Do you even remember me?
Childhood Memories from the East
edited by prospekt magazine
Stories Introduction - 4 Buyan Bat - 6 Mongolia Maxim Gorki - 10 Russia Tanya lysova - 12 Russia Anastasiia Ushchapivska - 16 Ukraine Natiliia Guba - 20 Ukraine Konstantin Melnikov - 22 Russia Kasia Biela - 24 Poland Katarzyna Chojowska - 28 Poland Joseph Brodsky - 34 Russia Christoph Liepach - 36 Germany Tom Brennecke - 38 Germany Svetlana Boym - 42 Russia Credits - 44
Introduction „For a long time, life deals with the still-tender memory of childhood like a mother who lays her newborn on her breast without waking it. Nothing has fortified my own memory so profoundly as gazing into courtyards, one of whose dark loggias, shaded by blinds in the summer, was for me the cradle in which the city laid its new citizen.“ Now, technically speaking, one‘s childhood lasts from the moment of birth to puberty. This would define a time span of around ten years. But very few people actually remember the first two to four years: Childhood amnesia makes us having very few memories from our first periods of life. We may well remember our first classrooms or our first kiss, but do we recall how we learnt to walk or eat? With childhood amnesia, our potential for a magazine on childhood memories is even more shortened, thus it is only reasonable to expand towards the period of adolescence, when we are actually growing up but are not yet fully grown. But our agenda is not to be overly technical and thus the length and experience of a childhood is subjective - some surely wish to preserve something of it over the years. We consider someone‘s childhood not to be a direct determinant of someone‘s life-path, but it may as well not be totally absent from it. From our birth on, we are shaped by environments, at the same time close and far to us. We not always grasp everything, but we know what we want when we see it. Our first impression of basically anything seem meaningful. Our lives are full of quirks whose origins we sometimes do not find but if we start searching for them somewhere, the childhood might be a good spot. Often that requires help: By the mother or the father, the granny or grandfather - those dear to us that were grown-ups when we were still little. In this first magazine, we invited authors from the east to explore their childhood in relation to the spaces they grew up in. Obviously, there are designated spaces for children - such as the children‘s room in the private flat or the playground in public space. But the range of places in this magazine goes far beyond that partially becoming ethnographic descriptions of one‘s childhood perception, partially being more of a chronological enumeration
of events, people and places. But the world seen through the eyes of a child is a world of wonders, of first encounters and loaded, if not overloaded, with emotions. And since it has emotions, it sticks with us, sometimes almost to the point of making us proud of them and protecting those memories like a mother protects her child. A collection of childhood memories is similarly a collection of shared emotions under different conditions. Whether born in Eastern Germany or Eastern Russian makes differences, but what differences? Is German joy different from Russian joy? Perhaps, it may not be emotional differences, but the differences are spatial, social, economical, cultural. Beautifully enough, those differences seem differences from outside, but not from inside. Children seem immersed in their world, there is no cross-continental other and the weight of the world may exceed their capacity for imagination. But children are not at all bereaved. Their world in visual range is already full of things to uncover; and whatever we have uncovered seems closer to us. There were hardly any longterm plans, but episodes of short-term intensities. Only now, when memorizing our childhood, we are allowed to make sense of it. Many of us often go back to their childhood places or have never left them for good. An immensely strong attachment functioning like a giant rubber band seems to connect us with them. But do we even remember them? Do we even remember them the way we had experienced them? Or do we remember only what we remembered? The following magazine is an inventory of growing up in Eastern Germany and Mongolia and everything in-between, completely narrated by the memories of the authors. Their memories are complemented with accounts of architects and writers, to add more bandwidth of time and space. „In the years since I was a child, the loggias have changed less than other places. This is not the only reason they stay with me. It is much more on account of the solace that lies in their uninhabitability for one who himself no longer has a proper abode. They mark the outer limit of the Berliner’s lodging. Berlin - the city god itself - begins in them.“ (Berlin Childhood - Walter Benjamin, 1950)
Ulaanbaatar City Mongolia
I grew up in Ulaanbaatar - capital and biggest city of Mongolia - where half of the Mongolian population (1.7 million) lives. My home town is one of Ulaanbaatarâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s districts called Nalaikh. It is a satellite town located 30 kilometres away from the city centre. I was born and grew up there. It was built in the early 1920s when coal resources were discovered, so the town was basically built for employees working at the mining factories and their families. For us, this was my father.
was too cold during winter. Eventually we decided to move on from there. When I was little, my dad used to play with me a lot, and we were very close. Later during teenage years, I had more girls talk with my mom. I remember we used to sit in the kitchen, listening to each other talking and she gave me advice and motivated me. She always trusted me, gave me freedom and independence. In our next flat, we lived until I finished my primary school. We strongly bonded with our neighbours, celebrated holidays together and helped each other. When my parents were not home, I stayed at different neighbourâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s homes who also used to leave their children at our home when they were at work. I went to the kindergarten as well but just enjoyed staying with the neighbours and playing with their kids more. We often played until late and I remember the building entrance being usually dark because the light was often broken. Our unit was on the fifth floor, so I ran through the stairs to get to the door as fast as I could because I was scared that someone ran after me or someone could be hiding somewhere in the dark. Sometimes I called parents through the window to come down and pick me up if I was scared to go through the stairs.Â
I changed flats three times when growing up with my parents and my older brother, but we have always lived in flat complexes originally built for the mining employees. In total, there were five blocks, so everyone knew each other closely and their children grew up playing together. I lived in the first flat until I was five. There were not many playgrounds for children to play on. I remember hurting myself the first time when I was playing at the fountain with other kids and also remember someone drunk knocked our door during the night, which was scary for my family. Other than that, I do not remember much about living there. Mum said later that she did not like the neighbourhood and the flat because it 7
Our flat had blue and brown coloured walls, so I would say it would have given a cold impression to guests rather than feeling bright and spacious. You could say, I had close friends (but not necessarily many) in every space I grew up in. Over time, I got used to this neighbourhood and the flat complex much more than the previous one, but my older brother often went back to hang out with his friends. He probably was not getting used to the new environment so easily.
balcony because they easily saw and knew I was watching them compared to the previous flat’s fifth floor balcony. This flat was renovated, had white walls with floral patterns and bright insides which felt very nice to me when we first moved in. It also had thick walls, so little noise from neighbours or from outside came through and always felt very warm even during cold winter. All of this gave me a very comfortable feeling when being at home. It had a wooden floor, which is probably old now but something I really enjoyed. But like my brother, I started to miss neighbours and other kids with whom I played together when living in the previous flat.
