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TO RUSSIA WITH LAUGHTER
by Barbara Brewster
... THE OLD PEOPLE ...
On the afternoon we visited the Moscow soup kitchen, we sloshed along slush-filled back streets, at last arriving at an obscure doorway in a dingy building. Filing inside, we trooped down a dark, narrow corridor and burst into a shabby room where 30 or so old people sat at dining tables.
We surged like frothy waves among the tables. Laughter and chaos erupted as we carried on with all manner of silliness, manipulating puppets, bouncing balloons and placing giant spectacles and crazy hats on grizzled heads. My stock Russian phrases--"How are you? What is your name? Very glad to meet you. I speak Russian poorly."--were enthusiastically welcomed. Eyes sparkling, the men and women eagerly chatted with me in Russian or limited English. Hungrily, they asked if we spoke Yiddish. Regretfully, none of us did. Several people chattered to us in German, French or Rumanian. Again, we could not respond.
Most were neatly dressed, albeit in threadbare and patched coats or sweaters. Some men sported old-style suits and ties. Nearly everyone wore the traditional Russian fur hat. Many bore the reminders of war. One wizened imp lifted his trouser legs to reveal two wooden pegs. Other men's sleeves hung empty and tucked into belts. Everyone sat tall, meeting our eyes, graciously accepting the plates of rough bread we'd been given to serve as a treat. Wrinkled faces smiled at us with gappy mouths or yellow teeth. From everyone, the response was, "Spaseeba. Spaseeba. Thank you. Thank you. We are so happy you have come."
After the meal, everybody trekked upstairs to a room scattered with chairs. A one-armed man and I began to waltz. Noticing a piano, I called for music. Lo! Music began. A shriveled lady played the piano like an angel. My partner began to sing. Rich tenor tones welled, filling the room with the dramatic-sounding lyrics of Russian opera.
I asked the angel, "Do you know any folk songs? Do you know Katyusha?" "Da. Da." She struck the chords, and my friend and I started harmonizing. A youthful-looking woman joined in. We three gushed the verses of "Katyusha," hooking our arms and stamping our feet, filling each phrase with passion and drama. Then "Moscow Nights." And "Kalinka." We were singing our lungs out. The audience chimed in, clapping hands and tapping toes and canes.
Clowns hugged or held hands with members of the audience. My roommate danced on a table, juggling bowling pins. Balloon swans crowned grey heads. Kazoos blared. Balloon torpedoes sailed across the room. Clowns and Russians danced amidst chairs and people. A man covering the event for Russian television vigorously rolled his camera.
A tiny woman approached and loosed a lilting soprano voice. She warbled a tune, holding my hand to her heart and looking soulfully into my eyes. I hammed it up, not exactly knowing the lyrics, but gathering that if I looked love-smitten and forlorn, I was on the right track. We danced to "Khava Naghila." They sang it loud and full, practically standing to attention.
A week later, in St. Petersburg, we visited a home for retired actors. Arriving at the dilapidated mansion, we swarmed up the stairs and down corridors decorated with the genteel but faded furnishings of long ago. Swooping into a large room of worn, polished wood, we met our audience--men and women who once had been the Vivien Leighs and Douglas Fairbankses of Russian stage and screen.
They vigorously rose to the occasion. The usual noise and chaos ensued as stiff bodies cautiously tapped out traditional dance steps. Everyone was whirling, arms on each others' shoulders, stamping and swaying together in a circle singing the well-loved folk songs. For a second time, our antics were recorded for Russian television.
As we waited for our bus to depart, a woman who had earlier caught my eye hobbled outside. Throughout the festivities, she'd sat tapping her cane, laughing and clapping like a happy girl. Her slender body looked elegant in slim black pants, sweater, and wide belt. Red-streaked grey hair swept back from her chiseled face falling to her waist.
Leaning on her cane, she gingerly crossed the snowy driveway to the bus. Slowly, she walked along its length looking up through the windows, her keen blue eyes silently meeting ours. With her free hand, she saluted and blew kisses.
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