Thefts small and large

Acquiring, Pilfering or Stealing? It depends on your intention.

30 November, 2020

It’s a good time to reflect on ignominious American presidents and their colorful henchmen.

Political transgressions of the past seem like mere mischievous romps by ambitious cynics when compared to the degrading sleaze show playing out in the United States now. The Watergate scandal that began in 1972 – in which President Richard Nixon’s thugs not-so-stealthily broke into the offices of the Democratic party in the hotel complex of the same name – appears mediocre when juxtaposed with the shenanigans of the past few years…those we know about…and those that are likely to emerge when the fog lifts.

One of the Watergate burglars, G. Gordon Liddy, celebrates his 90th birthday today. In the days when I still wanted to be spy, I had the pleasure of meeting my hero.

Memories and Memorabilia of G

By Justin Lifflander

Senator Edmund Muskie waved goodbye to my father and me from the steps of his Kennebunk Beach home as we pulled away one day in 1971. I clutched the Slinky I had stolen from his son.

At age six, I had started a hobby on the coattails of my father’s fundraising work for Democrats. My collection of political memorabilia began in a loose relationship to one of the early victims of Richard Nixon’s Committee to Reelect the President, AKA “CREEP.” It would end with a memento from one of the committee’s most infamous members, G. Gordon Liddy.

In those days, respectable institutions made high-quality branded items. Respectable admirers pilfered them without pause.  My father’s theft of two pewter ashtrays from the Watergate Hotel was prescient.

View of the Cornell Clock Tower (clock hands in place)

Thirteen years later I was completing a degree in Soviet Studies at Cornell University, with what was then a clear vision of my career path to becoming an intelligence officer. In my fraternity I was responsible for the security of our secret meeting room that housed a vault of booty — including a pair of 19th century clock-hands stolen from the Cornell tower.

The fraternity had one socially-redeeming program— a speakers’ series endowed by an ancient alum. In addition to my counter-intelligence duties, I was assistant chairman of the Oliphant Program. We funded honorariums and put the speaker up in a special suite in the house.

I was overjoyed when I learned G. Gordon Liddy had accepted an invitation to lecture.  I had been in awe of Liddy from the moment I read how he calmly strolled past police in the lobby of the Watergate with surveillance equipment stuffed down his pants. Wannabe spies have a hard time finding quality role models. During his stay I was to be G’s valet, organize a reception, and attend to his needs.

Yosemite Sam

My first impression was that the cartoon character Yosemite Sam had come to life — complete with menacing mustache and acerbic banter.  In the Q&A prior to cocktails G was true to form.

To a liberal minded brother who challenged one of his right-wing positions, Liddy retorted:

“You’re probably the kind of guy who calls 9-1-1 when you have a problem. Me, I call 9-millimeter.” He patted his left breast as if checking his weapon.

“What’s the first thing you did when you got out of prison G?” another brother asked.

G grinned. “I went home and gave mama exactly what she’d been waiting for.”

After the lecture he sat up until 2 a.m. entertaining us with tales about rat kebab, prison survival and the fight-ring he presented to his wife so she could keep her inner-city students in line.

At one point, Liddy asked to use a phone. I led him to my room and pointed at my home-made contraption, complete with a built-in jack for recording conversations and a dial that generated static to terminate undesired calls. G glanced at the device and muttered something about finding a payphone.

I seized the moment.

“G, do you have a sense of humor?” I asked.

“You can’t survive in Washington…or the joint, without one,” he answered.

“Would you mind autographing this?”

I pulled one of the Watergate ashtrays from my top drawer and handed it to him, along with a Sharpie. He scowled, then scribbled on the back and smiled as he returned it. I read the inscription:  "I did not steal this… G. Gordon Liddy" (the "I" was underlined).

We shook hands and he accepted a cigar as a token of my appreciation. I stopped collecting political souvenirs after that. What was the point?

My last political souvenir

Some Liddy quotes:

Obviously, crime pays, or there'd be no crime.

They were afraid, never having learned what I taught myself: Defeat the fear of death and welcome the death of fear.

A liberal is someone who feels a great debt to his fellow man, which debt he proposes to pay off with your money.

A Viral Homily, or... Bless You

11 All the earth had the same language, and the same words. 2And as men migrated from the east, they came upon a valley in the land of Shinar and settled there. 3They said to one another, “Come, let us make bricks…. 4let us build us a city, and a tower with its top in the sky, to make a name for ourselves; else we shall be scattered all over the world.”

5The Lord came down to look at the city and tower which man had built, 6and the Lord said, “If, as one people, with one language for all, this is how they have  begun to act, then nothing that they may propose to do will be out of their reach. 7Let us go down and confound their speech there, so that they shall not understand one another.”  Genesis

So ended that real estate project. And I did scatter everyone. I had no choice. I had to take man down a notch…it wasn’t punishment. It was a hint…to let him know he was on the right track. Come together, do great things, and so forth.

Ok… and some job security. If man succeeded, then he wouldn’t need me anymore.

But you didn’t get the lesson. Perhaps it’s not your fault. Moses was the author. What do you expect from a stiff-necked Hebrew taking dictation? My mistake was not having an editor…Moses had a lot on his plate.

My wrath could have been worse. But I had already boxed myself in. I made a promise in Chapter 8, just after Noah and his clan finally got out of the ark.

21“Never again will I doom the earth because of man, since the devisings of man’s mind are evil from his youth.”

Chapter 9 was more fun… and pregnant with meaning, too. I made it clear that I was opposed to human bloodshed; and, more importantly, I told you that 2“everything with which the earth is astir” is given to you. I also helped Noah plant a vineyard so he and his descendants (that’s you) could enjoy the fruit of the vine. For the record, I did not encourage him to pass out with his pants off. That was his own doing. Finally, I decided to make the rainbow my Post-it Note, just in case I forgot about my promise. Nice touch, huh?

You are asking what happened to mankind between the time the ark doors opened and I destroyed the tower of Babel?  How did humanity become so strong, united and ambitious in just a few generations? I thought I made it pretty clear. But again, a bad editing job could be the source of confusion.

What happened is that man learned appreciation.  When everyone around you perishes, you feel thankful you and yours didn’t. When the world is rejuvenated right before your eyes, it might stir a sense of gratitude. At a minimum, you learn to appreciate fresh air when you’ve been cooped up for 40 days smelling deer musk and elephant dung. After such an experience, you learn to appreciate a lot of things.

Was it too subtle a message? The evil from your youth still clouding your minds? My children, you are about as responsible as a teenager with a six-pack and the car keys.

I said, I don’t do punishment…really. But sometimes it is necessary to make a point.  Like now…

You’ve lost any sense of appreciation. This, when so many of you wake up to hot & cold running water, electricity, and, as it turns out, the most important thing: toilet paper. What’s not to appreciate?

Here’s another lesson from the Good Book that was lost on you. Remember when I seek out Abraham, to ask him to sacrifice his son? He doesn’t hide. He understands about personal accountability. 22: 1, 11“Here I am,” he says. What? You think I didn’t know where he was? Of course, I did.  I wanted to hear that he was ready to take responsibility for his commitments…his actions…his life.  And there are those of you who don’t pay child support…or want to sue the tobacco company for giving you cancer? Come on…

No, you are not so young anymore. You’ve carried the evil of your youthful minds into middle age. Time to dispose of it. 

I have been too subtle. You still need to be hit over the head from time to time, just like pharaoh.

This one’s not a plague, though it may seem like one. It’s fulfillment of an earlier covenant. Remember, I made you the master of all beasts. Dominion over all, so that they may serve you. You think a virus isn’t a beast? Look closely at it. It’s serving you, though you might not realize it.

Really, things aren’t that bad. At first, you thought you lost everything that was important. Work, money, happy hour. Look carefully. Lots of good stuff happening. The earth I put in your trust you managed to soil so badly your lungs are weak. Now the sky gets a break. Your pets get some attention. You remember what games your kids like to play. You show you care by staying out of the streets and not breathing on each other.

Can’t gather to worship me? I don’t need a crowd. Even if you’re sitting at home in your stained undershorts, if you are loving each other, then as far as I’m concerned you are in your Sunday Best…every quarantined day of the week.

