We are still in Pushcha Vodytsya; the view from one of our windows, the one facing the children's playground, is still ugly - mountains of sand and clay, kids playing war on top of them, and a few guys still working down in the pits, fixing something, speaking in Ukrainian, cursing in Russian (cursing more than speaking). But we do have hot water now, and life is beautiful.
Marta's best friend - Artyom, a 10-year-old boy from the apartment next door - told me that their makeshift football field down in the forest by the lake would soon have the real gates - made from those old pipes they are extracting and replacing right now. Artyom's really happy - and I'm very happy for him and the rest of the boys, too: all they do here is play football and talk about it. Just like the boys in Turkey.
***
Soon, there'll be lots of bitching and complaining about Kyiv on this blog: we are moving back to Bessarabka in two weeks (or even earlier, depending on the weather and the landlady's plans). And then there'll be even more bitching and complaining about Moscow, as we are moving there sometime this fall, too.
If it were completely up to me, I'd choose to stay here.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Friday, September 29, 2006
I think I saw it on the news yesterday and today - there are rallies against rises in utility rates, in Kryvyi Rih, in Kharkiv. But I was running back and forth between the kitchen and the TV room, so I might have missed something. Maybe they were showing archive footage. There's a piece in the Kyiv Post on the relevant legislation, but I'm too sleepy to understand anything in it... I need a clone badly.
I was in Babiy Yar yesterday, briefly. A few photos, nothing special, are here, a Global Voices translation here. Eavesdropped on an elderly Odesa man telling some woman why Jews lay stones, not flowers, on their graves. The menorah monument is well-hidden - I remember we couldn't find it in 1995, and it took me a while to find it this time. I haven't been to Babiy Yar since then. There're fights going on about building a decent memorial there, I heard - I don't understand why a makeshift football field and a huge unfinished construction are better... It's horrible to walk through the park, past all the young mamas with strollers, after re-reading about the massacre. And to see kids playing near the monument to the children who died there...
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
My mama has a fellow-grandmother friend at the sanatorium now - a very sweet teacher of Ukrainian, whose daughter pays around $2,500 a month for two rooms there. They do their laundry in the bathtub - and the way she mentioned it, I realized she didn't think it was anything extraordinary. Nothing horrible, definitely. The kids wear diapers, so they don't really get dirty often, she said. I'll never understand this. She and my mama are the same age, their birthdays are four days apart. They are considered "children of war" (WWII, that war) and were receiving a little bit of extra money from the state, in addition to their pensions. Up until now, they were, but Yanukovych returned and quickly took it away. Mama's new friend complained that she and her husband had counted on this money to help them pay for utilities at their apartment. Just think of it: one family, two generations - and their expenses...
***
I keep forgetting how much my parents' pensions are now. I'll ask tomorrow.
***
I keep forgetting how much my parents' pensions are now. I'll ask tomorrow.
My friend Tanya spent part of the summer in New York, attending a Yiddish language summer school at NYU. At some point, she and her Belarusian friend, a grad student in Poland, decided to go to D.C. They took a bus from Chinatown (illegally operated by the Chinese and thus significantly cheaper) and landed in the capital's Chinese neighborhood in the middle of the night. They took a nap on a bench - dangerous, but they weren't aware of that then. The Belarusian guy wanted to see the Pentagon, so when the first joggers appeared, they asked for directions and eventually got there. Standing some 200 meters from the Pentagon, the Belarusian guy decided to take a picture. A police car appeared, blaring and all, and a black cop jumped out and demanded to see their IDs. Tanya's friend produced his, but when the cop asked for his birthdate, he suddenly realized he'd given him the wrong one, the one he was using to pay less when using public transportation in Poland. So he showed his second ID, with his real, older, age printed on it. The cop let them go in the end, even though he must've thought they were spies when they told him about all those foreign languages they could speak.
***
Tanya was so much better at telling this story, so much more fun. I wish she had a blog, but I can't talk her into starting one, unfortunately. She's got some truly amazing stories - like the one about observing the March 26 election at a prison outside Zhytomyr. Or the one from the third round of the 2004 election, when she was an observer in Kharkiv and sent one of the richest and most influential locals back home to get his passport. I really hope she'll write all these stories herself one day.
