Gregory Feifer - Russians: The People behind the Power

TWELVE was established in August 2005 with the objective of publishing no more than twelve books each year. We strive to publish the singular book, by authors who have a unique perspective and compelling authority. Works that explain our culture; that illuminate, inspire, provoke, and entertain. We seek to establish communities of conversation surrounding our books. Talented authors deserve attention not only from publishers, but from readers as well. To sell the book is only the beginning of our mission. To build avid audiences of readers who are enriched by these worksthat is our ultimate purpose.

For more information about forthcoming TWELVE books, please go to www.twelvebooks.com.

One of the characteristic operative features of [Muscovite political culture] is, whether one is dealing with the sixteenth century or with the twentieth, the rule Iz izby soru ne vynesi (literally, Do not carry rubbish out of the hut) remains in operation: i.e., one does not reveal to non-participants authentic information concerning politics, political groupings, or points of discord.

Edward Keenan, Muscovite Political Folkways

N othing suggested the day would be different from other Mondays in Vilnius, the capital of what was then the Soviet republic of Lithuania. That meant no breakfast for more than two hours after our train arrived because no cafs we found while wandering the baroque citys entrancing but empty streets would open until 9:00 a.m. If, however, what gave their staffs the right to show up for work when office employees did was supposedly egalitarian communism, Lithuanians had so little liking for it that they were busy fomenting opposition to Soviet rule, having declared independence from Moscow the previous year.

Soviet troops had killed more than a dozen people in January when they suppressed a protest supporting Lithuanias nationalist government. But there had been no violence since then, and on the tranquil morning of August 19, 1991, it would have been hard to imagine that the Soviet republic would soon be not only independent but also a member of the European Union. Three days later, however, that would be very imaginable.

I was nineteen that summer of my firstand, it would turn out, lastvisit to the dying USSR. After capping my freshman year in college with three months in Moscow, I was on a weeklong lark through the Baltic republics with a young, irrepressibly good-natured correspondent for the Soviet Unions most daring new television station. Hunting for something to eat, Kolya and I encountered only a lone driver cursing his broken-down truck and several dog walkers amid architecture that would have looked more at home on the Mediterranean than anywhere near the usual sprawl of prefabricated Soviet housing. We trudged along cobblestoned streets lined by decaying buildings with pretty courtyards that appeared to have remained unchanged for a century until we found another caf. Luckily Kolya, short for Nikolai, was a skilled charmer as well as an up-and-coming reporter and close friend. Banging on the glass door, he convinced the stern waitress within to supply us with coffee and rolls, testimony to another fact of Soviet life: sufficient inventiveness or persistence often got what you wanted. Kolya even induced the pretty young woman to smile and disclose her phone number before she asked whether wed heard the news that day.

Were just off the train, Kolya replied. Were lucky enough to have seen you on this lovely morning.

Well, you might want to know theres been a coup in Moscow, she said deadpan.

Since Kolyas own little coup of securing our breakfast had involved overcoming the typical Lithuanian reluctance to speak Russian, the language of the oppressors, we guessed she was trying to joke with us. Still, we returned to the train station to inquire about tickets back to Moscow just in case they might be needed.

There were no tickets to Moscow. Or to Leningrad, as St. Petersburg was then called. No tickets to anywhere in the vast Soviet Union, not even for a hefty bribe, which usually produced seats when none were supposedly available. Struggling to contain a touch of panic, we rushed to the platforms. Since my Soviet visa wasnt valid for Vilnius, my presence there was illegal. But wanting to stay out of trouble and to rescue the suitcases Id left in Moscow were secondary to not wanting to miss anything historic that might be taking place there. A real crisis still seemed unlikely, especially because we saw nothing out of the ordinaryat least no crowds storming trains. Taking no chances, however, we found a young conductor on a train heading to Leningradthe closest we could get to Moscowand bribed our way into a sleeping compartment.