Consider this a shock therapy on appreciation and caring. You weren’t doing enough hugging anyway. Hope you’ll miss that, too. I’m giving you a chance to get a life. Own it. Appreciate it.

In fact, how about documenting it? We’ve had the Old Testament and the New Testament (really, not so new anymore, at least in your piddling time scale). Perhaps it’s time for another testament. All good stories have sequels. Should come out every millennium or so. BUT, sayeth I to thee, be warned: this one is only a trilogy. You’d better get the meaning of the final volume.

We’ll call it the Last Testament. Let’s say it will also have five books. (You noticed I like certain numbers? Three patriarchs, magi, toes on a sloth; five holy books, fingers per hand, senses per body; forty…so many occurrences: days, nights, the year you started going bald….)

Try this as an opening chapter:

1 And the Lord sent a pestilence across the land, to his scattered peoples. 2It laid low the old and infirm, as well as the young and robust. 3And men cowered in their hovels and palaces, their tents on the plains and caves in the hills. 4To survive they separated themselves, yet the angles helped them stay connected. 5Despite the different tongues, they had learned to communicate. 6As in the time of Babylon, men wanted to make a name for themselves. 7But they realized lasting fame would only be found in the songs of praise and reverence echoing in future generations. 8They understood nothing was out of their reach –their own destruction, through avarice and waste, as well as their salvation, through service and love—love of each other….

I’d emphasize verse 8 in particular. You say you love me? But I created you in my image! I demonstrate my power, my passion and my love throughout the holy books. Is that not proof enough? Then they only way to love me is to love yourselves. There! I’ve got you! Just try to argue against that logic! Good lawyers I have. You don’t have to be the Dali Lama to catch the wisdom. 

We’ll call this first tome The Book of Awakening. Not too subtle, eh?  (On the West coast they can call it The Book of Mindfulness if they want.) It’s all about being aware. It’s a “wake up call” for humanity. But I’ve seen you in the mornings. Will you roll out of bed ready for action, or will you hit the snooze button?

The names of the subsequent four books will depend on your answer to that question. The Book of Integration, or Disintegration? The Book of Cooperation, or Destruction? The Book of Transformation, or Degradation? The Book of Deliverance, or Disappearance? Up to you.

So, get to work my children. Get a good editor. Then, write your own story. Inscribe your greatness in these books. Bless you. Bless yourselves. Bless each other. But first, wash your hands…

Patch Adams: Don Quixote in a Red Nose…but Not on Red Square

By Justin Lifflander

Patch almost on red square

Even the Russian winter has fallen victim to global warming. Barely a smattering of snow and record high temperatures create anxiety and a sense of imbalance.

But each year one reliable harbinger of the season appears.  In mid-November barricades go up around much of Red Square. The authorities maintain they’re necessary for assembly of an ice-skating rink across from Lenin’s tomb. But those in-the-know know better. Patch Adams is in town.

At 74, the clown-doctor made famous by the eponymous 1998 movie starring Robin Williams, is alive and kicking…hard.

Patch loves being arrested, preferably in grand public places. Twice in the early 2000s he and several of his cohorts were detained while street-clowning in the shadow of the Kremlin.  They were eventually released, having charmed their jailers. A few properly placed phone calls by Patch’s local charity partner, Maria Eliseeva probably helped.

Every November Patch, thirty international volunteers and a dozen Russian friends are on the loose in the city—visiting orphanages, hospices, homeless shelters and hospitals.  They work with marginalized people: the ones you don’t see, the ones you don’t want to see, the suffering you can’t see.

At first Patch hated the Robin Williams movie. He thought it left audiences with the impression he had fulfilled his dream: building a free medical clinic in West Virginia where no insurance is accepted and doctors and janitors get the same salary. In reality, the clinic shut down in 1983.

Patch partner in Russia Maria Eliseeva working with disabled orphan

Is it clowning?

Patch hit the road to stay close to the needy and to raise funds…lecturing and organizing “clown trips” that take him annually to Ecuador, Guatemala, Mexico, Cost Rica, Peru, Morocco and Russia.

Patch attempting to entice passersby to join him in his giant underwear. Photo credit Natlia Lifflander

 It’s not about juggling skills, Patch insists, it’s about going to dark places and learning to connect. “Clowning is a trick to bring love close,” Patch says.

Laughs and smiles are preferred, but weeping is ok, too. Sometimes eye contact is enough.   The work takes courage — especially now that Stephen King and Joaquin Phoenix have fomented belief that clowns can be menacing.

Valor is boosted by the red nose. The world’s smallest mask. Clown etiquette allows us to remove it if we come across a coulrophobe. And we eschew makeup: it tends to smudge when hugging.

Why Russia?

Patch’s first visit to Moscow was in a beatnik-filled bus which penetrated the Iron Curtain in 1974.  In 1985 the two-meter-tall figure with the Dali mustache and multicolored ponytail joined a “peace” tour with actor Mike Farrell. He has returned every year since.

Clown group photo on the edge of red square

Seduced by Dostoyevsky and Rachmaninoff at an early age, Patch’s attraction is to the Russian people, who, he says, “give back a wonderful response” to clowns. Although Patch tends to be critical of politicians, he makes an exception for the presidents of Costa Rica and Ecuador, who have both joined him for a dance inside his pair of giant underwear.

Building a tribe

A clown trip is a week or two of informal group therapy. The bond remains after the clowns have boarded flights home. The WhatsApp group never goes silent.

Dutch clown Marleen Van Os with disabled orphan

Clowns, like Dutchwoman Marleen, now on her tenth Russia trip, are nurturers.  At home, her job is attendings young adults with mental disabilities. In her free time, she earns a few extra Euros caring for disabled people. “And, inevitably,” she says with a grin, “when I go out to dinner, I wind up sitting at table next to Downs kids….”

The first-timers are often concerned about their lack of clown skills. But by the end of the first day they are rolling in the hospital aisles, blowing bubbles on balloon-bursting brats – while onlookers squeal with delight from wheelchairs and gurneys.

It is a transformative process. I used to be a suit. Now I’m a nose.

Many clowns are orphans in a broader sense, rejected or denied by loved-ones through tragedy, prejudice or the natural ebb of life. 

Weston, a gay actor from California, was cut off by his parents when he came out. “They abandoned me, and so I abandoned myself,” he said. Clowning helped him to learn to love himself – another of Patch’s precepts.

Patch calls the “nuclear family” one of the biggest mistakes society has made since exiting the cave.

“We need a tribal life, bound to nature, influenced by the arts,” Patch says.  “There is a collective healthiness in the group, though you won’t find much in the med-school literature to describe it.”  It’s not surprising that many of the volunteers are medical students and professionals, driven to clown by disillusionment, rage and burnout.  

Clowns mixing with locals at Sheremetyevo. Photo credit Natalia Lifflander

Activism

The work is done in civilized cities and war zones.  In the 2002 documentary Clown in Kabul, Ginevra, Patch’s diminutive Italian sidekick and a Russia-trip regular, holds a young girl’s hand, another clown  plays the fiddle and  a doctor peels charred flesh from the child’s body as her parents look on.

French clown Helene Monsigny comforting an elderly woman in an old folks home

Patch and the clowns have been stoned while working in refugee camps in Bosnia and the West Bank.  He nearly got killed in Chechnya as he strolled through a market.  The conservative Muslim society might have accepted the fuzzy chicken hat on his head and the dental lip-spreader in his mouth, but raising clown pants to expose naked legs violated all cultural norms.

Though Patch still hopes to get the free hospital built, he’s added more causes: battling child sex trafficking, hunger, climate change and suicide among US veterans.

The Russian clown trip accelerated the healing process of US Army doctor George Patrin, who fell into deep despair from PTSD and the suicide of his son. It inspired him to sponsor the first veterans’ clown trip with Patch to Guatemala.

Prescriptions

Patch’s medicine pouch also contains tough-love.

Clown making portrait of hospice patient

A high school student once asked Patch what the secret to happiness was. “You got food? You got at least one friend? What do you have to complain about?” he replied.

For Patch, happiness is a decision. “At 18, having been thrice committed to a mental institution for depression, I decided to never have another bad day. I want to be the person I create.  Humans are smart enough animals. I can decide to be a selfish bastard, or I can decide to be happy and loving.”