***
Tanya was so much better at telling this story, so much more fun. I wish she had a blog, but I can't talk her into starting one, unfortunately. She's got some truly amazing stories - like the one about observing the March 26 election at a prison outside Zhytomyr. Or the one from the third round of the 2004 election, when she was an observer in Kharkiv and sent one of the richest and most influential locals back home to get his passport. I really hope she'll write all these stories herself one day.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
I like what the beatroot wrote about Oriana Fallaci:
***
I also like what Andy of Taking Aim wrote about the Pope:
***
Somewhat belatedly, L'Shana Tova and Ramadan Mubarak to all of you, my dear readers!
***
Also, the second anniversary of the "egg incident" was mentioned in the news here today, somewhat belatedly, too. Turns out the guy who threw that egg at Yanukovych was the son of a university dean from Ivano-Frankivsk - economics department, I guess, but I may be wrong. The poor father had a heart attack after his son's adventure.
(Pora has the video of the "egg incident" - here.)
[...] Great woman? She may have been once, but by the time she died she was just a senile old racist. [...]
***
I also like what Andy of Taking Aim wrote about the Pope:
The Pope, apparently, should not be allowed to say that Catholicism is superior to other religions:
Yahya Pallavicini, vice-president of one of Italy’s main Islamic organisations, the Islamic Religious Community […] expressed a fear that the Pope’s comments demonstrated a “Christian Catholic exclusivism” - a belief that Catholicism was superior to other religions.
In the words of Rebecca, who sent me the link - “He’s the POPE for gods sake - if he can’t think Catholicism is a superior religion, then the world has truly gone nuts”.
***
Somewhat belatedly, L'Shana Tova and Ramadan Mubarak to all of you, my dear readers!
***
Also, the second anniversary of the "egg incident" was mentioned in the news here today, somewhat belatedly, too. Turns out the guy who threw that egg at Yanukovych was the son of a university dean from Ivano-Frankivsk - economics department, I guess, but I may be wrong. The poor father had a heart attack after his son's adventure.
(Pora has the video of the "egg incident" - here.)
Saturday, September 23, 2006
I'm really excited about my today's Global Voices translation - Notes on Montenegro and Transnistria - working on it has been fun and educating. The tagline could've been something like, While Serbia is shrinking, brotherly Russia finds ways to expand.
(I keep re-posting my GV stuff at my other place, Work Log. It's still very messy, though.)
(I keep re-posting my GV stuff at my other place, Work Log. It's still very messy, though.)
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Old news by now, the finance minister's announcement about limiting newborn financial aid to those whose joint family income is less than 5,000 hryvnias ($1,000) a month - I guess they've reversed that decision now, Yanukovych has, earning a few popularity points for nothing, I'm sure.
What I find really interesting about it is the statistics:
Only about 5 percent of Ukrainian families have income of more than $1,000 a month. Finance minister calls these people 'rich.' The remaining 95 percent live on less than this.
This is just too fucking scary.
Of course, there's a fair number of people who don't bother declaring their incomes - and with the government's mood swings, it's probably the right thing to do, still. Unfortunately. It must hurt to suddenly find out that while you were helping the schmucks buy their fancy cars on your taxes, the schmucks have labeled you 'rich' and decided to save $1,700 (the newborn aid) on you, but not on your neighbor, who is getting paid under the table.
Another figure: in 2007, Ukraine is to have 453,800 new kids born. Not sure if it's a lot or not, and am too lazy to search for the birth/death ratio now.
***
Somewhat off-topic, but when we talked about the landlady's alcoholic husband, she said he hasn't had a job in 13 years, didn't want to have one, was saying that he was done working, kept saying it since he lost his savings after perestroika. I don't know what he did during the Soviet times - could have been the army... Even though I can't make myself feel sorry for the asshole, after watching him up close for three months, it's still sad to see how one can become demoralized and drag the rest of the family way down...
What I find really interesting about it is the statistics:
Only about 5 percent of Ukrainian families have income of more than $1,000 a month. Finance minister calls these people 'rich.' The remaining 95 percent live on less than this.
This is just too fucking scary.
Of course, there's a fair number of people who don't bother declaring their incomes - and with the government's mood swings, it's probably the right thing to do, still. Unfortunately. It must hurt to suddenly find out that while you were helping the schmucks buy their fancy cars on your taxes, the schmucks have labeled you 'rich' and decided to save $1,700 (the newborn aid) on you, but not on your neighbor, who is getting paid under the table.
