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©Copyright:2000 |
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| Me in Red Sq |
|Adventures in Russia
The 25th Anniversary of Orphanage #28.
By Christopher Rutty
The orphanage is a large compound -home- where all the unwanted children are placed. Many children have various mental disorders common to all countries, unfortunately, it's also home to a sad and peculiar hangover from a more pagan time: those who have a physical deformity, while retaining 'normal' mental faculties; A deformed leg, face, or lisp, can be enough for some parents to abandon their child; parents who are chronic alcoholics or where one parent has died.The orphanage is a melting pot for the disadvantaged children, however, disadvantaged has graven implications here, compared to a Western country's interpretation. A child of parents who are alcoholics or just simple minded, will certainly live in housing conditions fit for dogs. The only comparison I have see in a Western country is Everly St, Redfern, Sydney.
Although, instead of some dozens of people residing there, in Moscow -other cities as well- they number in the millions. As the news reported recently, the auntie who took custody of a small boy, perhaps eight, or ten years old, only to try to sell his organs, she was dirt-poor and needed to survive. Deprived of the security that the old Soviet regime provided, she embrassed creative capitalism.
About 500 children live in Orphanage #28, and the quality of life is manna from Heaven. Patricia and her team of three others (Svetlana Rips. Alia, and Irina) work with 4 such homes, using music and art to educate and enrich the lives of these children. The latest project they have been working on was a painting exercise. Several classes of different age groups would listen to Tchaikovsky's Four Seasons, then paint their impressions of how the music affected them. Irina and I bought paints, paper, brushes, painting books, and a cassette player for the home. They did the class, and the results have produced some amazing paintings. We had 25 of the best framed at the 'Central House of Artists', the official Russian Art School, so they could exhibit them at the American Ambassador's residence.
The anniversary of the home was to be a very special occasion. We were all invited. The teachers had organized a cabaret performance by the most talented children; probably aged between, 5 to 17 years.
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| Alia |
Unfortunately Alia didn't come along, she has her own child to look after. Svetlana, whose wedding we attended exhibited one of the strange Russian prejudices; as a young fertile woman, yet to have her first child, she feared contracting a disability that would be passed onto her child. When Alia was pregnant, she also stayed away from the homes. This country is full of similar taboos that belong in the 19th Century.
Patricia,
Irina and I met in the Shabolovka metro and hoped the green line for the
long ride to the outskirts of Moscow, then, hailed a taxi for the rest of
the journey.
Irina is a lovely, gentle, quiet woman in her 50's, she lives one metro stop from us, on Leninski Prospect. Her apartment block looks straight onto a large green area with an enormous stainless steel statue of the Cosmonaut, Yuri Gagarin. The first time I saw it, I was astounded at its size. The pedestal the figure stands upon must be 10 story's high. Both are gleaming and polished. The figure of Gagarin is stylized in sharp angular lines. It's a famous image seen in print and TV. I mentioned something about seeing it from her lounge room window; she said with a shy, slight grin, she didn't like it because "He is always looking in my window, and at night, he has lights on him."
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| Patti & Irina |
Irina is a historian who spent years working in the theatre. She lost several members of her family to Stalin's oppression and remembers when he died and how people wept. She was a little girl and her mother saw her crying and harshly told her to stop; her mother's father was taken away. -- She has two daughters living in New York, one is a concert pianist, Katya Grineva, the other Sonya, a painter.--
Upon arrival at Orphanage #28, a large, flat, single story building. Ludmilla greeted us, then introduced us to another Ludmilla, and laughing, said, even the director is called Ludmilla! We were ushered into the director's office, where a TV crew was finishing an interview, introduced to director Ludmilla who was very pleased to meet us. The place was bustling with activity as invited guests arrived with their gifts for the director. The interior of the large single story building had been freshly painted and smelt nauseating. The walls in her office were freshly covered with wallpaper that looked like it belonged in the Winter Palace; Silver velour with ornamental decorations.