He see’s depression as a state of disconnection, to be cured by actively pursuing interaction

“Mental illness is a diagnosis made by pharmaceutical companies,” Patch says.

At a clown rally in Italy this summer, Mi-el-Lui, a Veronese hospital clown, announced he was stricken by self-loathing and melancholia.  Patch summoned him to the stage and obtained a commitment that he would follow his doctor’s prescription: wear an underwear hat for the next 30 days.

“Medicine has to be fun,” Patch says. You want a photo with him? You have to assume one of three poses: finger in nose; lips spread / tongue out; or head tilted back and jaw wide open—so he can dangle his silicone snot in your mouth.  The result is not a selfie. It’s an anti-depressant.

Mi-el-Lui and friend

Dreaming

 The designs for Patch’s hospital look like they were made by Dr. Seuss and Rube Goldberg, with an entrance framed by two giant feet.

Patch holding hand of hospice patient

For now, his Gesundheit! Institute in West Virginia has a few minor structures but no functioning medical facility.

Why no major donations to facilitate construction? “I guess there is a certain unbelievability to what I am trying to accomplish,” Patch replies.  

A security officer at the Moscow airport, who was trying to help locate a missing bag at the start of a clown trip a few years back, asked incredulously, “You mean those people pay to come here and work with our orphans?”

Then there was the “Clown One” project of the 90s: an airplane with a bright red circle on its nose, with teams of doctors around the world ready to be ferried to disaster sites on short notice. Annette, a Patch volunteer, asked Patch who was going to pay for the plane. “The Templar Knights,” he responded.  They never coughed up.

Marleen and Weston visiting a sick child at home in Moscow

Rejected dreams are part of the clown shtick. It’s no coincidence that one of the clowns’ best friends was the late St. Petersburg hermit and Beatlemaniac Kolya Vasin. Kolya couldn’t understand why the city government wouldn’t grant him prime real-estate and millions of dollars to build a cathedral dedicated to rock & roll, love and the Fab Four.

Patch combats rejection by swatting it away with a wave of his rubber fish.

By his own admission, 22 years after the film, his popularity is waning. Speaking gigs and donations are dwindling. But he’s undaunted.

“Happiness is the platform I stand on when I am near suffering,” Patch says. He claims there’s a “vibe” —the radiance which emanates from him and the clowns as they go about their work.

He has no plans to stop touring. “I’ll do this trip from a wheel chair if I have to.”

Justin Lifflander is a writer and journalist who has lived in Russia for 32 years. His memoir, “How Not to Become a Spy,” is available from Amazon.com

Another hero of How Not to Become a Spy makes his exit…

Yevgeniy Odiyanov

Yevgeniy Germanovich Odiyankov

(16 October 1952 - 25 January 2020)

Yevgeniy “Zhenya” Odiyankov, the cardio-surgeon from Izhevsk who had the courage to befriend the American INF inspectors in Votkinsk in 1987, died of a massive stroke last month.

We were lucky to have such a friend.

An American inspector (left) and Russian colonel (right) being healed at the Izhevsk Cardio Center

My early adventures with Zhenya are documented in How Not to Become a Spy. I took refuge on his couch when I fled Votkinsk that cold night in 1990, jilted and clueless.

Eventually, he joined me on a road trip from Moscow to Udmurita, which nearly ended with two flat tires in the middle of the night somewhere east of Cheboksary. We were saved by a friendly truck driver, who happened to be Zhenya’s former patient.  Since then I’ve never driven a car in Russia without a pump and hammer.

My friendship with Zhenya continued beyond INF, hosting him on his first trip to America. His love for Russia was never more apparent as when we watched the coup unfold on CNN in August of 1991 from my father’s den in Hastings-on-Hudson. He fretted about the fate of the country’s nascent democracy and how to get back in the fray.

Despite his mentoring, I never managed to do business in Udmurtia. I could find no market for  industrial waste – the only commodity available for trade in the early 90s.

He did connect me to the senior management of the Chepetsky Zirconium Factory.  UDAMCO (The Udmurt-American Development Corporation – founded and wholly owned by me and my father) made a noble effort to export shot glasses and jewelry made from that magic metal. But, alas, it is better suited to its original purpose of encasing nuclear fuel rods.

Zhenya was an authority for me. When he said in 1992, “Ustin Matveevich, you need a ZIM…” I didn’t think twice and began to search the for-sale adds of the Hand-to-Hand newspaper (a post-Soviet print Ebay), not quite sure what a ZIM was. I located one -- a reasonably priced  2nd tier Soviet Limousine – and purchased it. Despite breakdowns and other adventures with the ZIM, Zhenya’s passion for classic Soviet cars was infectious. Between 1992 and 2000 I purchased, restored (and, thank god) eventually sold three ZIMs and two ZISs.

Doug Englund and Yevgeniy next to Justin's ZIM

On another occasion he called me from Izhevsk to say he was coming to town for a concert where his cousin from Albania, the world-renown opera singer Inva Mula was performing – “s’pivakom”. At least that’s what I heard on my end of the poor-quality collection. “Pivo” is the Russian word for beer. I naturally assumed that a “pivak” was a small beer.  I agreed to join him, happy to have an occasion to be with Zhenya and intrigued by the idea that classic opera and beer go together. It was a memorable performance and the first time I became acquainted with the legendary conductor and violinist Vladimir Spivakov.

Beyond culture and medicine, Zhenya was also passionate about politics. From 1990 he served with honor as a deputy to the newly formed national congress. He had the spirit of a true civil servant and ran successfully in the gubernatorial election of Udmurtia in 2004. But success is relevant in the mind of the Kremlin puppet masters. They had their preferred candidate. Somehow the results were overturned. Udmurtia’s future was put in the hands of another man who reigned for 14 years of stable stagnation.

Dr. Odiyankov was sidelined, removed from his position as chief cardiologist, and hounded by inspectors of every sort bent on bringing him down. He persevered and started his own private clinic. But the struggle took its toll.

Thom Moore and Yuriy Odiyankov

When Yuri wrote to me on the morning of Sunday, 26 January informing me of Zhenya’s demise, I was sure I couldn’t make it from Barnaul (I was on a business trip) to Izhevsk by Monday morning in time for an 11:00 funeral.

Miracles happen.  S7 a took me from Barnaul to Novosibisk to Kazan to Domodedovo. IBF took me to Sheremetevo, and Aeroflot took me to Izhevsk. Yandex took me to the Mikhailovskoe Sobor. I was only 15 minutes late.  

Several hundred people gathered in that noble cathedral – ironically restored by that same governor who persecuted Zhenya.

One attendee reported later: “Someone from the street came in and, seeing the crowd, asked which high-level bureaucrat had died…I corrected them: not a bureaucrat. Someone much more important… a doctor…”

The authenticity of the love of the mourners in the warm cathedral was confirmed when the majority of them made their way to the graveyard in the midst of an Ural winter.

At the memorial dinner afterwards, thanks to the testimony of his friends and family I learned more about the greatness of the man we lost...

Post funeral memorial dinner in honor of Yevgeniy 27 January 2020

--One of his employees named her child after him.

--Another commented on his management skills: “He created a safe-haven where people felt secure and appreciated” in the chaos of the 90s.

--And his financial forte.  A woman who joined his staff in the early 90s: “I felt lucky to find a job with such a great team. And to top it off, I was shocked at the end of the month when he paid me a salary in real money….” *

--As one mourner pointed out, he was the proof point that “personality” (личность) is more important than “official position” (должность).

--It seemed that every other mourner who gave a toast mentioned Zhenya’s passion for music and his preference for dealing with musical people. No wonder our first joint project was a peace opera performed by inspectors and surgeons.

American Inspectors performing in Doctors Opera circa 1988

My thoughts became ever more philosophical as the afternoon went on and the shots of Kalashnikov (vodka, not weapon) passed my lips, destined to ease the grief. The spoken memories slowly filled the void created by Zhenya’s absence.

The common thought at such events is an important argument for the value of time travel: why doesn’t the deceased get to revel in such an outpouring?

And, after 32 years in Russia and far too many post-cemetery meals, I still managed to commit a faux-pas. I was on my third chicken cutlet—the first two already in my stomach soaking up the Kalashnikov juice-- when I decided to bother the wait-staff (who seemed as distraught as the mourners) with my petty needs.

