I subscribed to a number of Soviet papers and journals while I was on sabbatical. It was an exciting time of glasnost and perestroika, so some of the magazines and journals were in high demand. For the first time in decades, they could actually criticize things and engage in real debate about Soviet society. Ogonek, a periodical founded by Lenin, Moscow News, and Literaturnaya Gazeta, a literary newspaper, were three very popular publications. I also subscribed to the prestigious literary journal, Novi Mir, New World, which, some three decades after it was written, finally published "Dr. Zhivago" for the first time ever while I was in the Soviet Union.
I did not subscribe to these publications at first. Like every Soviet citizen, I got in lines early enough to get my hands on them. Sometimes, a kiosk might only have one copy of a very popular journal like Novi Mir. Often I went away empty handed. Eventually, I decided to take the time to subscribe to my favorite publications.
There is a sweet story connected to my obsession to be first in line for the "red hot" newspapers and magazines of the Glasnost Era. Ogonek, Moscow News and Literaturnaya Gazeta came out on Saturday morning. A babushka worked the newspaper kiosk at the Pushkin Institute, where our group was studying Russian. She was not rude, but she had a job to do, was often busy, and generally refrained from smiling or exchanging pleasantries.
Even after an occasional heavy bout of Friday night drinking with my Middlebury or Soviet friends, I always made sure that I was up early enough to be among the first in line to buy my copies of Ogonek, Moscow News, and Literaturnaya Gazeta. The publications were so popular that the meager distribution allotted the Pushkin Institute sold out fast. I don't think the woman had more than twenty copies of each.
One Saturday, I uncharacteristically overslept. I threw some clothes on and ran downstairs to find a long, winding line. My heart sank! I knew my favorite publications would be long sold out by the time I got to the front of the line. I resigned myself to a Pravda or Izvestia morning, and I waited in line anyway. When I got to the front of the line, the woman, with whom I had seldom exchanged much more than a hello and goodbye for weeks, smiled, and,with a twinkle in her eye, handed me Ogonek, Moscow News, and Literaturnaya Gazeta. I was surprised, even touched, that she not only knew who I was but cared enough about me to set aside my favorite publications. How did she even know I would show up that morning?I knew that I somehow had to return her kind gesture. To explain how I did it, you, gentle reader, need some background.
The Soviet Union had special shops called beriozkas, that were stocked with wonderful goods that only Westerners had access to. One needed foreign currency to shop there. They did not accept rubles, and it was illegal for most Soviet citizens to have access to Western currency.
The system was so unfair, and it made us all feel somewhat guilty to shop in these beriozkas. As a foreigner, I could use my American Express card to buy top of the line vodka, which Soviet citizens could never find in their stores, caviar, electronics, souvenirs, anything and everything, really, available only for dollars, marks, franks, pounds and other Western currencies. There was even a book beriozka and a supermarket beriozka. Western tourists could buy books that Soviets could hardly ever find- there was a constant paper shortage- and even groceries that Soviets seldom, if ever saw, like bananas, for example.
For International Womens' Day, I bought a friend a cookbook. New cookbooks had not been published in the Soviet Union for decades, yet tourists, most of whom could not even read Russian, were able to buy one with magic dollars. On another occasion, I bought some animal crackers for a the daughter of a friend of mine. An old babushka's face lit up when she saw me with them as we waited for the subway train. She asked, "Oh, where did you find them!?" "I bought them in a beriozka," I sheepishly replied. She was crestfallen. "Oh, I see." Had the crackers been to satisfy a sudden nostalgic whim of mine to enjoy once again a childhood delight, I would have gladly given them to her, but they were for a Soviet friend's daughter, so I did not.
The beriozkas also carried magazines from the West. Of course, even during glasnost and perestroika, Soviets did not have access to Western magazines and newspapers. There is a German fashion magazine called Burda. It not only shows the latest fashions, but it also includes patterns, so that anyone skilled at sewing can create these fashions. I thought that the "old lady," who was probably about my age now, would enjoy a copy of Burda, perhaps for herself, but even more so for a daughter or granddaughter. I spent $5.00 to buy her a Burda as a token of my appreciation for setting aside my favorite publications.
When I saw her the next Saturday, I presented her with a Burda. "Here is a modest gift. Please accept it as a token of my appreciation for saving me those papers last week." Her face lit up, and her eyes welled up with tears! "A modest gift!? It is a gift worthy of a Czar!" I thought she might be happy, but I had no idea she would be overwhelmed the way she was! That $5.00 copy of Burda is perhaps the most emotionally satisfying gift I have ever given in my life. To this day, thinking about that woman's face and eyes overcome with great joy gives me great joy, as well.
Our dear group leader, Mrs. Baker, scanned this picture for me. I'm reading the newspaper in her room at the Pushkin Institute.
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