My brother and I used to fight when we were kids, but he usually gave up the fight if I started crying. Our relationship became more respectful as we grew as adults. He used to cook for me when I was in primary school and our parents were not home. He was a very lovely brother (...and still is). He is three years older than me, so he played more with boys
Most of the time, I went around just by walking because the flats were located in the centre of the town and my kindergarten and schools were within 15
his age rather than with me. But when he did, I was very happy and excited. I remember we played hide-and-seek at home; or table tennis by transforming our dining table into a table tennis table. Our third flat was just in the opposite building on the 2nd floor. I remember I could not watch people from the
minute walk at most. All basic services and shops were within proximity. Soon I started secondary school and it felt I was starting some sort of new life because of the new flat, neighbourhood and school. Having my own room after sharing the previous rooms with my brother gave me more independence, 8
concentration and privacy during my teenage years and I liked my room just for that. I think it became my comfort zone. I had my bed, study table and telephone in my room, thus almost all I needed or at least I used most during
I am living in another country now. The flat I am living in has thin walls and doors and is similarly cold during winter. It’s on 13th level, but has a great view on the Docklands in Melbourne though.
my teenage years. The view from my room was quite limited due to the trees - except for the winter season. All of this seems nowadays very special to me due to all the memories I have from my teenage years. Everything seemed so beautiful, innocent, bright, optimistic and full of dreams. I am sure I also had my first crush and affections in the neighbourhood, but I cannot say it was my first love. I did not have a heart break in my home town but there were some very sweet memories till finishing my secondary school. Time flies: At some point, I moved out from my parents‘ flat to central Ulaanbaatar with my brother as soon as he started university and me high school. My parents still live in the flat and I visit them frequently; or at least once a year since now, I am living abroad. It always feels comfortable, peaceful and familiar every time when I visit my home town and my parents. 9
Maxim Gorki - My Childhood 1912/1913 Russian Writer I remember Grandmother’s childlike joy when she first saw Nizhny. Holding me by the hand, she pulled me to the rail and cried: “Just look! It’s so beautiful! Nizhny! What a city! Can you see those churches there – they seem to be flying through the air!’ She was near to tears as she asked Mother: “Varyusha, why don’t you come and have a look? Just for a moment. Cheer up now!” Mother produced a gloomy smile. When the boat dropped anchor opposite the beautiful city, in the middle of a river crowded with boats and bristling with hundreds of pointed masts, a large rowingboat full of people came alongside and hooked on to the lowered rope ladder. One by one the people climbed up. In front of everyone else was a small, shrivelled-looking old man in long black clothes and with a beard of tarnished gold. He had a nose like a bird’s beak, and small green eyes, and he climbed rapidly to the top of the ladder. “Father!” My mother cried in a loud deep voice and hung herself into his arms. He seized her head, swiftly stroked her cheeks with his small reddish hands and screeched: “And how’s my silly girl, eh? Now, now. You’ve come at last!” Grandmother managed to embrace and kiss everyone at once and she spun round like a propeller. She pushed me forwards and said hurriedly: “Move yourself now. This is Uncle Mikhail, and this is Uncle Yakov… Auntie Natalya, and these are your cousins, both called Sasha, and your cousin Katerina… it’s a big family!” Grandfather said to her: “Are you well?” They kissed each other three times. Grandfather hauled me away from the thick mob and asked me, holding me by the head: “And who might you be?” “I’m from Astrakhan, from the cabin….” “What’s he talking about?” Grandfather said to Mother. Without giving me time to reply, he pushed me to one side and said: “He’s got his father’s cheekbones.… Get into the boat!”
We reached the shore and we all went up the hill along a road made of large cobbles, high embankments overgrown with rank trampled grass lining it on either side. Grandfather and Mother led the way. Grandfather only came up to her shoulder and he took small, mincing steps while Mother glanced down at him and seemed to glide through the air. My uncles followed silently: Mikhail with his sleek black hair and the same withered look as Grandfather; and Yakov, his hair bright and curly. Then came some fat women in gay dresses, and six children, all older than me and all very subdued. I walked with Grandmother and my little Aunt Natalya. Pale-faced, blue-eyed, with an enormous belly, she stopped every now and again and panted for breath: “I can’t go any further,” she complained. “Why did they have to bring you along?” Grandmother mumbled angrily. “They’ve got no sense at all!” I didn’t like the grown-ups, nor the children, and I felt completely and utterly lost in their company. Even Grandmother seemed to recede into the background and became a stranger to me. I took a particular dislike to Grandfather, immediately sensing he was an enemy. For this reason I watched him closely, taking care lest my curiosity led me into danger. We reached the end of the path. At the very top, leaning against the embankment on the right, and the very first house in the street, stood a squat, single-storeyed house painted dirty pink, with a roof hanging low over its bulging windows like a hat pulled down. From the street it looked very big, but inside its dim little rooms it was very cramped. Angry people rushed about in all directions like passengers about to disembark from a ship, ragged children swarmed all over the place like thieving sparrows, and the whole house was filled with a strange pungent smell. I stood outside in the yard, which was just as unpleasant: all around it hung huge wet rags and it was full of tubs containing oily-looking water, all different colours. Pieces of cloth were being dipped into them. In one corner, under a ramshackle lean-to, wood burnt fiercely in a stove. I could hear water boiling and bubbling and someone I couldn’t see was shouting, very loudly, these strange words: “Sandalwood, magenta, vitriol….”
