Essays

One feature of Soviet life needs no restoration, because it's never gone away: the notorious Soviet line.

In the seven years I've lived in Moscow, I've seen several unconscious bums that I highly suspected were actually dead. But there were no doubts about this guy.

Barefoot and Nekkid, or How I Joined the Russian Orthodox Church.

The Soviet police state was probably one of the least funny regimes in history, but the jokesters collected in Bruce Adams' book didn't see things that way.

There was no question at the 1980 Olympics as to which was the better hockey team. But the Americans knew they only had to beat the Soviets once.

Anyone with a decent command of Russian, a strong stomach and a bit of initiative can cut their teeth as a crime reporter in Russia.

Vladimir Vysotsky wasn't very good at chess. But although he wasn't a pawnpusher, his prolific creative achievements in music and poetry connected him with at least one of the Soviet Union's greatest chess players.

It's not easy being a patzer in Moscow.

Soviet grandmaster David Bronstein needed only one point to become world chess champion. And with two games remaining in his 1951 match with reigning champion Mikhail Botvinnik in Moscow's Tchaikovsky Concert Hall, he seemed a lock to win.

It's difficult to imagine an activity more benign and self-contained than composing chess problems. What harm, after all, could come from creating a position on the chessboard that requires the observer to find the correct move?

Mention the name of international grandmaster Valentin Arbakov to local chess fanatics, and you'll likely get an uncomfortable response about squandered potential.