“Excuse me, miss, may I have a fork?” 

The gentle reprobation came from all around. “We don’t use forks at memorial meals…” An Udmurt specificity I had missed. I’ve eaten with forks at such events in Moscow, St. Petersburg and Yaroslavl… Someday I will learn the origins of that local ritual.

The event wound down and plastic bags were issued to each table so the mourners could take the left over stuffed-buns. This was not a doggie-bag for the sake of eating, but for the sake of extending the memory.

Charlton Heston

As we headed out, Zhenya’s wife Irina approached me. She had been distributing a few of his belongings to close friends.

She handed me a maroon handkerchief with white stripes along the edge. I took it in my hand, sure I had seen the pattern before.

Then it struck me. It’s the same pattern of the blanket that Moses’s mother wrapped him in when she sent him the down the Nile (according to Cecil B. DeMille)—which he wore later as he escorted the Hebrews out of Egypt to the edge of the Promised Land.

It was the perfect symbol for Zhenya. He made it to the mountain top, was punished for a transgression by the capricious powers above and is fated to observe from afar, with his indefatigable hope, whether his countrymen make gain admission to the land of milk and honey. 

Meanwhile, I’m swearing off non-fiction. From now on I’m only going to write about characters whose entrance and departure I can control.

*In the post-Soviet economic implosion, many organizations and industrial enterprises had no funds to pay salaries in money. Often, in best cases, salaries were paid in goods produced or acquired by the enterprises: frying pans, toilet paper, stuffed animals, air-pistols.

Proof it Worked…

A report on NBC TV from July 31, 1991, about the American INF inspection work in Votkinsk, USSR.

Some familiar faces and an objective snapshot of how it really was. Even the poker table gets an honorable mention.

Video courtesy of Major Steve Pestana, USAF, ret. Apologies for the low resolution!

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Reveals more about the origins of today’s geopolitical crisis than watching the POTUS on the putting green!

The Russian-language edition of How not to become a spy is now on sale.

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The screenplay based on How Not to Become a Spy is a finalist at the Jefferson State Flixx Fest film festival

SS-20 and Pershing II missiles on display at the Smithsonian Museum in Washington, DC

The Plowshare Paradox, a screenplay written by Justin Lifflander, based on his Cold War memoir How Not to Become a Spy, won third place in the writing competition at the Jefferson State Flixx Fest.

The festival, which is in its fourth year, took place in Fort Jones, California last month. “The dialogue felt authentic and well-researched,” said Flixx Fest director Megan Peterson. “I loved the fact that it was a spy movie about peace (not war!) and overall everyone loved the premise.”

Lifflander is pleased to have accomplished this step in his long-term goal of bringing his story to the screen. “It turned out something like Ferris Bueller meets Red Sparrow,” Lifflander said. “I know in these dark times it won’t be easy to find an agent or producer likely to be passionate about a story of when Russia and America actually got along,” he added, “but, the story is about people that we can all relate to on both sides.”

Synopsis of The Plowshare Paradox

George Clarkey spends his teenage years preparing to become a spy. From bugging his mother’s women’s group meeting to an internship at the FBI, George readies for his mission to defeat the Evil Empire. He moves to Moscow as the Cold War is ending to get front-line experience as a driver at the US Embassy.

Meanwhile, in the heartland of the USSR, Vladimir Sadovnikov runs a rocket factory in the town that gave birth to Tchaikovsky. His workers manufacture the finest road-mobile nuclear missiles in the world.

When Reagan and Gorbachev sign a treaty eliminating all medium-range missiles, Vladimir visits Utah to review his enemy’s production facility. He is astonished by the high standard of living.

Planning to perfect his language skills before applying to the CIA, George joins a team of US military officers living at the gates of Vladimir’s factory. A new department set up at the factory administers the treaty and monitors the Americans. It’s staffed primarily by attractive young women – “escorts” in treaty parlance – and is infiltrated by the KGB.

While working as a missile inspector, cook and janitor, George is surprised by the locals’ compassion and warmth. He makes friends with Anatoly, a colonel in the Soviet construction troops, and Zhenya, a cardiologist.

In between adventures, such as looking for hidden microphones and building a subterranean hot tub, George falls in love with Sofia, one of the escorts. Although the rules on both sides prohibit romance, they plot a life together. The KGB, convinced George really is a spy, tracks their relationship.

Vladimir struggles to come to terms with the destruction of the missiles he’s built to defend the fatherland, and the financial hardship to his town created by the ban on making more missiles. He is also bewildered by the public exposure of the failings of the Communist Party – which he believed was infallible.

Vladimir pins his hopes for the future of the factory on consumer goods production. But a diagnosis of Parkinson’s and his positive opinion about America convince Party leaders that he must be retired.

George quits the treaty and moves to Moscow – where signs of the USSR’s demise are everywhere – while he waits for Sofia to join him.

When she learns that the KGB plans to manipulate them for the rest of their lives, Sofia severs ties with George. He pursues her, only to discover that she has another fiancé - a deception by Sofia to discourage George.

With no job and no hope, Vladimir commits suicide on the steps of the recreation center he built for his workers.

With the help of his friend Zhenya, George makes a last-ditch effort to win over Sofia. He takes an unauthorized road-trip across the country and manages to convince her to build a future together.

What to do with a dead-man’s clothes…

By Justin Lifflander

Matt and Grandma May

My father passed away five years ago. Beyond the many intangibles he gave us in life, the most problematic part of his estate was his wardrobe.

A corporate lawyer and lifelong Democratic Party fundraiser, Matt’s public image was very important to him. As a child I remember seeing a chrome donkey hood-ornament in an automotive accessories catalog. I thought it was the perfect gift for him and assumed he’d be ecstatic at the idea of replacing the prim crest on the front of his Cadillac. His rejection was gentle but firm: “Perhaps we’ll put it on your mother’s car.”

If some people are mere clothes horses, Matt was a Clydesdale – a trait inherited from his mother. Grandma May was a known regular at most major department stores in central Westchester. After she passed away my brother went to retrieve her car from the repair shop. The mechanic admonished him: “Be gentle with her. She only knows how to go to back and forth to Lord & Taylor.”

Following Matt’s departure, my brother and I began to explore his closets and contemplate how to dispose of their contents. We half-joked that it would be more efficient to petition Brooks Brothers for a short-term franchise, announce the opening of a mini-branch in his condo and then have a going-out-of-business sale.

When we splattered the colorful collection of silk ties, leather belts and cashmere sweaters on the dining room table, my precocious niece took one look and said, “It looks like Neiman Marcus threw up…”

The ties, along with hankies and cufflinks, were sentimentally scarfed-up by those admirers who were able to attend an informal memorial event that August.

There is something special about wearable mementos of a loved one. In the least, they induce imagery. A flashback to the day you first saw her wear that scarf; an important event where that handkerchief peeked out of his jacket pocket; the joy he took from his new walking shoes as you strolled in the park together.

Other senses and emotions come into play, especially for items not likely to have been washed – a cravat, belt or bowtie. A hint of the deceased’s scent and a tingle of their life energy remains. And there’s the soothing thought that a satiated dust mite, personally acquainted with your beloved and still fattened on their spent cells, may yet dwell among the fibers.

The quandary is not limited to men’s finery. Aunt Zoya, a retired kindergarten teacher, dropped dead in her 77th year during a friend’s India-themed party. The finale – a rented elephant – was late in making its appearance. Zoya distracted the crowd by organizing a group sing-along until the unpunctual pachyderm arrived. But her heart gave out on center stage before the end of the first verse.

Max clowning in Quito

We commemorated the first anniversary of her passing at her house in the Ukraine. Toward the end of the evening her husband Yuri organized a collective rummage through her wardrobe. My son found himself in possession of a billowy multi-colored summer skirt, which he subsequently used during a humanitarian-clowning mission to Ecuador.

Pajamas were dad’s preferred form of attire. It’s safe to say that when he wasn’t wearing a suit at the office in Manhattan or driving to and fro, he spent the majority of his time at home in one of a dozen pairs of jammies – at the breakfast table digesting the newspaper or on the couch writing briefs until the wee hours of the morning. I suppose he didn’t change his attire before finally dozing off.