My name is Tanya. I was born in Moscow in 1992. On my father’s side, I am a Muscovite in the fourth generation. And on my mother’s side, I suppose, I am the first generation as my mom comes from a small Latvian town.
perceived geography started to expand for me. That year, I started attending school outside my area. My school was next to what is now known as Moscow City and basically, during ten years of school, I saw it changing a lot.
In my first childhood memories, my perception of Moscow was limited to where I lived - Fili-Davydkovo. It is a lovely, green and calm neighbourhood, not that far from the city centre. Unlike today, when I was little, it consisted mostly of five-floor Khruschev-era apartment blocks. Still, there were also very tall, a bit more modern buildings of eleven floors. In one of them, on the ground floor, there was a department store called Minsk; I still remember the ornate sign. I even remember how disappointed I was when it was replaced by a hardware store at the beginning of the 2000s, I guess.
For example, I remember the opening of the Bagration Bridge in 1997. Despite its name, there is not only a bridge but also a relatively small (especially, if we compare to the ones in Moscow City) skyscraper. My family and I went to see the opening ceremony. It was a sunny day, there was even a magician! Moscow City is still one of my favourite urban areas. If you look from Kutuzovky Prospekt, the view will be just fantastic because it is an eclectic combination of Stalin-era houses (really beautiful and decorated) and in the background, there are skyscrapers. When I was around seven or eight years old, my family started to frequent the Victory Park (as I just saw on Wikipedia, it opened only in 1995) for walks, seeing fountains in summer or sliding from the hill in winter. The hill (its name translates to bow-down hill) is a historical place. According to the legend, Napoleon, when he tried to conquer Russia in 1812, stood on it and demanded the keys from Moscow. I really liked the story and the fact that
Anyway, this building with the department store Minsk was on my way to the kindergarten and later to my musical school, so I remember huge advertising panels I could see hanging on the side of the house. For example, there was one devoted to 850 years of Moscow in 1997 or the one with Pushkin’s massive portrait dedicated to his 300-anniversary (of his birth) in 1999. In general, after 1999, Moscow’s 13
nowadays we do not care about it that much as it is used mostly for sliding in winter. From the hill, you could see the building of the Moscow State University - one of the seven sisters. I confess that I am still enchanted by all of them, but I have two very favourites: this one and the Hotel Ukraine. The Victory Park is also alongside Kutuzovky Prospekt. So, I would say it is worth to take a ride along it from the very beginning, Hotel Ukraine, then take a glimpse of Moscow City, the Triumph Arch, catch a sight of the Moscow State University, Victory Park and end looking at the building that once housed the department store Minsk. I suppose you could see at least 70 years of the architectural history of my gorgeous city. The trick is just to know when to turn your head the right way.
Every summer my sister and I used to spend time in the village Bila Tserkva where my grandmother lives. It started exactly on 1st June and lasted a small life (ukranian: літо - це маленьке життя); with many other kids around playing all day long. My grandmother was quite strict with us and since I was the youngest I had to check in at home at exactly three, six and nine p.m. to show that I was alive, fine and nobody hurt me. If I was only five minutes late I was forbidden to go out the next day. If I was not, she gave me 15 coins to buy a lemonade (for me the main reason to show up on time). Fortunately, I had a small Mickey Mouse watch around my wrist which quickly became a vital necessity for 5-year-old me - beyond just looking nice.
old and my sister was twelve. This trip in August started troublesome when I saw my parents‘ car in the driveway and knew that tomorrow I have to get up at five as the driving would take all day from my granny’s village. Knowing this, I needed something substantial for breakfast: eggs, buckwheat porridge with milk and, of course, tea. (I always care about breakfasts, I am a morning person and I like to wake up with a thought of a pleasant breakfast). Later on the road there was not much to do. My father was driving, me and my sister tried to sleep, once in a while counting red and blue cars, playing a game where one forms a new word with the last letter of the previous word (... Kyiv - Vienna - Alupka... you know) or just counting letters of a word or anything else one can do with words - I could count the letters in almost any word in two seconds or less. Of course, I was not allowed to read in the car as it is extremely bad for your eyes to read on the ride (when the condition of the streets resemble literally a roller coaster), and there were no phones, so the whole twelve hours full of thinking about the meaning of being or something else that seemed important
On those days, I always woke up around nine a.m. and immediately made myself a tea (we did not have a kettle and I boiled water in a pot). Complimentary to the tea were a slice of bread with butter and cheese: The most delicious and fragrant morning of a carefree summer day. Another story was an unforgettable adventurous road trip to Crimea with my parents and my sister Veronika - I guess I was around seven or eight years 17
Simeiz - no big difference between them. But every time the town of choice seemed to be the best destination ever to choose. I remember a long line of women who rented out flats by standing with paper signs that had Жилье у моря (flat near the sea) written on them. By the way, for summer seasons, they moved to garages or tents to earn more money. And thanks to these women, we stayed in a Crimean flat with a loggia (my favourite type as I had my sweetest afternoon nap there).
for a seven-year-old me. Occasional fights and quarrels with my sister and her long legs (unfortunately, my legs are not as long) always enriched our trips and added some turning points. The car was always full of maps and my mother acted as navigator and DJane at the same time. We stopped for lunch somewhere in the steppes in the Kherson region, where the wind was unbearably dry and the landscape
completely out of hay. It seemed as if everything could flare up with one look from my sister at me. But the lunch was quite modest and I would say it was made more for our dad, who usually had a nap right after it (I wish to have it too, but we kept playing with words).
