The Russian Dream

1

In the late night, workers at a lumber mill near Smolensk shared stories, drank, and celebrated their newfound freedom. Constructed during the German occupation, the lumber mill was typically a quiet, cold place until the first Russian troops swept through the building during the war. One of the first things that changed was the flag, and now the bright, cheery colors of the Federation adorned the pole that sat outside. Now the workers weren’t afraid to not only look at the flag they lived under, but also at the stars that hung above them.

Under the summer sun of Belgorod, a group of young students took their stipend out to a freshly built commercial district. They wanted to flair up their clothing and maybe even buy some makeup. Only after all the laughter and celebration did they realize they had spent too much, and several the next day had to make a call home. Despite having to call home, none had to worry if they would see their families again.

Within Moscow’s first reconstructed synagogue, a sight no one inside would have believed only a year ago would ever happen again, a public Bar Mitzvah was being held. Not only did the fear of their entire culture being eradicated leave their mind for that moment, but they could be happy about the future for the first time. Among the tears and laughter that followed, they danced deep into the night, knowing this was but the first of many nights.

Throughout the massive motherland, the people celebrated, danced, and sang songs many thought were lost. In a place typically thought of as a cold and unforgiving place, the people of the Federation found warmth in the passion they now had in freedom.

The torch of liberty has thawed the Motherland.

2

Ivan Kuratov was once a scarred man. The long hours of backbreaking labor, the beyond brutal conditions, and the icey cold in the Vorkuta labor camp did that to everyone, prisoner or guard, who was foolish enough to inhabit it. To this day, he carried the scars, and the hardened palms of those days. He once thought that life under that continuous cycle of petty fiefdoms would never end. Even after the NKVD fell,he’d just come under another government who cared not for his well being. But now, times were changing.

When Kuratov had migrated to the city of Barnaul, and saw President Shukshin for the first time, his heart had beat with something that he had not experienced since childhood. Jubilation. Hope. A genuine dash of idealism. An infectious dream of eternal optimism, and true unbridled happiness for the future. The sun seemed to shine brighter on his face, now plastered with a dumb wide grin.

Now that the wars were over, the reforms were done, and his life truly transformed, he thought that he’d seen the end of wonder. He was wrong. That morning, he’d woken up to a stunning announcement. Elections. President Shukshin had given way to democracy, and was scheduling elections. Now his life was flooded with banners, posters, slogans, political campaigns, and the debates and news on his newly bought television set. He’d truly seen another Russian miracle. One greater than the miracle on the Volga, or on the Don. One greater than the miracle of the 2nd West Russian War.

On his way back home, he was intercepted by the Novaya Gazeta for a poll. With a wide smile, and groceries in hand, he said confidently:

“President Shukshin has my vote.”

3

Boris Solovyev had always hated moving. From the times of the German invasion and having to flee the family home, to the forced deportations by the labor camps, he hated moving. To him before, moving had always brought anguish, uncertainty, and sadness for the future. But now that was changing, just like everything else in Russia.

As he tugged his suitcase along the pavement of Rostov, a backpack on his shoulders, he felt as if a long night had passed and morning was coming. Oh, Rostov’s redevelopment was progressing nicely – the new commercial developments, new and modern residential areas, and all sorts of new leisure activities were certainly nothing to scoff at. But he was headed somewhere else – to Volgograd, the southern gem of Russia’s new crown. He could almost see the high-tech offices, and Alexander Nevsky’s bronze frame (at last, the city was restored to its former glory!) as he entered the Rostov Central Rail Station.

He made it through security without a hitch, and was soon at the main hall of the station. He swiped his card on the automated kiosk, and 20 rubles and about 30 seconds later he found himself with one ticket to Volgograd aboard Russia’s newest spectacle, the Skorostnoypoyezd, their new high speed rail network. Already thousands of kilometers of new tracks were being laid, and Russia’s recovering cities seemed to be brought closer together. Seeing as he’d arrived early, he thought he’d go and grab something to eat while he waited the roughly 30 minutes for the train to arrive at the station.

Soon he found himself at the station’s Teremok, which was packed with commuters, movers, and vacationers alike, all waiting on the same quick bite. Teremok was a rising name in Russia’s restaurant scene, combining Western conveniences such as fast service and low prices with a traditional Russian palette. He stood in line for a minute or two before it was time for him to order. He decided to get a plate of blini with some mors, and before long he was sitting down to eat his food.

While he chowed down and watched the clock, he began to swipe through the newest issue of the Novaya Gazeta. Apparently, the first general elections had been held in the recently freed Ukraine, and the results were overwhelmingly in favor of the liberal Civic Position party, with a dominating 185 of the 320 seats of the Verkhovna Rada and the presidency, with the newly elected Petro Tymoshenko to be inaugurated within about 4 months. He was delighted; he thought it great that the other peoples of Eastern Europe could share in their newfound freedom.

Putting away his plate and once again lugging his suitcase, he went back to the terminal just in time to nab a decent seat with a good view. He pushed his suitcase into the overhead shelf and his backpack under the seat in front. Upon sitting down, he noticed that the seats were not only quite comfortable but also could recline – he wasted no time in making use of it. As he settled in for the roughly 2 hour journey, he had but one thought on his mind.

What a great time it is to be a Russian.

4

Boris Solovyev had settled in nicely in Volgograd over the past few months. He managed to score a nice one-bedroom apartment in a brand new development, with his 14th-story room offering a commanding view of the new business district of the city. Modern furnishings, a comfortable bed to sleep in, heating and air conditioning, a television… if you had told him 10 years ago where he’d be living today, he wouldn’t have believed you in the slightest. Hell, he’d even started dating a girl. At 34, he wasn’t late to the show yet, and he’d met a lovely girl named Valentina at the bar about 3 months ago. They’d met each other’s parents and everything.

Which brought him to the question; where to for their first vacation together? He had managed to score a few weeks off work, and the same could be said for her as well. The first destination on the list had been Moscow, of course; nothing could match the Third Rome in beauty and prowess, even after decades of rot and mistreatment by the Germans. St. Petersburg was also on the table, but seeing as it was still being rebuilt it wasn’t on it for long. However, Valentina was no ordinary woman, and she certainly didn’t want any ordinary vacation.

“Kazakhstan? I mean, if you want to go I wouldn’t be opposed…” Valentina’s face lit up.

“Oh, there’s so much to do there! Just imagine us, riding off into the steppe on a majestic stallion, while we drink horse milk…”

Boris struggled to swallow a gag that popped up upon hearing that, but for her he was more than willing to endure the horror that it invoked in him. So now, after a week or so of preparation and packing, they were now in the newly built Pyotr Anokhin International Airport, which had just begun offering nonstop service to Alma-Ata via Russia’s new flag carrier, Air Russia. After passing through the security checkpoint without incident, and after Valentina successfully negotiated the acquisition of matching neck pillows, they found themselves aboard a new Yak-42 trijet airliner, flown by a Great Patriotic War veteran crew and served by well-trained flight attendants. Everything was laid out for the flight to be great, but still Boris found himself a bit anxious – he’d never been in a plane before, so that was to be expected as much.
All of that melted away once he saw the buildings of Volgograd fade away into clouds, giving way to the brilliant Russian sky, now free of foreign oppression and terror. Joy overtook him as he stared out into the seemingly endless sea of blue before him, and he looked back at Valentina.

“Signs of what’s to come, eh?”

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