Though not a pajama wearer, I kept several pairs. They make excellent yoga outfits, especially the silk ones from Harrods. And we’ve started a family tradition of celebrating Matt’s birthday every September 18th with a dinner in his honor at which everyone wears his PJs.

The pajama party

After the initial disbursement of mainstream garments, we were left with the perplexing question of what to do with his nearly three hundred hats. He had been collecting them my whole life. He mostly preferred military and police head gear. This hobby made it easy to find a birthday present for him and gave him an additional point of intimacy with friends. “I hope you enjoy your trip to Morocco,” he would say. “If you happen to come across a Zouave colonel’s fez…”

In October, with the formal memorial service at our synagogue only a few days away, my friend Jamie joined me in clearing out Matt’s recently sold condo. Those hats stared down at us from shelves, racks, and hooks like members of a theater audience not quite sure the play will end as they predict. Soldiers, officers and law enforcement agents of the world, some adorned with brass or silver emblems, a few with scrambled eggs on their brims, at least one with feathers – all demanded a proper resolution of their fate.

Matt in Russian police officer's cap

We boxed, bagged and sorted his other possessions. Stamp albums, ashtrays, autographed photos of presidents & governors and an adorable collection of memorabilia from the 1964 World’s Fair all had future homes.

But the destiny of the hats remained elusory. They were an essential part of his being, his time on earth. They marked the wars and nations he had studied, admired and lived through. They told stories of their acquisition from around the globe: friends in the service, antique merchants on Portobello, a baksheeshed officer in a third-world police force.

Jamie and I kept working, all the time puzzling and puzzling about the hats 'till our puzzlers were sore. We relieved that soreness with the remains of a forgotten whiskey bottle rescued from a closet shelf. Then, as dawn broke, a phrase inspired by the poetry of Dr. Seuss – read to me at bed time by my parents – made its way through the peat vapors of my mind and passed my lips. “Remember Matt…take a hat.”

It made perfect sense. We’d give the hats away after the memorial service, with the condition that mourners couldn’t have a hat they had procured for him.

I was concerned that the rabbi wouldn’t bless setting up a hat stand in the lobby of the temple. But my faith in the joyfulness of Judaism and the impression that it doesn’t take itself too seriously was borne out. More than two months had elapsed since Matt died, the grief had subsided. The rabbi agreed this was a nice way to remember him.

Jon, Justin, Jamie after the October 2013 memorial service

Jamie and I packed the collection in six large garbage bags, minus the Nazi SS officers cap, and hauled them to the temple. It seemed unthinkable to allow such an item, with its skull and crossbones emblem, on sanctified ground.

Following the service, the attendees poured over the hat covered tables, pointing out the ones they procured and picking ones for themselves. They wandered back to the reception with smiles on their faces, hats on their heads and stories to tell. Bankers, lawyers, politicians, real estate moguls all stood around looking silly and reminiscing about our dad. Matt’s life was soulfully celebrated.

A garrison cap

By the end of the afternoon, only a few unadorned garrison caps (though Matt had taught me another, less polite term for those foldable creased military hats) remained.

As we prepared to leave, the rabbi stopped me, a look of curiosity and determination on his face.

“I thought Matt had a Nazi hat. What happened to it?”

“Rabbi, I couldn’t bring that symbol of atrocity into the synagogue. I left it in a bag at my brother’s house.”

“Can I have it?”

“Of course,” I stammered, not able to imagine why a rabbi whose congregation included Holocaust survivors would want such a monstrous relic.

He sensed my bewilderment.

“It’s a tangible link to the horror,” the rabbi said.  “I want to use it in Sunday school class. So, the kids will always remember.”

That’s what it’s all about. Remembering.

Ranevskaya Also Didn’t Want to Become a Spy

In honor of the 34th anniversary of the death of Soviet actress Faina Ranevskaya
(born 27 August 1896; died 19 July 1984)

By Justin Lifflander

It was playwright Anton Chekov who sent Faina Ranevskaya on the path to become one of Russia’s most beloved performers.

At the age of 14 she saw a performance of The Cherry Orchard, in her home town of Taganrog next to the Azov Sea in southern Russia. By 19 Faina had made the decision to escape her provincial hometown and head to Moscow to pursue an acting career. Her family, dismayed by her decision, disowned her. Undaunted, she changed her last name from Feldman to Ranevskaya and set off to pursue her dream.

Young Ranevskaya, circa 1931

She spent the next seven decades on Moscow’s stages and played supporting roles in more than a dozen hit films – mostly dramatic comedies.

A mix of Mae West, Ruth Gordon and Woody Allen, Ranevskaya became known for classic her lines on screen and stage. Her biting, sometimes bawdy witticisms in real life – something she found thoroughly funny yet painfully lonely – are no less famous.

Her life span paralleled that of the absurd experiment called the Soviet Union. Ranevskaya was an example of the fine humanity it produced, despite shortages of consumer goods, housing, and personal freedom. It was an existence marked by an overabundance of cultural Neanderthals at the top and secret-police informants at all levels.

In Natalia Bogdanova’s excellent collection of aphorisms and anecdotes, we learn how Ranevskaya worked the system to solve her housing needs. Until 1952, the actress – already twice awarded Stalin’s prize for creative achievement — lived in a shabby room in a communal apartment.    

But Faina was not risk-averse. She had the courage to reject a proposal to “cooperate” with the state security organs. The recruitment effort was managed by then chief of counter-intelligence for the USSR Lieutenant-General Oleg Mikhailovich Gribanov.

Oleg Mikhailovich, though not a tall man, had immense hypnotic powers and an impressive gift for persuasion. Among themselves his subordinates nicknamed him “Bonaparte.” Gribanov did not pitch Ranevskaya directly. He sent a young operative by the name of Korshunov – a man who would never be accused of having an intricate mind.

Captain Korshunov started the conversation with Ranevskaya from afar.  He educated her about the international class struggle, the machinations of spies on the territory of the USSR and how they try to trip-up the nation as it strides toward a bright future.  He casually reminded her that it was the duty of every Soviet citizen to willfully provide assistance to the organs of state security.

Listening attentively to the passionate monolog of the young KGB officer, Ranevskaya contemplated a smooth way to deflect the recruitment pitch, which was sure to come at the end of the operative’s fiery speech.

In her signature style, she asked Korshunov:

“Young man, why didn’t you show up earlier, when I hadn’t yet reached my seventh decade?"

“What are you saying, Faina Georgievna?” Korshunov blurted-out melodramatically. “No one would take you for a day over thirty. Believe me, you are a young woman…in comparison to the other actresses of your theater troupe.”

Lighting up yet another cigarette, Ranevskaya squinted at Korshunov and responded coolly.

“I see what you're driving at, young man.” Without skipping a beat, she declared, “I have been waiting for the moment when the security service would realize I’m worthy.  I am always ready to expose the plots of detestable imperialist low-lifes. You could say it’s been my dream since childhood. But there is a problem…

“First of all, I live in a communal apartment, and second of all, even more importantly, I talk in my sleep…loudly. So, my dear colleague – and I can only regard you in this way— together let’s try to envision, like good secret policeman, how this problem might play out….

“Imagine, that you give me a mission, and I, being a responsible person, begin to consider how to execute it.  Then suddenly, in the middle of the night, while I’m dreaming, I begin discussing with myself the details about how to fulfill the task. I speak aloud last names, first names, code names, secret meeting places, passwords, appointment times, and so forth… And we have to keep in mind that I am surrounded by nosy neighbors who for many years have unrelentingly monitored my every move…Then what? Instead of faithfully doing my duty I will have betrayed you!”

Ranevskaya’s discourse left a deep impression on Korshunov. He immediately reported back to Gribanov.

“This lady is willing to work for us…I feel it inside. But there are objective complications related to the peculiarities of her nighttime physiology.”

“What peculiarities?” asked the baffled counter-intelligence chief.

“She talks loudly in her sleep. And besides, the overall situation is shameful. It’s unacceptable that our glorious People’s Artist occupies a room in a communal apartment.”

A month later Ranevskaya celebrated her housewarming party in the newly constructed elite Stalin-era skyscraper on Moscow’s Kotelnicheskaya Embankment.