Soviet stuff, furniture and even food came as a welcomed bonus. In the end of the day we were rewarded with the most tender and long-awaited sea after a long day being cramped sitting in the car. The cherry on the cake was the most delicious dinner: A Crimean kebab; and the next day after arrival I enjoyed morning pancakes with condensed milk (сгущенка - this one is on top of my list of breakfasts). I needed nothing more than the sea, a good book about Crimean myths, an afternoon nap and the juiciest peaches in the world as my dessert.
The second precise memory I have includes a mountain serpentine that begins on the Crimean Peninsula. My ears clogged like on a roller coaster (again) and in-between the rights and lefts and ups and down, the sea began to show up somewhere. Finally, around seven in the evening, we arrived in a small town, either Gurzuf, Partenit or 18
Bila Tserkava Ukraine
My dad was never crazy about fishing itself. Just he likes mornings by the lake or river. What about me, I enjoyed these fishing rituals like seeking the worms, fish food preparation, waking up before the sun rose, tea in the Thermos, and endless dad stories: One of my favourites among them was about an unlucky hockey game finished with a dive into an ice-cold lake. We have never caught fish big enough for a meal. There were only several pieces to cheer the cat up. My mom was always annoyed and wondered why we had made all these preparations and efforts to leave before dawn and came back with no catch after.
Years ago, as most three to four-year-old children, I was told bedtime stories. But I demanded a real-life Years ago, as most three to four-year-old children, I was told bedtime stories. But I demanded a real-life story instead of a tale every single time. I imagined my parents‘, aunt‘s, granny‘s lives as a dramatic adventure back then. And I wondered, would my life be so exciting as theirs was.
One Sunday morning on our way back from the lake we stopped off in the
Well, now my own childhood memories keep me feeling warm and toasty. One of the fondest memories I have of childhood is fishing with my father. I spent my summer holidays in the countryside with my grandparents very often. My parents came to visit me on the weekends and that‘s when the fishing time was.
neighbouring village Ruda where a farm market took place. We bought several really huge fishes and left the traces from fishing hooks on them. Mom did not scold us for early morning any more. And it let us partners in crime continue our useless but such beloved fishing. 21
konstantin melnikov - Interview with his son Viktor Melnikov by World monuments fund 2006 Russian Architect He [Konstantin] dreamt about building this house since his childhood. It is his last piece of work. He never received any favors from the corridors of political power. As a 13-year-old-boy he came to earn money in Moscow and was taken in by an aristocratic family. Now the aristocratic class no longer exists. The aristocrat, a major engineer, made him part of the family when he noticed that the boy was very sensitive and loved to draw. He sat him down to draw and he drew for six hours. And then he sat down at the table with the grownups, to receive, so to speak, his prize - lunch. But he didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know where to put his hands, how to behave himself, because he had gone from one level of society to another. So he learnt aristocratic ways. Vladimir Chaplin was an important engineer. He noted papaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s talent and enrolled a teacher to prepare him for the art and architecture school. And Papa drew diametrical forms for two years in order to get into the school. It was a Moscow school where the most talented were enrolled in the painting department. Papa got in. He constantly sketched geometric figures on paper- spheres, cones, etc. and he did this with great intensity, using perspective so these bodies came out from the paper at angles and disappeared into corners. At the age of 16, as one of 11 chosen from 270 competitors, he began to study classical drawing. He studied painting for four years and in the second year he met Mama and married in 1912. In 1913 my sister appeared and 1914 when he finished in the painting department, I appeared... Naturally Chaplin was concerned that the family lived comfortably and he made papa give his word that he would become an architect. He had received brilliant marks in the painting department and passed into the architecture department with no difficulty. When he became an architect he understood that from art, sculpture and architecture, architecture is the most important of the arts. It is not hidden on walls but is drawn in an expanse, in the open air... in the world. All this is written in his diary.
Viktor Melnikov in the house his father built and where he lived
I wake up in my flat early in the morning – early, but a bit later than usual, which sets me in a good mood. The sun is coming in through the window. It has already been awake for a while in this bright summer season. Still in my pyjamas, I put my hands on the warm windowsill and look at the yard. Simple buildings of different colours and height encircle the church tower, making the view look a bit like an old postcard. The buildings are not too old, though, and one could describe them as cubic because they look like blocks, only that they are higher than wider; and cubes must be regular, for what I know. The space in the middle of the buildings is full of trees that, from my fourth floor perspective at least, cover up the not so impressive everyday troubles, like the public bin and a bumpy, concrete road for the inhabitants’ cars.
with a wide white collar that covers my shoulders and is marked with two ribbon strips. It could be a mariner’s collar, some say. The other uniform has a similar collar, but was a bit designed like a bathrobe. It is good for catching wind as you run through the school corridor and for cleaning your hands from chalk on the daily basis. I take a smaller bag because I am free of books today. I go down the stairs and get into a tram at Biprostal, which is a stop right next to my flat. Just not where the yard is, but on the other side, where the street is wider, busier and louder. My mum makes sure I am okay on the tram and so is my little sister, who likes sitting and looking out of the tram window. I do not know how much she understands about what she sees, but her face shows that something very interesting must be going on in her mind anyway.
