Secondhand Time: The Last of the Soviets

by Svetlana Alexievich

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!”