Communist Daze

Vladimir A. Tsesis

Description

Welcome to Gradieshti, a Soviet village awash in gray buildings and ramshackle fences, home to a large, collective farm and to the most oddball and endearing cast of characters possible. For three years in the 1960s, Vladimir Tsesis—inestimable Soviet doctor and irrepressible jester—was stationed in a village where racing tractor drivers tossed vodka bottles to each other for sport; where farmers and townspeople secretly mocked and tried to endure the Communist way of life; where milk for children, running water, and adequate electricity were rare; where the world's smallest, motley parade became the country's longest; and where one compulsively amorous Communist Party leader met a memorable, chilling fate. From a frantic pursuit of calcium-deprived, lunatic Socialist chickens to a father begging on his knees to Soviet officials to obtain antibiotic for his dying child, Vladimir's tales of Gradieshti are unforgettable. Sometimes hysterical, often moving, always a remarkable and highly entertaining insider's look at rural life under the old Soviet regime, they are a sobering exposé of the terrible inadequacies of its much-lauded socialist medical system.

Acknowledgments
Preface: September 1964
Beginnings
Potemkin Profession
Hard Lives and Few Choices
Just One More Drink
Secrets
The Party's Party
The Longest Shortest Parade in the Soviet Union
How Much Do You Really Want That Vacation, Vladimir?
Windmills
Milk
The Wanderers
Death in a Family
The Great Chase
KGB Daughters, and Why Not to Treat Them
The West Meets the Best
The Incredibly Shrinking Crop
A Frosty Farewell
One Joke Too Many
Endings

Sujets

• Personal Memoirs
• Former Soviet Union
• HISTORY
• Histoire
• Vladímir
• URSS
• Memoir
• General officer
• Russia
• General
• Vladimir
• KGB
• Russie
• Humour

Informations

• Publié par: Indiana University Press
• Date de parution: 13 février 2017
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9780253025890
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 4 Mo