I change the pyjamas into my elegant school uniform, reserved for special occasions, like the end of the school year today. I have got two uniforms, if you would like to know. This one is a dark blue skirt and a shirt in the same colour,
This is how our morning journey begins. Twenty minutes in a tram, and we get a chance to see quite a few interesting places in Kraków. We soon pass Aleje, for instance, which is an extremely busy 25
street encircling the city centre, and we slide into Karmelicka Street that leads us into the Old Town. We take a look at what is going on in independent shops in the morning, and then we get to the very core of the city, with the Bagatela Theatre on our right and Szewska Street in front of us. Walking down Szewska, you can quickly reach the Main Square, so if you are lucky and attentive, you may have a chance to catch a glimpse of it from the tram. This is brief, though, and we soon begin a half-circle around Planty Park. Here, the buildings are
Then, quickly, yet another stop, that is Dworzec Główny, the Central Train Station. Hold tight to your chair or handrail before you get swallowed by the crowd with suitcases! It seems this stop competes with Bagatela in terms of how incredibly busy it is, but once you know you are safe, you may look for the Słowacki Theatre behind the Planty trees. Then, uff, the Main Post Office stop, where we get off. My sister jumps down the tram stairs and is ready to approach the big, round building with letters, cards and parcels inside. Right after, we pass the office where journalists work on one of the Polish big daily newspapers, Dziennik Polski, and there we are at school – a huge building, whose doors are, I guess, six times as big as me. It is a school coordinated by nuns, so the building is quite interesting inside. As you enter, on the left there is a corridor for sisters, where we are allowed to go too, when we go for a Mass in the chapel. Straight ahead, there is the entrance to the football pitch and the playground while on the right there are stairs down to the cloakroom, canteen and gym as well as stairs up to the classrooms. The stairs down are more modern, while the stairs up look much older. They are wide and noisy when you step on them. The school is like a universe in itself, all in all. I have not mentioned that there is also a kindergarten on the ground floor and that the sisters’ rooms are located on the third floor where I have never been. But maybe that is too much and I do not want to spend so much time talking about school today. My mum and my sister are leaving me here for a while and they will pick me up in a couple of hours.
older and more elegant than where we live. When you go inside, you have to look high to see the ceiling, I guess. In that sense, it might be like my school. The next stop is Basztowa Lot, which, as far as I know, is an aeroplane office or something like that. Right next to it, you can find Stary Kleparz, which is a market with fruits, vegetables, fish and whatnot. We do not go there too often, though, because a similar market is close to our flat. Everyone likes browsing the stalls and listening to the market chatter. My mum often lets me choose the fruit I would like to eat, so I pick the freshest and the most colourful ones. 26
After the ceremonies finish at school, I am in a holiday spirit properly. My mum and my sister are waiting for me in the hall. It is a very happy time for us because my sister is little and my mum does not have to go to work while she is taking care of her. They can pick me up anytime, depending on when I finish school. My dad joins us later in the afternoon. But today the moment they pick me up is special because I know I will have holidays for the next two months and my mum looks at me with a smile, perhaps also a bit of pride. She takes the huge illustrated book I got as an award and then we are off to the city! I just need to say bye to my friends and promise that I will send them a postcard and that we will see one other soon.
teddy bears that it seems impossible to count them! They are arranged absolutely beautifully, must be very soft and appear to be smiling to every passerby who can spare a moment to look. Standing for a longer time in front of the display always makes me feel peaceful, happy and delighted. I still remember when some time ago I went in and my mum bought me one of the teddy bears. He quickly made friends with the toys I already had at home. He looks very attentive in his sitting position and does really well as an audience when I tell stories and perform home theatre plays. And then the Main Square with its splendour! Lots of things going on simultaneously: a lady with a little stall on wheels is selling Obwarzanki, which look like big rings made of bread, a man is selling little dragon statues and there
Usually, on such occasions we do not go back home by tram, but decide to
cross the Main Square on foot. We go down Sienna, and I really like this street because it is full of cosy shops displaying household accessories, decorations, elegant suits and clothes in the style of old pictures. Soon, we see the Little Square. The road is bumpy in a funny way because of the big bricks. Closer to the end of the street there is the most beautiful shop I have ever seen, called the Bukowski Gallery, with so many
are also stalls with flowers – all allure the tourists in front of the Cloth Hall. I need to ask my mum what time it is because if it is close to a full hour we might even hear the bugle call from St. Mary’s Basilica! And anyway, we will be sitting down in one of the cafés with big umbrellas and I will order a big portion of ice cream as my end-of-school-year treat. 27
and which they used to visit very often together. Everyone agreed that that is a wonderful thought, but when dad went to visit Ares’s grave a few weeks later, it turned out that wild animals had dug up the body and little bits and pieces of Ares were lying all over the place. Ares, you are forever in our hearts. (Sorry!) Since we are on the topic of the forest: my dad would take us on various walks and trips very often. We did a lot of sightseeing. We would go and visit many castles, ruins and paths of national parks – I mean, I think so. Not so sure, to be honest, because in the picture I am two years old and I remember nothing. But what I do remember are our walks in the nearby forest. They were sort of our family tradition – every Sunday, after getting back from church and eating an early dinner, my dad would go to the woods, briskly followed by all three of his daughters, my mum and my grandma. We would walk the dogs, pick wild mushrooms, eat berries and stamp on the ice in the stream to hear it crack. As time went by, less and less of my family members would join us for the Sunday walk. Olga became a typical teenager that does not want to spend time with family; Agata had better things to do; mum did not want to be in the company of her husband longer than it was absolutely necessary; the long walks became too much for grandma who started getting tired easily. At the end, it was only me and my dad. We would still encourage the rest of the family to join us and, sometimes, they would and for a moment it was as it used to be. That is, until I turned thirteen, stopped attending church and, in the eyes of my father, became possessed by the devil. Then we would not go any more.
That is my family. From the left: me – a little baby; Agata – my older sister in the green swimsuit; my mum – not tired of living yet; my dad – with his stylish moustache (mum, how could you fall for that…?) and Olga – my oldest sister, in the Minnie Mouse swimsuit. We are spending the afternoon by the river.