Another figure: in 2007, Ukraine is to have 453,800 new kids born. Not sure if it's a lot or not, and am too lazy to search for the birth/death ratio now.
***
Somewhat off-topic, but when we talked about the landlady's alcoholic husband, she said he hasn't had a job in 13 years, didn't want to have one, was saying that he was done working, kept saying it since he lost his savings after perestroika. I don't know what he did during the Soviet times - could have been the army... Even though I can't make myself feel sorry for the asshole, after watching him up close for three months, it's still sad to see how one can become demoralized and drag the rest of the family way down...
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
I have to share this... Marta is asleep in her crib, the room's dimly lit, it's very quiet, I'm all alone. Then I go online, join the Global Voices staff meeting via IRC, and suddenly it's like the whole world is in our bedroom, all the voices. And then comes this feeling - that despite all these voices, I'm sitting in complete silence, and the only sound is the clicking of the computer, and Marta's breathing. And all of a sudden, a mad cat starts screaming outside - and I realize that no one besides me and half Pushcha Vodytsya can hear the beast, not a single person from the crowd whose chat I'm following. Internet is such a weird thing...
Monday, September 18, 2006
The landlady's husband showed up around 6 pm, stinking of vodka. I pointed that out to him and he was smart enough to turn around and leave, without trying to enter the apartment.
The landlady came some 15 minutes later, with a new pipe. My mother was here, so she opened the door and told the landlady about the drunk husband's visit. The landlady burst out complaining, said she couldn't bear it any longer - but couldn't divorce him, either. Then she left to find a plumber.
She returned with a neighbor - there's a plumber in every apartment here, but none is available right now, she said. The guy sweated quite literally over (and under) the damn pipe/sink/drawers mess for about an hour, discovering in the process that the cold water pipe was about to burst, too, so he replaced it. The landlady asked me to give him 20 hryvnias ($4) when he was done, and I was happy to.
But if you think I have hot water now, you're wrong: I don't - because a pipe burst at the dormitory next door and they switched off hot water to everyone again today, trying to locate the damage and digging with the same old excavator again, in yet another spot. When it's gonna be back is anyone's guess.
***
The landlady cleaned the kitchen and washed the floor after the neighbor left, and I warmed up to her somewhat, and asked why she didn't pack up and leave to work in Portugal with her son, joining her relatives there and freeing herself from the alcoholic idiot. She said she was considering it - the husband gets drunk every day, and he doesn't keep silent, either, and sometimes, he's pretty violent, too, scares the shit out of their 12-year-old boy. I sympathized with her - up until she mentioned that she'd rent out this apartment to someone when she leaves Ukraine - at which point I began to sympathize with those future tenants...
Had to give her 10 hryvnias ($2) for the way back home... I mean, back to their dacha...
The landlady came some 15 minutes later, with a new pipe. My mother was here, so she opened the door and told the landlady about the drunk husband's visit. The landlady burst out complaining, said she couldn't bear it any longer - but couldn't divorce him, either. Then she left to find a plumber.
She returned with a neighbor - there's a plumber in every apartment here, but none is available right now, she said. The guy sweated quite literally over (and under) the damn pipe/sink/drawers mess for about an hour, discovering in the process that the cold water pipe was about to burst, too, so he replaced it. The landlady asked me to give him 20 hryvnias ($4) when he was done, and I was happy to.
But if you think I have hot water now, you're wrong: I don't - because a pipe burst at the dormitory next door and they switched off hot water to everyone again today, trying to locate the damage and digging with the same old excavator again, in yet another spot. When it's gonna be back is anyone's guess.
***
The landlady cleaned the kitchen and washed the floor after the neighbor left, and I warmed up to her somewhat, and asked why she didn't pack up and leave to work in Portugal with her son, joining her relatives there and freeing herself from the alcoholic idiot. She said she was considering it - the husband gets drunk every day, and he doesn't keep silent, either, and sometimes, he's pretty violent, too, scares the shit out of their 12-year-old boy. I sympathized with her - up until she mentioned that she'd rent out this apartment to someone when she leaves Ukraine - at which point I began to sympathize with those future tenants...
Had to give her 10 hryvnias ($2) for the way back home... I mean, back to their dacha...
