Secondhand Time: The Last of the Soviets

by Svetlana Alexievich

HOW STUFF BECAME WORTH AS MUCH AS WORDS AND IDEAS

Before, I had hated money, I didn’t know what it was. My family never talked about it—it was considered shameful. We grew up in a country where money essentially did not exist. Like everyone else, I would get my 120 rubles a month and that had been enough. Money appeared with perestroika. With Gaidar. Real money. Instead of “Our Future is Communism,” the signs began exclaiming, “Buy now!” If you want to, you can travel. See Paris…Spain…fiesta…bullfighting….When I read about it in Hemingway, I’d been sure that I’d never see any of it with my own eyes. Back then, books replaced life…This was the end of our nightly kitchen vigils and the beginning of making money then making more money on the side. Money became synonymous with freedom. Everyone was completely preoccupied with it. The strongest and most aggressive started doing business. We forgot all about Lenin and Stalin. And that’s what saved us from another civil war with Reds on the one side and Whites on the other. Friends and foes. Instead of blood, there was all this new stuff…Life! We chose the beautiful life. No one wanted to die beautifully anymore, everyone wanted to live beautifully instead. The only problem was that there wasn’t really enough to go around…

Mountains of books! The intelligentsia were selling off their libraries. People had grown poor, of course, but it wasn’t just for the spare cash—ultimately books had disappointed them. People were disillusioned. It became rude to ask, “What are you reading?” Too much about our lives had changed, and these weren’t things that you could read about in books. Russian novels don’t teach you how to become successful. How to get rich…Oblomov lies on his couch, Chekhov’s protagonists drink tea and complain about their lives…

Few of us remained unchanged. Decent people seem to have disappeared. Now it’s teeth and elbows everywhere…

We live in a big building with twenty entrances. Every morning, they’d find another body in the courtyard—eventually, we stopped being shocked. Real capitalism was here. With blood. I thought that I’d be disturbed, but I wasn’t.

With socialism, the people were participating in History…They were living through something great… —Fucking shit! Look at us, we’re so soulful, we’re so special.

We used to live in a great country where we stood in line for toilet paper…I remember the smell of Soviet cafeterias and grocery stores all too well.

There was a poor girl in our class whose parents had died in a car crash. She lived with her grandmother. All year long, she wore the same dress to school every day. No one felt sorry for her. It’s surprising how fast being poor became shameful…

informants, and the Iron Curtain, it’s also a bright, just world: Everything is shared, the weak are pitied, and compassion rules. Instead of grabbing everything you can, you feel for others. They say to me that you couldn’t buy a car—so then no one had a car. No one wore Versace suits or bought houses in Miami. My God! The leaders of the USSR lived like mid-level businessmen, they were nothing like today’s oligarchs. Not one bit! They

I’m sick of hearing about how bad life was under socialism. I’m proud of the Soviet era! It wasn’t “the good life,” but it was regular life. We had love and friendship…dresses and shoes…People hungrily listened to writers and actors, which they don’t do anymore. The stadium poets have been replaced by psychics and magicians. People believe in sorcerers, just like in Africa. Our Soviet life…you could say that it was an attempt at creating an alternative civilization. If you want to put it in dramatic terms…The power of the people! I can’t calm down about it! Where are you going to see a Metro station devoted to dairymaids, lathe operators, or engine drivers today?

Everywhere you look, you see our new heroes: bankers and businessmen, models and prostitutes…managers…The young can adapt, while the old die in silence behind closed doors.

That’s how the victors live. There was no official civil war, but there are victors. They’re behind those stone fences. Who are they hiding from? The people?

Every conversation was sprinkled with words like “Panasonic,” “Sony,” “Philips”…I ran into my neighbor: “I’m embarrassed that I’m so excited because of a German coffee grinder…but I’m just so happy!” It had only been moments ago—just a moment ago—that she’d spent the night waiting in line to get her hands on a volume of Akhmatova. Now she was head over heels for a coffee grinder. Some piece of junk…People threw away their Party membership cards like they were just trash. It was hard to believe…The whole world had transformed in a matter of days.

To make a long story short, everyone lied and things only ever got worse.

The one thing I haven’t gotten sick of is watching the wheat turn yellow. I’ve gone hungry so many times that the thing I love best is ripening grain, seeing the sheaves sway in the wind. For me, it’s as beautiful as the paintings in a museum are for you…

But…what’s the point of remembering all this? It’s as good as collecting the nails after a fire. Everything burned down to the ground!

