly carnal purposes of power and influence - precisely the wrong tack on the way to discovering God’s truth. This was the time when “Christian Nation” was born. Obviously not everyone agreed. But for times of tyrannical uniformity such voices were mostly silent.

However with modern plurality and liberation of speech the smouldering dispute caught on some real flames. This dispute goes to the very core of issues that we face on just about daily basis. One camp, with secularists and religionists alike, see the church and the state as an odd, uneasy pair. Another camp, made of just about exclusively of religionists, attempts to assert its influence on the state through claims of spiritual heritage. It is if attempting to say that there ever has been such a time when a truly godly state was in existence. Now being under siege this state requires all the help it can get and more. There is no place where this debate rages fiercer than in and about the United States of America.

This, founded on the very best principles of democracy, state is of course a very young sapling in terms of the world history. Diverse and ever-changing thanks to immigration and demographics, it has always struggled to find its singular identity. Being the foremost protector of speech, a definition of such identity hardly lands itself to any unique cause outside of the very fiat by which the country was founded in the first place – the Constitution. It is the only immovable aspect of the American lore that attempts to provide any degree of clarity as to why the place came into being in the first place. But since the Constitution values individual liberties and protections of speech as its cornerstones, it has never really stood in the way of societal evolution it has never been able to effectively stifle change, any change whatever it might mean. There are not ethical associations, religious tests or royal lineages that are protected by the fateful document. What really holds it together?


State Incarnate – A Mistake?
There are a thousand of answers to this question. One of the most popular explanations of the elusive adhesiveness is the belief in some special divine blessing that rests firmly above the blissful nation. The notion is certainly a very uniting and extremely uplifting one, providing much in a way of proverbial American swagger and aplomb. These of course vacillate with the ever-ebbing fortunes of the modern state – wars, crime waves and market crashes come and go and whenever there is too much of a good thing at any point of time, the talk of blessings and the lack thereof becomes pervasive.

Suddenly, the notion of a state transmogrifies in an individual who could be cursed, saved or blessed depending on his behaviour. It did of course happen during the God’s experiment with the church-state of Israel but could it still happening now? I would just personally turn to Paul. Alas, he gives us little in a way of support. Without it, I can only conclude that “Nation” cannot have personal attributes of salvation but rather it is a temporary concept that is essentially unrelated to the Godly purposes vis-à-vis the humankind. Again, if we take Jesus at his face value whatever stately god there is - on the state money, or on the state seal or in the shadows of the state flag, it cannot be possibly God of the Bible. Instead we are dealing with kind of a civic religion that seeks conversions in a purely one-dimensional, physical sense. Above, what commonality could there be between the civic religion acclaiming the virtues of democracy while the church inherently strives for something quite the opposite – theocracy?

“No, no” I hear the voices of the discontented, “That cannot be so, the Christian God of the Bible gave this nation (USA) to the faithful and now its enemies are taking it away. God help us!” OK, I will shut my eyes, close my ears and forget about Paul or at least what he had to say back in Corinthians. Let’s indulge ourselves in saying that the United States was founded as a Christian Nation under the God Almighty. Let’s assume that being such this nation could be treated as individual and not just any individual but a church member. And remembering Paul and Jesus just momentarily, let’s assess this new member as Jesus estimated Pharisees and Paul judged the immoral man in Corinth – by their deeds.

First of all, the inception or rather conversion itself as in the case of the United States they have to be one and the same. And being that the United States is the child of God it had to be have been founded and converted through a message delivered by Godly evangelists and apostles. Upon a cursory review nobody fits the profile better than the ever-ephemeral founding fathers. These legendary men must have been an equivalent of either Paul or Peter judging by their creation, they must have had an incontrovertible Godly character and bond that would have left precise and unmistakable Christian legacy. And here I hear “Houston we have a problem!” Not only the overwhelming majority of the founding fathers fail to produce incontrovertible Christian credentials but most of them left a totally different witness, the witness of Deism – a very popular Unitary view that while acknowledging the God Creator it left very little room for him to continue affecting his creation thus leaving the reason as the only viable etalon of human endeavours. Deism, while allowing for God to subsist, basically turned its back on anything supernatural including Jesus himself. And this is not all as Thomas Jefferson, as an example, frequently remarked on the evils of the organized religion (i.e. various Christian denominations), George Washington persistently eschewed Presbyterian communion and Benjamin Franklin attended Masonic lodges.

Jefferson actually went as far as writing Jefferson Bible that while extracting the best wisdoms of Jesus did not include his miracles or resurrection. George Washington repeatedly refused, in writing or otherwise, to acknowledge anything that had to do with his spiritual beliefs. Thomas Paine was actually decried by some Christians of the day as an atheist. This is a very colourful picture indeed, and if one adds the very Constitution itself, the document that utterly fails to mention God
[1] even once, into the mix, the account of the presumed conversion becomes exceedingly sketchy.

Now, the Declaration of Independence of 1776 did mention the word “God” or to be exact “nature’s God”. It also evokes Creator and universal morals, much in keeping with the discussion to follow in the next mini-chapter. There is obviously nothing to say that this was the God of the Bible, moreover given the deist beliefs of the founding fathers, “nature’s God” seem to fit quite well into the picture where Christianity does not play a role. And if in doubt read the following from so-called Treaty of Tripoli which was solemnly presented for ratification to the US Congress in 1796 by non other than John Adams “As the Government of the United States of America is not, in any sense, founded on the Christian religion; as it has in itself no character of enmity against the laws, religion, or tranquility, of Mussulmen; and, as the said States never entered into any war, or act of hostility against any Mahometan nation, it is declared by the parties, that no pretext arising from religious opinions, shall ever produce an interruption of the harmony existing between the two countries”
[2]

What about the state affects? Well, the Pledge of Allegiance was written over hundred years after the birth of the state and thus cannot be considered a part of the founding lore. Besides, its original version did not contain any reference to God until changed by the US Congress in 1954 after the intensive lobbying effort, among others, undertaken by Knights of Columbus, a fraternal catholic association with involvement in masonry according to some. The fiery patriotism of the Civil War put “In God We Trust” on the Treasury coins and in 1957 the same was applied to the state paper currency. Again, despite the evocative in nature, “In God We Trust” is hardly surrounded by many Christian symbols while neighbouring on many a very cryptic, almost Masonic, one. So what can one deduce here? Not very much other than to say that these clearly played no part in the founding of the state and any associated Godly, specifically Christian, ties are muted at best.

Another, oft used, argument is that the American state must be “Christian State” since overwhelming majority of the citizens at the time of its funding were Christians. However, this does not seem to be the case either. Undoubtedly many came to the foreign shores in search of the religious freedom but they were likely in the minority as many original colonies were of purely economic nature such as Virginia Company. And if in much doubt, just consider the revolution itself which erupted and was primarily fought on the economics. Just recall the famed Boston Tea Party and “No taxation without representation”. And who did they have to separate from if not from the “Christian State” itself – Great Britain? Besides, according to some estimates the regular church attendance in the late 1700s in the United States was estimated by some to be significantly lower than that of Europe in the same time period. Go figure…

How about applying a test of deeds? It might work. Well, I do not think so, unless dropping a couple big ones on Japanese civilians or gratuitously assaulting numerous sovereign nations would qualify as righteous. “But this is now when the nation is corrupt and back-slid” say some. “Look into the incorruptible yonder of the past!” Sure except that I am frequently tempted to quote the Ecclesiastes 7:10 “Do not say “Why were the good old days better than these?” For it is not wise to ask such questions”.

Alright let’s give some people slack and look. Oh, where are those Indians that used to live here and now no more; and why they are fields full of slaves who obtained such favourable conditions at a point of a gun sanctioned by the very state we are testing? Not convenient, I see. How come there is so much vice, green and corruption? Why do the rich live leisurely off “trusty
[3]” wealth while poor fish for scraps in the gutter? Why did you burn Salem “witches” on the basis of hearsay? Are you not the newly converted son of God? Where are the deeds of your newly found faith?

Of course the imaginary questioning above is utterly ridiculous as the notion that a state could be blessed, cursed, saved or damned. People in it – yes, the state itself no, IT IS NOT A PERSON. Alas, the exceeding economic prosperity and might of the American state has made it difficult to refute the preposterous. When arguing the obvious with the proponents of the state-personhood complex I cannot help but marvel at their inconsistencies since the United States came into upper reaches of the prosperity orbit precisely at the time when is falling from Godly grace into damnation and immorality, and not at the time of its pure innocence of a new convert. And if this is not enough what do we say about the prosperity of the ungodly ranging from the cosily hedonistic European socialism and the freshly polluted skies of the heathen China, on to the oily Satanic riches of Saudi Arabia and the Emirates. Undoubtedly, the notion of statehood personified in the view of God is most likely utter nonsense. And if this is the case, than the pining of some for the elusive “Christian Nation” is in vain.

Now does it mean we should take the state out of the church altogether? Of course, not as Paul commanded us praying for our rulers. However, he specifically said to pray for peace that emanate from such rulers and not for their conversion. Did Paul not care about the salvation of the rulers? Surely he did and he said so quite profoundly in Acts, however, “praying for the rulers” is likely meant “rulers” as a general notion, as those representing the state. And since not the state but the people in it can be converted, the best hope that we have from the state is peace and freedom to practise our beliefs.


Ungodly Morals?
This was a truly remarkable gathering spot. It could hardly be used for any public meetings as the very centre of it was beset by an unkempt garden that once in a while was restored to some surprising momentary glories by lackadaisical state gardeners when bothered to take a break from their smoking intermissions to do some pruning, planting and weeding. As for meetings private it was hardly conducive either as heavy traffic swarmed all around suffocating anyone looking for a moment of private silence and contemplation. And as to make the surroundings utterly unbearable the city planners had managed to lace the place with irresistible attractions. As a result, humanity kept bouncing between numerous governmental offices nearby, traversing between ballet and dramatics of two theatres facing the square and if that was not enough fighting with bright-shouldered hordes of steely shoppers scourging about in search of rare state offerings.

And yet some folk still used the unlikely location for very, very private meetings. The place was the square in front of Moscow’s Bolshoy Theatre and the calendar was set somewhere in the 1970s. The Soviet Union was just about to outlive its demoralized self and the people that gathered here were “Golubiye” or “Blue”, a zippy sobriquet for homosexuals in Russian. The homosexuality was illegal in the workers cradle as the party leaders preferred much uniformity in all matters including very personal ones. After all it was just easier to govern that way. Harassed and ridiculed, the alternate lifestyle community vainly searched various ways to remain inconspicuous. One of the busiest thoroughfares of the state seemed to provide a good cover and if asked pretending to be in some theatre or department store line-up was a good one. The deficits in the workers state were galore and queues aplenty – a perfect cover.

Then or now, such state of affairs would be unthinkable in the United States or anywhere else in the western world. And yet when measured to the strictest Biblical standards such heavy-handed attention to sin would be anything but immoral, at least to the liking of many pining for “Christian Nation”. But how is it possible that an avowedly atheistic state with its ideological core solely rooted in the doctrines of materialism had such a law? Honestly I do not know exactly. But whatever the reasons, it goes on to show that states are just amoral beings that from time to time happen to match biblical morality. And this is no surprise since everyone, regardless of religion or lack thereof, has morals that come from God.