Some more pictures of my family and our dog, Ares. We are giving him a bath. Ares was a long-haired Collie, a stray dog which just happened to wander up to our house. And just like that, he stayed. Dad liked him a lot. They would go on walks to the forest together. Many years later, when Ares died, dad had the idea that he would bury him in the woods – in the place that Ares liked the most 29
Speaking of the church – that is what ours looked like. Quite small, simple. Only one tower. A bit kitschy on the inside, with a cheap nativity scene and a keyboard instead of the organ.
We would go there every single Sunday. No exceptions. There was no dad, my head hurts, dad, I think I am sick or dad, I do not believe in God. Nobody cares. God is watching you, go get your jacket. Personally, my favourite part of the Mass was sliding a coin into the statue of an angel. The statue would nod its head as if it was thanking you. That simple mechanism absolutely fascinated me and I would spend all of my parents’ change just to watch it one more time. My second favourite part of the Mass was waking up in the middle of it while being poked by my grandma. Apparently, I snored. To be honest, that church seemed a lot prettier and bigger when I was little. And the Mary in the little shrine on the right - way more beautiful. Anyway, while talking about the shrines – where do they all come from?! In a standard Polish village, like mine (it is called Krzykawa, by the way) you can find some kind of shrine or a small chapel literally every 200 meters. From actual small buildings, through different kinds of statues, sculptures and altars, all the way to simple framed pictures – they are everywhere. I have not included even a
half of the photographs of the shrines in my neighbourhood. On a random street? A shrine. At the crossroads? A shrine. In my neighbour’s yard? A shrine. Literally in the middle of an empty field? Yes, you guessed it. A shrine. How about on a centuries-old oak, the local natural monument? Well, the locals would not be themselves if they had not nailed the Virgin Mary to it. I mean, a picture. A picture of the Virgin Mary. The oak stands at the very beginning of the path to the woods. The most characteristic place there is the huge clearing named after Francesco Nullo. There is also a monument in the memory of him and other soldiers that died in the battle of Krzykawka. Oh yeah, because, you see, my village had its own battle in the January Uprising. Francesco Nullo was this Italian colonel, and for some reason I spent my whole childhood thinking he was extremely famous. I 30
forest like the back of my hand. I knew all the best trees to climb, all the best places to read without being disturbed, all the best clearings to build a shack on. I had my favourite locations. One of them being this little wonder of architecture that I found by accident among swamps by the river. Does it look stable? No. But is it stable? Also no. Will I continue to use this adorable little bridge until I fall into the water one day? Probably. If you enjoyed looking at that miracle of architecture, you are sure to love this one. That is my school. I know. It is a grey cube. But let me tell you that despite everything I loved that little grey cube (it is actually way bigger than what it seems in the picture).
mean, my school was named after him, his portraits hanged everywhere and every year there was this big celebration of the anniversary of the battle. No wonder I thought he was an extremely important person. It was not until I left middle school that I realized that nobody really knew this man even existed, except for the nearby towns and the town in Italy where he came from, of course. But yeah, he has a monument in the middle of the woods in some village called Krzykawka in Poland, in case you were wondering. The forest surrounding the monument is quite big. There is plenty of streams, tangled paths and wild animals. Sometimes you have to shout at some especially persistent fox to leave you alone, but hey, at least you do not meet any people there. It just so happens, that a part of this forest belongs to my family. It is the same one that our father would take us to. When I was thirteen I started to take walks alone. I ended up knowing the
And no, I do not remember it being so ugly, but hey, it had the best atmosphere anyway. Absolutely everyone in the school knew one another – we all lived nearby. My house was literally five minutes away - which is one minute by bike if you decide to leave at 8:07 and the lessons start at 8:10. Zero traffic. The best part of it all was that this building was actually a kindergarten, a 31
primary school and a middle school, all three in one. So all the teachers knew all the students, all the students knew all the teachers, and many of the teachers were actually close friends with one another â&#x20AC;&#x201C; after so many years spent together in the same hallway, it was just like being a part of some weird, huge family. Now that I think of it, the thing I miss the most about primary school is being a part of the community.
the first floor and participating in clay workshops held in the basement. The meadows around the manor house are filled with wooden sculptures. Personally, I think they are pretty original. I like their Slavic aura: the way they resemble old wooden statues of gods carved by the original Slavic tribes. Highly recommend taking a closer look at them.
But, believe it or not, we actually have pretty buildings here, too. Just look at that manor house. Lovely, is it not?
What I do not recommend though is finding out that some of them are Pokestops in Pokemon Go, and deciding to take a walk there after the sunset. In the dark, they are absolutely terrifying. Justâ&#x20AC;Ś trust me on this one.
I actually had to break in and climb the fence to take these pictures, so you better appreciate it and look at them at least for a second, alright? Thanks. The manor house was built around 1724. My great-grandmother Genowefa told me once that she had a memory of bringing milk from her familyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s farm to the noblewoman that lived there. The noblewoman told her that her apron was pretty, and she remembered that complement her whole life. It is so weird that we forget how differently the world worked only a couple of generations before. My memories of this place consist of borrowing books from the library on
Anyway, the image was the place where we were supposed to play. But, did we really? Nah.
I mean, sometimes – sure. However, most of the time, the swings weren’t entertaining enough for us. What we, for some reason, preferred, were abandoned houses. The one in the image stood next to the manor house. It was not our favourite, though. The one we (and by ‘we’ I mean my friend group, the kids I went to school with) liked most was a school that never got finished, a huge empty building a couple of villages away. We would ride our bikes there and play hide-and-seek in the ruins. As one does. The other building we liked had three floors, lots of stairs, balconies and a scary basement. There was also always a possibility of finding a drunk homeless man there. But that would only give us more of an adrenaline rush.
computer and Olga is testing it out. But she will just use it for an hour or so – after all, how long can you stare at a screen. Also, say hi to my great-grandmother I mentioned earlier. And look, you are lucky! You made it for a party. It is 26th December - my third birthday and… Christmas!
