Winds of Change - Chapter 2

The average temperature in Moscow, Russia, is 14 degrees Fahrenheit in January. Snowfall is frequent, and the days when it is cold enough for frost to paint the glass in bursts of geometric sparkles number near 150 out of 365.

Sometimes, the wind blows from Siberia, and temperatures plummet to –4 degrees Fahrenheit and below. Flurries whip through the streets and down the frozen Moskva River. Mist rises from grates, and diesel fumes compete with stale sweat and cigarette smoke.

Minus the constant diesel fumes? January in Montana isn’t much different, even Siberian weather systems were familiar enough that we weren’t surprised to find dingy drifts and rosy-cheeked valets in thick coats and hats pulled low over their ears.

Jet lags and customs are an intimidating mix, and our brains struggled to process a Cyrillic alphabet on signs we couldn’t hope to read as we scurried across the cold, tiled floors, desperate to find a bathroom.

I was hoping for the best and doing all I could to not repeat the mistake I’d made in Germany, where I was embarrassingly caught leaving the wrong bathroom. I had mistakenly thought Herren meant “hers” and Damen meant “da men”. My 50/50 shot was one hundred percent wrong.

Hopefully, I pushed through the doors behind my new sister-in-law. Marble countertops, stainless steel, and wide mirrors were offset by garbage piled and overflowing in trash bins. Chaos met our tired eyes. We were frantic and nearly without standards when we finally shed our coats and set our carry-on luggage to the side.

The relief in finding a bathroom, however, was short-lived. There was one little thing we weren’t expecting.

Feces wiped in lines on nearly every wall.

Still, to put it simply, I had two choices. Use the toilet or pee my pants.

With a long terminal to cross, a shuttle to ride, a hotel check-in, and a need to save face? I chose the toilet.

It’s not like it was the worst bathroom I’d ever used.

There was the broken tile, never enough water, and bathrooms in Mexico that had been the only option. In the tiny bathroom in the out-of-date touring bus used to drive a motley crew of 25 short-term missions' kids on a 24-hour unrelenting slog from Salem, Oregon, to San Diego. And, last, but certainly not least, when in the running for the worst toilet I’d ever had to use? The carpet-seated wooden outhouse at the farm that we had to use when the pipes were frozen. A short, brisk 5-minute walk from the house to the bathroom. A meander we only braved when we absolutely had to go. Always a fun time in December.

Pro-tip: If you must go on a small jaunt to poo? Don’t wait until it’s urgent. The bend and squat to put your boots, your coat, and your hat on are unbearably miserable.

But there we were, in Moscow, Russia. In the international airport. With no good options and the only toilet in sight. So, when in Russia, right?

The speakers crackled to life and, in the most ironic and jarring juxtapositions of audio-visual disparity, the opening melody of “Wind of Change” began to play. The song of a communist rebellion, or rather rebellion against communism, played in a place that, not even 6 months before likely wouldn’t have allowed it.

Take me to the magic of the moment
On a glory night
Where the children of tomorrow dream away
In the wind of change

The whistled bridge echoed shrilly off the walls, and we just laughed in disbelief. This was actually happening.

I met a young cellist in Germany once. His dark hair, olive skin, brown eyes, and easy smile a bit of a contrast to the fair-skinned, lighter-haired majority. I asked him how long his family had lived in the region, and he thought for a minute before he said, “I think we have lived here since the 1600s.”

I blinked. “Oh, wow!” was the best I could muster.

In the USA, we tend to measure time in years and decades. The 40’s were another world, 1776, nearly myth and legend. Plymouth Rock is archaic. Only native peoples have monuments and histories that can compare in longevity to European history. But where Pueblo peoples built sandstone dwellings that still exist, though empty, long after they disappeared, many of the nomadic tribes left little more than pictographs in caves to mark their existence.

In Europe, and stretching across the vast steppes, kings and emperors, in the name of Christ, built cathedrals and carved monasteries out of cliffs. Nations raised cities and cobbled streets, crafting civilizations out of plains and the valleys next to rivers. For hundreds and hundreds of years, those structures have continuously housed royalty and peasants, God-seekers, and scientists. Poets and pilgrims. The present is built solidly on the strata of life in consecutive generations that move and breathe and tell memories of their grandparents like first-person accounts.

There are cottage doors in a house in Wales even older than our oldest libraries.