Two plumbers stopped by today, and the landlady took 30 hryvnias ($6) from me and disappered with one of them, while the other came back later, dismantled the kitchen sink, took out the damaged pipe and told me not to use the sink until he comes back tomorrow. Bastards, all of them. The landlady's cell phone is switched off. The pipe burst because it was old, one of the plumbers said. God, if only I hadn't decided to stay here for a month longer... All this would've happened to them, the landlady and her drunk idiot of a husband... And I wouldn't even know about it...
I've been granted a closer look at what it takes to fix a hot water pipe here: we had a minor flood at the kitchen Saturday morning.
The timing was terrific. I woke up around 8 am because the phone was ringing in the kitchen, but I couldn't get myself up because Marta had been noisy that night and I needed to recover some more. But since I was awake, I decided to call Mishah from my cell - he had just arrived from Moscow and was buying food and stuff for us at the store. We talked, the phone kept ringing, but I thought these were the landlady's relatives calling from Portugal or Italy, so why bother. I took another nap, and then it was time for Mishah to be here, so I got up and set out for the kitchen. I opened the bedroom door, expecting it to be freezing in the hallway, as I keep the windows open (not windows, but fortochka, how do you say that in English?). But the air that hit me was humid and hot, and I heard the water running, and I suddenly had this horrible image of water up to my knees in the kitchen, even though the floor beneath my feet was dry as I rushed there.
The kitchen was flooded, yes, but it wasn't too bad - the hot water didn't reach outside yet. The landlady's daughter had shown us how to turn it off in case of emergency when we just moved in, but that was three months ago, and the valves (?) were hidden behind all their shit inside the kitchen drawer, so I had no idea what to do right away. I dialled Mishah up, hysterically, but the number was busy - and then a moment later, he was ringing on the door. Perfect timing.
Poor Mishah had flowers for me, in addition to a bag full of diapers and food, but he had to drop it all and run to the kitchen to look for the stupid valve (?). His glasses soon became useless from all that steam, and we couldn't reach the landlady to give us directions, but then her daughter picked up the damn phone, and some five minutes later, the water was turned off.
Mishah's shoes were dying as a result; I was so distressed I was useless; Marta couldn't be left alone; so Mishah changed into slippers and was off to clean the mess. The flood killed many of the ants, and the remote corner of the floor finally got some washing, but other than this, there was nothing positive in the situation.
The landlady showed up pretty soon, bringing us the really bad news: it was the potato-digging season, and all the plumbers she knew were off to their gardens, storing up on food for the winter.
When I got into the bathtub later that morning and poured the first cupful of boiled water onto my head - again - I felt homicidal. (To those who haven't been following this blog recently, we didn't have hot water here from early August till September 6, and, to those who haven't been following this blog for the past nine months or so, I have a 9-month-old kid and boiling water to wash her is a pain in the ass, and I'm not even talking about myself.)
Sometime around 1 pm, a plumber showed up, unearthed by the landlady somewhere in the sanatorium (where she works as a cook at a private restaurant owned by some German or something - not sure if I've ever mentioned this here). The plumber looked miserable - skinny, stinky, smelling of pee, shit and alcohol, dressed in blue overall and tall, black rubber boots, looking sober until he began to speak, looking like one of my dear physicist friends - if this friend had become an alcoholic plumber instead of a physicist, that is, and stayed to rot in this part of the world.
He found the pipe that burst pretty soon and mumbled that it's gonna cost us to replace it. Mishah said, Of course, we'll pay. I asked, How much? The plumber didn't respond right away, and I was expecting to hear something terrible, like, a hundred bucks.
Fifteen hryvnias, he said. Three dollars. That's for the pipe, and he also wanted to be paid for his work. Sure, Mishah and I said simultaneously.
But he didn't have a new pipe with him, in that funny bag with instruments, on a strap that seemed too long and made the bag look inappropriately hip, teenagerish. He had to walk 1 km to the warehouse and then back, so it'd be awhile, he said. We'll be waiting, we both said happily, do come back!
Then we waited a few hours and he never showed up. Turned out he talked to the landlady and she didn't bother to call us: he didn't have the pipe. Her husband was to go to the market and buy it, and then he'd come Sunday morning and fix everything.
The landlady's husband is a useless prick, a burden trying to look and sound like he's the boss here - only we've never seen him not tipsy and we've never dealt with him when it came to the rent money.