Just consider Letter to Romans 1:18 “For since the creation of the world God’s invisible qualities – his eternal power and divine nature – have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made, so that men are without excuse”. You see all men were endowed with basic understanding of God and his morals, not only Christian men but all men. Obviously all men did not follow God by not giving either thanks or glory. And yet at the same time some unwise and mostly ungodly men such as many a Greek philosopher or a Roman policy maker recognized from time immemorial certain, more convenient, pieces of the puzzle that could contribute to betterment of their version of social order. Therefore it is not surprising that just about any society that manages to function for any significant length of time employs very similar moral structures in their laws.

If one thinks that he can steal or kill with impunity in Islamic Iran, or Buddhist Nepal or atheistic China is likely to be disappointed upon finding of facts. And this is not all of course as for example abortion is currently illegal in Iran as it was in the Soviet Union. Their expressed reasons differed but their results were similar. And yet in the United States the abortion is not only legal following the Roe vs. Wade of 1973, but was also legal for the better part of the first hundred years of the country’s existence. And if you in doubt regarding my logical twists on the matter of morality and how it is available to all human kind, please consider perusing some timeless musings of the venerable C.S. Lewis in his “Mere Christianity”.

Now, let us proceed further down the passage quoting the Letter to Romans 1:21:23 “For although they knew God, they neither glorified him as God nor gave thanks to him, but their thinking became futile and their foolish hearts were darkened. Although they claimed to be wise, they became fools and exchanged glory of the immortal God for images made to look like mortal man and birds and animals and reptiles”. Very interesting piece since it, at the first glance it refutes my previous argument, making it impossible to claim wisdom and yet be at odds with the Almighty. But do not give up yet. Besides, could there be such a thing as two different wisdoms – the worldly wisdom and Godly wisdom. One wisdom is incompatible with the rejection of God and the other is not – emphasising once again that the purely material matters of the world is not what concerns Paul in this passage. In fact, had it been otherwise could we be witnessing today such magnificent technologically and so deficient spiritually structures such as Egyptian pyramids, Burmese Buddhist temples and New York skyscrapers. Hardly! Could we be sending utterly baffling and complex chunks of metal into the open vistas of cosmos with the live being in them and then actually getting them back safe, most of the time? Inconceivable! Yes, men could be extremely sagacious and yet extremely foolish all at the same time. Yes, it is possible that men in their earthly wisdom used some of the godly tools and yet coming short of the truth itself. Yes, God’ creation is dual, it is material and spiritual, it is ungrateful and pious, both at the same time.

And if still in doubt consider ploughing further down the Letter to Romans 1:24:25 “Therefore God gave them over in their sinful desires of their hearts to sexual impurity for the degrading of their bodies with one another. They exchanged the truth of God for a lie, and worshiped and served created things rather than Creator – who is forever praised. Amen!” I say “Bingo!” God gave them over to their shameful desires and he is not asking us to drag them back in any but a spiritual sense”. Can the spirituality be overridden with laws of the state?

The answer is the resounding “NO” the laws of the state are ineffective of changing the spiritual condition. Just look back at the any time when avowedly Christian states were presiding over the world affairs. Whether the absolutist France under the very Catholic Luis XIV or England under the very Protestant Elisabeth I, the world has been wallowing in misery, wretchedness and senseless wars. And if the current nominal state of affairs is any indication then the last time I checked, the Lutheran country of Denmark with God plastered all over its state symbols and Church irretrievably edged into its Constitution is viewed by many as an utter pit of hedonism. Where does it leave the United States with its Masonic currency symbols and no mention of God in the Constitution?

A very interesting question considering that according to some, apostate Europeans are no match for pious Americans in the God’s department. Clearly, there is not a single shred of correlation between the stately usages of God’s names while ascribing them to worldly power and actual political, social or religious outcomes. Remember “Give Caesar what is Caesar’s…” give the governments freedom to act in their collective realm and leave the spiritual realm to its own devices of the individual free will. Alas, we got it the other way around with our spiritual leaders continually striving to enter the political arena while advocating ever-diminishing governmental influence over the matters of the increasingly individualistic “dog-eat-dog” world of modern economics and social order. The latter statement is a very interesting policy making argument and perhaps should be pursued in a separate discussion. For now why do not we attend to the church and the state some more?


Swinging to the Extremes
And here comes the tasty bit. What are we, as Christians, supposed to do in this world? What our involvement should really be? How do we influence those around us? Or do we pursue influencing anyone at all? And so on and so forth. This is an extremely legitimate and ever-current discussion, isn’t it? But sometimes we tend to jump into is without considering some of the underlying positions such as our relationship to the state in which we live. That’s why I have sought to bring some clarity into the state-church discussion - the conversation that has been necessary before delving further into some practical applications.

Before considering some historical examples (little repetition, sorry), it is suffice to remind everyone about the Letter to Corinthians 5-9:11. I personally find the Pauline advice to be the most viable impartation of Godly wisdom in the matter. I.e. do not disengage from the world and yet do not judge the world but judge those inside the fellowship. Now, about the history. In the early going it was obviously very tough when Christians were persecuted, whipped and martyred with harrowing regularity. And yet they did not withdraw from society, spreading God’s word and message of salvation. The results were astounding as the small unknown sect was becoming ever more influential and present in the public discourse. It was dangerous and yet inspiring to so many who sought to effect the change from within the heart.

All this of course changed when Emperor Constantine, perhaps acting on some very constructive instincts, set forth the motion by which the world came to be dominated, judged and reshaped by the church - much to the contrary to Paul’s advice. The results were of course less than desirable. Then came the advanced philosophies of enlightenment and politics and industrialization pushing the church from the centre stage. Many at this time, especially in the Protestant circles, swiftly retreated more or less completely from the public arena. Only a small number remained with the likes of William Wilberforce labouring in the public eye.

An overwhelming number of evangelicals, specifically North American evangelicals, waiting for an immediate coming of the Messiah avoided the state as much as it was logistically possible on other hand. The pendulum had swung from one extreme into the next and many Christian found themselves in contravention to the Paul’s good advice once again. The more secular the society around them became the deeper into isolation they dug.

By the 1960’s they had enough – winds of drugs, sex and rock-n-roll blew in too uncomfortably for many and unexpectedly for just about all. Many understood that society found itself in the midst of an incredible soul-searching exercise. And just to add few spoonfuls into the mix: the questionable wars in Indochina, sky high oil prices at the pump and Roe vs. Wade - the challenges to the prevailing cocooned Christian position of then become apparent. And yet we blew once again with some of our leaders jumping on the pendulum and swinging where it has not been for a couple of centuries. Now, once again, we wanted to dominate, judge and reshape.

The state was to be re-made by an active show of political unified force through such movements and organizations as Silent Majority and Christian Coalition. Perhaps very positive and constructive undertakings in their core, these went way beyond the Pauline advice and very quickly at that. Suddenly, we were seeking re-establishment of the “Christian Nation”, the impossible notion. We conscripted historians, writers and theologians to re-make the failed argument once again. We no longer sought conversion through personal free will; we sought domination through edicts and laws. We had much initial success and converts, imbuing on the sweet fragrant potion of power. We finally could reshape legislatures and install presidents. All this was truly amazing stuff and here was the pitfall.

You see, the formula turns out to be rather simple as nothing feeds power better than certainty. Nothing nourishes certainty better than one-dimensional propaganda and nothing creates better propaganda than a five (four or three is even better) point program. Forget about the nuances and impartiality, this stuff is for the weak and indecisive. Let’s form power blocks instead; and be as influential and decisive as possible.

Certain key types in the movement and their outside friends smelled the opportunity miles away. Savvy political operators saw an incredibly easy opportunity to seize a substantial chunk of electorate with incredible dare. Of course, this has never been about taking over the party but rather the other way around, as it has always been. And remembering propaganda does not like complexity the whole movement was stripped off many of its essential elements, soon emerging re-made in the Republican Party image. The church leaders, inebriated with newly found importance, never let on the deception by essentially sticking to a three-point agenda: gay rights, abortion and laisser-faire capitalism. The Republican Party never really cared about the first two and was only too happy to pull the throttle into highest gear on the third. Happy to surrender the pontificating tribune on the gay rights, they took the country, unchecked by ever tilting and docile electorate, into the land of many extremes. Human rights, equality (of opportunity at least) and societal economic well-being were thrown out of the window. Helping the poor or healthcare for the middle classes was no longer hip. And the church stood by not only unconcerned but smiling along the way.

They could drive their three pony carriage as far as they wanted in the newly recast “Christian Nation”. The healing and encouraging Christ of the masses was no longer on the agenda, on the church agenda as the state had never cared in the first place. No, now the Christ was wearing armour, carried a sword and ardently fought infidels. He passionately hated abortionists, loved flashy televangelists and longed to send all gays to the gallows. To claim the agency of the new “christ” in charge of the nation we needed to be constantly on the look-out for the attack from the ungodly. The churches become increasingly mobilized – more so in the political realm. We wrote petitions and held placards, were quick to condemn and slow to self-assess. The line between the state and the church has gradually become so blurry that some of our leaders have seen it fit to call for assassinations of foreign leaders and to condemn entire countries to perdition. Sometimes we have become so deluded as even to misunderstand that we were simply used. The turning point arrived at the time of fateful 1980 presidential elections when the evangelicals were persuaded to support religiously nebulous Ronald Reagan against an avowedly Christian Jimmy Carter. Mr. Reagan of course pandered to the illusion of “Christian State” while Carter clearly treated the state not as an extension of the church. This was his main failing in the eyes of many caught up in partisanship while ignoring his historic peace seeking efforts in the Middle East (Camp David Accord) and vis-à-vis the Soviets (anti-ballistic treaty). Pity…

To follow, the first fruit of our new political order, Mr. Reagan, busted the unions and opened the flood of cheap labour across the southern border; made deals with the oily Satan and sent the proceeds to enflame Central America; denuded the middle class and sent jobs to China. The results, followed by his able successors including pliable Mr. Clinton, did wait to materialize. The country now struggles with economic powerlessness, corporations post ever-increasing profits, the middle class can longer afford a physician and still nuke-less Iran poses the biggest threat to the world’s security.

So what about the church? By and large there is hardly anything new to report from the evangelical ranks. What is worse is that instead of taking a pause to ponder, we have gotten dragged right into so called Culture Wars. To advance this agenda most effectively our handlers seek persuade us that that we live in the “Christian Nation” in the first place and that this nation (i.e. this individual Christian) needs our urgently help as it is going to Hell in the hand basket. To make matters more apparent some portray certain cultural and political shifts as example of inexorable progression downward. It is not always easy of course and requires some considerable amnesia mixed with partial facts. Forget the habitual orgies of the Roman Empire, religious slaughter of the Middle Ages or massive drug use of 1960s. Do not consider that countries where abortion is illegal (should be a subject of a separate discussion) typically have higher abortion rates than those where it is more or less legal, or that favourable gay legislations have failed to produce any more gays (yet another discussion). Disregard all this and close yours eyes, very tight and it is scary out there and we are all going down. Down we may be going but unlikely for the reason that it is worse now than it has ever been. If in doubt just recall Ecclesiastes.