We lived together so well, we were like family. If you don’t have something, I’ll give it to you, if I run out of something, you’ll bring it to me. We liked celebrating holidays together. We were building socialism, and now on the radio they say that socialism is over. But we’re…we’re still here…

Next to all the matryoshkas and samovars, there was a mountain of red flags and pennants, Party and Komsomol membership cards. And Soviet war medals! Orders of Lenin and the Red Banner. Medals! “For Valor” and “For Military Service.” I touched them…caressed them…I couldn’t believe my eyes! I simply couldn’t! “For defending Sebastopol,” and “For Defending the Caucasus.” All of them were real. Precious. Soviet army uniforms, jackets, and greatcoats…peaked caps with red stars…being sold for dollars…“How much?” my husband asked, pointing at the “For Valor” medal. “Twenty dollars. Or, for you, I’ll do a grand—one thousand rubles.” “And the Order of Lenin?” “One hundred dollars.” “And your conscience?” My husband was prepared to fight him. “Are you nuts? What rock have you been living under? These are relics from the era of totalitarianism.” Those were his words…Like these were just refuse, but the foreigners liked them, Soviet symbols are in style over there, so now they were hot commodities. I screamed…called a policeman over…I was yelling, “Look! Look…Ahh!” The policeman confirmed it, “These are relics of the totalitarian era…We only arrest people for drugs or pornography…”

It might have been a prison, but I was warmer in that prison.

Ask me…You have to ask how these things coexisted: our happiness and the fact that they came for some people at night and took them away. Some people disappeared, while others cried behind the door. For some reason, I don’t remember any of that. I don’t! I remember how the lilacs blossomed in the spring, and everyone outside, strolling; the wooden walkways warmed by the sun. The smell of the sun. The blinding mass demonstrations: athletes, the names of Lenin and Stalin woven from human bodies and flowers on Red Square. I would ask my mother this question, too…

Marshal Zhukov’s postwar fall from grace didn’t just happen because Stalin envied his glory, it was also because of all of the German carpets, furniture, and hunting rifles they found at his dacha. Even though all of that stuff could have easily fit into two cars. A Bolshevik shouldn’t have that much junk…These days, it sounds ridiculous.

On the night between September 1st and September 2nd, unknown parties excavated Akhromeyev’s grave, along with the adjacent grave of Lieutenant-General Srednev, who had been buried the previous week. Investigators speculate that Srednev’s grave was unearthed first, apparently by mistake. The grave robbers made off with Akhromeyev’s Marshal’s uniform with its gold braid, and his Marshal’s cap, which, according to military tradition, had been nailed to the coffin. Along with his numerous medals and decorations. Investigators are confident that Marshal Akhromeyev’s grave was not desecrated for political reasons but for financial gain. The uniforms of high-ranking military officials are in especially high demand among antiques dealers. A Marshal’s uniform is bound to go like hotcakes… Kommersant newspaper, September 9, 1991

As long as that mummy—the Soviet pharaoh—remains in Red Square under that pagan burial mound, we’ll continue to suffer. We’re cursed…

Could you imagine my mother sitting down and embroidering something or going out of her way to decorate our house with porcelain vases or little elephant figurines…Never! That would be a pointless waste of time. Petit bourgeois nonsense! The most important thing is spiritual labor…Books…You can wear the same suit for twenty years, two coats are enough to last a lifetime, but you can’t live without Pushkin or the complete works of Gorky. You’re part of the grand scheme of things, there’s a grand scheme…That’s how they lived…

The first thing to go was friendship…Suddenly, everyone was too busy, they had to go out and make money. Before, it had seemed like we didn’t need money at all…that it had no bearing on us. Suddenly, everyone saw the beauty of green bills—these were no Soviet rubles, they weren’t just play money. Bookish boys and girls, us house plants…We turned out to be ill suited for the new world we’d been waiting for. We were expecting something else, not this. We’d read a boatload of romantic books, but life kicked and shoved us in another direction.

While poets and artists were still in style, his wife had tolerated his eccentricities. Then brokers and accountants became the fashion and she left him.

…During perestroika…Those same teachers told us to forget everything they’d ever taught us and start reading the papers.