In Russia, they measure time in centuries and dynasties. The stories are told of wars and conquerors, czars and councils, rebellions and compliance that weirdly mesh with a familiarity that suggests more than just the real-time experiences of families who only heard the tales.

In shades of gray and navy blue, dark green and brown, the few Russians loitering were stoic and grim in the cold lobby of our gothic hotel. I suppose they had to adjust their own identities now that they were no longer Soviet.

Brown marble floors dimly reflected incandescent bulbs and chic circa 1975 table lamps illuminated varying shades of brown and tan, a black wrought iron railing, and the curve of a swooping staircase. Tired sofas and overflowing ashtrays on end tables kept space with shuffled magazines and crumpled newspapers. Remnants of New Year’s Eve and Christmas reflected in the cheerful sparkle of draping tinsel and ornaments left over from celebrations now silent.

The aging elevators creaked as we filled them with people and luggage. After our first look at our fellow tour companions in their own version of travel weary, I looked forward to the comfort of the room I was sharing with my 11-year-old brother, Matthew. The long hall had utilitarian carpet and low fluorescent light flickering over tall doors.

At 5’3”, most doors are, reasonably, too tall for me to tap the door jamb on the way in. But these doors? They were at least 8 feet tall with elaborate iron knobs and locks. Leftovers from another time. The metal key in my hand jiggled the lock until it creaked open. Inside, twelve-foot ceilings with gothic arches, neutral wallpaper slightly peeling at the edges, and a nearly floor-to-ceiling window overlooked the street. Yellow light pooled over Ladas and men in large fur hats, smoking in the haze of snowfall and the exhaust of idling trucks.

Our room was a rectangle with single beds on one side and a large wardrobe in the middle. Thin blankets and even thinner pillows were neatly wrapped around sturdy mattresses. Our rooms were meticulously clean, if sparse.

We were exhausted, and tomorrow, well, tomorrow, we looked forward to going to see the Kremlin and Fabergé eggs. Happy to be settled, we threw on pajamas and crawled into bed.

I’m not sure how long I slept, but it wasn’t long before I woke up with my teeth chattering. Our room was frigid! We could see our breath. As neither of us knew how to speak or read Russian, the odds of us finding the heater and increasing the heat? Slim. Very slim.

“Matthew? Are you freezing?”
“I am so c-c-ccold”, he stuttered from across the room.
“I have no idea why it’s like this! Do you?”
“I don’t. Can I sleep with you?”
“Sure.”

We cuddled in our ¾ size twin beds, both sets of blankets over us, while I wondered what possessed Dad to take us to Moscow in January.

It was a long night.

The next morning, after discovering there was a small ventilation window at the top of the main window, the mystery was finally solved. Rugged Northern Europeans feel differently about cold, fresh air compared to cozy, chubby Americans, and kindly left it open for fresh air. After a little searching, we found the stick used to close it behind the curtain.

After a breakfast of cured mystery meats, dark rye bread, and curls of butter that tasted oddly like fish, we went to the Kremlin and walked Red Square.

Onion-topped towers in brilliant colors easily caught our eye above the cobbled stones, and we gaped at the intricacies of Fabergé eggs. Jewels and crowns, diamond-studded dresses and furs, behind carefully guarded glass. Their opulence and excess were an uncomfortable contrast to the people we saw from the comfort of our bus. Women in shawls, long coats, and dirty snow boots over dark tights waited patiently in lines wrapped around the block as Muscovites stolidly waited for bread and necessities.

I don’t think they were uncomfortable with the disparity so much. Russians are proud of their histories and their tragedies and their incredible stories told with too many adjectives and descriptors. I was uncomfortable with the startling comparison of so much and not enough. I’d always lived in a world where there was little excess but there was always enough. Was it the wealth or the poverty that hit me hardest? I can’t really say. Both equally foreign as the world in which I found myself.

From the moment we stepped out of our hotel, its First-Class accommodation was a beacon to the desperate; we were inundated with younger and older men. All of them holding some piece of themselves and every item selling for the low, low price of five dollars.

Piles of former Soviet military uniforms, hats, medals, and accessories. Nesting dolls and caviar. Pocket knives and watches. Enough bottles of vodka to keep my mother outraged into eternity.

Everyone desperate to get a piece of the American dollar we obviously had in excess. How else would we be there, then?

We ate catered four and five-course meals on tables covered in cloth while they stood in line for bread. We drank hot coffee from porcelain cups while they shared shots of vodka and puffed cigarettes on the corner.

