Сергей Медведев - The Return of the Russian Leviathan

… By one o’clock in the afternoon, Alexander Lutsky had reached the Kremlin. He stood on Red Square, crossed himself in front of the Cathedral of Our Lady of Kazan and the Resurrection Gates, was amazed by the clumsy equine statue of Marshal Zhukov, underneath whom the horse appeared to be striding forth with an outlandish gait, and wandered on up Tverskaya Street, past the bright shop windows and through the crowds, lively with the New Year approaching. Reaching Pushkin Square, he saw the statue of the poet, whose work he used to read in his youth, but whom he had never met. It was busy around the monument. Workmen had erected a huge artificial Christmas tree and fairytale plywood towers, and alongside them buses had pulled up, and out of them were emerging dozens of men in black uniforms and protective vests bearing the word ‘Police’.

The construction of the Christmas tree was being directed by a chubby man holding a folder, who was giving instructions to the workers, and saying something to the actors who had just turned up. Seeing Lutsky with his knapsack on his back he called out: ‘What’s this then, Santa Claus, why are you late? And what’s with the sheepskin coat? No one said anything about that.’

Much to the surprise of the Decembrist, they plonked a fake red hat decorated with silver on his head, placed in his hand a heavy staff with a twisted handle and told him to go and wait by the stage, which the workmen were hurriedly putting together. By now the snow was falling much more heavily; a veritable snowstorm was brewing. At that moment, Lutsky noticed a group of people who had gathered on the other side of Pushkin’s statue. Standing a little way apart from each other, they began to unfurl homemade banners, which read, ‘Observe the Constitution’. Some of them were holding little booklets of the Russian Constitution in their hands. The policemen started to run towards these people, ripping their banners out of their hands, pushing their arms behind their backs and marching them off, barely resisting, to other buses standing there, which had bars on the windows. At the same time, some of the others in black formed a line. People were coming up a staircase out of the ground and the men in black started to push them back down, as their commander began to say into a loudspeaker: ‘Citizens, disperse! There’s a Christmas tree being put together here! Don’t stop, move into the metro!’

A little way off to the side of this pandemonium, Lutsky noticed an elderly lady standing on her own, holding a banner which said, ‘Down with the power of the Chekists !’ One of the men in black raced over to her and started to snatch the banner, but the woman resisted and wouldn’t give it up. The man hit her. At this, beside himself with anger, Lutsky rushed over and clouted the policeman on the back with his staff. Surprised by this assault, the policeman let go of the woman and fell down in the snow, at which four hefty lads in black pounced on the Decembrist and started to beat him with their truncheons and their fists, seized his arms, put him in handcuffs and threw him into the bus with the barred windows, deliberately hitting his head on the door as they did so. ‘And this bloody protestor dressed up as Santa Claus!’

Breathing heavily, the Decembrist collapsed on the bench, and spat out blood. There was only one other detainee in the bus, a young man who looked at Lutsky with curiosity. Waiting until he had got his breath back, the young man asked him:

‘So they got you then, grandad?’

‘Ah, it’s nothing, I’m used to it… They used to beat us with cudgels that were much worse. And our handcuffs were heavier.’

‘You’ve been in prison, then?’

‘Twenty years down a mine.’

‘Twenty years!’ drawled the young man with respect. ‘Were you a political?’ [54] In both Tsarist and Soviet times prisoners were divided into two groups: criminals (who had broken the law) and ‘politicals’, who were arrested for their political views. This is also a feature of Putin’s regime.

‘Yes, a political.’

‘And what were you after?’

‘A constitution.’

‘ We want a constitution, too’, said the young man, excitedly. ‘Today’s Constitution Day, and they bang us up for it.’

‘’T’was ever thus,’ said the Decembrist. They were silent for a while.

‘So what else were you after?’ the young man asked.

‘The abolition of estates’, Lutsky began to reminisce; ‘equality for all before the law, freedom of speech, freedom of association…’

‘That’s exactly what we want! Nothing ever changes in this country…’

Outside the bus, New Year music started to play: a group of balalaikas struck up, and in a high voice, rising and falling, a woman was singing folk couplets. Her singing was mixed in with weak cries of, ‘The Constitution!’ and orders from the police colonel: ‘Clear the square! Don’t hang around, into the metro!’

Lutsky smirked: ‘We called for a constitution, too. We told the soldiers that “Constitution” was the name of the wife of the Grand Prince Constantine, so that we would get them to shout her name: “We want Constantine and Constitution!” You should find a woman’s name, too.’

‘I know, we’ll say that “Constitution” is the name of Putin’s new dog!’

‘Caligula made his horse a member of the Senate’, said Lutsky. ‘It’s all been done before.’

The gearstick of the bus crunched, the vehicle shook and set off. The jolly music and the shouts of the demonstrators faded, only bits of the exhortations of the colonel drifted to them: ‘Citizens… don’t obstruct the path… into the metro….’ The snow-covered trees of Strastnoy Boulevard swam past, with the crows cawing above them. It was beginning to get dark, it had stopped snowing; a turquoise sky with pink clouds appeared. The van turned right onto Petrovka Street, and through the bars on the windows they could see the red-brick walls of the Higher Petrovsky Monastery.

‘Chaadaev was right,’ muttered Lutsky to himself. ‘Time stands still, and this is a country where everything changes every year and nothing changes for centuries.’

‘Don’t worry, grandad’, said the young man, getting out a flask with brandy. ‘We’ll celebrate the New Year in the detention prison, then there’ll be the court case, and eventually we’ll be sent to Chita. Article 318, attacking an officer of the law when he is on duty, part one, without risk to life, up to five years. But you’re used to it, anyway. Well, here’s to the New Year!’

‘Here’s to the New Year,’ said Lutsky and swallowed the brandy. The paddy wagon, its engine buzzing, continued along the eternal route of Russian history.

Chaadaev, Pyotr –Russian philosopher who wrote eight Philosophical Letters between 1826 and 1831, the main thesis being that Russia had always lagged behind the West and had contributed nothing to progress. The letters were considered unsound and were banned by the Russian imperial authorities. Chaadaev was declared insane and put under constant medical supervision.

Cheka, Chekist –The first Soviet secret police force formed after the Bolshevik Revolution of November 1917 was called the ‘All-Russian Extraordinary Commission’ (Russian: Vserossiiskaya Chrezvychainaya Komissiya ), abbreviated to VChK (Russian: Ve-Che-Ka ) and commonly known as Cheka (from the initialism ChK). The word ‘Extraordinary’ in the title suggested that it would have extraordinary powers. Throughout subsequent Soviet and Russian history, although the name has changed on a number of occasions (the last Soviet version being the KGB and, post-Soviet, the FSB), the organization became an essential part of the state apparatus. A member of the first organization hence became a Chekist , a nickname by which members of the successor organizations have always referred to themselves. A system run by Chekists may be referred to as Chekism .