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.