Two holidays and a funeral

MAY: SPRING LABOR PEACE VICTORY GLORY

There’s a Russian superstition that its bad luck to be born or get married in May, which I don’t really understand, because May is probably the greatest month in Russia. It starts out with May 1st, International Labor Day, which is basically an excuse for a 3-day weekend and some protest marches by old Communists who don’t matter any more.
Then May 9th is Victory Day, where the achievements of those old Communists are celebrated. I think an American wouldn’t really understand what all the fuss is about: we fought in World War II, as well, and Veterans Day is enough for us. But then you have to look at how the war was fought for both sides. We lost about 300,000 men, which is roughly all of Anchorage. Which is awful. But the Soviet Union lost 25 million, which is like all of New York City, its suburbs, and part of New Jersey as well.
After the war we were finally completely free of the Great Depression and a new period of prosperity began. The Russians were left with almost all of European Russia (the part where everybody lives) in ruins, and there was starvation in the first years after the war.
So despite all the ineptitude that the Stalinists showed at the onset of the war, despite the cooperation between Nazi Germany and the USSR before June 1941, despite the war with Finland, the occupation of eastern Poland and the Baltic states, and despite the 40 years that followed the war in Eastern Europe, all of these things that are not really mentioned in Russia, despite all this, the Russians have a reason to celebrate. Because they fought 70% of Germany’s armies back to Berlin while we landed in Normandy. But 25 million is 25 million, and today I saw a poster that said “May 9th Is Joy With Tears In Its Eyes,” and that seemed appropriate to me.
What did I do on these holidays? For May Day I went back to Arshan, a 3-hour trip, with the other American girls minus Sarah and Igor, a nice Russian kid who is dating one of the Americans. Across from me on the minibus sat a buryat girl who frowned most of the way and asked Claire to close the window in an offended tone. But, as has happened several times before, she surprised me by talking to me after the mid-way rest stop. It turns out that she had just spent 5 months in Myrtle Beach, of all places, under a program called “Work & Travel.” She liked the US a lot, she was afraid of black people when she took a grayhound from NYC to South Carolina, she worked in Eagle’s, if any of you have been to the beach on the East Coast. She liked Atlanta a lot, as well.
We had a nice relaxing time, I washed the dishes, that was the only thing I was good for, really, and the weather was pretty nice. At the base of the trail of the waterfalls Claire made friends with a drunk Russian named Vladimir, who tried to speak German with her. While we were relaxing at the base of the waterfall who did we see but Vladimir, who walked right by Claire, seeming to have lost his peculiar interest in her entirely. He instead stripped to his underwear and dipped into the shallow, cold water and slapped his belly for comedic effect. The other Russians all laughed. Igor decided to go for a dip as well, and I decided to join him, because besides watching dishes my other talent is enduring cold water. Except I’m not especially good at washing dishes, I just don’t mind doing it.

The water was really cold.

As for Victory Day, I was at the dacha and had a relaxing time. We worked on what will hopefully one day become a chicken coop. Grandma was sometimes in a good mood, sometimes not, because her back has been bothering her a lot lately, and sometimes tempers flared a little between her, my host mom, and her son Konstantin. It’s strange how my family works in an entirely different way. Tolstoi was wrong when he said that all happy families are alike. Every damn family is different, even happy ones.
I watched the live news feed of the parade on Red Square in Moscow. I purposely avoided thinking about what modern helicopters have to do with the unconditional surrender of German forces on May 9th, 1945, about whether military parades themselves are fascist, and instead just tried to enjoy the pomp and ceremony of the event. It was neat, I should say, to watch those big planes that refuel other jets in the air fly over the Kremlin.

Last Wednesday was my first trip to the Russian police station: what happened today? Nothing as alarming, but also very strange. You see, on May 10th a helicopter carrying the governor of Irkutsk oblast’ Igor Esipovskiy and three others crashed not far from Lake Baikal, killing everyone on board. When I was told this on Sunday I just felt weird. I don’t trust any Russian politician, really, and very few American ones, but on TV he seemed like an okay guy. His tubbiness and thinning hair was sort of a relief from the tough guys that take most positions, and he seemed likeable, really. He had only been governor for about a year—in Russia they aren’t elected but appointed by Moscow.
But it was just weird, in a word. He was 49, he was making himself a career, and he died. Even stranger is the alarming number of Russian governors that have died in helicopter accidents—at least 4 others, maybe 5, including Alexander (?) Lebed, the third-place candidate for President in 1996.
Today as I approached Kirov square I saw a row of police officers. When I got closer I saw that the whole area around the hulking gray Administration building was cordoned off to traffic. There was something going on in front, so I crossed the street to check it out. There were four military cars lined up with artillery pieces attached, and a red velvet place to hold a coffin. Government members were standing on the front steps of the building, woman were coming in and out with flowers, and military men were walking around, giving orders. The crowd was made up of mostly passerbys like myself, and was pretty quiet. We all waited patiently for at least 15 minutes: the cars all started their engines and everyone perked up, but it was a false alarm. After 10 minutes the doors opened and a lot of the who’s-who in the Irkutsk region gathered out front, along with the bereaved. I should mention that it was hot—at least 75 degrees. Soldiers appeared, carrying four coffins, and a military band started playing. The cars went out first, followed by people carrying huge garlands, and lastly a large column of various businessmen and community leaders. I spotted a rabbi, two Orthodox priests, a Catholic clergyman, and a Buddhist monk, who looked a little out of place, honestly, in his yellow and red robes. The parade moved very slowly and people watched it go down Lenin street. Woman scattered roses along the way and the band kept playing.
People weren’t saying much, just watching quietly. I walked along with the band and listened. The songs they played were very simple and slow. They seemed to say “this is sad, this is sad, this is sad,” and nothing else. It was very strange, I had never been at a public funeral like this before. After about 3 blocks they carried the caskets into vans, which drove away to the airport and on to Moscow. Kirov Square is a rectangle surrounded on four sides by a traffic circle, and the empty street with roses scattered all over it was probably the strangest sight of all.

After the buses taking the policemen home started to leave, I bought myself some ice cream.