Surely nothing could be more futile than Culture Wars and yet it is pervasive. Mounting yet another defence of the Christian Nation we search for Islamo-Fascists, chase the illegals and bash the gays. Please understand that I am not calling for performance of homosexual rites or Islamic prayers in the church. This of course is contrary to the Bible, and yet following Paul’s advice, I find it hard to sit judgement on those outside as it is God’s prerogative. Besides when armed with a banner depicting Mohammed in the flames of Hell I do not look very approachable to my newly arrived neighbours from Pakistan, do I?


Listening to Jesus

Whatever our beliefs regarding the end of the world, the timing of the tribulation or rupture, one thing is absolutely unmistakable – “Christian State” was never going to a be a reality. The closer we move to the end of times worse Christians are going to be treated by the world. Gospel of Mathew 24-9 reads “Then you will be handed over to be persecuted and put to death, you will be hated by all nations because of me”. Regardless of your timing beliefs, the general state of the relationship between Christian and the state is ultimately expected to significantly deteriorate. If Jesus said that it will happen why do we fight for something quite the opposite – “Christian State”?

So what role does the church play in the modern world? This is for this specific question that I mentioned William Wilberforce, a British parliamentarian of the 19th century who fought and prevailed in the struggle to abolish slave trade in the British Empire. Aside from being a Member of Parliament, Wilberforce was also a dedicated Christian who, acting out of his spiritual convictions, righted the cruel injustices of the slave trade. The lucrative and repugnant practice that was contrary to just about any set of morals, let alone the teachings of Christ. Wilberforce did not fight this issue on the basis of a platform of compromises but as a singular evil waiting to be excoriated and purged. Although a private supporter of Tories did not seek a particular party platform or positions of influence other than to advance his singular cause that he deemed righteous. He succeeded - the slave trade in the Empire was abolished and his contribution is still celebrated as a great achievement that had brought glory to Christ.

We do not know when the end will come and that the only true Christian State will follow the second coming in the meanwhile we have work to do. So instead of wasting our efforts on preserving “Christian State” let’s spread the word of salvation through visible, proud and Godly actions or justice and mercy in front of the whole world.

In doing so we should not be claimed or conscripted by any political party and act on the basis of our conscience and free will. We should be involved with the state, unabashedly and openly as Christians, without being goaded onto any particular platform that demands conformity and compromise. We should be free to choose whatever issues are important to us individually and act however dictated by our conscience. Only in this way we can follow Pauline advice in the closest fashion possible. We should stop longing for the “Christian Nation” that has never been and bring about change from within.

[1] The word “Lord” is used for the dating of the document, however, this is argued to be a common practice shared by secularists and religionists alike.
[2] Treaty of Peace and Friendship between the United States and the Bay and Subjects if Tripoli of Barbary.
[3] Standard Oil, DuPont etc.

Emma

“The hot summer of 1918 was a sweltering affair with clouds of dust rolling through the streets with every renewed gust of dry hot wind. Hardly anybody enjoyed the implacable weather that drove just about everybody inside under shade except for ever boisterous and active children. The kids of Ekaterinoslav seemed oblivious to the ominous present and uncertain future in the country beset by war, Civil War.

Two revolutions of the previous year had unleashed a series of events that nobody could have reasonably expected. While the principle cities of the latest power takeover, Moscow and St. Petersburg, were firmly in the hands of Bolsheviks, the periphery was laid waste to constantly changing fortunes of opposing parties. Whites, Bolsheviks, hordes of Antanta and of course old fashioned bandits vied for space all throughout the old empire. The wide steppes of Ukraine were not strangers to their changing fortunes. One of the key parties getting a heavy slice of action and influence were the Anarchists under the command of the fateful commander Makhno. Among other things they distinguished themselves by opportunism, anti-Semitism and plain acts of sheer banditry. Their allegiance hardly rested on a single piece of dogma; rather it was based on exigencies of the moment. This time they felt like doing a little freelance work by occupying our large industrial centre just to prove the point and pad their pockets with some fresh loot. Lawlessness reigned and most of the sensible citizenry preferred to stay out of sight – nobody wanted to get gratuitously slashed, punched or mugged.

Sarah and her husband Abram were not taking their chances in their small apartment in the middle of town. But no precaution could prepare them for the loud thud that shook their front door one day. Asking who was knocking was useless as in this time of lawlessness loud authoritative thuds meant one thing, “open as fast as you can or else” Sure enough, this time was no different as a pair of self-confident, ruddy and slightly inebriated warriors of the commander Makhno stumbled into the apartment demanding food and lodging. With no viable alternatives, the compliant pair, a quiet housewife and a friendly barber, offered the best they had that day – fresh milk, bread, eggs and a nicely made bed in the only bedroom in this four-room apartment with outdoor plumbing and common kitchen shared with three other neighbours.

This time, the brave bandits happened to be reasonable, non-violent and Jew-tolerant guests who appreciated momentary rest and care provided by their gracious hosts. After a couple of days, the time came for the hordes to leave town on the next plundering expedition but not before the grateful guests decided to pay back for the hospitality. One of them pulled out a huge gold chain of nearly priestly Orthodox fame. It looked to be still warm with the breath of its last legitimate owner, the sensation so palpable and abhorrent that Sarah could not but take the only course of action. “No thank you”, was her firm reply.

Unaccustomed to too many refusals as of late, our wandering warrior was left with a single “legitimate” option. The pent-up rage rushed blood to his face, his neck sort of twitched and strained; the chest heaved releasing his hand in a wild swing that caught the thick glass of the china cabinet door, smashing it to pieces with the fateful chain. The shattered glass sprayed the living room with chunks of highly prized Viennese crystal leaving some scratches on Sarah’s hands and arms, as she covered her face in utter terror. The terror froze all her facilities in a stultified and lone figure coiling for the next onslaught of fury and gratuitous violence. Surprisingly, the next sounds she was able make out were not those of battered furniture or bodily violence, there were the sounds of the brigand turning 180 in his squeaky clean high military boots and heading for the door. He slammed it shut. It was quiet. The surrounding calm was nearly surreal as Abram and Sarah counted their blessings and wondered what would happen next to their plundered, frightened and cowering town...

Few more weeks fraught with fear and uncertainty passed before it became clear that the Bolsheviks held an upper hand in the monumental struggle, establishing some momentary sense of law and security. The infamous band of commander Makhno eventually plunged to their demise after their commander was executed by the Reds for crossing them one too many times in the bloody and treacherous mess of the War. His followers scattered melting into the general populace. Slowly the things returned to some semblance of normalcy - Abram went back to work on his by now rather dishevelled customers, Sarah kept running the house with frequent cleanings, savoury daily dinners and hopes of a child to come. The china cabinet served as a bleak reminder of the days past with one permanently gaping hole in one of its doors.”

I was in awe sitting on the couch in the grandma’s living room and listening to the stories of her life. The stories I thirsted to hear. I would trade any of my play time just to hear my grandma recounting her life. This one was no different, as I was sitting there mesmerised by the blue cigarette smoke circling around my Emma sitting in a threadbare old chair next to the warmest place in the house, the fireplace. She made her accounts enchanting and real, the ones you could nearly touch. This one was one of my favourites, since the famed hundred year old china cabinet still graced the living room, now with one of its doors bristling with a fake and rather modern limb that still managed to serve as a passable replacement for the Viennese glass lost in the battles of time and politics.


First Steps
The cabinet was absolutely magnificent and has graced this living room since before the World War I, when Sarah and Abram Eisman got first married, both coming out of a small Jewish town somewhere in the proximity of Gomel, Byelorussia. Blank on Abram’s background, I know that Sarah came out of a large family that eventually abandoned their small town for better pastures mostly settling in the capital city of ST. Petersburg. Sarah and Abram bucked the trend and moved in the opposite direction to the industrial heart of Ukraine – Ekaterinoslav. Hardly in the position to compete with leading world metropolises this polluted, busy and prosperous town proved to be a nice base for the young family. Its remoteness from the western borders of the Empire ensured some distance from rabid anti-Semitic sentiments of the western Ukraine. Abram was free to pry his craft as a hairdresser with reasonable success as he permanently featured in the one of the most known salons installed in the hotel “Continental”, right in the center of the city. By all accounts he was a very friendly man who counted many a friend and always stood by to provide support and cheer for his loved ones. Sarah was the backbone of the family and ran it like a military enterprise with generous sprinkling of love and care.

The devastating World War I was upon them. Rather snug and conveniently located in their apartment behind its nearly medieval walls seemed safe. The appearance was short lived as within a short time it became clear that these walls were hardly a defence against the tumult outside. Abram was called into the reserves awaiting a probable future in the murderous foxholes. Fortunately, the deployment never came and shortly upon the February revolution of 1917, his diminutive frame and agile fingers were doing what they were designed for – cutting hair and shaving chins. The events of the Bolshevik revolution later that year promptly drove the country into the civil war that inexorably touched everyone and everything as proved by the fateful wedding present – old Viennese china cabinet.

Once things returned to normal, time had come to think of starting a family. Their joy after a couple of years of waiting was complete when young Emma made her presence known by her first high-pitched shrill on January 28, 1921. The healthy rosy child brought so much celebration and joy that Abram right away ran into the nearest kosher establishment to order all what was and was not necessary to celebrate and share their blessings with family and friends. Although not terribly religious folk, appearing in the local synagogue around the corner only on major calendar occasions, the Aismans could not wait to share with the local Rabbi the great news. The joy shared in more than one quarter with dedication taking place eight days later in the presence of proud parents and their friends before God.


Growing up
Emma was growing up as a precocious child of the doting parents who failed to produce any other heirs. Gregarious Emma, although longing for a brother or a sister, would not be deterred. She enjoyed schooling and friends, she loved reading, playing and arguing – the latter was just a typical trait of any reasonable Jewish person who treated a good and loud argument as a sport. In the earlier years, Emma went to the nearby Jewish school in town. This persisted no further than late 20s when secular education became the only option due to the school’s closure on the grounds of the official dogmas of materialism and atheism.

Young Emma did not mind the change. The school instructions were in Russian that was her main and the most convenient language. She also retained some generous sprinklings of family Yiddish that she carried for the rest of her life, giving even more glitter to her shiny personality. The family life at home continued to be largely secular affair with occasional visits to the local synagogue until its final closure sometime in the late 30s. No formal closure of anything could extinguish the true Jewish spirit as the family persevered in their cooking and holiday traditions with Sarah always savouring a good helping of anything Yiddish just to make a point. She was the only one in the family who could read the Aramaic script and was very proud of it trying to pass it on to her daughter. Being a compliant girl in many respects, optimistic and playful Emma much preferred adventure and discovery of unknown lurking just outside rather than studying the ancient alphabet.

The adventure could not wait and Emma had to discover it wherever it lay – on the street play ground, in the park or on the river bank. She was very inquisitive, endowed with great memory and observation capacity. Some of these memories remained vivid in her imagination to her last days.


