Original Article: http://dartreview.com/archives/1999/01/20/memoir_schooled_by_stalin.php
Wednesday, January 20, 1999
Mornings in Leningrad could always be counted on for their gray skies, the kind of industrial gray that was oppresively ubiqitous, eliminating any kind of sunlight. Everyday at about 7 am, I, along with thousands of other schoolchildren awoke to this dreary sight.
I was greeted by an equally gray, tasteless, oatmeal gruel, which the cold of our apartment made lumpy and impossible to ingest. I ate it anyway, alone and in silence. I put on my school uniform, a uniform I shared with every other school boy in Leningrad. It consisted of black pants, a black coat, and a white shirt.
In third grade, a red bandanna and a pin adorned with Lenin's bust would be added to our attire, signifying our entrance into the society of Young Communists. Because I left the USSR after second grade, I was never bestowed this honor. At the time, this was a great disappointment.
I went to a K-12 school named 'No. 95.' Or maybe it was 'No. 19.' It made no difference. Every school was a large monolithic slab of unadorned stone.
Though my school was no more than 100 yards from my house, I was always accompanied by my father, as being a small, pallid, sickly, and obviously Jewish boy in an increasingly mean city was an invitation for trouble. We walked passed the rows of whitewashed apartment buildings, all identically forlorn in their concrete silence, their paint chipping after years of neglect.
The buildings overlooked a huge lot littered with debris and huge slabs of stone. It was rumored that the government was planning to build a bureaucratic bulding there. Yet, the empty lot was there for my 8 years in Leningrad, and has probably remained untouched to this day.
Continuing our trek to the school, we passed the drunks just waking up from an alcohol-drenched night, realizing the hopeless abandon of their lives. (Alcoholics were prevalent in my neighborhood, and one Ò to my complete horror Ò once stumbled into our apartment, which we had forgotten to lock.)
Even at a young age, when most children still enjoy school, I developed a strong aversion to it. I was let into school a year late because I was Jewish, and when I was finally granted admission, it was at the great reluctance of the authorities.
From the start, my education was an uphill battle. I had the same teacher for two years (this was common in the USSR) and she did not take to me well. When I accidentally kicked her (I was spanked for this), our relations only deteriorated further. The schooling itself I found to be insipid and I quickly lost interest. Most 'instruction' consisted of copying information out of textbooks and performing inane tasks. I never caught on, and no matter how hard I tried to impress the teacher and my classmates, I failed miserably. When, in second grade, 'in case the Americans launched a nuclear bomb at London but it hit us instead' - they actually said this - we were taught how to put on gas masks and what to do during a nuclear attack. At the sight of the gas mask, I panicked and broke out into tears.
Lunch took place in a large, barren cafeteria of metallic grey. No matter how poor the quality of the food was (it was usually barely edible), we were required to eat it all, and an administrator hovered over us to make sure no food was wasted.
Few children could completely ingest the horrific contents of our lunch, and as a result, we had to find creative ways to hide the food to avoid castigation.
However, my teacher did once prevent me from eating the standard loaf of stale bread we were given — in an attempt to prevent flatulence. During recess we usually played soccer on a dilapidated field strewn with pebbles. This was also a popular time for fights, but I was too young to concern myself with that area of the schoolyard. Once, as a treat, the children of the second grade were ushered into a large, empty room and made to dance the Funky Chicken, the tune of which blared over the speakers. Despite encouragement, I refused to particpiate, watching the zombie-like movements of the children in a mix of horror and wonder.
Life at home wasn't much better. I only had one friend during my 8 years in Russia, who was, like me, a shy Jewish boy. We formed a friendship uncharacteristically strong for our years, and I cried on days I was unable to play with him.
There was a large soccer stadium near my apartment, and I played soccer with some other boys, and for a while we even had an organized team. In the winter we iced the stadium over and played hockey. Sports (mainly soccer and hockey) were the lifeblood of common people, and almost everyone either watched or played one of the two sports. It was a simple form of entertainment that everyone could (and did) enjoy. I recall coming out into the wintry dead of night with my father to 'practice my shot.'
But I often got very bored, and one day, I asked my parents if I could have a brother. My boredom probably stemmed from the fact that there wasn't much of a culture for young people to become involved in. The government kept a tight grip over film and music, and neither aspect evolved much during the 80s. And if it did, I was too little to notice or care. Besides, life was too hard for anyone to really care what you wore or to what music you listened. For many people, just being alive was good enough.
But there is one musician that I honestly remember: Vladimir Vystosky, a Jim Morrison-esque crooner who, much to the dislike of the authorities, always seemed to hint at rebellion.
His songs, a mix of folk and rock, inspired the Russian youth in the way Gorbachev or Andropov never could. Unfortunately, much like his American counterpart, Vysotsky indulged in alcohol and drugs, and this habit lead to the premature death of this messiah of the Soviet public. But his music only grew in popularity in the wake of his death, and this is because we all needed someone like Vysotsky in our lives.
There was a strong undercurrent of anger and discontent in Russian society, and though I was only 8 when I left for Austria (en route to America), I knew that things weren't right.
My parents were both high-level scientists but made no more than the janitors of their respective workplaces. We lived in the Soviet equivalent of a ghetto (differing mainly from its American counterparts because of the number of alcoholics) and shared our apartment with a woman who constantly spied on us. We applied for a visa (permission to leave the Soviet Union) in 1979.
It was granted 10 years later. Such experiences seemed to be common for members of the Soviet Union, but the anger which stemmed from it had no outlet as the government was clearly not receptive to public complaint. That is why people flocked to Vysotysky. His defiant, untamed, and even taunting voice seemed to voice the frustrations of the masses. What we could never say he could always croon. He was the messiah of a tired, broken and afraid people.