Maria Genova - Communism, Sex and Lies

‘Come on, little girl, have some respect for Russian traditions. You’re our guest and you should respect your hosts. Cheers, here’s to good health.’

To good health. I hoped it would be okay. I raised my glass and drank it in one go. I felt my stomach burn and spontaneously got tears in my eyes.

‘How much alcohol is in this?’ I asked with a voice I didn’t recognize.

‘A lot. That way you know it’s good vodka.’

‘It feels more like methylated spirits. I feel everything burning inside.’

‘Ach, you get used to that. That happened to me the first time also,’ Mischa reassured me.

‘How long will it last? Give me a match and you’ll see me spit fire.’

Mischa laughed: ‘Calm down, there’s nothing wrong with your body.’

He was right, there was nothing wrong with my body, because the stuff immediately went to my head. I really had to concentrate to focus on the Russians. It looked like they had multiplied. After reaching the low of my alcohol career, I walked with my hips swinging in a zigzag line to the guest home.

The boys turned out to be excellent hosts over the next few days. They were all sweet, caring and considerate. From day one I had fallen for Mischa. Not because he has initiated me in the secrets of Russian vodka. On the contrary, I still blamed him. But Mischa had irresistibly gorgeous features, beautiful blond hair and deep blue eyes. The other boys acknowledged their disadvantage, but tried everything to make me change my mind. They arrived every day with gifts, souvenirs and bottles of vodka. I drank obediently, even though it was a strange experience. I still had the feeling an aggressive chemical cleaner was dissolving my insides.

The Russians assured me this would pass, but I didn’t get used to it that quickly. I could clearly see I was years behind. Yet I continued to drink vodka, because Russia was lovely and after every sip it became even lovelier. It slowly occurred to me why Russians drank so much. The most perfect communist society could be bought for a bottle of vodka.

In Leningrad it was the period of the northern lights. The fabled ‘white nights’ in June gave the heavens not a white, but a mysterious pearl-grey colour. I secretly wished that I lived in this city and that my parents had warned me: ‘ Make sure you’re home before dark,’ because it never got dark here. The northern lights meant it was still light in the evenings until late and even at midnight it was not completely dark. Luckily my friends’ parents were not that strict and my sister and I were allowed to stay out much longer than normal.

Our most memorable day in Leningrad was a day trip to the beach. Finland was on the other side of the bay. The West was so close and so far away at the same time. We wanted to see this glamorous world with our own eyes, but the borders were shut tight. Luckily, we were still allowed to travel to other communist countries. Otherwise I would never had known what it was like to tear through the streets in a Russian ambulance.

We had only been on the beach for fifteen minutes when my sister cut her foot on a piece of glass. The situation got worse by the minute. The white towel I had wrapped around her foot, soon turned red. We had to cross a large park to get to the road. My sister could hardly walk and the Russian boys carried her the whole time.

We finally reached a telephone cell and called an ambulance. It came quickly and we were all allowed to come along, if we got in quickly. The ambulance drove away immediately with the siren on. The stretcher had not been fastened and swished dangerously to and fro. All kinds of tools for car repairs rolled over the floor and we had to lift our feet to avoid injury ourselves.

Only my sister was allowed into the hospital. Rules are rules. I stood outside waiting in exasperation while she was being operated. The nerves coursed through my throat and I felt very guilty that I had arranged a day at the beach with two of our admirers. My parents had sent us to Russia to learn some culture and history and my stupid flirting had landed my younger sister in the hospital. I hoped it was not as bad as it looked.

The hours of uncertainty outside the building seems like days. What would I tell our parents? They were thousands of kilometres away and the truth wouldn’t help: they would only worry without being able to do anything. They might even think they were bad parents for sending their teenage daughters abroad on their own.

I didn’t mind telling my parents what had happened, but I didn’t want them to feel guilty. My sister and I were thrilled that they had so much faith in us and that they gave us the chance to be independent. That is what every parent hopes to achieve: that their children stand on their own two feet. This was not the case of my sister for the time being, because her foot had been cut open. I could walk, but I wasn’t sure which way to go. I walked in circles on the square in front of the hospital, like I was caged in an asylum.

Luckily it was not for much longer. The surgeons had done a good job and my sister was allowed home the same day. A few days later she was as fit as a fiddle again.

When we returned to Bulgaria we told everyone the uncensored version, except to our parents, who were only told a vague tale about a cut. Besides all the good memories of Russia we had also brought home some t-shirts with ‘glasnost’ and ‘perestroika’. Our friends were all jealous, because you couldn’t get these modern items in our country.

When Gorbachev came to power many young people in Bulgaria were relieved. Not because of his views, but because of his age. Because he still looked quite young and energetic, compared to his predecessors, this meant we would probably not have to mourn a dead Russian for days on end for the foreseeable future. The Soviet Union had lost three leaders in short succession and three state funerals in twenty-eight months was more than we could bear.

It started with Brezhnev with his unmistakable mafia ways. He had put friends on all posts up and down the ladder and under his inspiring leadership Russia had become a swamp of corruption. But we had to ignore this and act like we had suffered a personal loss. But with twenty-six hours’ delay, because he had been dead for more than a day when it was officially announced on television. The party leadership had needed that time to arrange his replacement behind the scenes.

‘I don’t think that’s an easy job seeing as the new secretary-general has to clean up Brezhnev’s mess,’ my father said. Of course, he couldn’t say that outside the safe walls of our home. Everyone in our classless society accepted that the higher communist faction had access to items which were unattainable for the masses. Luxury goods, advanced medical treatments, fantastic holiday resorts, better cars and larger houses, which has been previously appropriated from so-called rich owners. This system, according to the Russian model, had been established in all communist countries, but in Russia it had been expanded with special department stores which were only accessible to privileged party members and holiday homes according to the rank of their owners. All Russian leaders had these huge country houses, tucked away out of sight by high fences and patrolling cars. The masses didn’t even get a chance to stare at this luxury from a distance, because the senior party members wanted to maintain the illusion of a classless society.

The party members and their families had a good life, but even they had to watch their backs in a country where favouritism and betrayal seamlessly flowed into each other. Gorbachev’s mother hid icons behind portraits of Lenin and Stalin so she didn’t get into trouble with the godless leaders.