Stalin’s Famine
When around ten, she witnessed first hand the indescribable horrors wrought by the Stalin’s collectivisation plan on the people of Ukraine and other regions in the vast USSR. As a curious school girl Emma felt that not all was well in the nascent socialist state. While the milk man still came around early each morning in his horse drawn buggy dispersing freshly made creamy products to clamouring housewives. While the butcher still showed up in the afternoon with appetising chunks of beef resting on huge cubes of ice to pander to the dinner habits of the neighbourhood. While the bread stores and vegetable stands around still had necessary supplies of buns, cucumbers and cabbage. Emma started noticing strange unknown people in rags who looked more like walking skeletons than people she knew and met on daily basis.

The misguided and ultimately murderous effort of the central government in Moscow had turned most of the agricultural sector upside down. Up to that point, the predominant mode of agriculture was a tiny private farm that typically produced just enough to satisfy some external demand on the top of basic family necessities. Stalin and his lieutenants, drunk on the successes of industrialization, were ready to replicate their effort in the country side. However, unlike urban proletariat that had nearly accepted the message in its entirety, only the poorest of farmers saw any benefit of the new policy. The rest opposed the categorical and virulent collectivisation campaign with strident determination. This nearly resulted in something resembling rural revolt or more appropriately another “civil war”. The absolute power of Kremlin was not about to tolerate the situation. Dispatched troops and police fought a devastating campaign, sending millions into exile to Siberia and other less than welcoming vacation spots, subduing the rest by excessive and deliberate expropriation of food stuffs, seeds and livestock. The latter coupled with two years of bad harvest resulted in massive starvation, especially in Ukraine. Fleeing to the better supplied cities was the only option that was soon cut off by a policy of class-based segregation that saw the rural population deprived of a right to have an internal passport imperative for travelling even for short distances within the country. The peasants were tied to the land and shackled to the concept of collective farming just like poor wretches who lived through feudal Dark Ages.

The policy of hunger that killed millions saw only a few most desperate who managed to avoid army controlled road closures and escaped into nearby cities. By the time they showed up there, hopeless and haggard, the pity of common city folk was their last straw of hope.

At first surprised and puzzled young Emma could not really get any answers from her kind and compassionate parents who preferred to keep their mouths shut. This was the best strategy to avoid much of perilous NKVD (KGB of 1930s) scrutiny. With time curious and boisterous Emma did learn more, especially after surreptitiously visiting the local railway station with some of your closest friends. Normally busy with travellers going to and fro in their daily beat the station turned into a holding tank for dying and desperate. Emma, despite many a parental interdiction, kept coming, observing and learning – it was first time in her life she cried in sheer desperation. Alas, it was not the last.


WWII
The approaching World War II found Emma a successful, outgoing and engaging medical student. While grey clouds overhead were closing their ominous ranks in portentous omen of things to come, Emma was felicitously looking forward to yet another hot and eventful summer of 1941. Her festive mood was perennially darkened on June 22 when German hordes invaded the Soviet Union.

Although still hundreds and hundreds kilometres away, the war made its presence known immediately, as all summer plans were put on hold and the whole family was pondering their future move, as arrival of German troops seemed all but inevitable. The signs of the war were fast arriving as the industrial centre now re-christened Dnepropetrovsk was a target of many air strikes. No more frivolous play, as endless halcyon summer days were replaced by short but ever dangerous nights that bore first scars of the battle. Nobody was enjoying the warmth of these treacherous nights, instead frequent bomb alarms made good sleep a luxury for just about anyone.

The relentless advances of the frontline coerced hasty evacuations of many an important industrial enterprise and factory. Among them was a railway car repair factory that was packed and moved to the central Siberia in a matter of just a couple of weeks. An amazing feat, accomplished with participation of one of its young and up and coming engineers – Anatoly Posoukh – my future maternal grandfather.

While grandpa Anatoly was blessed profusely with a lack of options, Emma and family were still very much in the throes of major decisions – “evacuate or not to evacuate” – was the central question. Material well-being and professional success did not really matter when their very lives were in question. Some, among Emma’s Jewish friends, were slightly better informed amidst nearly complete news black-out under the shadows of Moscow propaganda machine, others failed to notice a thing among sparse and bland morsels spun-out by the official line. The former tended to favour a speedy evacuation. They believed in anti-Jewish policies of the Nazi Germany that were frequently highlighted in the central press. The latter, disregarding some basic truths, still perceived Nazis through the lenses of enlightenment that put Germany at the vanguard of civilization in the XIX century. Germans were thought of as harbingers of culture, sophistication and commerce.

The pessimists mostly prevailed and lived; some optimists stayed on and died. Luckily for Emma, Sarah made a fateful decision to leave just few weeks before the German hordes breached the last defences afforded by the mighty Dnepr. Any hardships of evacuation were worth the prize of one allowed to keep living, most of the time…

The ones left behind experienced a dreadful fate so eloquently described in many Holocaust art works. Unlike the long and drawn out process of extinction that befell western Jews, the eastern lot was dispatched quickly, in matter of weeks, and hardly with any ceremony by SS commandoes that followed in the Wehrmacht wake. Once in town, these wilful, vicious and merciless underlings of the evil himself did not lose much time in rounding up the remaining Jewish population. Being the meticulous and pragmatic creatures the last thing they wanted to do was to cause panic and lose a grip on the situation. Instead, they made all Jews register and wear stars of David to start. Then they slowly closed the loop by a series of barbaric edicts thus turning their victims into ever more miserable creatures. But not many expected the actual end to be so abrupt and brutal, as finally Jews were dispatched in thousands just beyond the central railway station in a large local park with a steep escarpment that served as natural echafaud.

Emma often remembered the horror through second-hand accounts of a childhood friend going to her final destination. This friend, Zina, got separated from most of her friends due to her parents’ decision to stay and try their commercial luck under refined German sensibilities. Alas, instead of profit and success they quickly savoured the bitter taste of their own demise. When led to her execution, Zina was said to be wailing so hysterically as to nearly disrupt meticulously moribund procession past the railway station. Finally she was dispatched even before the obedient marching column hit the fateful park. The account was so chilling that I can still feel the dread of emotions that swept over Emma whenever she mentioned it.


Evacuation
Being evacuated to the capital of Uzbekistan, Tashkent, Emma and family probably fared better than many in similar circumstances. Although still cold and blustery in the winter, the place offered beautifully fragrant springs followed by hot summers and smooth balmy autumns. Perpetually constrained war-time food rations were well supplemented by local bounty of fertile mountain slopes and fecund valleys that spread eastward to no eye’s end. After a short hiatus, Emma resumed her medical studies in the local university where she secured a bed in the dormitory, just not to lose time and be always close to her friends and books. Here she learned first hand the importance of close friendships whose warm feelings of belonging would stay in her heart for years and decades to come. Here she also got into practising some of her newly acquired medical knowledge and skills. At times it was not enough as relying on miracles rather than well-proven methods was the only alternative.

On one occasion, her friend Leva fell pray to a very virulent stomach flue that threatened to kill his already emaciated body. His friends had tried just about anything of value they could get their hands on, but the ravaging decease continued its ruthless course. In that last gesture of desperation, Emma took Leva’s coat to the local black market where she swapped it for a small jar of fresh sour cream. The jar that did not last long, as Leva swallowed the worth of his beloved coat in few short gulps chased by a peaceful nap that drowned his overjoyed body. The next thing everybody knew was that Leva was getting better by the minute and almost fully recovered in just few short days. The magic sour cream jar did the trick where no medical savvy could help. Ever since Emma became one of the strongest proponents of the dairy lobby, shame she did not live near the Capitol Hill. Instead I became a grateful recipient of her perpetual magic – a jar of sour cream, a glass of butter milk or any other product of milk fermentation became my daily routine.

Apart from early exercises in medical art – young, flourishing and assertive Emma was due for her first true romance. I am sure that runner-ups might have been a number, but the winner was one – Misha from the western republic of Moldova. A number of years her senior, this technical expert in something was definitely a hit with weaker sex. His fiery looks, southern temper and aquiline Jewish nose made one of the prime targets in the male depleted environment of the WWII. He avoided active military duty due to some medical albeit not so apparent reason. Emma and Misha hit it off quickly, falling in love and getting married in a short order. The fruits of their romance did not have to wait long as the delighted parents were blessed with the birth of a healthy baby boy, Little Misha, on the warm and sunny day of November 4, 1944. The smell of imminent victory was in the air and they could not possibly expect a better gift that ushered their way into bright future of the post-war Soviet Union.


Back Home
While last conflagrations of the most murderous war in history were still put out on the plains of Central Europe, live was starting to return to normal in western parts of the country. In early 1945 Emma and family returned back to the bombed out, devastated and yet still welcoming banks of Dnepr. Much to their relieve they managed to get back into their old apartment. Although it did not seem all that spacious any more due to the addition of two new members, Misha and Little Misha, nobody appeared all that inconvenienced with much hope and optimism that were the hallmarks of the general mood then.

Shortly after the return, Emma finally completed her medical studies and was ready to climb new heights as a fully qualified forensic pathologist. She was entering a very demanding, macabre and yet exciting world of law enforcement. This was probably the most memorable time of Emma’s life when she managed to juggle crazy work schedule, family life and numerous friends.


Reality
After incredibly trying and uncertain 40s, the next decade turned out, contrary to expectations, just as difficult due to a number of dramatic societal and personal events that left a lasting impression on Emma’s heart.

Work was her passion as it not only managed to satisfy her perpetual sense of curiosity but also put on her the vanguard of all things unusual. The local crime lab was her office as she spent most of her days helping to resolve many a bloody crime. Her work required much in a way of analytics that required a strong sense of observation, memorisation and dissection. Since most of it had to do with dead people, she even had to adjust her senses of smell and touch next to her very much alive philosophies.

“Remember one thing – the last people you want to fear are dead people, they can do no harm” – was her typical remonstration to me whenever I attempted to casually leaf through her gruesome pathology text books.

On many occasions her work at the lab and crime scenes proved crucial to police investigations. Much of it of course was long passed when she was telling me her stories and yet some were still clear in her mind as they had happened just yesterday.

Once upon a time, a disappearance of a young woman in her twenties was reported by her mother. The detectives following on some immediate leads ended up in the apartment of one of daughter’s friends who was married to a well-known university professor. The friend confirmed that the young disappeared woman was at the apartment last night. She left at around 10PM and that was the last of her she saw. The detectives did not feel particularly confident that it was truth what they had just heard. Maybe it was something to do with the pale looks of the friend or almost pristine gloss of a freshly scrubbed apartment. Was there anything worth extra attention?

They called Emma to help them to examine the place. Arriving shortly after the phone call, Emma started looking around for slightest traces of inconsistencies. Alas, all was in vain as the recent clean-up seemed to have extirpated the very last bit of dust. Almost resigned in futility, Emma glanced over a grand piano that occupied the middle of the room. It too appeared to have freshly scrubbed like the rest of the place - but why with such diligence? And what about those shiny piano keys? And why not look in between? Few minutes and screws later, the keys were pulled apart to reveal streaks of brown crust on their sides and bottoms – blood! It turned out that the friend jealous of an apparent love affair between the victim and her professor husband decided to take matters into her own hands by slaughtering her friend with an axe from behind while the young lady was playing her piano. Nothing could work better than inducing the victim to play some classical piece with her back turned toward the kitchen. After all she was petite, the professor husband was away and her assassin was strong enough to drag her body into a neighbourhood garbage dumpster in the middle of the night. Voila – a perfect crime of passion with Emma untying the knots.