Then Korshunov resumed his attempts to meet her. But each time it turned out that Faina was unable to keep the appointment: either she was preparing for a show’s opening, her spleen hurt, she had a cold…

Finally, a frustrated Korshunov informed the actress he was coming to her new home for a conclusive conversation. The young captain had no idea who he was dealing with. Before he could make it to her door, a citizen appeared at the KGB’s reception center. He was of an indeterminate age, though the prominent capillaries of his nose and his puffy countenance left no doubt about his primary pastime. Regardless, he was relatively sober and most determined when he insisted they accept his report about unseemly goings-on in the famous skyscraper.

The report was a collective effort by the residents of the prestigious building on the embankment where Ranevskaya had happily ensconced herself just one month prior. It was on the desk of General Gribanov within the hour. It read as follows: “The residents of the upper floor (ten signatories) kindly inform the organs of state security that immediately under them lives some kind of lady who can be heard on a nightly basis loudly talking to herself about the threat of imperialist espionage and what she is going to do about it…how sorry she will make those capitalist scum…just as soon as the organs of state security take her on as a part time employee.”

Gribanov summoned Korshunov, gave him the report and clear instructions.

“Cross Ranevskaya off your list. Forget about her and find someone else – someone who sleeps silently.”

Later, Korshunov learned from his agent in the Mossovet Theater, where Ranevskaya worked, about the true origins of that “collective” report.  In exchange for two bottles of vodka, the actress persuaded the plumber from her new building to assist in her intelligence-countering scheme. He was that very same informant with the puffy face and demonstrative nose. But it was too late. The horse had left the barn and the apartment remained Ranevskaya’s.

That she was a woman wholly without fear was proven again in a subsequent interaction with Communist Party General Secretary Leonid Brezhnev.

Ranevskaya's most famous line was, “Mulya, don’t get on my nerves!” from the 1940 film “The Foundling.” For the rest of her life it would haunt her. Fans of all ages, especially children, would great her with that phrase when she walked down the street. It annoyed her to no end.

In 1976, when Faina was already an octogenarian, Leonid Brezhnev awarded her the prestigious Lenin Prize for her contribution to the arts. As he welcomed her on stage, the leader of the USSR exclaimed, “And here comes our Mulya…don’t get on my nerves!” Faina calmly accepted the award and responded, “Leonid Ilyich, the only people who address me like that are little boys and hooligans!” An abashed Brezhnev apologized. “Forgive me, Faina Georgievna. But I just love your work.”

In conclusion, some of Ranevskaya’s more poignant quotes and comments:

On politics:

* During Khrushchev’s thaw, when information from the outside world began to seep into the USSR, someone asked Ranevskaya what she would do if they open the country’s borders and allow people to travel.

“I’d climb a tree, of course.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want to get crushed by the stampede…”

* A comrade sighed and declared, “Oh my, how difficult it is for honest people to make a living these days!” Ranevskaya glared at him and said, “So what’s your problem?”

* "There are people with God inside, there are people with the devil inside and there are people with only parasites inside."

* Ranevskaya liked to say that when God created the earth, he foresaw the rise of Soviet Power and decided to give every man three qualities: wisdom, honor and a sense of “Party” (meaning faith in Communist ideology).  But the devil intervened and convinced God that a mortal man could only have two of those qualities at once. As a result…

               -If a person is wise and honorable, he has nothing to do with the Party.

               -If he is wise and a Party-man, he certainly isn’t honest.

               -If he is an honest Party-man, he's a fool.

On women:

* "A real man is one who remembers a lady’s birthday, but never knows how old she is. A man who knows how old she is but can’t remember her birthday is called her husband."

* "Of course, women are smarter than men. Have you ever heard of a woman who lost her head just because a man had nice legs?" 

* Someone asked Ranevskaya, “Which women are more likely to remain faithful: brunettes or blonds?” Ranevskaya responded: “Those with gray hair…”

On life:

* "Under the most attractive peacock’s tail you still find a chicken’s ass."

* "Homosexuality, sadism, masochism -- these are not perversions. There are only two genuine perversions: hockey played on grass and ballet done on ice."

* "Life is one long leap, out of the pussy and into the grave."

Monument to Ranevskaya, in her hometown of Taganrog.

A chain reaction…

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(Interview with Maria Eliseeva, for April Issue of Aeroflot in-fligh magazine: on Beslan, and how to get bikers and ordinary people involved in charity)

The travel weary clown got in the front seat of my car, after I greeted him at Sheremetyevo, for the start of the November 2017 Russia clown trip.

I had already read David’s biographical statement:

‘I’m a French-Italian, teacher-actor-comedian. I've been traveling the world for the past year doing a documentary about laughter and being a volunteer.’

An interesting, but not necessarily unique description of a humanitarian clown.

I asked the usual question as we headed toward the city center.

 “What made you decide to clown in Russia?” 

“Several things came together,” he responded. “First, I was flying through Russia on Aeroflot last year, and I read an article about Maria, Patch and the Russian clown trip. It inspired me…”

At that moment, I experienced the thrill writers get when they realize they’ve touched someone, made a difference, hit their target…

David spent the next two weeks in Moscow and St. Petersburg, working his magic, bringing joy and creating material for his documentary. And I was inspired to pitch Aeroflot about another article: this one about Maria’s involvement with Beslan – the city in North Ossetia where a school was attacked by terrorists in 2004.

Gorbachev, Massie, and a Bit of Optimism

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Gorbachev, Justin, Palazhchenko and Ambassador Jon Huntsman
Photo: Marina Buligina, Vesmir Publishers

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Gorbachev and Massie inspecting the Votkinsk “Trust But Verify” T-shirt.
Photo: Anatoly Kotov, Vesmir Publishers

 In a classroom at Cornell in the Spring of 1986 we discussed Gorbachev’s speech at the 27th congress of the Communist Party of the USSR, then taking place in Moscow.  I realized the style of the new General Secretary, Mikhail Sergeevich Gorbachev,  was going to be very different than his predecessors. And I had an inkling that the field of study in which I was getting a diploma – “Soviet Government,” aka Kremlinology – was about to become a whole lot more interesting.

 So, spending an afternoon this month with Gorbachev at his foundation in Moscow, along with other giants from the Cold War – Foreign Minister Alexander Bessmertnykh, General Vladimir Dvorkin, and historian and Ronald Reagan confidant Suzanne Massie – was a surreal culmination of a journey I began three decades earlier. The occasion was the publication in Russian of Massie’s recent memoir “Trust But Verify: Russian Lessons for Reagan.”

 The full article about the book launch you can read here.

 Before she headed back to her home in Maine for the holidays, I had breakfast with Suzanne. We commiserated over the sad state of global affairs and bonded over our love for Russia. When you’ve spent 35 years dedicated to a cause, and then meet someone  35 years your senior who has been working the same cause her whole life, hope easily rekindles.

…Give Till It Stops Hurting

Volunteers from Maria’s Children art center joined Patch Adams and his band of visiting humanitarian clowns for a two week tour of orphanages and hospitals in Moscow and St. Petersburg.
Below you can view a report (in Russian) of their final stop, at the Albrecht Children’s Rehabilitation hospital in St. Petersburg, Russia.

An American Professor in Russia

Moscow, 25 July 2017

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There are at least 20 towns in the United States named Moscow. But towards the end of my visit to America in June, I took the appearance of this sign as a sign, and headed home. Then again, it could have been an attack by Russian hackers on the design computer of the road-sign factory. We’ll never know, and there will never be proof anyway.

I departed with a heavy heart, having fathomed – with help from the American media – the depth of the abyss into which US-Russian relations have sunk.

Hope had landed on my Moscow windowsill briefly in March. When I heard that Jon Huntsman Jr. was to be named ambassador to Russia, I read his biography and took heart at the possibility of an improvement in relations. To facilitate that, I immediately sent him a copy of my book. I have no idea if he’s read it, but if he has questions, I am ready to go to the airport and meet him at the bottom of the staircase when the plane lands. Then again, he might have other priorities.

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Cornell University

Returning to Moscow on 10 June, I immersed myself in final preparations for the Russia lecture tour of Professor Glenn Altschuler. Professor Altschuler was my faculty advisor at Cornell University 34 years ago, and is my son’s advisor now. I pitched the idea of inviting Glenn to Russia to the US Embassy’s cultural affairs department in the spring. They agreed to sponsor his visit and be the main organizer. We settled on four topics that he could speak about here, based on his publications and experience: the origins of rock & roll; best practices of managing a major university; legal advocacy in the US, based on his recent book Ten Great American Trials; and the history of US presidential power.

