Val Karren: The Deceit of Riches

When the Soviet Union came apart at the seams politically and economically in the mid-1980s, the orders which kept the factories of Gorkiy producing at full steam started to falter. As Russia focused on reforming its failed economic system, its military and industrial orders slowed to a trickle and many factories were shuttered and fell into disuse. Viable factories that could find foreign markets for their products were privatized and turned into Joint Stock Companies and the directors traveled abroad to market their wares. Simple laborers suddenly became clueless stock holders in their factories. Smelling an opportunity through others’ ignorance, gangsters quickly resorted to violence to gain control of the newly privatized factories. A select few became very wealthy by any standard, while many lost their jobs and started driving mini-cabs to try to make ends meet. A degree in radio technology became useless. Learning to sell Snickers bars, Wrigley’s chewing gum, pantyhose and cheap alcohol among a huddle of similar kiosks near the train and metro stations is how youth of Nizhniy Novgorod were earning their bread and salt. Then came the protection rackets.

It was still dark in Nizhniy Novgorod when the train pulled into the Moscovskiy Station at seven-thirty in the morning. In January at these latitudes, the sun doesn’t break the gravity of the horizon until nine-thirty, and by late afternoon the street lights turn on again. Luckily, winter days, although bitter cold, are usually bright and sunny, except when it’s snowing, which is too often in January.

I watched from the windows in the carriage’s corridor as the train pulled up to the platform of the station. I waved through the frozen window to Yulia, waiting for me on the platform, as the train cars came to a gradual stop and jolted softly forward in a slow chain reaction collision. The conductor’s shrill whistle broke the quiet reverence of the moment of arrival. The crowds piled out the doors and into the cold morning. Steam filled the platform.

I had met Yulia the summer prior while working as a tour guide and interpreter for American tourists who were seeing Russia for the first time from the deck of a cruise boat, visiting one-horse villages and industrial cities up and down the Volga River. When we first met, there was friction. The friction, though, had created a curious spark that kept the both of us coming back to check what that spark might possibly become. It was a happy moment of trepidation and anticipation to see her again waiting for me. She greeted me with a warm hug on the icy platform.

“Peter, I am so happy you have arrived! Welcome back to Nizhniy Novgorod!” Yulia greeted me with the pageantry of a tour guide meeting jet lagged tourists for the first time.

Ladend like a camel with my bags, dressed in fur and wool, I trundled through the station behind Yulia and down the escalators to the metro platforms.

“My, it is very cold here!” I commented as my chin began to stiffen in the frozen air.

“Yes, it’s not sailing weather anymore! I’m glad you still have your shapka! You’ll need that in Russia. Ukrainian winters just aren’t the same.” she boasted of Russia’s northern extremes.

“Are you hungry? We have a breakfast waiting for you at home,” she offered thoughtfully.

“Yes, thank you. Didn’t get a chance to have any dinner last night.” I apologized.

“Did you see anything in Moscow this time?” she asked not knowing yet what to talk with me about.

“No, not really, it was Christmas day so only the biggest attractions and restaurants were open. I showed some acquaintances from the hostel around Red Square and the Kremlin.” I recounted my frozen day in the capital.

“Did you bring other shoes than those?” she said glancing at my feet.

“Yes, I have my winter boots in this large bag,” I replied slapping my luggage with two good thuds.

“That’s good because your feet will freeze in those!” she said laughing at my folly.

“Yes, I was not very comfortable yesterday in Moscow. Luckily I have good socks,” I said with an entertained smile at her concern for this naive foreigner experiencing his first Russian winter. The temperature was negative seventeen Celsius.

If the tea hadn’t warmed me, the five flights of stairs carrying my luggage would have. I was sweating in my long underwear in the warm apartment. Inside, I shed my wool and fur as quickly as possible. Not having slept on the train I involuntarily drooped off to sleep in my chair.

When I woke up the apartment had been flooded by bright winter sunlight and the ladies were already preparing lunch. I was rather embarrassed and begged their pardon.

“Please excuse me. I don’t know what happened. I was here and then I was asleep,” I bumbled still a bit disoriented.

“It’s not a problem. You’ve had a long journey!” Yulia’s gracious mother replied, “You’re awake just in time for lunch.”

“Peter, after lunch we’ll walk over to Mikhail’s apartment before it gets dark again and you can take an early bedtime. We have arranged for you to sleep there for the weekend until Monday when your room in the student hall will be ready,” Yulia explained.

“Very kind of you to arrange all this for me, Yulia, thank you very much,” I thanked her sincerely.

“I hope you will be comfortable there,” she replied politely.

“We have an appointment for you with Valentina Petrovna at the university on Monday morning at ten-thirty. I don’t have lectures on Monday so I will take you there to make sure you get introduced there,” she continued.

“Thank you again,” I offered with a smile.

We ate bread and pickled cucumbers and sipped warm tea politely as we tried to get reacquainted after seven months.

Yulia, a feisty, persistent student of journalism seemed to me one the most resourceful people in all of Russia. She carried a self-confidence in her which seemed to make it difficult for people, anybody, to tell her no. Her face, while very pretty, most times had a look of intensity and determination that would wear her opponents down with reasoning, questioning and just a pinch of sugar. She had a fair complexion next to her strawberry blonde hair and deep round brown eyes that made her memorable to even casual acquaintances. With the typical long legs of young eastern European women, she struck an elegant, long, slender figure. She was a free thinker, ignoring perceived limitations to her goals and dreams, yet she was as pragmatic as a popular politician. When she was sweet, she was as sweet as wild honey. When she was irritated her wrath could lay waste to the city. She beguiled and frightened me at the same time. She was Russia embodied in a beautiful young woman.

My decision to return specifically to Nizhniy Novgorod, and not to Moscow or St. Petersburg to study after an intense summer on the riverboats, was greatly due to her influence and her facilitating communication, and ultimately my acceptance at the university. Understanding the politics of bureaucrats, she lobbied my independent application with the needed professors, vouching for me and promising great results. She was relentless in search of needed approvals for my admission and ultimately succeeded despite all the red tape and delays. When she set her mind to something it was nearly impossible to exorcise her of it until she was fully satisfied. She was a researcher, a detective, and a prosecutor. Her opinions once formed were as hard as granite. Her good grace once lost was never to be granted again. She judged quickly on first impressions and was rarely wrong.

My initial meeting with Valentina Petrovna on Monday morning at the University’s foreign student’s office on Gagarin Street was not a pleasant nor comforting experience. In the place of a cordial greeting, I was chided and scolded for one thing or another, from my muddy shoes to wearing my coat and shapka in the building. There was a wardrobe at the entrance of the building for such things and I should learn to use them. Yulia was livid at Valentina’s condescending attitude and excused herself halfway through the interview before she said something she shouldn’t have.