Unfortunately, untying knots in her personal life proved to be much more difficult affair. First there was her father’s death in the late fifties of a sudden stroke. She dearly loved her parents and this untimely departure saddened her immeasurably. While close to both of them Emma had always felt some much particular kinship for her dear and humble father. His wit and temper she inherited, his gregariousness was written in the glint of her eyes and his optimism left a deep imprint on her spirit.

Then there were constant squabbles with her husband Misha. Being an older man, his gruff and at times unconsidered manners were not fitting in with the rest of the family cramped in their four-room apartment. Partially due to age, partially to his character and upbringing, he had hard time sharing in Emma’s outgoing extroverted nature. Her many friends, social engagements and demanding work schedule were not helping the matters seeding many a kern of discontent that frequently led to feuds and wrangles. This not only managed to drive a rift between two of them but also affected Little Misha who now was turning into a handsome, fiery and pugnacious teenager who had a strong personality of his own.

Sarah, always a quite strong character, preferring reconciliation to protracted and open hostilities, did her best to keep the situation afloat. But her years, failing health and subdued disposition were no match for heightened emotions and loud voices. She could barely keep her composure at times, hiding in the corner of the common kitchen lest neighbours saw her cry among her pans and pots.

This was probably the time when Emma realised that she did not have old feelings of love and respect for her husband any longer. The times had changed and she no longer cared for his company. In fact, more and more she preferred numerous excuses to spend less and less time at home. Little Misha was very dismayed. Despite his fatherly looks and his thick mane of crow-black hair, inside, true to himself, he vastly preferred his mother to his distant and colder father. He forever loved her optimism, her sharp wit and resolute nature. He always found her warmth and love whenever he reached out. She was the best mother. His father on the other hand did not leave much in a way of a stir in his heart. Physical resemblance was about the only common trait. There were two different people divided by generational sensibilities and outright lack of understanding.

Finally, Old Misha decided to go back to his home town of Kishinev in Moldova. Much of his family was still there and he wanted a fresh new start after years of family tumult. He left, un-divorced, but unencumbered by family claims. In his wake he left little to remind anyone of his existence other than more breathing room in the apartment. This was clearly a fresh beginning for anyone. Little Misha even had a sensation that this was the last time he saw his dad.


River of Life
Freed, although still officially married, Emma felt new winds in her back. Not only her personal situation acquired a new sense of unattached adventure but also everyone around seemed to be a bit cheerier. After all, the awful cold days of Stalinism were over with their constant threat of wonton persecution, institutional anti-Semitism and general sense of hopelessness. Now, after the XX Party Congress of 1956, new freedoms were re-entering the society. At the very least people could have their anecdotes back and Emma loved anecdotes, sarcasm and company to boot. Sensing inspiration and thin inebriating air of change, she plunged into new series of romances. One of them happened to be with a very high ranking and very married police chief, Victor. Now the notion of life outside of work took on a new meaning. Clandestine dates and not so clandestine trips to Moscow and Kiev were filling Emma’s life to the brim. Everything was allowed and everything was exciting. After all she was closing on her forties and had hardly tasted the very life she was supposed to have.

Hardly anyone around was in the position to impose any constraints on her conscience. Religion in the Soviet Union was all but dead creating a vast vacuum of permissible morals. Sarah had tried to intervene but all was in vain. Her old-fashioned sense of propriety was certainly no match for modern sensibilities. Emma loved it she was so engrossed in her new exciting life that she even forwent the company of Little Misha who seemed to suffer in silence. He adored his mother and felt a great need for her continuous company. The need that frequently went unrealized driving him to the street. There he could practise his strong and decisive traits in many a prank pulled off all over the neighbourhood in a company of his followers and friends. Little Misha was turning into a little menace. He was never cruel or intolerable, but he loved his youthful freedom and friendships.

While Little Misha’s band of ruffians terrorised senior citizens and stay-at home moms by playing pranks stealing their fresh cookies left in the open windowsills to cool off and cutting laundry lines thus letting freshly cleaned trousers and underpants helplessly sag into backyard dirt. He went unchecked and being so engrossed with his friends was hardly capable of noting that his wife was about to take a very unpleasant turn.

Emma continued along her live path until one very fateful day in the mid 60s. On that day Emma learned something rather chilling – she was under a criminal investigation. Was a crime really committed or somebody was just trying to get back at her for whatever reason? I have never learned exactly. The subject was hardly ever mentioned in the family circles and I only found out about it through some tangent references when other episodes were discussed. The only thing is clear is that in her early forties Emma was no longer as commanding figure in her professional circles and personal connections. Her lover Victor had been promoted to a higher post in another city. No attachment was enough to keep them together anyway when a crucial promotion was on the line. Ultimately Victor became a general and served as a deputy minister of internal affairs of Ukraine. But for now in his posting elsewhere, he seemed unable or unwilling to help Emma to beat the rap.

I think that basic accusations against her were something to do with her robbing dead victims of crimes when in her lab. I do not know how much of it was really proven, or whether Emma was just overcome by tragic circumstances dictated by powerful in charge. In the end, she had to spend a couple of years in prison, Soviet prison…


Grandmother
Anybody familiar with the Soviet prison system of post-Stalin years knows that surviving few years behind bars was doable but very taxing. Every year inside counted as easy five even in the heavily polluted centres like Dnepropetrovsk. Spending close to two years there was definitely no fun. And by the time I arrived on the scene in the late sixties, the grandma I knew no longer had previous energy, style and aplomb. She was just a grandmother I loved. Slightly on the heavy side with thoroughly grey hair and heavy asthmatic breath, heaving almost any time she took a step.

One could really get depressed but not my grandma, at least not visibly so. Dealing with the turbulent current in addition to the difficult past was now on her plate. Her dear and rickety mother Sarah was past her seventieth year with deteriorating health, meagre pension and almost non-existent eye-sight. Sarah was brave and energetic woman to her last breath, but had it been not for faithful Emma her last days would have been surely deprived of love and care.

Little Misha gave up some of his questionable inclinations and after successful medical school graduation was now experiencing many unexpected difficulties of his own. Some of it was of his doing due to his newly found addiction to powerful drugs; the other share of post-graduation misfortunes was due to his very Jewish roots and appearance that withheld many job opportunities in the home town.

He, as a perpetual optimist, decided to re-start his life by enlisting into the Red Army as a medical officer with most of his two years spent in the scorching heat of Uzbekistan. Upon return he and his young family moved to a neighbouring city trying his luck at things presumably more civil and stable. Unlike the army, he had harder time fitting in here with Emma suffering all the more. Unable to help her only son, her role in life was confined to sighs and worries. In addition, she also took care of her elderly aunt, Zina - Sarah’s sister, who had just moved from St. Petersburg. Her plate was full and over-flowing. Now a doctor with an emergency ambulance station, she was pulling incredible shifts and hours in between caring for her mother and aunt, and worrying about her son. At times she would work up to three 24-hour shifts per week. And this was an asthmatic fifty year old fighting with bouts of high blood pressure! My grandmother was a true timeless working machine that fuelled itself with hardly much more than quick fatty snacks and a two-pack daily diet of heavy Russian cigarettes. I cannot even imagine what she existed on during all these years, as she also took care of me for one full year while my parents spent their second year in Uzbekistan. It was truly astounding!

And yet despite this unbelievably heavy load she always retained her utmost love and patience. As a kid I took it as due without truly appreciating all those countless meals, stories and games. I could still relish the unforgettable smell of her fruit pies made with quickness and skill unsurpassed in my annals.

I can hardly remember Emma being downcast and repressed. And yet her lot was heavy. She must have cried a lot, of that I am sure and yet she never blamed any of her charges treating them with ever-abounding love. This was also around the time when her husband Misha decided to re-unite with his old family. He moved to Dnepropetrovsk to stay with us during the year when I, a four-year old, was taking my leave of the Uzbekistan Red Army experience. He was nice and warm to me, taking me on long walks along the river. Some of these walks culminated in the joy of all joys – rides. My favourite ride was electric cars that raced one another in a screeching frenzy with occasional bumps and crashes. Grandpa Misha did not mind my taking few extra laps although he did not have an easy time fitting his hulking frame into one of those.

Back from our walks things did not progress as smoothly when Misha with his old dominant personality frequently clashed with Emma who by then had got used to full independence of decisions, finances and life in general. When squabbling they were not particularly loud or rambunctious and yet one could easily sense tension. As any four-year old, I was well attuned to voices and their meaning without fully grasping the consequences. Alas, the ensuing succession of events did not cascade all that fluidly on the surface of life and Misha left for his beloved Moldova once more. This time he was not to be heard from again.


Ten Years Later

“Ren-sen-brink, grandma, Ren-sen-brink” – I slowly repeated this mumbo-jumbo of a name only to almost kill-over in a raucous laughter attack. Emma could not contain herself either bursting into sporadic gurgles of laughter mixed with heaving chain-smoking cough of an asthma patient. This was the name of a famous Dutch footballer of the 70s who was a sublime master of his booming long-distance shots and had superbly bad luck at the Argentina Final 78 when he failed to break a late draw by hitting a post. Ever since those dramatic minutes just before Argentina took the Cup in overtime my grandma for the life of her could not pronounce the blasted Dutch name. And every time she tried, she would burst laughing engulfing whoever happened to be in audience at a time. I was of course the real culprit, egging grandma on whenever in need of a comedic moment.

In those years we needed those moments more than ever before. Especially, since only two of us occupied the old smoky apartment with walls thicker than those of Bastille and windows rivalling in age those of Uffizi. Sarah and her sister had long succumbed to their years and no longer graced out company. Little Misha, freshly out of yet another stint behind bars for drug offences, was now tolerably married to a lady few years his senior with two independent daughters of her own. They lived thousands of kilometres away in the depth of Siberia and were not very frequently heard from. My father had recently suffered a massive heart attack and hence was not all that disposed to coming to see us any time soon. It was quiet and sad in our camp.

Only three years before it was way more tumultuous. Little Misha was then on the crossroads of life once again. Whenever he was in such a place, he frequently turned into an unruly teenager armed with alcohol and drugs to boot. And since he spent most of his life on cross-roads instead of nice tree-lined boulevards, such occurrences were not all that infrequent. Once coming home through the murk of the windowless common kitchen I heard soft sobbing in the grandma’s corner. Through the haze and fumes I saw Emma crying over her empty pot of borsch – “he, he” she stuttered “just brought in his drunkard friends and they emptied the whole pot!” No big deal to some, I knew that this meant no real dinner today and maybe even tomorrow as we were frequently short on money. Now, it did not mean outright hunger but it did mean a complete lack of respect for my grandma that overwhelmed me with exceeding sadness. Even now the thought of that moment brings me into the land of irresolvable sadness – this old tattered asthmatic lady spent a better part of the day cooking the bleeding borsch only to throw it to the proverbial pigs…

Alas, such moments of sadness and helplessness were not unique and they did not have everything to do with Little Misha. To my shame my high-strung teenage years did not land softly on Emma either. Friends, late nights and lack of obedience brought us through many an unnecessary wrangle. While these bounced off reasonably well of my youthful chest, they got stuck like old splinters in hers. And yet she was always ready to forgive and move on – amazing. Now, I know for a fact that I did not appreciate my grandmother enough. I manipulated and used her to make my life easier and yet she hardly complained cooking, cleaning and giving me showers. The latter were a particular feat as her communal flat lacked anything resembling a shower or a bath. We did have water, cold water. So in order to indulge in my daily self-preening routine, Emma had to shuffle into the cantankerous environment of the common kitchen, to heat up a couple of water pots. Carrying them back mixing, splashing on yours truly and cleaning was her ungrateful task. I was not a complete selfish pig however since I did clean, vacuumed and dusted around the place to make it look like a 20th century dwelling and not a medieval stable. In this undertaking my successes were muted at best.

