From Russia With Frustration

What remains of Lenin's body is still lying in a glass case in the mausoleum. At least that is what the other American students enrolled in the special year-long program at Moscow University told me. Our group had scheduled a visit to the resting place of the humble genius of the revolution, but John and I arrived late and missed the tour. How were we to know that it would take 15 minutes for the single elevator to respond to our call from the fifteenth floor cafe near Red Square? While John waited loyally by the elevator doors in the unlikely event that they should open. I searched the landing for any indication of a staircase. Fortunately, I found a door marked "Emergency Exit." Unfortunately, it was locked. Tacked to the door was a notice, no doubt intended to ease my anxiety. The keys to the emergency door, the fine print assured anyone with the leisure to read it, could be obtained at the administrator's office...on the first floor.

Our early experiences in Moscow taught us that the best ways to minimize frustration coping with Soviet conditions was to expect the unexpected--or nothing at all. Our intuitive expectations of "how things should work" proved to be nothing more that a set of cultural biases which would best be tucked safely away with our American Tourister luggage because, after all, we had come as students, not tourists.

Though we did not make it to the mausoleum that day, we did not miss Lenin because he is still, in the words of the Russian poet Mayakovsky, "more alive than all the living." His portrait graces billboards and blackboards alike. His name lends its dignity to Moscow State University, the city library, and entire metro system, not to mention what was formerly St. Petersburg.

Lenin's presence in Moscow and Leningrad was particularly conspicuous during the week preceding the November 7 celebrations of the 1917 revolution. Giant socialist-realist canvas murals, sometimes covering the fronts of entire buildings, portrayed his larger-than-life countenance.

On the morning of the holiday, Komsomol (Young Communist) members, soldiers, jeeps and tanks paraded on Red Square, which was closed to the public. Only those privileged few with invitations were permitted to attend, so we watched the parade on television in the dormitory. In the evening, we gathered at the well-furnished apartment (complete with piano, television and Phillips stereo system) of our conversation teacher. Her large living room windows, overlooking the Moscow River, afforded us a commanding view of the holiday fireworks, which illuminated the city and the entire night sky in alternating bursts of green, gold and red. Her good fortune is perhaps due in part to the fact that in addition to teaching, she works for the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

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Everyday life, however, was somewhat less spectacular. Our dormitory, inconveniently situated in the southwest corner of the city, housed only foreign students. The cafeteria on the ground floor operated according to the schedule posted on its doors, except when it didn't. Breakfasts had to be rushed or skipped altogether because, although the cafeteria opened early enough to allow us 25 minutes before leaving for classes downtown, much of this time was wasted waiting in line, first for the food and then for the cashier to add up the bill on an abacus (she used the cash register only as a cash box). The breakfast offerings included greasy fried eggs, cold beets, herring with onions, porridge, sausage, lukewarm condensed milk, and hot ultra-sweetened tea.

Each class lasted for an excruciating hour and a half, with a 10 minute break after the first class and 20 minutes for lunch between the second and third. The cafeteria at the institute was not nearly large enough to accomodate all the students, but thanks to the cafeteria's far-sighted management, this minor oversight did not pose any logistic problems. Since the cafeteria had only two employees, many of the students spend most and sometimes all of the lunch break standing in lines rather than occupying the limited number of chairs and tables. In this way, the potential crisis of over-crowding in the dining area was averted. Unwilling to spend our precious lunch minutes standing in line, we walked to the nearest bakery, which sells white bread, dark bread, buns with raisins, buns without raisins, and spongy cookies sprinkled with a chalky white powder that tastes like Crest toothpaste.

* * *

Most of our courses dealt with various aspects of the Russian language, and were not particularly exciting. But discussions in the Soviet political history class revealed a fundamental difference between the treatment of civil liberties in the American and Soviet constitutions. In contrast to the American legal tradition of protecting civil liberties except in the extreme case of a "clear and present danger" to the nation's security, the Soviet constitution guarantees civil liberties only when the exercise of these liberties does not interfere with "the interests of society and state," a vague formulation which allows Soviet courts a wide range of discretion in dealing with Soviet citizens who attempt to exercise the freedoms (of speech and press, for example) which are protected in theory.