After all the polite "Ochen Priyatno". (very pleased to meet you) We were shown to the auditorium to watch the cabaret. The small hall probably seated 200 people, it was full, mostly with women. Patricia pointed out a strange coincidence that they all looked alike. The old fashioned Soviet woman. This is common. When our friends from California, Scott and Terry, came to Moscow, Scott said, after walking the streets, "This country is run by women" A very accurate impression. Women do in fact keep the sinking ship that is Russia, afloat.
When the room filled, the assistant director, who looked like a modern 60's woman straight out of a 'Get Smart' episode, we called her '99'. -- Or a character from an early James Bond movie, ala 'Doctor Stranglove'. She sat at a desk in the center of the stage and started proceedings by delivering a speech praising the director. The director took the stage and then introduced all the women who were employed at this time. Then came a good ol' Soviet-style rendition of the home's song.
The fourteen women on stage started singing. It was a sight, a glimpse of Soviet history that had not died in the scramble to emulate the 'West is Best' ideology. Moreover, something to hear; it could have been 1930 on a collective farm. After the song, the director read out the names of those women who had worked there for all 25 years. From the singing ensemble of 14 women, 11 returned to collect an award, a large sheet of paper that could be framed, and an envelope containing money. Next came the women who had worked there for 20 years; they received an award and money.
Then
came those who worked for 10 years…this took forever. We were the only
non-Russians in the audience and I was one of four males. I felt
privileged to be buried, inconspicuously I hoped, among the audience,
glimpsing an example of Soviet history. For decade's workers who toiled
under the bastardized ideal of a 'workers paradise', never receiving just
recognition, except for a scrap of paper that should atone for years of
labor.
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| Dancing in Costumes |
After all the awards were handed out, a long line of guests took the stage to congratulate all involved. The home's first director gave a speech. Several others, including the milk factory representative, who supplies the home. All manner of organizations with strange ties. The local government official was suitably seedy looking. They all spoke in a sad, negative tone. Emphasizing the hardship, the teacher's face each day, having to put up with handicapped children. Instead of emphasizing the positive as would happen in Western countries.
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| All in Formal Dress |
The show started with dancing, in national costume, with the youngest about 5 years old. They swayed to the music played on a keyboard at the front of the stage, by a boy in his late teens. His ethic origins were native Mongolian and Siberian; he stood out among the tradition Slavic faces.
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| Tiny Kids1 |
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| Tiny Kids2 |
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| Flowers for the Director |
Following this, we were shown to the dinning room where tables laden with food, vodka, dark bread, and a basket of fruit, awaited. The meal was served from the in-house kitchen, and reminded us of Svetlana's wedding.
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| Singing from the Chair |
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| Encore |
Irina took great pleasure in the old Soviet top 40, and told of being a young woman and dancing to the tunes. After some time, and alcohol, the dance floor was bopping to the tunes of a bygone era, and it wasn't the Beach Boys. Even '99' was setting the dance floor alight as her bee-hive started swayin'. The local 'inspector' was up, we think he had his eye on '99'. As every good Russian administrator knows, you have to keep in good with the 'Inspector'.
My new friend, Ludmilla, pointed out that we were in a room with 200 women and I was the only attractive male, I thanked her for the compliment. The other three males were typical specimens of old Soviet manhood. The dance floor was packed with women, all dancing with each other. Irina said it reminded her of the time immediately following the "Great Patriotic War", when women had to dance with each other after losing approx. 20-26 million men. The party we found ourselves in was not on our agenda. We planned to go straight home after the performance. However, it was a welcomed surprise, we were hungry. We also needed to get home; so after a few hours, we say goodbye and head out onto the street to hail a taxi -i.e. any one who cares to stop. It was raining and the road was a mess of mud. Irina and Patricia started hitching, telling me stay low, the age-old trick. Someone picked us up and dropped us at the Metro. |