The most cherished family moments were those when we would chat about life – past, present and future with me reclining on a couch with a piece of Emma’s pie and Emma hulking in her old rickety chair with an umpteenth cigarette of the day. “You know” she would say. “This china cabinet has a remarkable story…” After recounting her latest edition of the gold chain episode she would sign, light up another one and smile through her half-eaten teeth – “this china cabinet is a true antic and must be worth some money. May be one day we will sell it for a really princely some and have a nice holiday “- she would dreamily rolled her eyes. “Or maybe after I am gone you could use the money…” her voice would trail off her moist eyes with a pitiful tremble. This always made me downcast. I knew that one day I would have to live without my dear grandmother.

Little prescience did she have as this historic china cabinet and the apartment itself would slip through my badly documented fingers after her and my father’s passing. But mortar and stones do not reside in our souls; memories do…


Epitaph
Emma, your life might not have turned out as the stars had predicted but you will always have a warm resting spot in my heart. Your last few years were not the happiest of your life and yet you were blessed to spend most of them in the company of Little Misha who came home to die. You did not know that and God made sure you never found out as he called your soul before his time came. At least you shared the last stretch of your lives together in a loving embrace and let me share in some small joys that came along. The thing I regret the most is too tiny of a place that God took up in our lives then. I know he desired all of us – you, father and I. I have found hope and maybe have you…I only wish another glimpse of you to say one more good-bye.

Tuesday

English 101

The word “English” itself is probably the most popular in the world. You can even use it in the remotest regions of China or in the farthest reaches of the Pampas. It is, unlike any other, is liable to evoke some kind of a response. Most of what you hear in return would be some version of “nyet” – but at least you establish some semblance of connection with other humans. This is way better than saying “Deutsch” or “Francais”. Of course one can squeeze a response in some former colonial domains. Otherwise, be ready for even more rejection. Say something like “Magyar” or “Nihongo” and you likely to be thought of as a complete idiot. Even in the most hospitable and laid-back lands could grow suddenly cold after such attempts. What are the chances of finding a speaker of an obscure, grammatically weird and tongue twisting Hungarian among the proudly unilingual Castillanos in the middle of Madrid? Virtually nil – one must be nuts to expect otherwise. This obvious fact however has been perennially lost on some travelling Russian public since the times of the Great October Revolution.

Based on some stories I can only imagine a strictly unilingual party functionary in a drab Soviet suit trying to buy some electronic item on the streets of New York sometime in 1980s. He first timidly enters some bustling epicentre of western commerce and sidles up to a VCR isle trying desperately to decipher the squiggles describing the merits of each make and model. He sees the prices but the rest is a bit of a mystery. He keeps mumbling “which one, which one, which one?” He is flabbergasted and lost in front of this impossible wealth. Stricken but still standing he simplifies his task by paying attention exclusively to some numeric descriptors and occasional international words he seems to recognise. A remote semblance of clarity gradually emerges in his mind. It has arrived at some cost as his forehead is covered with myriad of sweat beads and his mind has made a loop all the way home to Moscow. There this wonder of western technology will be either unpacked in front of mesmerised relatives or sold to the highest bidder to offset the cost of the trip and make a tidy rouble profit for a new pair of pants or a three week holiday in Crimea, you choose.

His trembling hands are nearly ready to pull the coveted prize from the shelf and caress it like a favourite dear pet cat, anxiety and tension increase pounded by persistently pulsating thought – “You cannot make a mistake”. All goes blurry for a moment, the sweet thoughts of home coming melt into the horizon once again. Two crucial questions demand answering – “does this VCR work on 220V and does it comply with European Pal standard?” Our pal cannot miss – failure is not an option. If it does not work on 220V, VCR becomes virtually worthless. He must ask. However with his English spanning the great hollow between hello and good-bye this is a nearly impossible predicament. His pants, gasping for extra O, there is not return as he pads his pockets leaving sweat marks on his new polyester. He nearly faints – his eyes have been caught in the cross-hairs of a seasoned salesman who expertly hurries to qualify his chances before bolting to his next source of commissions.

Our deodorant-free Communist friend manages a thudding hello after which he utters the two key questions in pure and unadulterated Russian. The moment of uneasy silence ensues as his counterpart’s brain quickly computes whether a call to police or fire fighting department might be a preferred course of action. Our friend raises his question once again, in a slightly more desperate octave this time. His nose starts itching, failing to understand how this Italian born salesman would not get a single a word of the most glorious and beautiful tongue. His blood of a mid-ranking bureaucrat starts boiling on slow with his pitch gradually lifting to shouting heights – he figures the louder he talks the better his chances at getting his snobby Muscovite tongue through the thick skull of his erstwhile vis-à-vis.

Finally, the tension reaches a crescendo. Fiasco seems unavoidable. The tinder dry cannon is ready to fire only to be interrupted a sudden “how can I help you?” in Russian uttered by an old German-born customer. This guy fought the WWII on the wrong side and ended spending some good old correction time in the Gulag system. He, unlike his thick German accent, was recovered and moved on to better life in the USA. Surprisingly, he never became bitter and now stood straddling the Iron Curtain, ready to prevent an international conflict. Now, our God-sent linguist quickly settles all key questions, safely sending our red director home with the Italian living another happy day of spaghetti pomidoro. Well done diligent servant! With work done and hands hardly dirty, our unimposing hero climbs down quietly, landing on the right side of the ominous Curtain and WWIII is averted!


Home Roots
Although the Soviet educational system did nominally teach a number of foreign languages to its subjects, the actual results were typically less than inspiring, as opportunities to use any foreign tongues were virtually unheard of. Most of us lived in the land of isolation that allowed but a trickle of foreign press, visitors or TV, let alone any other point of interaction. I spent majority of my formative years in the city that boasted one of the largest ballistic rocket concerns that employed thousands. While many were happy with all that bread on the table, for some inquisitive young minds it was certainly an unparalleled detriment. Alas, our thirst would not be quenched and instead the city received a very high security status. This denied entrance to any foreigners whatsoever. Even the ones from the friendly Eastern block were not welcome.

So here we lived in the city of about million people who hardly ever experienced any encounters with any foreign culture, tongue or as much as different colour tonality of colour. Many a less inspiring place at least partook in the ubiquitous and friendly student streams of aspirants from friendly Africa and enigmatic Asia. Not here as our potent university campuses remained pallid and bland with near perfect uniformity.

Foreign travel was hardly an answer as it was mostly reserved for the privileged perching on the top of the party machine. In return the party asked for a lot of responsibly sleepless nights which did not lend much support to growing one’s language skills. So all our education did not amount to all that much. Those who had time did not have access and those who had access were busy devising their treacherous Communist tricks.

It was utterly pointless and yet our poor parents poured countless hopes and roubles into the language education that was considered a hallmark of a well-rounded member of Soviet intelligentsia alongside with music, math and chess of course. So we studied, did assignments, studied some more just to be able to utter some of the most banal phrases such as “Hello” and “Good Bye”. All was for naught in the absence of real impetus for learning – practice. In fact the best English language students in my class tended to be the punks who admired “Deep Purple” and AC/DC. One of my friends was the best in the class solely due to his infatuation with his bedraggled, drugged up and unshaven idols of the western rock culture, which subsisted on the nearly illegal level in our land of secrecy. A limited knowledge of depraved AC/DC lyrics served as a deep and inexhaustible trough of knowledge, forget spending countless hours in the company of garlic-breathing ill-versed teachers.

No wonder that any degree of respectable mastery of a foreign tongue was nearly tantamount to a true paragon of achievement as stood not too far from those who like to dig into your skull under the pretence of neurosurgery. My mother was really inspired when I was a true prodigy at the age of four. I ran naked, laughed unabashedly and could draw very violent pictures in seconds. She thought to channel my nervous energies into something more useful pushing on my nascent musical talents. Alas just one year at the music school I still preferred less structure and discipline, the hallmarks of any plausible music career. Soccer ruled trumping any subsequent attempts at establishing any solid grounding in the ultimate intellectual pursuit of Soviet intelligentsia – chess. All led to naught, as I managed to lose all but one game at my first and last official tournament. It was nearly a complete disaster. In fact, I just about smashed a chessboard on the head of one much more apt and smarter opponent. I clearly needed a place to shed my natural aggressiveness through exercise. The point was well taken and I tried to ruffle through more sweaty alternatives within the confines of many local offerings that even included boxing. This one lasting the least, as the first direct punch not only triggered a headache but also a stark realisation of incompatibility between the rough ancient pastime and my other quasi-intellectual aspirations. A wide variety of sports later my prospects of a career Olympic athlete were languishing in the most sever fashion – short, stocky and slow – I could not even compete in sumo.

The last hope was a technical career with the concentration on math and physics. Due to some moderate successes and prompted by engineering blood of my grandfather, I realised soon enough that only hard work and some luck could make me a reasonably successful member of the Soviet thinking class. But was it unique enough to be truly proud of? My unquenched pride seared me constantly. I needed an edge, something to stand out at; something to gain worth and respectability. The unyielding bastion of foreign tongues beckoned. I hardly knew anyone who knew anything in this department. Good, maybe there is a place for me. But all that work. I could hardly fathom all that concentration. I will surely do one day. But for now daydreaming was so much better. It was sweet to think how one day, miraculously perhaps, I will master not only English but nasal French and succulent Spanish as well. But not now, there are more girls to meet and friends to play cards with. Later when I am 32 perhaps…

Why 32, because this when the extremely round and hence important year of 2000 was scheduled to take place. For now I will just get by tapping into the vocabulary and grammar afforded by the profound AC/DC lyrics. My rock savvy friends could always land a hand when it came to Hall and Hell, Bitch and Beach among other mysterious utterings clouded in the Channel fog. All of this did not go very far except for frayed shorts and long hair. Ever more meagre efforts at university announced years of a slow downhill. There was so little to lose that the descent took a long, long time indeed. Until one fateful day on the university campus arrived…


Copy Machines
The existence of cope machines in the mid 80s was a fact of life in the prosperous West, in the East carbon paper served as a perfect and only substitute. Our dear Soviet bureaucracy just loved carbon paper especially since it allowed for production of multiple, much adored and always necessary forms. Even on the forefront of the academic thought carbon paper was the only answer to the myriad of life demands. So imagine our elation and trepidation at the thought of hosting a copy machine exhibition by Minolta on the university grounds. Warm hopeful winds were rapidly melting perennial freeze announcing hopeful springy future. Predictably, we could hardly wait not only to see the wonders of western technology but also to experience first real contacts with live human specimens from the behind the curtain. Even visitors from Mars could hardly have caused this much excitement.