The landlady called in the morning and was upset to hear he hadn't arrived with the pipe yet. She accompanied him all the way to the tram's last stop, two blocks from here, and couldn't believe he ended up staying behind for a drink after she was gone. She was at work.
He did show up, looked at the damaged pipe, said the one he had was too short, and left, promising to buy another one and come back tomorrow. I didn't talk to him, but Mishah said he was drunk.
I was unspeakably upset to have to boil water for the morning wash again. I was terribly mad at the landlady's husband for coming here drunk, and I was as mad at her for trusting him. We asked her why she didn't get yesterday's plumber to finish what he started, or why they didn't ask about the pipe's length, but she didn't have an answer. I asked Mishah to tell her I wouldn't let her husband in tomorrow if I smell he'd been drinking, and only then did she promise to send a plumber instead.
We'll see what happens tomorrow. This zooming in onto how things really work here has been bad and I hope I'll be allowed to zoom out soon, to return to my sort of touristy distance, to my slightly cushioned-up position. If they keep coming back drunk and doing nothing, I'm moving back to Bessarabka next weekend, early. Fuck them. And yes, W., I am drained now, despite all the wonderful fresh air I've been getting here for the past three months. A good thing is that Marta isn't aware of any of it.
***
A brief note on the local prices:
Our monthly rent here is only $100 less than what we paid for a wonderful apartment in St. Pete in 2003-2004. Really hard to believe. We used to have a dishwasher there, even. Here, I'm totally grateful for a washing machine: if we lived in the sanatorium across the lake, we would have to handwash all our stuff - and pay at least $800 for 24 days there. Multiply that by four, at least. They feed you there, though, and clean your room, make your bed and all that. And you could swim in their swimming pool for free, before it closed for repairs. A "luxe" room at the sanatorium costs a lot more, I've been told by a woman whose son is about Marta's age. She stayed there all summer, used a $1,000 cell phone - and didn't mind handwashing all her and her kid's stuff.
The timing was terrific. I woke up around 8 am because the phone was ringing in the kitchen, but I couldn't get myself up because Marta had been noisy that night and I needed to recover some more. But since I was awake, I decided to call Mishah from my cell - he had just arrived from Moscow and was buying food and stuff for us at the store. We talked, the phone kept ringing, but I thought these were the landlady's relatives calling from Portugal or Italy, so why bother. I took another nap, and then it was time for Mishah to be here, so I got up and set out for the kitchen. I opened the bedroom door, expecting it to be freezing in the hallway, as I keep the windows open (not windows, but fortochka, how do you say that in English?). But the air that hit me was humid and hot, and I heard the water running, and I suddenly had this horrible image of water up to my knees in the kitchen, even though the floor beneath my feet was dry as I rushed there.
The kitchen was flooded, yes, but it wasn't too bad - the hot water didn't reach outside yet. The landlady's daughter had shown us how to turn it off in case of emergency when we just moved in, but that was three months ago, and the valves (?) were hidden behind all their shit inside the kitchen drawer, so I had no idea what to do right away. I dialled Mishah up, hysterically, but the number was busy - and then a moment later, he was ringing on the door. Perfect timing.
Poor Mishah had flowers for me, in addition to a bag full of diapers and food, but he had to drop it all and run to the kitchen to look for the stupid valve (?). His glasses soon became useless from all that steam, and we couldn't reach the landlady to give us directions, but then her daughter picked up the damn phone, and some five minutes later, the water was turned off.
Mishah's shoes were dying as a result; I was so distressed I was useless; Marta couldn't be left alone; so Mishah changed into slippers and was off to clean the mess. The flood killed many of the ants, and the remote corner of the floor finally got some washing, but other than this, there was nothing positive in the situation.
The landlady showed up pretty soon, bringing us the really bad news: it was the potato-digging season, and all the plumbers she knew were off to their gardens, storing up on food for the winter.
When I got into the bathtub later that morning and poured the first cupful of boiled water onto my head - again - I felt homicidal. (To those who haven't been following this blog recently, we didn't have hot water here from early August till September 6, and, to those who haven't been following this blog for the past nine months or so, I have a 9-month-old kid and boiling water to wash her is a pain in the ass, and I'm not even talking about myself.)
