It would take a long time to do a 'trip report' from living in Russia and traveling all over the region. So instead of a trip report I sometimes post selected stories which were written in the course of my work as a journalist.
This is the first in a short series about
Stalin's Ghost.
Installment One:
Giving Stalin the brush offI met up with Stalin's ghost a few months after moving to Moscow. No, he wasn't roaming around in empty attics looking for a home. It seems that Stalin has a home. Quite a few in fact, all over Russia.
And he also has furniture; chairs, beds, tables, books, token empty coat-racks and at least one piano stool that I know of can be found reserved, just waiting for the old man to stop by for a midnight visit.
Stalin was somewhat of a ghost even in real life. His practice was to rise in early afternoon and then work for 12-14 hours without stopping, fully expecting his aides and government ministers to keep the same kind of schedules. This was his routine even during the war. He easily fit the profile of a "night owl."
He was also somewhat of a mystery ghost, even while in real life. Terrified of being poisoned, his house staff prepared separate but identical meals in at least two kitchens, never knowing which meal he would choose to eat. The same man who feared the Russian people would murder him, surrounded himself with security details by day, but at night would put on a disguise and sneak out to walk the streets of Moscow alone, frequently knocking on doors and inviting himself in to sit and eat and drink tea with unsuspecting and often terrified ordinary citizens who weren't fooled in the least by his disguises. Such adventures were legendary and have contributed greatly to the idea of "Stalin's Ghost."
In Russian tradition, upon death a soul remains behind for 40 days, often visiting former living places to make amends for any wrongdoing and waiting for prayers of relatives and friends to usher the soul over to the "other side." By my calculations, God must have given him one hell (pun intended) of a long waiting period....because the old boy is apparently still lurking around Russia to this day.
Later I would rent an apartment where the landlord had designated a chair to be permanently reserved for the old dictator's spirit, but my first experience with "Stalin's ghost" came in the small two room apartment of an now-retired Moscow University professor who still today co-hosts a weekly radio program on Voice of Russia Radio. Having been invited into her home I was awed by a grand piano, sitting in the center of a small living area. It was a beautiful antique and lovely instrument and so important to this lady that she slept on a tiny cot in her kitchen area so that the piano could have center stage in her home.
She and I sat in the corner of the living area near a window by a fold-out table and sipped tea and ate chocolate which I had brought as a gift. By the way, Russian hearts are at least partly made of chocolate so it's a gift that can never be wrong for any occasion. After enjoying about a half hour of conversation she stepped into her kitchen to brew hot water for another round of tea.
Now I know a little something about pianos and could tell that this was not just a museum piece--although it could have easily qualified--and seeing that it enjoyed frequent use, decided to take the keys for a brief spin. Heading for the little black round piano stool I stepped over to the console and was just about to sit down when my hostess hurried from the kitchen to stop me in my tracks.
With a frantic gaze she pulled me back from the stool so I immediately straightened up and apologized. "Oh, it's okay," she said, explaining that I could play the instrument but is was very important to take my hand and gently brush off the stool just in case it was occupied.
Occupied?
By Stalin's ghost.
Okay. Yes, makes perfect sense to me. Mr Stalin could be sitting there, and naturally (hmm, 'naturally?") a ghost would be invisible, so the obviously polite thing would be to give him the gentle "brush off." Right!
Quickly I was getting a headache. Would it be polite to ask for some vodka so early in the afternoon, I asked myself? Heck, this is Russia. There is no drinking age and there are no drinking hours. Maybe I should have brought a bottle instead of the chocolate. Maybe more than one bottle.
I peeked in her direction and there was no hint of a smile or twinkle in the eyes. She was serious. She was also a well educated University professor and international radio hostess--who sincerely believed it necessary to brush off a piano stool in case the ghost of old man Stalin might have been sitting there first.
Dear God, I'll be an alcoholic before my posting in this country is over, I said to myself. I was beginning to understand why United Press International had pulled Walter Cronkite out of Russia before his posting was completed. How many other journalists had been pulled out of Russia ahead of the standard 3-year rotation? Maybe I was next.
Fearing that I might be a little rough she showed me how to properly brush off the stool. Ah, very gently was how it's done. (Now let me have a shot of vodka before suddenly remembering about a prior engagement and we'll get my tail out of here.)
After Stalin's ghost had been given the appropiate gentle brush off, she indicated that I should sit down and play. She returned to the kitchen. I played, but not before noting the position of my shoes and coat near the front door just in case things got really weird making it necessary for a quick escape. On the console was a nice collection of sheet music and so this writer reasoned that if I couldn't murder Mr Stalin by sitting on his ghost, at least I could murder a thoroughly good score by Rachmaninoff. That should count for something.
When she returned from the kitchen, I couldn't resist. Even though she held a teapot filled with hot water, I worked up the courage to ask, "how often does Mr Stalin come by to play?" No response. So I tried another one; "Is he a good pianist? I didn't know he had studied music."
A look that could have been interpreted as scorn, along with a nod of the head indicated that I should return to my seat near the table. The thought crossed my mind that perhaps I should pick Mr Stalin up from the floor and return him to the stool, but I resisted the temptation.
"Let's return to intelligent and pleasant conversation" was my hostess' admonition. And in a few minutes it was almost as if the ghost incident had never happened. I left that afternoon having made a new contact which would grow into a friendship and she has graciously received my family into her home many times.
I listen to her from time to time on international Voice of Russia broadcasts. Her English, accented by her British education, is flawless. She is a brilliant and interesting woman and a joy to engage in conversation. But the image of Josef Stalin's ghost on her piano stool is hard to erase.
At least now I know how to give old Josef the "brush off."
Too bad the millions who died at his hands didn't have the same opportunity.
(Footnote: You can listen to Voice of Russia's English series on learning Russian here:
http://www.ruvr.ru/main.php?lng=eng&q=6693&cid=161&p=23.01.2007)
