Posts Tagged ‘moscow’

Jazz with Ella

Posted: 16/03/2026 by vequinox in Literature
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…very popular fellow for centuries, though not of her own faith. However, something about its crackled surface, the pale face of the saint, the gilding around the border and in his halo, and the very worn appearance of the icon touched her. It had been used by worshippers for centuries, loved, handled carefully. Even if it was essentially an Orthodox Church image, it spoke of devotion, the same kind of devotion that her people afforded to religious items and objects.
Staring at the gilt image again, she was reminded that there was purpose to her endeavour: to track down items of great religious or artistic significance before they were lost or defaced forever in this country. The Soviet political will toward their own ancient relics was appalling. Right around the Hotel Rossiya she had noticed a ring of decrepit small churches that no one cared about. The group had heard tales of centuries-old churches being used to store grain or left to tumble down. Why, in some cases, she reasoned, she was merely the instrument that provided a return of possessions lost decades ago by their rightful owners who had been forced to flee the country because of war or persecution. They would have to buy them back now from the consortium, of course, but that was a small price to pay. Of course, hoodlums like Krov upped the purchasing price and there were costs associated with running the business including the tidy chunk of change that was going into her own pocket for taking the risk.
Lona did not always understand the reverence that Jewish people paid to their history. It seemed to her as if they were always grabbing the long lost past and while she acknowledged the past, she preferred to look to the future. I’m sure if I had been alive during the pogroms, I would feel differently, she thought. As in all ventures like this, however idealistic in motive, there was always a lot of money at stake. The solid silver menorah would fetch many dollars so it was definitely worth hiding the bulky thing. It had not come from Krov, but from another kinder, gentler man who said it had belonged to his grandmother. He had provenance, unusual for these under-the-counter deals: a photo of his granny in Poland with the menorah. In the black and white photo the grandmother stood regal and proud, and the surrounding room appeared to be rich with objet d’art and other treasures. When asked, the man had told her that most of the art works had been buried in the garden when the family thought the Nazis would soon be at the door. But his grandmother had died in a concentration camp, and since that time, the home had been razed, the site transformed…

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Jazz with Ella

Posted: 04/03/2026 by vequinox in Literature
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It was from Kazan, he told her. It was unsigned and did not use the words “jazz with Ella” but it gave the date of their arrival at the Hotel Rossiya. He looked uncomfortable.
“But I don’t understand. I didn’t send a telegram,” Jennifer told him.
His face crumpled. “So there is no hope for me. I will not leave the country?” he asked.
“No…yes, there is hope,” she responded breathlessly. “So you know nothing of the plan…I wonder who sent the telegram. David? No, because he asked me…and it couldn’t have been Maria because she…”
“Forget telegram. What plan? Tell me quick.”
“I’ll do better. I’ll show you.” She produced Paul’s passport from its hiding place in her money belt and held it in front of his face. “You are now Paul Mercier, my dear. Here’s a picture of you. Saturday, you will fly out of the country under this name.”
She watched mixed emotions: awe, anxiety, and maybe some hint of calculation in his expression. He took the passport from her fingers and gazed at it. A minute passed.
Finally, he spoke. “For such a long time, I have waited for this. I thank you from the bottom of my heart.” His speech was curiously formal considering that the two of them had been rolling in intimate embrace not 20 minutes earlier.
“Well, thank Paul, too.” She thought it odd he hadn’t asked her how she had acquired the passport or what Paul was going to do. But perhaps the full impact hadn’t sunk in yet. “Now, Mr. Mercier, I have to trim your hair and find you some new clothes. Maybe even some Hush Puppies, like you wanted.”
It was past midnight before she dressed again, kissed Volodya on the lips, and darted down the hall to David’s room. She knocked softly and he opened the door immediately.
“Come in. Just writing in my notebook. It’s hard, you know,” he told her. “I can’t write anything about you-know-who in case someone reads the journal…” He looked at Jennifer.
“You’re glowing. I take it your reunion with your beloved was satisfactory.”
Jennifer blushed. “It sounds as if Maria spread the word. I’m sorry to bother you so late…I’m looking for clothes.” David moved to turn the radio on to drown out their conversation in case anyone was listening. “I need the leather jacket again and any shoes that you can spare.

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Jazz with Ella

Posted: 24/02/2026 by vequinox in Literature
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“Maybe he’s right not to be involved too much,” Jennifer went on. “I can’t drag everybody into this. You could be caught, maybe jailed. I don’t even know what the penalty might be.”
“I’m not being silly,” Maria returned. “I know it’s not an elopement. But it’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard of. And it’s good, Jen. It’s a good thing, not a bad thing. I want to be involved. I know it’s risky.”
“Please, let’s not keep talking about it. Not here.” Jennifer pointed at the metal grill halfway up the column. She felt sick and couldn’t bear the thought of going back to the stuffy room at the Bucharest alone.
“Let’s go then,” said Maria, exasperated. “Come on. I’ll take you to the restaurant and we’ll have some of that strong Georgian wine.”
★
Sergey Ivanovich, the machinist from Novizavod, was delighted. Luck was with him, and he was alert enough to take advantage of it. Good fortune had placed him on that Aeroflot plane in the first place, somehow as part of a group of foreign tourists. Not only that, but luck had seated him next to a green-eyed, laughing woman whom he had fallen in love with immediately. She had offered to shop for him at the Beryozka in Moscow. He could enter it, of course, but Soviets didn’t shop there. It would only call attention to him if he began to flash around foreign currency. This plan of hers not only suited him well but gave him an opportunity to see her again. Lona, she said, was her Russian name. Her last name was Jewish, he felt sure. Lona was a magnificent name, an excellent one. Throwing caution to the winds, Sergey had eschewed the primitive airport bus in favour of a taxi and rode in from the airport using some of his neighbour’s shopping funds—an unnecessary extravagance but he had loved every minute of it. Besides, it would get him to the Hotel Rossiya before Lona, so that he could meet her at the Beryozka that very evening before she changed her mind.
But after rushing into the city, he had been forced to wait for the Canadian’s tour bus anyway. He couldn’t stand in the lobby of the hotel too long; it would arouse comment and he didn’t want to press his luck, so he had waited first in the telegraph office then on a street corner, somewhat conspicuously, he thought, but the latter gave him the best vantage point. The tour busses generally turned at this corner, whichever of the four entrances they used. He waited and watched every one.