The exhibition primarily marketed to local burgeoning business classes that had already started springing up, feeding on the reforms introduced by Moscow. These new Soviet business people still looked awkward and badly dressed in crumpled cheap suits, thin ties and scuffed shoes – but they were the only ones the wily westerners could remotely sell anything to. You might image that payments in roubles were out of question. As such the students and the penniless academics were only a very long-term marketing target at best. Hence we were granted the access to the magic exhibition on the first day only.

Finally the doors swung open. Crowds rushed in and I had to push my way through a throng of onlookers for a first hand look at three or four wonderful of these machines. Ensconced in spacey chain mails of Japanese plastic these were the true wonders. They speedily copied ones’ class notes with an ease of taking a breath – I could only imagine the potential of all philandering students wishing to copy neighbours notes, homework etc. The future was brilliantly scintillating until I approached one of the salesmen obligingly waiting for demonstrations requests.

The wafts of expensive fragrances mixed with tasteful gusts of exquisite tobacco engulfed all approaches. Hardly anyone dared to breach the front line. All stood as right before the opening salvo at Borodino. With only a slight adjustment though as my slick westerners bristled with smiles instead of bayonets. At last, I made a few conversational attempts with about a fifty word vocabulary. After few “hmm and hoes” I had to beat a retreat with a copy sample I happily snatched on the march back to the barracks. This was hardly a satisfying outcome as my very future was fleeting away faster than mesmerizing sparks of a supernova. What a surprise! These guys hailing from Austria did not speak a word of Russian - the Russian dominance did indeed end somewhere between Kiev and Vienna.

They did speak the language of international business – English. Alas, I was not an important Soviet industrial leader to be flanked by adequate translation help. As such I had to fend on my own. Amazingly, my fifty words proved easily superior to those of my fellow students. They pushed me right in to address their hunger for the shiny exhibits. My mumbling lingual advances were kindly received once again. I persevered with singular and very grammatically disdainful “copy” and “show”. My patience was eventually rewarded I was accorded few more gifts of a copied page. My cohorts were elated. I felt a bit like a hero. And yet my excitement was by plain old jealousy. Having experienced the real language barrier for the first time in my life I had to do something about it. I was humbled and needed to act even if out of pure spite for all that cologne. Few days later I signed up for a set of evening English course for the coming semester.


English – I Can

This course was designed for non-language professionals. The expected length was two years with weekly sessions and assignments. At first a daunting task with my already full schedule that already included full time engineering studies, university basketball practices and side attempts at making some quick party cash. Filling all plausible available time slots seemed to do the trick. If only we always could do that. Alas, our pubs will suffer.

After some initial success came a very predictable downslide. Now, my English languished somewhere between basketball practices, science classes and commuting. The once a week routine was having hard time attracting necessary study time and effort.

Suddenly, this sub-par effort was dismissed in favour of entirely new and very thirsty work ethic. Somewhere between getting average marks at labour safety and failing to qualify for the NBA draft, my sense of responsibility found a new, uncounted for, source of inspiration. It must have been a mighty push from God. I changed my routine from just a few hours per week to at least ten hours of classes and homework. Slowly but surely my previous language heights were scaled to never look back. In just few months I acquired a sufficient level of skill to make my English interesting, exciting and useful. By the end of the first year I was able to maintain a reasonable conversation on a number of topics. I could hardly contain my excitement, ultimately I felt like a real learner who was suddenly in a possession of something unique, intellectually challenging and potentially very rewarding ability.

Up to now most of my interactions were with the fellow course students and our instructor. I desperately needed some confirmation, anything would do. My first “real” test did not make me wait too long, as my best friend Misha offered an opportunity to go to Hungary with a group of university students. This was one of the most exciting times of my life – eventually I was about to venture outside of the beloved motherland for the first time.


Swimming in the Fish Tank

Prior to the welcoming doors of Perestroika, rare a Soviet got a chance to glimpse into other folds of the Iron Curtain, let alone peeking through it. The other folds in the ever thinner and more strife-ridden fabric were of course our friendly Eastern European neighbours – Poland, Hungary, Romania etc. Here in the West we tend to underestimate the historic, cultural and economic merits of these states just recently entering the Pan European ranks. For us living in the Soviet Union, some of these countries represented the multifaceted pinnacle of success when juxtaposed against our less than glorious deeds. One can hardly imagine difficulties of obtaining an opportunity to visit some of our more advanced brothers and sisters then.

A good deal of connections and some money in order to procure a short (usually a two-week visit) visit to any of these countries were a must. My grandfather was a lucky sort, as he managed it twice – once to East Germany on a business trip and once to Bulgaria to experience the exotic sands of Black Sea beaches in Varna. Just on the opposite side to Crimea, this could hardly be further away with its glitzy shopping and people with dollars, marks to be exact as the locale was renowned for cheap Teutonic thrills.

Grandfather’s ensuing tales were truly mesmerizing and were frequently re-told with panache worth of Cervantes and Scott, Walter that is. Considering that such trips usually were nearly prohibitively expensive, the heavily rationed currency was nearly always used for things of marketable value. Speculation was in our arteries it seemed and paying king’s ransom for pure vacation kicks was only for the upper elite. The merchandise had to pay and more.

Even my staunchly communistic grandfather did not consider it beneath him to seek out deals on valuables that were later resold to cover his trip expenses. Some wilier characters actually brought some stuff for in kind exchanges such as army watches, caviar, matreshka dolls and other famous knickknacks. Of course, all this commerce required a commitment of time and energy. So much as that missing many a famous monument, museum and statute was not considered a major Faux Pas. Instead such efforts wallowed in their lowly venal glories.

Now this is about Eastern block travel. To go to the West, one had to be extremely well connected and clean from the KGB perspective. My grandfather once applied for one of these trips just to be turned down due to his lack of clearance brought on by his chief engineer job at a railway car factory. He must have been privy to some chilling state secrets and could not be let loose on the train obsessed French with their decadent TGV technology. Undoubtedly, the bourgeois French must have been looking for ways to slow down their super fast rail beasts and my grandfather with his knowledge of vintage WWII technology was just the guy they were looking for. Alas, TGV stayed alive and my grandfather did not get to see the land of pomp and consequence. Capitalist French were left to fend off their deadly addiction to speed on their own.

Impenetrable Magyars
Now due to Misha’s graces I was to embark on my first foreign travel opportunity. Misha’s Komsomol connections were the key factor. The Soviet Communist Youth organisation (Komsomol) was a good vehicle for opportunistic young lads to advance in the society. Misha with silver spoon origins had always been an ambitious type. Looking for additional angles was his favourite pastime. Not having particularly strong ideological inclinations did not bar his swift offensives with Komsomol favoured for straightforward mechanics. Not surprisingly today most of the commanding economic and political positions in the former Soviet Union are held by ex Party and Komsomol members – times change but actors stay the same.

Just like about any other opportunistic weasels, we looked at this trip from mostly a commercial perspective. My budding talents automatically appointed me as communications head of our little expedition and since my knowledge of Hungarian was just as plausible as fluency in Swahili, English was our only hope. Truth be told, there were some English major students in the group. However, our intricate commercial transactions required trust they did not instil, lest they will ask for a piece of action and our projected margins could not sustain such presumptions. I was the guy.

Cleared by Komsomol and ever less vigilant KGB of the late 1980s, we happily embarked on a 24-hour journey to Lviv, the beautiful and historic city in the Western Ukraine – our first connection point. Arriving in Lviv offered one-day opportunity to be exposed to the sound of true and unadulterated Ukrainian deftly mixed with some glorious 19-century European baroque architecture with the famous Opera House as its flagship. As far as any commercial aspects went, the nearly palpable proximity of the Polish border did not produce much in a way of visible results - our anxious selves had to wait for few more days.

A short overnight train hop brought us to the Western most region of Ukraine – Zakarpatye. It was my first but not last encounter with this unique and surely the most multicultural part of Ukraine. This region is hemmed in by an incredible confluence of geography and politics. On the East it is separated from the rest of Ukraine by Carpathian Mountains, creating a natural and sometimes very meaningful divide. All other sides of the region border on four different nations – Rumania, Hungary, Slovakia and Poland. Such positioning has created a very interesting ethnic mosaic that has been in play for centuries. The main language is Ukrainian. But this one is of a very different sort when compared to Lviv let alone more easterly parts. I was completely stunned as comprehending even few words proved to be an enormous challenge. And this is after eight years of school instructions. Misha was the only happy character in his ignorance – he was spared nearly obligatory Ukrainian language instructions during his high school years due to his well-connected and very Russian parents. His presumed liver decease could not sustain a pressure required by weekly instructions in the language that hardly differed from Russian!

The rest of us marvelled and despaired at the perennial educational effort wasted. Finally, someone properly explained to us the key to this conundrum: When the Mongolian horsemen swarmed over the land later to be known as a Russian Empire in the 13th century, their cruelty and greed appeared to have found a natural barrier in the form of the Carpathian Mountains. By now satiated hordes let the people on the other side alone, including their language and customs. While the language to the east of the divide continued changing and developing under the influence of many numerous historical twists and turns, the western language remained dormant and retained much of its ancient traits. In fact some claim that what we heard in Zakarpatye is not Ukrainian at all but rather a version of ancient Russian. You can only imagine the relief for our pride – we even learned something. I even stopped dismissing the locals as hicks – according them a due degree of respect for lingual perseverance tangled their decidedly less Mongolian roots.

After a short two-day stay in the capital city of Uzhgorod with its interesting but still very familiar Soviet history, our group moved closer to a town near the Hungarian border. Like all starved for abroad Soviets we were not allowed across the border too quickly in order to acclimatise – lest we can develop an acute bout of something similar to high altitude sickness, in a cultural sense. Some were known to lose consciousness at the sight of unfathomable – endless strings of salami and surreal mounds of cheese were known to jolt brains to the limit. Our fragile unaccustomed to consumerism minds needed delicate management and no surprises.

The small town Badurs, although mostly Soviet in appearance, was quite a change from what we experienced at home. First of all, the street language was no longer Russian or Ukrainian – it was Hungarian. Secondly, even the preference for local time reference was Hungarian, as it was two hours behind the official region’s time (same as Moscow’s). So when you wanted to ask how late it was, locals would typically inquire which time you wanted to know first – Budapest’s or Moscow’s. Finally, folks here did not require the same level of border clearance as the rest of their Soviet compatriots and could cross into Hungary and back seemingly at will. This gave the local economy a bit of a boost, as they appeared to have more in the stores and restaurants of offer. While a typical Soviet restaurant could only deliver one or two items out of total of forty featured on the menu, here the establishments were much better supplied – we enjoyed the food, ambience and foretaste of Hungary itself.