The entire city felt unhinged, as though a fragile thing was being created, breathed to life, by people unaccustomed to handling fragility.

My dad had been to Russia before, twice. Once on a short visit and the second time for three months as he studied Russian at Moscow University.

Both times, he made it his mission to find the underground church and connect with Christians who worshiped in hidden buildings and quietly in their homes.

He was a charming and gregarious man, not given to loud sermons or laborious evangelism. He would quote C.S. Lewis and Seneca and, sometimes, even that great philosopher, Dr. Seuss. He made friends easily and felt it his responsibility as a man with some means to spread those dollars as far as he could.

One of my favorite attributes of his was that he gave freely, with only one caveat. “This was given to you so that you can bless others,” he’d write in letters or on the back of Christmas cards. His expectation was always that anything we had should help the people around us, too. To live for oneself alone was a completely foreign concept.

In a world where twenty dollars was a godsend? He’d pass out hundreds, fundraising from local businesspeople before he left. With that kind of generosity, the bedraggled pastors of the underground church honored and trusted him.

He’d get directions to a meeting that involved the yellow line to the blue line, take the second-to-last stop, walk to the corner, and wait. Clandestine gatherings of a few who hoped for the day they could worship in public, unafraid and unashamed.

And there we were. The Soviet Union was gone, the KGB disbanded, and the church was in full swing.

After a full day of touring, walking, and eating food that involved more cabbage than my body was accustomed to, we took the subway to Irena’s apartment. I call her Irena, even after all this time, because I’m one-hundred percent sure that 98% of all Russian women in their 30s in 1992 are named Irena or call themselves Irena so Americans don’t butcher their names.

We crowded into her small apartment with bright colored table coverings and a twin bed in the corner that served as a couch during the day and a bed at night. Coffee and kartoshka, tea cakes and laughter.

She’d been my dad’s translator for both of his earlier trips and his guide to the hidden places of worship. By keeping their friendship, he’d been able to funnel money to help poor families for several years, and she was very enthusiastic to meet us.

Irena invited several of her friends, including a bear of a man whose name I cannot remember, but I shall call him Boris.

Russian and English swirled around my head as sweet cakes and the soothing effect of caffeine lulled me into an exhausted slumber on her couch/bed. The hum of voices at the edge of my consciousness wasn’t able to keep me awake.

Fortunately, Irena had a secret weapon.

Boris.

I don’t remember many things about Boris, including his real name. I remember that he was big. I remember that he had dark hair. I don’t remember if he was handsome or plain if he was married or single. But there is one thing I will never, ever forget.

Boris was a classically trained and highly respected opera singer. A thundering baritone.

In a dreamy haze of jet lag, a poor night's sleep, and about 15 miles of walking around Moscow, as I drifted to sleep, Boris began to sing.

If I end up with dementia and forget my husband’s name I will remember the shock, panic, and embarrassment in the moments between his first note and when I remembered where I was and the assurances I was not, in fact, being yelled at.

According to American propaganda, Russian’s are stoic and cold. Empire driven with a reputation for being harsh and unyielding. I wasn’t surprised by the lack of contact on streets or the studied avoidance of us in the museums and galleries. What I wasn’t prepared for, and the reason I can’t find it within myself to hate Russians, like people on TV keep telling me to, is that the people I met in their homes were riotous and warm, generous and hospitable, kind and engaging. They went out of their way to share the little they had. And they did so, joyfully.

That night, in our warm and toasty hotel room, after a bath in water that ran rusty for minutes before it cleared, it seemed like a small thing to have experienced so much in one day.

I had seen Lenin’s mausoleum and Byzantine jewelry. I’d said no to at least a hundred requests for five dollars and been startled awake by a Russian opera singer. I’d seen bread lines and poverty, desperation, and uncertainty in the creases of faces weathered by more than just the 4-degree chill.

We’d walked into the aftermath of a 69-year experiment in communism that failed, leaving her citizens to rebuild once again. The brutalist architecture of the Soviet Union, the cheap concrete and decaying hard edges, were crumbling while the Imperial edifices that remained stood resolute. Gold tipped cathedrals stood aged and defiant against cloudy gray skies.

Tomorrow was a new day.

But, tonight?

Well, tonight I didn’t have to sleep with my little brother.

Stay tuned for Chapter 3:
The Bolshoi, Night Trains, a Russian church service... Maybe the Summer Palace? St. Petersburg.