Extrait

Communist
DazeCommunist
Daze
the many misadventures
of a soviet Doctor
Vla Dimir a. tsesis
Ind Iana Un Ivers Ity PressTis book is a publication of Manufactured in the
United States of America
Indiana University Press
Ofce of Scholarly Publishing Library of Congress
Herman B Wells Library 350 Cataloging-in-Publication Data
1320 East 10th Street
Bloomington, Indiana 474US05 A Names: Tsesis, Vladimir A., author.
Title: Communist daze : the
iupress.indiana.edu many misadventures of a soviet
doctor / Vladimir A. Tsesis.
© 2017 by Vladimir A. Tsesis Description: Bloomington, Indiana :
All rights reserved Indiana University Press, [2017]
IdentiferLsCC: N 2016050900 (print) |
No part of this book may be reproduced LCCN 2016052661 (ebook) | ISBN
or utilized in any form or by any means, 9780253025944 (cloth : alk. paper) |
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any information storage and retrievaSl ubjectsL: CSH: Tsesis, Vladimir A.—
system, without permission in writing Health. | Pediatricians—Soviet
from the publisher. Te Association Union—Biography. | Pediatricians—
of American University Presses’ United States—Biography.
Resolution on Permissions constitutes Classifcatio LnC: C RJ43.T754 A3 2017
the only exception to this prohibition. (print) | LCC RJ43.T754 (ebook) |
DDC 618.9200092 [B] —dc23
Te paper used in this publication LC record available at
meets the minimum requirements of htps://lccn.loc.gov/2016050900
the American National Standard for
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Paper for Printed Library Materials,
ANSI Z39.48–1992.Dedicated to victims of the Soviet public health system.Contents
Preface: September 1964 ix
Acknowledgments xi
Beginning s 2
Potemkin Profess ion20
Hard Lives and Few Choic es 46
Just One More Drin k 66
Secret s 84
Te Party’s Part y 92
Te Longest Shortest Parade in the Soviet U nio10n2
How Much Do You Really Want Tat Vacation, Vladim ir? 110
Windmill s 124
Milk 130
Te Wanderers 140
Death in a Famil y 148
Te Great Chase 154
KGB Daughters, and Why Not to Treat T em 168
Te West Meets the Best 186
Te Incredibly Shrinking Cr op 200
A Frosty Farewe ll 208
One Joke Too Many 216
Endings 224
Epilogu e 239Preface
September 1964
It’s a bright summer morning in glorious Soviet Moldova. Once again,
I fnd myself racing across dully colored hospital grounds in pursuit of a
decidedly earnest, righteously dedicated Communist who also happens
to be my new boss. Lyubov Evgenyevna Oprya, specialist in obstetrics
and gynecology, is the Gradieshti Rural Medical District Hospital’s chief
doctor. Tough dressed in a doctor’s uniform of white gown and cap, she
resembles a typical rural village dweller. Lyubov Evgenyevna cannot be
called beautiful—short, practically without a neck, and sporting sharp
-gray eyes, a low forehead, and a large, round, moonlike face with weath
ered skin carrying the unmistakable scars of adolescent acne. Te fat on
her body is remarkably uniformly distributed, which, in combination
with the absence of a neck, gives her the unfortunate appearance of a
rapidly walking meatball.
Lyubov Evgenyevna is a no-nonsense but personable woman known
for her ferce, unswerving belief in the Communist Part-y and an un
abashedly uncomplicated approach to life. Te fresh-out-of-school young
doctor trying to keep pace with her is, I must confess, quite diferent.
ixx Preface
On that summer morning, as we march forthright across the grounds,
Maria Tuliu, the hospital’s chef, stands at the door of her kitchen, waving.
Known for her borscht, or beet soup, and portions of buter, eggs, or meat
when she can get them, Maria is young and tall, and she always seems
happy. Today, her smile is not diminished by the dullness of her atire: a
peasant shawl, simple country clothes, and a batered, once-white apron.
Her wave reminds my boss of something important, and she doesn’t
hesitate to act.
“Good morning, Maria!” shouts Lyubov Evgenyevna withou- t break
ing stride, voice booming throughout the yard and deafening, I bet, more
than the handful of people now scurrying away from us. “Nice to see
you! All your blood tests look absolutely normal, except the Wassermann
test!” Te rules require all hospital employees—including those in the
hospital kitchen—to have periodic checkups, which inclu -de the Was
sermann reaction test, a blood test for syphilis that ofen gives a false
positive result.
“What is that Wassermann test for?” yells Maria back, still smiling.
“It’s for syphilis! Te test shows you probably have syphilis!”
“What’s that? What did you say?” shouts Maria, leaning forward, now
a bit puzzled. “What do I have?”
“SYPHILIS! YOU MIGHT HAVE SYPHILIS, MARIA!!!” screams
Lyubov Evgenyevna at the top of her voice. Te scatering crowd moves
hastily.
Maria bursts out laughing, having no idea what syphilis is and not
realizing her reputation has just been publically besmirched by her
boss—and physician. But then again, none of the remaining handful of
stragglers on the grounds seem to understand, either.
Horrifed, I glance at my boss, who’s looking down at her clipboard
and already moving to the next item on the day’s order of b - usiness. Ma
ria’s delighted chuckling follows us into the outpatient clinics, where
wait, as always, leathery-skin peasants and their dehydrated children
from the surrounding countryside.
Welcome to three years in strange and wonderful Grad- ieshti. Wel
come to medicine, good ole Soviet style.acknowledgments
First, I am most grateful to my wonderful wife, Marina, who is always
my best friend, precious adviser, and inspiration.
By a stroke of destiny, I was privileged to meet Gary Dunham, my
publisher and editor at Indiana University Press, who found in my
book—to my sheer luck—exactly what I wanted to express. In him, I
encountered a kindred soul in perception of reality. His personal work on
the manuscript is beyond any praise and description. I am very grateful
to him for his friendship and unfailing optimism.
I am deeply indebted to Laura De Santo Wagner who did a- n excel
lent job as an editor of the manuscript before it was submited to the
publisher.
xiCommunist
DazeA listener asks Armenian Radio whether the Soviet Union
would ever surpass the United States economically.
Armenian Radio replies, “No comrades, the Soviet
Union cannot surpass America because the entire
world might notice the holes in our pants.”Beginnings
et’s call it, Gradieshti, shall we? An elliptical riot of t- wisting, un
Lnamed, muddy alleys and streets caught between hills swarming
with brush, the rural village could be found, if one looked long enough,
about ten miles from Tiraspol in the Moldavian Soviet Republic (today
the Pridnestrovian Moldovan Republic). When I stepped of - a dilapi
dated bus on August 1, 1964, Gradieshti was home to some fve thousand
souls and an assortment of chickens, ducks, goats, sheep, pigs, cats, and
dogs, including a most agreeable three-legged mut whom we will meet
in a while. Stepping over a stray dog lying sprawled and still in the heat,
I set on the ground two small pieces of luggage—one flled with medical
books, of course. Taking a deep breath, I looked around at my new home.
A huge Communist propaganda poster, faded by time and weather,
gazed down on me. Welcoming me to Gradieshti was a large, radiantly
smiling peasant woman with hands raised wide and dressed i- n Moldo
van folk costume. Seemingly endless wheat felds rolled into the distance
behind her. Te botom of the poster proudly proclGalimoredy, to
the hands that smell of bread.
34 Communist Daze
Rolling my eyes, I took a few steps, squinting in the bright sunshine
and hoping for a glimpse of the real Moldovan village where I had been
sent to serve and practice.
Well . . .
Under a scorching noon sun, color seemed to have fed Gradieshti, like
most Soviet villages, long ago. Most streets and public areas were bare of
vegetation. Tatched, one-story adobe dwellings made from a mixture of
muted local clay, water, straw, and horse manure crowded ruted unpaved
streets. Some houses were sheaved with just branches and twigs coated
with clay on both sides. Primitive fences made from rough unpainted
boards or branches and twigs struggled to hold in gardens that, I soon
learned, oozed thick black mud afer rain. Every now and then I heard
the unmistakable sounds of small livestock in a handful of backyards,
signaling those lucky enough to enjoy meat and eggs, which were rarely
available in our stores.
Lacking street numbers and resigned to gray, the venerable houses of
Gradieshti were jumbled together around a centrally locat- ed public cen
ter plaza, where stood communal buildings housing the village council,
the colle