Sometime around 1 pm, a plumber showed up, unearthed by the landlady somewhere in the sanatorium (where she works as a cook at a private restaurant owned by some German or something - not sure if I've ever mentioned this here). The plumber looked miserable - skinny, stinky, smelling of pee, shit and alcohol, dressed in blue overall and tall, black rubber boots, looking sober until he began to speak, looking like one of my dear physicist friends - if this friend had become an alcoholic plumber instead of a physicist, that is, and stayed to rot in this part of the world.
He found the pipe that burst pretty soon and mumbled that it's gonna cost us to replace it. Mishah said, Of course, we'll pay. I asked, How much? The plumber didn't respond right away, and I was expecting to hear something terrible, like, a hundred bucks.
Fifteen hryvnias, he said. Three dollars. That's for the pipe, and he also wanted to be paid for his work. Sure, Mishah and I said simultaneously.
But he didn't have a new pipe with him, in that funny bag with instruments, on a strap that seemed too long and made the bag look inappropriately hip, teenagerish. He had to walk 1 km to the warehouse and then back, so it'd be awhile, he said. We'll be waiting, we both said happily, do come back!
Then we waited a few hours and he never showed up. Turned out he talked to the landlady and she didn't bother to call us: he didn't have the pipe. Her husband was to go to the market and buy it, and then he'd come Sunday morning and fix everything.
The landlady's husband is a useless prick, a burden trying to look and sound like he's the boss here - only we've never seen him not tipsy and we've never dealt with him when it came to the rent money.
The landlady called in the morning and was upset to hear he hadn't arrived with the pipe yet. She accompanied him all the way to the tram's last stop, two blocks from here, and couldn't believe he ended up staying behind for a drink after she was gone. She was at work.
He did show up, looked at the damaged pipe, said the one he had was too short, and left, promising to buy another one and come back tomorrow. I didn't talk to him, but Mishah said he was drunk.
I was unspeakably upset to have to boil water for the morning wash again. I was terribly mad at the landlady's husband for coming here drunk, and I was as mad at her for trusting him. We asked her why she didn't get yesterday's plumber to finish what he started, or why they didn't ask about the pipe's length, but she didn't have an answer. I asked Mishah to tell her I wouldn't let her husband in tomorrow if I smell he'd been drinking, and only then did she promise to send a plumber instead.
We'll see what happens tomorrow. This zooming in onto how things really work here has been bad and I hope I'll be allowed to zoom out soon, to return to my sort of touristy distance, to my slightly cushioned-up position. If they keep coming back drunk and doing nothing, I'm moving back to Bessarabka next weekend, early. Fuck them. And yes, W., I am drained now, despite all the wonderful fresh air I've been getting here for the past three months. A good thing is that Marta isn't aware of any of it.
***
A brief note on the local prices:
Our monthly rent here is only $100 less than what we paid for a wonderful apartment in St. Pete in 2003-2004. Really hard to believe. We used to have a dishwasher there, even. Here, I'm totally grateful for a washing machine: if we lived in the sanatorium across the lake, we would have to handwash all our stuff - and pay at least $800 for 24 days there. Multiply that by four, at least. They feed you there, though, and clean your room, make your bed and all that. And you could swim in their swimming pool for free, before it closed for repairs. A "luxe" room at the sanatorium costs a lot more, I've been told by a woman whose son is about Marta's age. She stayed there all summer, used a $1,000 cell phone - and didn't mind handwashing all her and her kid's stuff.
Sunday, September 17, 2006
Saturday, September 16, 2006
For balance, here's a link to Yelena Milashina's recent piece (RUS) in Novaya Gazeta - There Are People Who Know It All.
I haven't read it, because to read it is to live through it all again, and I'm not ready now. Like Chivers' piece, it's about what really happened, the facts.
Here's a passage relevant to the previous entry about Litvinovich:
I haven't read it, because to read it is to live through it all again, and I'm not ready now. Like Chivers' piece, it's about what really happened, the facts.
Here's a passage relevant to the previous entry about Litvinovich:
Even though Beslan residents have been reproached more than once in these years for profiteering from their grief, they have born the many months of the trial with dignity and have formulated the main questions that the investigators resisted answering so stubbornly.
Russia has memorized the names of two women - Susanna Dudieva and Ella Kesaeva - who were accused of being overly active and were insulted in the most cruel ways.
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