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Jazz with Ella

Posted: 10/02/2026 by vequinox in Literature
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This sarcasm was wasted on the driver who had already exited the bus and was lighting a cigarette. “I presume it has dining facilities and private bathrooms, but if not, I ask you all to be flexible. These are our last nights in Moscow and I, for one, don’t plan to let this setback ruin it.”
As this last was said through clenched teeth, most of the group doubted its sincerity.
Chopyk trod firmly off the bus, luggage in hand, looked briefly up and down the quiet back street, took in the worn matting at the doorway and a withered plant in a pot, and entered. The others followed. Inside, it was a monument to pre-revolutionary architecture. An ornately patterned Persian carpet, so threadbare their heels tapped on it, wound through the hallway to a high front desk draped in ornamental gilt moulding. Many niches and nooks had been fashioned into the walls of cool grey marble; within the niches stood chipped statuary, their colours dull from years of restaurant grease and traffic fumes. At least there was no doubt that there was a dining room because everything smelled of sour rye bread and fish. At the core of the curved marble staircase a large, gilded cage heaved and groaned. This proved to be the elevator. Chopyk stared at it, curiosity vying with irritation. It took a few moments of distraction by this cultural marvel of a hotel for Jennifer to realize that there was no Natasha there to meet them.
The desk clerk could not have been less interested in the leadership of the tour group. Chopyk engaged in an eloquent but losing battle with a ramrod straight, unsmiling concierge regarding unforeseen scheduling changes, dining arrangements and the possibility of sending a message to the Hotel Rossiya where the unfortunate Natasha must even now be waiting for them. Rudderless, while his captain was engrossed in this exchange, the clerk merely collected their passports listlessly and handed out room keys seemingly at random. He gestured toward the heaving gilded cage. Davai, davai, he waved them away.
“Looks like you got a single room, Jennifer,” Hank said. “Going to be doing some entertaining? Nudge, wink.” She reeled at his loud voice. And when had he started calling her by her first name? It was symptomatic of the changing relationships within the group.
“Let’s not hang around here,” Lona whispered. “Let’s get up to our rooms before Chopyk learns which rooms we’ve been assigned to.” They heaved their suitcases in the direction of the elevator. As if in camouflage, a wrinkled crone materialized out of the marble statuary, slipping

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Jazz with Ella

Posted: 01/02/2026 by vequinox in Literature
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Miraculously it was open, and there appeared to be a supply of beer. He found himself standing behind one of the frenetic Canadians.
“Good day,” he said politely in Russian directly into Jennifer’s ear. She jumped.
“I beg your forgiveness,” he added hastily, at the same time seizing this opportunity to wedge one foot closer to the drink counter, before a particularly rotund grandmother stepped in his way. The girl from Canada understood Russian, he knew that. He had been listening to them in the waiting room, and he had noticed this one particularly. He handed his token to the attendant.
“You have 18 in your group,” he said to the still startled Jennifer. It was better to know for sure. She might say that there’s another group on their way and they are all ahead of you in line for the plane to Moscow. But, instead, she seemed astounded. Perhaps she had never been spoken to by a live Tatar before. Perhaps she thought we were all aliens out here in the republics. “You have 18 in your group. Is that correct?” he asked again.
Finally, Jennifer found her tongue.
“Yes… uh, no. What do you mean? My Russian is not so good, please.” She seemed covered in confusion. She was not holding a drink coupon but continued to stand at the counter blocking the way.
“You must pay the cashier first,” said Sergey helpfully, pointing at his bottle of beer that had been unceremoniously thrust at him. Perhaps she didn’t understand.
“Oh yes, thank you,” she answered, looking at his drink and moving away rapidly. Then she stopped and appeared to reconsider. She turned to him and said in impeccable Russian: “Why do you ask how many is in our group?”
When the call for loading finally came, Sergey Ivanovich, the machinist from Novizavod, walked out on the tarmac with the group from Canada, though in the rear. The severe lady walked right up front, having relied on an airline representative to do a count. But she might turn around and take stock of her brood at any minute. His English was not good enough to understand what was going on here, but he rather thought that even if he had elected the English language in school, he would be no more enlightened. One thing he had always been able to do well was count. There were 18 here all right—including him.
Just recently he had read an article in Krokodil that exhorted him to seize opportunities wherever they might be found to further the socialist…

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https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763246

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