In another discussion we asked our instructor why so many women continue to work past the retirement age of 55. Some of these women, visibly eligible to receive their pensions, shovel snow from the steps of public parks, others, bent over because the handles on their brooms are only half a meter long, sweep metro floors after shut-down at 1 a.m. Our instructor said that these women simply love their work. While this explanation may very well be true, a more complete answer might have also noted that in some cases pensions are so low that the elderly need the extra income just to survive.

After classes, we were free. Free to visit museums, to go to concerts and movies, to try to sweet-talk the lady at the Intourist theater ticket office, or to visit friends and new acquaintances. But sooner or later we had to be free to shop for food.

One day as I entered the supermarket I saw a line of about 50 people leading into a room, from which shoppers were emerging one at a time with string bags full of mandarin oranges. As soon as I had taken my place, the line stopped moving. A whole minute passed, then five. From where we were standing we could not see the door, so the man in front of me said he would go look if I held his place. "Both doors are closed," he said when he returned, "and nobody knows why." In a voice meant to carry toward the front of the line, one of the people who had taken his place behind me declared, "It's the end of the day--the mandarins are probably all sold out," although he seemed to have no intention of leaving. "If they had run out of mandarins they would have told us not to stand in line any longer," observed a wise babushka. "They're probably just unpacking a new crate...if there were none left, they would have told us." And so we stood there and waited. Fifteen minutes later, an employee emerged from behind the closed doors and told us that there were none left.

From September through December, most consciously absent from the store counters was the variety of fresh fruits and vegetables that we have been taught to love. True, there were plenty of carrots and potatoes, but they were soggy; the apples and grapes were sour. Luckily, there are a few markets where farmers are permitted to sell privately the produce cultivated on their own plots. The contrast to the state-run stores was striking. The counters of the market stalls were covered with crisp apples, firm tomatoes, leafy lettuce, crunchy carrots, and of course, mounds of mushrooms. Just a dab of capitalist incentive in a socialist economy.

And for those days when we foreigners did not wish to mix with the peasant and proletarian rabble, the state obligingly runs food stores in which only people carrying foreign passports are welcome. These stores carry just about everything, including an inordinately large supply of chocolates and liquor. Payment is in dollars, if you please, or any other suitable western currency: American Express and Visa cards are welcome.

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Evenings were a convenient time to meet Soviet citizens. Several Soviet students made a habit of waiting around the lobby of our institute just at the time our classes were dismissed. Most of these, however, were primarily interested in obtaining our winter coats and dollars for exchange on the black market, so it was advisable to make friends elsewhere.

Borya is a mechanics student whom I befriended one cold night on the street. He noticed I was shivering and offered me his scarf. Enrolled in an institute of higher learning, he is exempt from military conscription. Nevertheless, he and his fellow students devote a few days each month to studies under the institute's department of war. On these days they wear green uniforms and learn how to repair jeeps and trucks. Like many Russians Borya wanted to know what American life is really like. Are salaries in the government sector lower than those in the private sector? I answered affirmatively. "Then it's true," he exclaimed, almost incredulous. "Our economics teacher was right. The American government exploits the workers even more than the capitalists do!"

Like many students, Borya is a Komsomol member not out of ideological commitment but rather because he feels that party affiliation will enhance his career opportunities. His cynicism toward the government is reflected in a joke he enjoys telling: "What is the most neutral country in the world today? Afghanistan--it's so neutral that it doesn't interfere in even its own internal affairs." From reading the Soviet press and talking with an acquaintance who had returned from military service there, Borya is fully aware of the implications of an agreement of "mutual assistance."

* * *

When, at the end of our semester it was time to leave, the wheels of our Finnair jet lifted from the runway of Moscow's Sheremetivo airport, and our group burst into thunderous applause and joyous cheers. Our euphoric outburst was a natural expression of our relief at leaving the frustrations of Soviet life behind and finally heading home. For some of us, it was also an expression of thanksgiving for the degree of liberty that American can democracy, despite serious faults, has managed to protect.