Elena Gorokhova's Blog: From Russia With Lies
July 19, 2012
A Good Run
My mother, a “mirror image of my Motherland,” died on March 24. She was in bed, watching her favorite figure skating program, and she simply fell asleep, simply glided off to another world. A seemingly painless end to a long life. Three lives, to be exact. First was Ivanovo, where she sewed up the wounded in a military hospital one mile from the front line; where she buried her younger brother maimed during the war, gave birth to my older sister, and married my father, in that order. Then it was Leningrad, where she gave birth to me at 41 before burying my father and her parents, all while teaching anatomy at a medical institute, both to maintain her professional skills and to make ends meet. Her last life was in my house in New Jersey, where she realized – straight from her arrival – that every Russian official had lied to her, that there was no bright future shining on the Soviet horizon; where she raised my daughter and, at my request, wrote down the story of her life. As Frank McCourt would say, she had a good run.
And maybe she did, but knowing that does not make it any easier.
All I can think of is how I resented all the small things I had to do in the last few years – take her to never ending doctors’ appointments, cut her hair, cook buckwheat with onions, a taste from the kitchens of her two earlier lives, and watch her deteriorate before my eyes. Her legs refused to walk, she would lament, her ears refused to hear. How I resented that my husband and I couldn’t jump in the car and spend a weekend with friends in Shelter Island, that every trip had to be planned and thought through. Things that seem so small and ludicrously unimportant now seemed so monumental then.
She stoically endured my inattention, my total immersion into my own life, filling her days with reading mysteries, chopping vegetables for salad, and watching figure skating on a television channel from Moscow. Orderly and determined to survive, she plodded on, just as she did in Ivanovo, just as she did in Leningrad. She was always a survivor and she kept on living, as she used to say, for her two brothers killed in the war – the one who died in their Ivanovo house in 1942, the other whose body had been plowed into the warm earth of western Russia when German tanks crossed the Soviet border with Poland in June of 1941. She survived 98 years – thanks to her tenacity, my grandparents’ genes and good American medicine. She was fortunate to have lived three lives, the last of which turned out to be my responsibility and my privilege. I only hope she was happy.
And maybe she did, but knowing that does not make it any easier.
All I can think of is how I resented all the small things I had to do in the last few years – take her to never ending doctors’ appointments, cut her hair, cook buckwheat with onions, a taste from the kitchens of her two earlier lives, and watch her deteriorate before my eyes. Her legs refused to walk, she would lament, her ears refused to hear. How I resented that my husband and I couldn’t jump in the car and spend a weekend with friends in Shelter Island, that every trip had to be planned and thought through. Things that seem so small and ludicrously unimportant now seemed so monumental then.
She stoically endured my inattention, my total immersion into my own life, filling her days with reading mysteries, chopping vegetables for salad, and watching figure skating on a television channel from Moscow. Orderly and determined to survive, she plodded on, just as she did in Ivanovo, just as she did in Leningrad. She was always a survivor and she kept on living, as she used to say, for her two brothers killed in the war – the one who died in their Ivanovo house in 1942, the other whose body had been plowed into the warm earth of western Russia when German tanks crossed the Soviet border with Poland in June of 1941. She survived 98 years – thanks to her tenacity, my grandparents’ genes and good American medicine. She was fortunate to have lived three lives, the last of which turned out to be my responsibility and my privilege. I only hope she was happy.
November 4, 2011
From Russia With Shock
My NYT essay From Russia With Lies was translated into Russian by Inosmi, a Russian-language news website, where it received 399 comments, mostly registering outrage. People who read it, just as Captain Louis Renault in the movie Casablanca, were shocked, shocked. Clad in scuba gear, Vladimir Putin emerged from the Black Sea with two ancient amphorae that had been placed in 6 feet of water. “It isn’t lying; it’s just a publicity stunt,” wrote one indignant correspondent. “Don’t touch Putin!” warned another. “He’s a son of a bitch, but he’s our son of a bitch.” I should have known that writing about Putin’s lie was as grave as touching the third rail. As serious as announcing that there is no God.
Russians shamed me in their comments. My Motherland gave me a happy childhood and a good education, and now, by writing this essay, I’ve betrayed my country all over again. This made me think of my Leningrad University Dean, the Communist leader of the University party cell, who used the same words to admonish me for marrying an American back in 1980. One correspondent offered this explanation: “They are simply writhing at the idea that Russia is rising, and the U.S., in front of the entire world, is turning into shit.” Another comment suggested that Putin’s lying isn’t really lying. It is exactly the same as George W. Bush clearing underbrush at his Texas ranch.
As much as I detest watching George W. Bush, I have to say that it is not exactly the same. U.S. journalists who uncover illegal actions by the government publish articles and books that unravel government officials’ careers. Russian reporters who expose state corruption and fraud get harassed and murdered.
In their indignation, my former compatriots failed to see that my essay is not about Putin’s staged athletic feats. It is about the sad state of democracy in Russia. It is about President Medvedev and Prime Minister Putin swapping posts in March in what will be called an election. It is about soon-to-be-President-all-over-again-Putin’s fundamental lie, which seems to be condoned by many Russians and which is much more dangerous than “finding” an ancient jug in 6 feet of water.
Russians shamed me in their comments. My Motherland gave me a happy childhood and a good education, and now, by writing this essay, I’ve betrayed my country all over again. This made me think of my Leningrad University Dean, the Communist leader of the University party cell, who used the same words to admonish me for marrying an American back in 1980. One correspondent offered this explanation: “They are simply writhing at the idea that Russia is rising, and the U.S., in front of the entire world, is turning into shit.” Another comment suggested that Putin’s lying isn’t really lying. It is exactly the same as George W. Bush clearing underbrush at his Texas ranch.
As much as I detest watching George W. Bush, I have to say that it is not exactly the same. U.S. journalists who uncover illegal actions by the government publish articles and books that unravel government officials’ careers. Russian reporters who expose state corruption and fraud get harassed and murdered.
In their indignation, my former compatriots failed to see that my essay is not about Putin’s staged athletic feats. It is about the sad state of democracy in Russia. It is about President Medvedev and Prime Minister Putin swapping posts in March in what will be called an election. It is about soon-to-be-President-all-over-again-Putin’s fundamental lie, which seems to be condoned by many Russians and which is much more dangerous than “finding” an ancient jug in 6 feet of water.