Grinder Ambitions
After a three-day sojourn with the Soviet Hungarians, we were ready to take on the world. The fateful day finally arrived. As the bus approached the border, we could hardly sit still anticipating the taste of delights that were waiting just across the river behind the striped border polls. The only worry was an overt abundance of presumably useful merchandise that could be exchanged or sold in order to boost the earning power afforded by the meagre exchange allowance of only about 50 USD per person. Coffee grinders were the most popular. Our central planners had a special affinity for grinding coffee even though there was hardly any coffee to grind. While typically stingy offerings of underwear, sausage and cars persistently eluded the Soviet market, grinders were plentiful. Some astute central planner must have predicted the impending overwhelming conversion to coffee drinking – amazingly prescient. While grinders were fast approaching the magic 2 to 1 ratio (two grinders per capita) the underwear stubbornly stayed at 1.5 –Kremlin did not expect a strong improvement in the hygiene habits.

After some regular border check-in procedures shadowed by many pale faces strained by baited breath and clammy hands. The tension was palpable stretching to the limit. What if they find all those grinders? Luckily the border guards did not object to our proclivity to caffeine and were only happy to move on. The engine revved up again and the bus jolted into motion, the bridge was crossed and voila we were some place else. The first and the most lasting impression was left by the state of the roads, as our bus speeded like a bullet along the extremely well-paved highway leaving behind totally worn-out pothole-stricken roads behind the border. The bus’ engine sang and we were lulled to sleep due to be in the first port of call – the city of Debrecen – in less than two hours.

The stop in Debrecen was to be the first test for our capitalist and language skills. Once out of the bus we quickly scattered around the town centre to scour for good deals, treats and other delights of suddenly freed Soviets. The first corner store was not a disappointment as it offered ten times more of everything, as I ever had seen in my life in one place all at once. I was prepared of course and did not let myself faint, instead I quickly proceeded to recalculate prices of different goods into roubles – time was of essence. To my dismay my first lesson was disheartening. Although the whole world of consumerism was at my steps, the prices were not a match for my paltry budget. The lesson number one: capitalism is not cheap. The lesson number two: eloquence of one’s English is not a guarantee of success. In the shop they only spoke Hungarian – what a surprise!

An overnight stay at a local budget hotel was a pleasant revelation – since it was cleaner, better stocked with basics like soap and towels then anything I had ever seen at home. The towels and soap pieces were rather small though, as the astute hoteliers rightfully expected the hungry Soviets to make out with anything they could their hands on. The next morning after a short excursion to partake in some historic delights of a city totally bombed out during WWII, we were chomping at the bit at the prospect of attending a local market - our second and hopefully more promising commercial foray into the unbound fields of capitalism. This was Soviet tourism after all and monument-watching was a luxury we could not afford.

The market turned out to be a busy open air affair teeming with just about anybody – perennial merchants of Poland, perennial thieves of Romania and flinty Soviets with hungry eyes and grinders, of course. To say the least, the scene was crowded, competitive and not for the faint of heart. We plunged in the fray only to discover that owning to its near-the-border location; the market featured a lot of middlemen who asked too much for their wares. Besides, the atmosphere seemed ripe for some pick-pocketing – so we had to be on the lookout. After a few passes along the aisles I managed to trade my first class coffee grinder for some western summer garb. It was first class silky wife-beater that served well my conceited ambitions of athletic kinda dude. The quality way superior to any low-class sleeve-less wonders available in the Soviet stores; and made in some place foreign, it brandished over-sized bicep outlines in bright pink to boot. A great find! Both parties were delighted with the concluded business and my grinder went on to maul any and all those western coffee beans in its wake. But all of it was small potatoes - real commercial successes had to wait until the great capital of Magyars - Budapest. The market dealt another blow to my English as it was deemed essentially useless by the busy buyers and sellers operating exclusively in eastern European tongues. I had to wait my turn in Budapest.

The first glimpses of Budapest did deliver the punch. It looked marvellous and very western, just like a fairy tale – except this time we could touch the magnificent ornate walls, walk on cobble stone boulevards, experience wide open parks, baroque architecture, open air cafes, overstocked neon lit shops and other delights previously unknown to most of us. Some things were even startling such as extremely courteous drivers that stopped as soon any pedestrian stepped on crosswalks. In Russia it tended to work the other way, as soon a pedestrian stepped in the crosswalk, a driver would accelerate – life delivered few thrills and this one was not to be missed by any proud vehicle owner.


Blue Danube
In Budapest, we stayed just outside of town in a hotel situated right in the middle of a tourist zone along the banks of the famous Danube. Here we were right in the middle of a European paradise surrounded by lively night life, well-to-do locals and even West Germans who enjoyed cheap beer, robust entertainment, rich architecture and semi-divine status to boot. Everything in sight was delightfully different, carefree and almost impossible with our meagre budgets. We could mingle in, touch it but could not have it – so tempting it was. All such temptations had to be consigned to the backburner in favour of all important commerce.

Enriching and extensive cultural programs stared us in the face. But refinements of life could wait since most of our time was spent scouting all sorts of potential deals. My dear Misha set his mind firmly on acquiring a generic car sunroof. In his tech savvy world he was convinced that a car sunroof would ultimately lead us into the big blue and rich future. We spent hours wandering from one car shop to another – blisters and calluses had to wait turn for their soothing treatment. There was no time to waste. I was more than confident that Misha’s incredible penchant for salesmanship would lead to success. His salesmanship gifts were so much a tradition in the North America that was a rarity in 1980s Soviet Union. He could describe and help envision the glorious climax of the coveted car sunroof making us some real dough in so many a picturesque detail that even Michelangelo burn with red-hot envy. Considering the prospective mark-up to and ensuing wealth, we spent just about all our mental resources searching for just a perfect specimen.

Luckily in Budapest my attempts at English started delivering some decent, although unpredictable, as some wily Hungarian merchants seemed to know how to count in at least a dozen languages. I hunkered for real conversations though but those required too much of joue-de-vivre - much to the contrary of our present aspirations. The relaxing atmosphere and conversational charms of overpriced sidewalk cafes did not appeal to our limited wallets us. Neither did numerous art treasures, inspiring churches and heavy-laden museums. We kept stubbornly pounding the sidewalks instead. Luckily, after two days we finally procured a first-rate specimen. At last, we could exhale in relief and plunge right back to spend the rest of the money. With a new shining pair of Head sneakers to spoil anybody, I felt like a million bucks. Exhausted at the end of that hard day in the office we plunged right into the festive atmosphere of the surrounding tourist district. However, since money was short and entertainment budget basically non-existent we had to contend ourselves with peering through the impenetrable glass to the world of free-flowing beer and fat-dripping hot dogs.

We salivated over everything and everybody including poor West German school children who did not think twice before jumping on a local amusement ride or furtively swigging on premium beer once out of teachers’ sight. The lack of western wallets would not make us give up and go to sleep. We had antidote of our own - vodka and cards were dutifully smuggled in the depth of our duffel tourist bags. And since most of it proved to be mostly worthless from a trading perspective – drinking and playing cards were the natural options. During those short days in Budapest I slept the least in my entire life. I must have averaged no more three hours per night. Struggling to wake up in the morning, I had to make myself go on morning jogs along the river just to keep myself upright. To my dismay I discovered that all those songs about the blue Danube were bunk – the water looked brown, polluted, and significantly less romantic than anticipated.


Window to Europe
After a few exhausting days on the shopping track with money nearly gone and the delightful car sunroof safely packed in the suitcase sized up to fit a whole person, Misha decided that time for a real party was at hand. I thought he wanted to pursue our usual poor paths laden with home supplies that we were accustomed to. Something different transpired instead. Not choosing a cosy nook on the grounds of our hotel, Misha triumphantly led us into a local bar with trendy glass panels and well-stocked shiny counter. I started getting a bit alarmed. The place was full of westerners who were not a match for anything we could get up to. The place was ritzy, glittery and abuzz in languages that none of us could comprehend. The only familiar item was Rocky III playing on the bar screen. But even this could not assuage my anxiously pounding heart as Rocky handily thrashed Ivan and gave him tongue-lashing in Hungarian to boot.
As Misha moved to order some overpriced beer all of my alarms set off howling. This was just a beginning. At the very last instance inebriated by the presence of the trip queen named Helen, he promptly waded ever deeper. A bottle of Champaign with the price tag that could have fed my entire family for at least a week delivered the worst possible blow. No amount of my very desperate objections could dissuade my cavalier companion. The ensuing consumption of the carbonated poison proceeded with abandon and recklessness perfectly suited to a typical Russian soul – “we live only once”. Having seen part of my commercial stake disappearing in the pocket of the gleeful waiter I struggled to enjoy my time in the glitter, as Misha’s life advice failed to resonate with hollow emptiness in my frugal heart. I managed to make a few apparently satisfied sips. But wasn’t enough to convince my profligate Misha. Besides, to the worst of my chilling expectations our queen left less than impressed.

The last full day on the Hungarian soil was spent driving around the countryside and visiting most quaint and picturesque nooks the land had to offer. We visited soaring cathedrals, crooked ancient streets, steep bluffs and sweeping vistas. Unfortunately, I remember very little of it due to nearly complete exhaustion. Back for the last short night at the hotel, we were about to exit our first foreign adventure with not much else to report. Suddenly, a new batch of West German teenagers arrived at the hotel right before our departure. Despite the late hour we were lingering to savour the last smells and air of the West. To pass time some in the group felt like engaging the former enemy. English was our only option and the choice fell on me. Surprisingly Germans understood me as we proceeded conversing about this, that and the other with relative ease. I was flabbergasted. It worked! I could talk, they could understand and visa-versa. Eureka!

Elated I eschewed going to bed entirely. The Germans had similar impulses. I stayed up for hours in the middle of the night exchanging notes with my newly found German friend Marcus. We managed to express views on social systems, politics, economics and my newly acquired pair of shorts that sported colours of the German flag. Then we started talking soccer and I produced my very real trump card - our trip queen Helen happened to be the one and only sister of a famous Russian soccer star. This guy was one of the best strikers in Europe, well-known and even handsome. After mentioning that Helen Protasova was in fact a member of our squad, Marcus’s happiness knew no bounds. Now, I was his friend forever or until he could meet Helen at least. Unfortunately for him, she did not wake up until the very departure and downtrodden Marcus had to content himself with just a brief introduction. He later wrote me a couple of letters which promptly stopped coming once I had furnished him with Helen’s address. Bloody heartless capitalist! No matter, if we could not be friends, I could at least be assured that the ever-elusive English was within grasp – a victory!

After our departure we made just a couple stops on the way to the border. On the outskirts of Budapest we bought a whole slew of cheap and dirty magazines in a last minute effort to spend the last vestiges of foreign coin in our pockets. Having exhausted our material and physical resources on this exciting shopping expedition we promptly fell asleep just to be woken up by a terrible racket caused by bus tires hitting myriad of pot holes long an unkempt road – home sweet home! Back in Dnepropetrovsk we quickly discovered that our highly prised car sunroof was less than a hit with the savvy locals. Barely, we managed to get away with just a slim profit. A quick transition to the status of a Soviet Rockefeller will have to wait. Our thoughtless last minute purchase of a whole sheaf of indecent magazines delivered a financial bonanza – we should have bought the whole newsstand! Sunroof fiasco was merging with the horizon, some neighbourly aficionados were leafing through freshly delivered samples of western press and Hungarians were left brushing up on their English counting skills while we looked forward to new adventures.