Maternal Capital
by Joshua Ellison · 01/21/10
Lev Rubinstein’s essay about communal apartments captures the mood in an apt and subtly iconic image: the old, eccentric Jewish neighbors who have always been there; never central to the action, but an inescapable and natural part of the scene. The same thing that is so powerful and impressive about the Russianness (in its many forms) that radiates here also applies to Jewishness: despite the perpetual fragility, these identities have proven enduring beyond measure and against terrible odds. The émigré writings from Zinovy Zinik and Yuri Slezkine, too, clearly articulate how both Russianness and Jewishness can stay relevant, long after you might expect.
February twenty-third used to be Soviet Army Day. They’ve kept the holiday as a generic celebration of masculinity, sometimes called Man’s Day. One quasi-official explanation goes like this: “All men and boys are praised as eventual defenders and helpmates.” There was a celebration in Red Square, near the ice rink where average-looking teenagers mindlessly showed off Olympic-style maneuvers.
The festival had a revivalist tone: not for the Soviet era, but for a stylized Russian folk culture with costumes, food, and dancing. A teen pop group in Cossack garb sent all the young concertgoers into a frenzied dance. In too-high heels and too-tight jeans, they made large circles and moved in traditional steps. Some of the rowdier boys went into the center, folding their arms and kicking their legs, half-dancing and half-sparring. Even though it was below freezing, a few boys took off their shirts.
You don’t see the image of Vladimir Putin projected around the city as you would have with leaders in the Soviet days. His authority is a quieter sort. But there were some pictures of him at this festival. He’s not commanding in a physical sense, but there is something compact and controlled about him that seems formidable. His is exactly the kind of head that Roland Barthes had in mind when he described an old film about Julius Caesar: “One of those Roman foreheads, whose smallness has at all times indicated a specific mixture of self-righteousness, virtue, and conquest.”
In Red Square, you are surrounded by relics and reminders of old faiths. Some are gone for good, hopefully, and some have endured. The church at the northeast corner, for example, is usually full. You can watch the visitors cross themselves on the way in, and exit with their backs to the square, never turning away from the church door. Right across from Lenin’s tomb, in front of the Kremlin, is the GUM department store, filled with exclusive Western boutiques. These stores, I’m told, are much emptier than they were a few months ago, before the recession started. There is no line to see Lenin, but the tourists usually come back when the weather turns. The competition among symbols tilts toward different favorites at different times; it seems foolish to bet on which will win tomorrow, or the day after that. As Anton Chekhov said: “If a Russian doesn’t believe in God, it’s because he believes in something else.”