Over the previous two months I had leveraged every friend I have in Russia in order to find host venues and appropriate audiences. My apprehension grew as show-time approached. We were coming up short. My contacts, as well as those of the embassy, were dealing with the usual bureaucracies. But there was also an unspoken undercurrent. Perhaps it was not the best time for an American academic to attempt to penetrate the walls of state institutions, not to mention the minds contained therein. 

If they only knew Glenn Altschuler, I thought, people would flock to his lectures. He is a teddy-bear with a PhD. His body is compact, but his head is full of stories. Stories resulting from a habit of reading not less than 100 pages a day for the last 41 years. (That’s approaching 1.5 million pages, if you are counting) Add to that a four-decade career as a senior member of Cornell University’s staff, and his adventures around the world— speaking about the books he’s written, fund raising for Cornell, or teaching classes on and off campus—and you can imagine what a fascinating person he is. And it is understandable that, with a head so full of stories, there is not much room left for hair. His bristly mustache, hovering above his sprightly smile, compensates for the hair deficit. His eyes twinkle in a big way, magnified by his thick glasses—a consequence of all that reading. 

Finally, it started to come together, much thanks to the charm and persistence of Kim Scrivner and her team at the US Embassy Moscow cultural affairs department, and some of the contacts my friends provided.

After a gentle ramp-up in St. Petersburg, where he did the trials lecture twice and rock & roll once, we readied to head south to the capital. On the eve of Saturday’s departure, we got the revised schedule for Moscow. Glenn's popularity was skyrocketing. He was set to give three lectures per day, for three days straight, interspersed with several press and PR moments. 

Glenn’s sprightly smile drooped a bit, and I think I heard a slight hiss, as I informed him of the revised schedule. “What? I’ve never done 3 lectures in one day in my entire life!” I took the blame, but gently scolded him for being too polite in our earlier exchanges when I tried to pin him down about the volume of work he would do here.  I also made a note to identify the location of the medical emergency kit at every venue, since Glenn does not smoke or drink.

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Glenn, Marina and my friends from Beslan enjoying a white-night cruise on the Neva.

Glenn’s stamina had convinced me of his omnipotence. For example, he set off from Ithaca, in upstate New York, early Tuesday morning, took a bus to New York – a 400-kilometer trip — came into the city to give a lecture to a law firm, went to the airport and got on the transatlantic flight to Moscow, where I met him and we flew to St. P together, arriving Wednesday afternoon. We enjoyed a stroll, then dinner with some visiting Cornellians and my token native – a good clown-friend Marina Shusterman. Glenn knew he could not refuse when she invited us back to her apartment for tea and pie. I can confirm that Glenn’s normally brisk Brooklyn-native walking pace doubles when he is genuinely exhausted and wants to make it back to his hotel room to pass out.

The speaking tour was a success. He spoke to more than 350 people during 11 different lectures and a radio interview, many of which were live-streamed and garnered several thousand viewers.

Anyone who has ever given a public presentation knows the energy that goes into it, and how drained one feels afterwards—particularly if a passionate question and answer session follows. When the speaker successfully connects with his audience, there is an energy transfer – not unlike boxing or humanitarian clowning. And Glenn did connect. Muhammad Ali would have been proud.

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Glenn connecting with St. Petersburg Lawyers

Jaws dropped and gasps of pleasant surprise were heard when this very American man mentioned that his father was born in Russia. Sometimes Glenn would single out a person in the audience worthy of an intellectual challenge or friendly rebuff. Glenn’s straight man was always well chosen and the other listeners benefited from their banter. And Glenn is the master of the dramatic pause: “When Dan White got out of prison, he killed again….this time, he killed himself.”

The one speaking tool that required a bit of honing was Glenn’s self-deprecation shtick. Glenn often says that he wants everyone to leave his lectures more depressed than when they came in (that is to say, to be thinking…). But his jests about his advanced age and avuncular appearance occasionally baffled audiences. Not something they expected from such a respected figure.

In fact, he often got a supportive backlash, with listeners grumbling in negation of his purported self -perception. 

At times, the wave of positive emotions he elicited from the crowds became hazardous. I had taken on the role of being his personal bodyguard, sans earpiece. I jokingly promised that, as long as he kept to the agreed topics, he would not wind up, as some opposition leaders here have, covered in green iodine. Glenn, being naturally conflict averse, very politically savvy, and also a small target, was at no time in any real danger. But there were two close calls.

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Glenn connecting with Russian history

I sank into the big fluffy couch in the back of the living room at the home of the US Embassy deputy chief of mission in Moscow, while Glenn began to present to an enthralled group of mostly middle-aged female administrators from Moscow’s leading higher-education institutions. The intellectual pheromones began to fly. As I observed one lady educator in the front row, I realized my position in the room left me unable to defend him. The rapture on her face as he spoke; the gyrations of her hands as they stroked the air around his words which floated in her direction (she was overwhelmed with the joy that she had found someone who understood her plight); the wiggling of her hips on the chair…I took these as signs that she might, at any moment, leap up and hug him to death. I would be unable to make it to the front of the room and tackle her in time to save him.  Eventually, she calmed down, and so did I.

At one point during a lecture, Glenn made it clear he was available for marriage offers, and subsequently distributed his email address (the real one). I find it hard to believe he didn’t receive at least a few takers, though a Cornell ring was prominently displayed on his right ring finger— making it clear who his wife really is.

And there was the Friday evening lecture in St. Petersburg. A group of 40 or so young people between the ages of 14 and 18 had gathered to learn about the origins of rock & roll. I never knew that the term was slang from the 1950s for having sex. And I had no idea that Little Richard’s song Tutti Frutti was about homosexuality.  As Glenn described the sensuality of rock & roll, I suddenly remembered we have a law in Russia against promoting non-traditional sexual relations to minors. (I do not know if we have a law against promoting traditional sexual relations to minors). I had visions of a SWAT team softly traipsing up the carpeted marble steps and bursting into the room. Where to hide Glenn? Roll him up in the carpet? They’d likely notice the lump. Stuff him up the chimney? It had long been sealed.  Leap out the window together? I think the police troops sometimes repel down the sides of buildings they are storming.  By the time my paranoia subsided, he was safely on to the next topic. Something about Elvis’s hips.

The lecture on Ten Great Trials was well received by lawyers and the general public alike. The theme running through it was a paraphrased quote of Jorge Luis Borges: The future belongs to those who tell the best stories. In both court cases Glenn used in the lecture – O.J. Simpson and Dan White – it was clear that the defendant killed people, but was either acquitted or given a reduced sentence because his defense team did a better job at telling their version of the story than the prosecution did. Glenn reminded his audiences that “Facts do not speak for themselves.”

Beyond describing the nuts and bolts of legal advocacy, Glenn pointed out the essential strengths of the American justice system, as revealed in most of the cases he and coauthor Faust Rossi analyzed: it’s good to be lucky; it’s better to be smart and lucky; it’s best to be lucky, smart and rich. One young lawyer told me he was intrigued by what he had learned about the US legal system: much more room for creativity than in Russia.

The last lecture Glenn delivered was about the balance of power between the president of the United States and the other branches of government. An audience of about 40 people, undaunted by the security control necessary to enter, gathered at the American Center in Moscow, which is housed inside the embassy building on Novinsky Bulvar.

The listeners were impressively versed in the intricacies of American politics and government structure. Glenn still impressed them with his summary of challenges to the balance of power created by the executive branch. These include threats to the independence of the judiciary. He used Trump’s immigration ban and the court-imposed decrees around it as an example.

Glenn highlighted efforts to circumvent legislative authority—a trend which picked up steam under every U.S. president since Ronald Reagan. Case in point: Obama’s using executive orders and administrative procedures to ease tensions with Cuba. I learned that “signing statements” – documents a US president can issue to accompany a bill he signs into law which state his interpretation of the law and what he will and will not act on – are also an increasingly popular tool used by recent administrations to maximize their power.