Here we have another image of an empty house. But we would not play in this one - it stood on my neighbours’ private property.
It is weird to look at these pictures. I actually have clear memories of that birthday. I suppose I did not think I started remembering things so soon. But I remember getting that rabbit in the cowboy suit, the cake that my grandmother made, my sister Agata (in the pink shirt) being jealous of my presents (she actually wanted to murder me when I was born because she wanted to be the youngest - love you, sis). I remember the regret on my parents’ faces when they realized that getting a child a piano toy is, indeed, a great idea… if you are deaf. Great party, I have to say. But well, the young me would have to go to sleep now - it is already nine. And so, we are going to end our journey to the past here. Thanks for joining me.
This lovely little cottage was one of the oldest buildings in the whole neighbourhood. It was built entirely out of stone in 1888. It stands exactly across my house and as a child I loved watching the snow falling on it. It just looked so magical. Well, since we are just across the road, we might as well pop into my house for a second. Look, my dad has just got a new 33
Joseph Brodsky - less than one 1986 Russian-American Writer My generation, however, was somewhat spared. We emerged from under the postwar rubble when the state was too busy patching its own skin and couldn’t look after us very well. We entered schools, and whatever relevated rubbish we were taught there, the suffering and poverty were all around. You cannot cover a ruin with a page of Pravda. The empty windows gaped at us like skulls’ orbits, and as little as we were, we sensed tragedy. True, we couldn’t connect ourselves to the ruins, but that wasn’t necessary: they emanated enough to interrupt laughter. Then we would resume laughing, quite mindlessly - and yet it would be a resumption. In those postwar years we sensed a strange intensity in the air, something immaterial, almost ghostly. And we were young, we were kids. The amount of goods was very limited, but not having known otherwise, we didn’t mind at all. Bikes were old, of prewar make, the owner of a soccer ball was considered a bourgeois. The coats and the underwear that we wore were cut out by our mothers from our fathers’ uniforms and patched drawers: exit Sigmund Freud. So we didn’t develop a taste for possessions. Things that we could possess later were badly made and looked ugly. Somehow, we preferred ideas of things over the things themselves, though when we looked in mirrors we didn‘t much like what we saw there. We never had a room of our own to lure our girls into, nor did our girls have rooms. Our love affairs were mostly walking and talking; it would make an astronomical sum if we were charged for mileage. Old warehouses, embankments of the river in industrial quarters, stiff benches in wet public gardens, and cold entrances of public buildings -these were the standard backdrops of our first pneumatic blisses. We never had what we called “material stimuli”. Ideological ones were a laughable matter even for kindergarten kids. If somebody sold himself out, it wasn’t for the sake of goods or comfort: there were none. He was selling out because of inner want and he knew that himself. There were no supplies, there was sheer demand.
In its ethics, this generation was among the most bookish in the history of Russia, and thank God for that. A relationship could have been broken for good over a preference for Hemingway over Faulkner; the hierarchy in that pantheon was our real Central Committee. It started as an ordinary accumulation of knowledge but soon became our most important occupation, to which everything could be sacrificed. Books became the first and only reality, whereas reality itself was regarded as either nonsense or nuisance.
In 1975, my grandparents moved into one of the first prefabricated concrete buildings of the type WBS 70/IW 73- 6 in Gera-Lusan. When in 1992 my parents moved into their own flat just two blocks away, I was two years old. My parents‘ flat had one room less than my grandparents‘, but otherwise it had the same floor plan. The room layout was inverted and only provisionally furnished. In my memory, the two flats differ considerably because of this.
some threatening danger. Motionless, I stand in front of the window. I see a roughly paved road and the typical grey pavement slabs leading to the neighbouring flat blocks. I look at an imaginary photograph in which I feel powerless, in which nothing is moving. I imagine that outside of the photograph there is a completely different world. That is why I keep looking at the picture, I would love to discover something more. It is a preserved situation – the last slide in the series. There will be nothing more.
Arriving at my parents’ bright but rather cool flat, I feel melancholy, as if I am standing in an empty prefabricated concrete building that is waiting for something. Whether it will not be occupied yet or never again remains open. I walk through the hallway that is bordered by the bathroom and the kitchen. The doors are open, but it is
Later, in 1995, my parents moved a couple of streets over into a renovated flat block. They exchanged the provisionally assembled GDR wardrobes for a real wood wall unit in country house style. On the weekends, I often stayed overnight at my grandparent’s house in Birkenstraße.
too dark to see anything in the rooms. In the door frame of the living room I stop and look to the balcony door. In photographs the room is almost always filled with people celebrating.
In my mind, I run up the narrow staircase with anticipation, turn left into the flat and stand in a dark hallway: patterned wallpaper, small chests of drawers to the left and right. A bright light is coming from the living room. Once there, I sit down on the sofa, feeling safe. I look at the window in the direction of the balcony. On the other side of the door are the summer nights I spent with my grandparents on the balcony. Shortly after, my grandparents moved into my parents’ flat block.
In my memories it keeps being empty. I go back to the hallway until I arrive in the bedroom that is flooded with light. The laminate surface throws daylight at me. It is blindingly bright. From the window I see my old nursery school that is hiding behind birch trees. It seems to me as if it was trying to save itself from 37
Ehm Welk Street is the street I identify, if one can say so, the strongest with. It is a curved street with boxy, not-curved buildings. Moving to Ehm Welk Street marks the spatial separation of my parents, however, not as much as one would think given my mother lives now in Ehm Welk Street 1 and my father in 21, that is, the beginning and the end of that street. As a pointed remark, their flats have the same layout: You enter, right toilet, left main bedroom, continue the hallway, right bathroom, continue further straight children’s room, right living room, going through the living room, balcony at its end, kitchen on the right. That may not be surprising given the whole district Evershagen consists of prefabricated buildings from the early 1970s but yet is still something I want to remark as the room I occupy now at my father’s place, when I am back home from studying, is the equivalent room I lived in at my mother’s place when I went to school.
