Optimal remembrance

A May 9 dispatch from Edward's Novgorod village

The village’s “wall of remembrance”

Through no fault of your own, there is a high probability that you associate Victory Day with sausage-shaped weapons of mass destruction cruising down Red Square:

When, in actual practice, May 9 in Russia looks much more like this:

Victory Day has relatively little to do with martial pomp; it more closely resembles a national wake in which Russians gather for the most painful and rewarding of human endeavors: Remembering—or at least trying not to forget. More often than not, moonshine is administered to help jog the memory.

Speaking of which, the bottles in the above photograph are partly responsible for this May 9 dispatch being filed on May 10. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves, aren’t we?

Our story begins at 10:55 am on an unacceptably snowy May 9, at the village’s Great Patriotic War memorial, which is located between the abandoned boarded-up grocery store and the brand new bus stop that was propped up with large tree branches after a large gust of wind carried it down the street last week.

A woman with a clipboard handed out St. George ribbons as the congregation—around twenty villagers in total—waited for the ceremony to begin. (There weren’t enough ribbons for everyone.)

At 11:00 am, two matriarchs read a short prepared text and then invited their fellow villagers to lay flowers at the base of the monument.

(Important etiquette: Flowers and wreaths are presented in odd numbers to those who are still alive, and in even numbers to those who are no longer with us. Please do not forget this rule if you are ever in Russia, because violating it would likely trigger a serious international incident.)

“No one is forgotten—nothing is forgotten”

Then there was a minute of silence.

After the ceremony, the villagers gathered in the social club for snacks and beverages.

The function began in a very customary way, with attendees breaking off into three or four small groups and whispering amongst themselves as they anxiously eyed the food and drink.

Your correspondent tucked himself into a corner as he stared longingly at the table of tasty snacks.

We were each given a plastic plate with a scoop of buckwheat and 50 ml of samogon—what was supposed to represent a soldier’s ration.

Another round was promptly poured and put down the hatch. With each subsequent beverage, the whispering cliques started to dissolve as people gravitated towards the table, the snacks pulling them into orbit. After the fourth beverage, a villager of action unilaterally placed chairs around the table.

“Sit, Roman!” a villager shouted from across the room.

He was shouting at me, even though my name is not Roman. (It is, though. Somehow.)

The conversation became more animated. The toasts, too—until it was decided to simplify things by shouting “hoo-rah, hoo-rah, hoo-rah” before each drink. Easy.

Your correspondent eventually drifted over to the wall of remembrance, where several villagers were sharing their recollections about the veterans who used to live in the surrounding area. The village’s last veteran passed away more than a decade ago.

“Mikhail Ivanovich came back without any legs. Even still, he was a first-rate tractor driver.”

“Yes, I remember Igor Grigorevich. He was Victor Andreievich’s great-uncle.”

“Vanya lived across the street from the kindergarten and only had three teeth, which was a pity because he was so very fond of eating peanuts.”

Everyone did their best to remember.

An unspecified amount of time passed before I decided it would be prudent to crawl to my neighbor’s house for reinforcements.

My neighbor also shared some memories—although unfortunately by that point I was in no condition to remember anything. I only recall that after the sixth beverage, my dear neighbor strongly advised me to marry the daughter of the local butcher.

If you enjoyed this Village Dispatch, consider adding a few kopecks to the Edward Institute’s endowment.