Skip to: Content
Skip to: Site Navigation
Skip to: Search

Lyudmila and her family. . . . . . became my dear friends

By Alice M. Hummer / May 13, 1986

CAUTION, the doors are now closing. The next stop will be Yugo Zapadnaya.'' Several dozen people in heavy fur coats had already gotten on the crowded subway car, but as the doors slid closed, 15 more Russians elbowed their way in. Two young men in wild-looking Cossack hats broke into smiles as they were jammed into each other when the train started and the crowd shifted backward with a jerk. A babushka's plastic bag of eggs seemed to be in imminent danger. It was rush hour in Moscow. I had been shopping near Red Square and had lingered a little too long buying bread for dinner. Offices and factories were letting out and Muscovites were going home en masse. The car on the subway line running out from the Kremlin was packed to the very limit. My destination was the Pushkin Institute, a small university specializing in teaching Russian to foreigners. I was one of a thousand students from all over the world who lived and studied there.

Skip to next paragraph

Our accommodations were not the ivy-covered dormitories I had grown used to in the past four years, but still, the 13-story ``student hotel'' we shared with a small population of cockroaches had the flavor of home. Our bedrooms were small for the five of us living together, but we managed to eat, study, and sleep among lines of dripping laundry without bothering one another too much. The bathrooms were slightly primitive and the fixtures somehow didn't have the sturdiness of their American Standard counterparts. A friend of mine came to class one morning and announced he had dropped a can of shaving cream in his sink. We were unimpressed until his roommates added that the basin had split and fallen to the floor in pieces. That, they concluded, is life in Moscow.

It is a life that takes some getting used to, and all of us had some adjusting to do. The Vietnamese on our floor were amazed by the Soviet kitchen appliances and one day arrived at the Institute with six new refrigerators to be shipped to their families at home. We Americans, on the other hand, learned to stand patiently in lines for food and to curtail our speech in the vicinity of strategically located listening devices on our dorm room ceilings.

All of us, Pakistanis, Germans, Egyptians, struggled with the language. We mixed up case endings as we greeted each other on the way to class in the morning, but no one was really embarrassed. We were all there with one goal -- to polish our language skills.

Of course, there was plenty of opportunity to practice our Russian. Like most Soviet students, we attended five hours of classes six days a week. Lecture topics ranged from the uses of the imperfect verb in the past tense to Mayakovsky's revolutionary poetry to Gorbachev's initiative for peace at the Geneva summit. We were often asked to prepare dialogues about our experiences in the city using idioms and grammatical constructions we were studying that day. Most of us, college graduates or even PhD candidates in Slavic languages, considered this rather elementary until we tried.

``Excuse me please,'' I asked Sarah, a Cornell alumna who was my frequent partner in these games, ``can you tell me where the Lenin museum is located? I would like to visit it.'' Our teacher broke in quietly and pointed out that I had used the verb to visit that implied I was part of an official delegation on a formal tour of the museum. Possible, but not probable. I tried again and this time picked the right verb.

That verb came in handy when I telephoned a complete stranger and asked to visit her. She is one of the best friends of my Russian professor at home, a recent Soviet 'emigr'e. Under orders to come immediately, I found their prefab apartment complex an hour later among identical buildings on a quiet street not far from the Institute. Lyudmila and her husband, Alexander, both chemists, their grown son, daughter, and her husband live well by Soviet standards. They have a ``large apartment'' -- a tiny kitchen and three rooms that serve as studies, living rooms, or bedrooms depending on the time of day.

They welcomed me at the front door with a kiss and led me into the kitchen, the hub of life in Russian homes. All six of us wedged ourselves around the table. I sat on a stool with my back against the refrigerator and Lyudmila, two feet across the table, leaned against the stove. We were crowded, but comfortable, and the atmosphere was jovial. Tea was poured and questions began to fly.