Everyone dreamt of a new life…Dreams…People dreamt that tons of salami would appear at the stores at Soviet prices and members of the Politburo would stand in line for it along with the rest of us. Salami is a benchmark of our existence. Our love for salami is existential…Twilight of the idols! The factories to the workers! The soil to the peasants! The rivers to the beavers! The dens to the bears! Mexican soap operas were the perfect replacement for Soviet parades and live broadcasts of the First Congress of People’s Deputies. I stayed in college for two years and then dropped out. I feel sorry for my parents because they were told flat out that they were pathetic sovoks whose lives had been wasted for less than a sniff of tobacco, that everything was their fault, beginning with Noah’s Ark, and that now, no one needed them anymore. Imagine working that hard, your whole life, only to end up with nothing. All of it took the ground out from underneath them, their world was shattered; they still haven’t recovered, they couldn’t assimilate into the drastically new reality. My younger brother would wash cars after class, sell chewing gum and other junk in the subway, and he made more money than our father—our father who was a scientist. A PhD! The Soviet elite!

When they started selling salami at the privately owned stores, all of us ran over to ogle it. And that was when we saw the prices! This was how capitalism came into our lives…

I have this good friend…His wife slaves away at two jobs, while he has too much pride to work: “I’m a poet. I am not about to go out and sell pots and pans. It’s gross.” Back in the day, he and I, like everyone else, would walk around chanting, “Democracy! Democracy!” We had no idea what all that would lead to. No one was itching to peddle pots and pans. And now, there’s no choice: You either feed your family or you hang on to your sovok ideals. It’s either/or, no other options…

…We blew up a church…I can still hear the cries of the old women, “Children, don’t do it!” they begged us. Grabbed onto our ankles. The church had stood there for two hundred years. A prayed-in place, as they say. They built the municipal public toilet over the ruins. And forced the priests to work there as cleaning men. Washing out the shit. Today…of course…Today, I understand…But back then, it was fun…

A slogan from the first years of the Revolution: We’ll chase humanity into happiness with an iron fist! If

…The town of Orsk, near Orenburg. Freight trains full of kulak families rolling through night and day. On their way to Siberia. We were guarding the station. One time, I opened the doors of one of the train cars: A half-naked man was hanging from a belt in the corner. The mother was cradling the little one in her arms, while her older boy sat on the floor next to her eating his own shit with his hands like it was kasha. “Shut that door!” the Commissar shouted at me. “That’s the kulak bastard! There’s no room for them in our new life!” The future…It was supposed to be beautiful…It will be beautiful later…I believed that! [He’s practically screaming.]

People always want to believe in something. In God or in technological progress. In chemistry, polymers, a cosmic consciousness. Today it’s the market. So all right, we’ll eat our fill, and then what? When I go into my grandchildren’s room, everything in there is foreign: the shirts, the jeans, the books, the music—even their toothbrushes are imported. Their shelves are lined with empty cans of Coke and Pepsi. Savages! They go to the supermarkets like they’re museums. They think it’s cool, celebrating their birthday at McDonald’s! “Grandpa, we went to Pizza Hut!” Mecca! They ask me, “Did you really believe in communism? How about aliens?” I dreamt of war on the palaces, peace to the cottages—they want to become millionaires. Their friends come over and I overhear them saying things like: “I would rather live in a weak country where there’s yogurt and good beer.” “Communism is the dregs.” “The Russian path is monarchy. God save the Tsar!”

There’s loads of salami at the store, but no happy people. I don’t see anyone with fire in their eyes.

…One time I thought, “Socialism doesn’t solve the problem of death.” Of old age. The metaphysical meaning of life. It overlooks it. Only religion has answers to those questions. Yes…In 1937, for conversations like this, I would have…

And they handed me back my Party membership card. And I was happy! I was so happy… [I tell him that I will never understand that—never. He loses his temper.] You can’t judge us according to logic. You accountants! You have to understand! You can only judge us according to the laws of religion. Faith! Our faith will make you jealous! What greatness do you have in your life? You have nothing. Just comfort. Anything for a full belly…Those stomachs of yours…Stuff your face and fill your house with tchotchkes. But I…my generation…We built everything you have. The factories, the dams, the electric power stations. What have you ever built? And we were the ones who defeated Hitler. After the war, whenever anyone had a baby, it was such a great joy! A different kind of happiness than what we’d felt before the war. I could have wept…[

Russian people need the kind of idea that gives them goose bumps and makes their spines tingle.

Sergio thinks that Russians love to suffer, that that’s the trick of the Russian soul. For us, suffering is “a personal struggle,” “the path to salvation.” Italians aren’t like that, they don’t want to suffer, they love life, which they believe is given to them to enjoy, not suffer through. We don’t think like that. We rarely talk about joy…about how happiness is an entire world. An amazing world! With so many little nooks, windows, doors that you need lots of little keys for. We’re always drawn down dark, Buninesque alleys.