The discussion turned to the administration of President Trump, how it came to exist, and what to expect moving forward. As far as the first question is concerned, Glenn had given me a simple illustration earlier. He described his grandmother’s approach to choosing between candidates. She would simply ask family members, “Do I vote for the Donkeys or the Elephants this year?”

Glenn reminded the audience that Americans have always been suspicious of the exercise of political power. He quoted Supreme Court Justice Louis Brandeis: “Publicity is justly commended as a remedy for social and industrial diseases. Sunlight is said to be the best of disinfectants; electric light the most efficient policeman.” Sentiments appropriate for leaders of all persuasions and systems

When asked by a member of the audience what can be done to restore relations between our two great countries, Glenn added a final quote, from Italian Communist Antonio Gramsci: “I'm a pessimist because of intelligence, but an optimist because of will. The challenge of modernity is to live without illusions and without becoming disillusioned.” Then he said, with that twinkle in his eye, “We need to keep doing what we are doing right now: being in contact, talking, trying to understand each other…”

I consider myself lucky to have been able to spend seven days with Glenn, living in the same hotel suite, sharing meals, travel, and many hours in Moscow traffic jams. Our relationship evolved from being long-term acquaintances to good friends. I hope he returns.

Meanwhile, I wonder: does the Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs have a similar program for sponsoring cultural figures to go on speaking engagements in the United States? Ok, Josef Kobzon wouldn’t make the list, and I wouldn’t recommend offering former Ambassador Kislyak, just yet. But it’s clear the people-to-people element is one of the few levels of cooperation still functioning. It would be great to see  genuine competition between the two countries in this format.

Zhorik the Journalist Clown Goes to Beslan

8 April, 2017 (Beslan, Vladikavkaz, RF)  Zhorik the journalist clown joined 30 friends from Moscow and around the world for the annual trip of Maria’s Children to Beslan. They spent most of the week at school No.1, giving workshops in art and performance, but also visited two orphanages, and enjoyed some local sightseeing. Watch Zhorik's report. And making his clown debut was Maximo, a very dear friend of Zhorik. You may watch the highlights of Maximo’s meditation workshop.

Alina and a customer

Anya apologizes to the horse for not having an extra garland

Asya does face painting

Chip working his morning beat

Clowns dipping in the natural spring

Dinosaur painted by clowns while visiting Dur Dur orphanage

Ginevra dwarfed by Victor and Victoria

Gui having a tough day

Maria and Elya's Bubble workshop

Maximo practicing his management skills

Maximo, Kashagovich and Zhorik getting ready for work

Nastya and Maximo plan their dinosaur at Dur Dur

Parting is such sweet sorrow

Pobeda Airlines educates its passengers.

Selfie by Sultan of Dur Dur

Simon is outstanding in his field

Teachers and clowns

The Caucasus

The humbling landscape of Ossetia

They won first place!

Zhorik contemplates an Ossetian bride

A light caucasian dinner

A retired circus horse

A satisfied student in the English language workshop

Photos by Justin Lifflander, Rodney "Chip" Daley, and Italo Bertolasi.

See Zhorik and his fish imitate Carlos Santana

A few memorable thoughts in honor of International Women’s Day

In honor of the 8th of March Women’s Day holiday, a few selected quotes about women, and their effect on men…

“The woman who follows the crowd will usually go no further than the crowd. The woman who walks alone is likely to find herself in places no one has ever been before.”

— Albert Einstein

“A woman is like a tea bag; you never know how strong it is until it’s in hot water.”

— Eleanor Roosevelt

“Freedom cannot be achieved unless women have been emancipated from all forms of oppression...”

— Nelson Mandela

“I don’t need a bedroom to prove my womanliness. I can convey just as much sex appeal picking apples off a tree or standing in the rain.”

— Audrey Hepburn

“American women expect to find in their husbands a perfection that English women only hope to find in their butlers.”

— W. Somerset Maugham

“I’m selfish, impatient, and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I am out of control, and at times hard to handle. But if you can’t handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don’t deserve me at my best.”

— Marilyn Monroe

“Being a woman is a terribly difficult task, since it consists principally in dealing with men...”

— Joseph Conrad

“The pursuit of knowledge has a pleasure in it like that of wrestling with a fine woman.”

— Lord Halifax

“Women and horses know when a man isn’t sure of himself. They can tell no matter how much he bluffs.”

— John Steinbeck

“Women are amazing. You can wait for months, travel thousands of kilometers, and build up ineffable desire. They just brush their hair.”

— Justin Lifflander

“What would men be without women? Scarce, sir…mighty scarce.”

— Mark Twain

The New Colossus Disenchanted: What’s gone wrong?

Four Centuries and Three Decades of Russian Thinking

By Justin Lifflander

5 December

This article appears in the December 2016 edition of The Foreign Service Journal, dedicated to analyses and comment on the 25th anniversary of the breakup of the USSR. The journal is the flagship publication of the American Foreign Service Association – the professional association and labor union for America’s diplomats. The journal has a circulation of 18,000 and goes to diplomats, foreign embassies and key offices on Capitol Hill.

At first it seemed to me as if he was wearing X-ray glasses. Having purchased a fur hat from Sasha, the teenage fartsovshik (black marketeer) working the Oktyabrskaya subway station in Moscow that day in 1986, I earned the right to chat with him in my broken Russian. 

As he scanned the passersby in search of potential clientele, I couldn’t figure out how he was able to spot the foreigners. “Look carefully,” he explained. “The facial features, the shoes, the wrist watches, the eye glasses. …”  I began to understand how he chose to whom to offerhis znachki (pins) or money changing services. 

Thirty years later my fartsovhik is probably a successful oligarch. He and his countrymen no longer think they are “covered in chocolate” – a phrase going back to the Soviet era meaning “fortunate, lucky, living well” – as they build the socialist paradise while the West rots on the garbage heap of history. 

Living and working in Russia for the past three decades, I’ve become acquainted with people from a broad range of social strata—from government ministers to migrant workers. I turned to them to collect and distill their insights on how Russian thinking has changed since the end of the USSR.

Read more… 

Whatever it Takes to Remember the Holocaust, Even an Ice-Skating Routine

Opinion

By Justin Lifflander

The Moscow Times

1 December 2016

To me, most art is like music was to Louis Armstrong: it’s either good or bad. In Russia, ice dancing is an art-form no less respectable than others. Tatiana Navka’s courageous performance on Saturday commemorating the Holocaust via a tribute to the 1997 film “Life is Beautiful” was better than good. But what do I know?

(Read the full text)

Russia invaded by unarmed clowns

By Justin Lifflander

11 November 2016

Patch attempting to entice passersby to join him in his giant underwear

Lyosha the official  taxi dispatcher was ready to give discounts to clowns

Patch managed to stuff 5 passersby and clowns into his giant underwear

Clowns contemplating how to retrieve lost luggage

Clowns mixing with locals at Sheremetyevo

Photos: Natalia Lifflander

A platoon of amateur clowns descended on Moscow’s Sheremetyevo airport Sunday to kick off the 32nd annual Patch Adams humanitarian clowning tour of Russia.

The group, consisting of volunteers ranging in age from 19 to 76 and representing 9 different countries, will be joined by a squad of Russian volunteers from the Moscow-based non-profit Maria’s Children Arts Center. The combined unit will spend two weeks seeking out and eliminating loneliness, sorrow and solemnity at a range of targets in Moscow and St. Petersburg — including orphanages, hospitals, veterans’ homes and homeless shelters.

(Read the full text)

The latest disarmament joke circulating on the Russian internet:

Putin and Obama agreed on a new strategic disarmament treaty. Both sides eliminated all of their ICBMs.

A week after this amazing act which secured world peace was complete, Obama calls Putin in the Kremlin:

“Hey, Vova, it turns out I’ve got 7 missiles left. So now Russia will become a vassal of the United States!”

While Putin scratches his noggin and contemplates the situation, the Minister of Defense, unaware of the latest development, charges into his office: “Vladimir Vladimirovich! We have a problem…It seems that at a base outside Saratov one drunken lieutenant forgot to hand over the missiles. We have 40 SS-25’s left! What to do?”

Putin says, “Well, first of all, he’s no longer a lieutenant, he's a general. And second of all, when Russia drinks, she is unconquerable!”

BTW: the motto of the Strategic Rocket Forces of the Russian Federation is most pragmatic: “After us…silence.”