“Do you know what I’m afraid of? Back when this was interesting, we had gags in our mouths, but now that we can tell our whole story, it’s like it’s too late. Nobody wants to hear about it anymore. They don’t want to read about it. People bring manuscripts about the camps to publishers and they’re returned to them unread. ‘Again with the Stalin and Beria? It’s not a commercially viable project. The readers have had their fill.’ ”

I have to get a handle on the suffering, own it completely, find my way out of it, and also come back from it with something new. It’s such a victory, it’s the only meaningful thing to do. That way, you’re not left empty-handed…Otherwise, why descend into hell?

at first, the looters wore masks. They’d pull black stockings over their faces. But pretty soon, they stopped bothering. You’d see one walking by, holding a crystal vase in one hand, a machine gun in the other, and a rug draped over his back. They took TVs, washing machines…women’s furs, dishware…Nothing was sacred, they’d pick through children’s toys in bombed-out houses…[

She wants to know how things are over here, what life is like after socialism…What is our life like? You walk down a familiar street and see a French boutique, German, Polish—all of the stores’ names are in foreign languages. Foreign socks, shirts, boots…cookies and salami…You can’t find anything that’s our own, Soviet, anywhere. All I hear is that life is a battle, the strong defeat the weak, and this is the law of nature. You have to grow some horns and hooves, a thick skin, no one needs weaklings anymore. Everywhere you go it’s elbows, elbows, and more elbows. This is fascism, this is the swastika! I’m in shock…and despair. This is not my world! It’s not for me!

[Her voice breaks, she’s almost screaming.] Does anyone care about any of this anymore? Show me—who? It hasn’t been useful or interesting to anyone for a long time. Our country doesn’t exist anymore, and it never will, but here we are…old and disgusting…with our terrifying memories and poisoned eyes. We’re right here! But what’s left of our past? Only the story that Stalin drenched this soil in blood, Khrushchev planted corn in it, and everybody laughed at Brezhnev.

I had a stipend of eighteen rubles, and my mother had a pension of fourteen. We were in heaven: We could eat as much bread as we wanted and there would still be enough money left over for tea.

Whenever I went into a normal home, with a normal family, I would get tense—what was all that stuff for? So many spoons, forks, cups. The simplest things would confound me…the very basics. For instance, why would anyone need two pairs of shoes? I’m still indifferent to possessions, to domesticity. Yesterday, my daughter-in-law called: “I’m trying to find a brown gas stove.” They remodeled, and now she’s looking for everything brown for her kitchen—furniture, curtains, dishes—she wants it to look like a foreign magazine. She spends hours on the phone. Her apartment is full of advertisements and newspapers, she reads all the classified ads she can find. “I want that! And that…” Everyone used to have very basic furniture, people lived simply. And now? Everyone’s turned into stomachs…bellies…I want! I want! I want! [She waves her hand dismissively.] I don’t go to my son’s house very often. Everything at their place is new and expensive. It’s like an office.

Gorbachev, the rallies…Everybody was out in the streets. Celebrating. You can write about whatever you want, shout whatever you want wherever you want. Free-dom! Free-dom! No matter what awaited us, the past was finally over. We were waiting for something new to emerge…Impatience was in the air…then we’d get afraid again. For a long time, I was scared of turning on the radio in the morning: What if suddenly it was all over? Like they’d abruptly canceled the whole program? For a long time, I couldn’t believe it was real. I thought they were going to come in the middle of the night and take everyone down to the stadium like they did in Chile…One stadium would be enough for the smart alecks, the rest would shut up on their own. But they never came…They didn’t take anyone away. Instead, they started publishing people’s gulag memoirs in the newspapers. Their photographs. Their eyes! The people’s eyes in those photos! It was like they were staring back at you from the afterlife…[She is silent.] So

“Oh, the barracks? They dismantled the last of those buildings two years ago. People built themselves sheds and saunas out of the bricks. Took the soil back to their dachas for planting. Put camp wire around their gardens. My son’s place is out there. It’s so, you know, unpleasant…In the spring, the snows and rains leave bones sticking out of their potato patches. No one is squeamish about that sort of thing around here because they’re so used to it. There are as many bones as stones in this soil. People just toss them out to the edge of their property, stamp them down with their boots. Cover them up. It happens all the time. Just stick your hand in the dirt, run your fingers through it…”

Our entire tragedy lies in the fact that our victims and executioners are the same people.”

This country is foreign to me. It’s foreign! It used to be that when people came over, we’d talk about books, plays…Now it’s who bought what?