There was a period in my youth, I may have not been older than five, that me and my parents lived in Tolstoy Street. Of that period, I do not remember anything. Only recently, my father showed me the flat windows from downstairs. We lived on the fifth floor, left of the central staircase from which the flats were adjoined from both sides. Right next to the building was a red coloured transformation box with a hammer and a sickle graffiti, making a low buzzing sound. That was the corner of Tolstoyand Dostoevsky Street - two little side streets whose naming seems off, given that the main street that divides my district and serves as its aorta is named after Bertolt Brecht, an overly charming men whose emotional liability has attracted many women. Then perhaps, the calmness of Tolstoy Street fits the wisdom of Lev himself. The street where we moved from there and where I lived until I was 18 is called Ehm Welk Street, named after Ehm Welk, a writer from the region whose book Im Morgennebel (english: In the morning fog) I recently found on the street placed in a hopeless bookshelf in a more central and hip district.
Certainly, the furniture is different and as I grew older my bed grew bigger but when I look out the window, I am still looking north and still from the first floor. 39
My grandparents and many kids from my school lived in very similar housing blocks but as a kid, I never have felt them to be so similar. Presumably, I was smaller and my focus was operating at a different scale. Every staircase had different tiles, or different smells - the smell of the staircase of my first girlfriend - most likely a cleaning agent - still throws me back in time when I smell it. House entries were different, atmospheres differed from courtyard to courtyard: A whole catalogue of everything Eastern German production factories had on offer. Nowadays the housing associations, be it public or
aforementioned central aorta of my district was no barrier any longer and experiencing what I always perceived as the more sinister part on its other side turned out to be just fine. I went to the supermarket there, an ugly reproducible flat building in the front, a painted concrete virtuoso in the back; and I took the tram there from Ehm Welk station, often towards the city centre. I remember that I first went shopping on my own when I was 15 or 16, returning home with a yellow T-shirt, bought in ecstasy of the flĂ˘nerie and the wild world one could encounter in the centre, but never to be worn in my district. So yes,
private ones, drenched all the facades in horrendous colour schemes, so that new residents not used to Eastern German architecture could distinguish the ochre flower painted on their housing blockÂ from the geometric lines on their neighbouring housing blocks; and a perhaps broken light signals the house entry.
the older I became the more I wanted to be from other areas of my home town Rostock, where life just seemed a little bit sweeter. Â On the main street is a terraced high rise, built out of the same materials and probably from the same factories as our residential boxes. However, the north and south ends are terraced; and this house has ten or more stories, making them huge terraces. Some years ago, I read that the architect wanted to try something different with those
But let us venture out a little more. I believe when I was twelve, after all in puberty, the distances I took away from home were growing significantly. The 40
prefabricated elements. He did the terraced house and also built frame houses in the inner city, replacing the previous ones destroyed in the war rather neatly. I have seen this terraced house from my friend Christoph’s balcony when I was younger. He lived in a parallel high-rise on the other side of the aorta on the eighth floor, where we had noodles for his birthday or played soccer in his living room. His house had endless corridors, which I was always afraid to walk alone and usually ran but if we walked together, we always rang someone’s doorbell, someone with a funny surname I do not quite recall. The more I remember, the more I perceive my youth as incomprehensive. I remember helping a drunk elderly man out of the snow in the winter and slipping years later with my bike on ice at roughly the same spot in front of the pharmacy, that I either visited buying flavoured dextrose or later in the evening with my friend and his dog that once ran after me and if not that, running after him or other dogs. I remember that my first primary school was demolished for a parking lot that has never been built until now, 20 odd years later. I remember we had an event in the second grade that was supposed to be exciting, where we could stay overnight in school with a teacher to look after us. I did not attend and slept at home - a habit I still have: If anything, I sleep at home. I remember having my bicycle stolen in my courtyard from a kid that asked me to have a ride with it to which I happily agreed, making my first steps on social land. I remember being sad but invited by another friend, at whose place I eventually enjoyed a glass of water placed on an ugly wooden piece of furniture in the hallway. The amount of possibilities
to furniture one and the same type of flat differently is quite astonishing. I remember Christoph having his backpack stolen, but we caught the thieves, leaving us with a destroyed backpack and some tears on his side. I even remember us creating a map of our district that we would use to mark secret spots for whomever because all that used the map were us and we knew the spots. I remember us doing biathlon with wooden sticks in the snow. I remember hiding in the bushes in summer, laying there cosy and comfortably watching the people walking by from our secret little castle... ...On many of those long weekends during my adolescence I stayed at my father’s place. On Sundays, we used to play a game called Driving somewhere where we have never been before. It was a game to be executed with a car, usually after lunch at grandparents‘ place. I would sit on the passenger seat whilst my father drove out of town roughly towards a pre-chosen cardinal point. At every major intersection, I would decide for a direction to continue, mainly relying on the sounds of the place names provided on the road signs. I feel nowadays that the countryside in my region, can be counted clearly as one of the most humdrum places on earth, making it immediately forgotten if someone would decide to scrap it off the maps. Yet on those Sundays, I must have been around ten, it was another world and I remember the flat hills as mountains and the forests as the thickest jungles. But not only did I learn about mother nature, I also learned about cars. From my passenger seat I could soon distinguish all cars by their windows. 41
Svetlana Boym - The future of nostalgia 2001 Russian Researcher When I returned to Leningrad-St. Petersburg, I found myself wandering around the miniature rockets rusting in the children’s playgrounds. Crash-landed here three decades ago, they reminded me of the dreams of my early childhood. I remembered that the first thing we learned to draw in kindergarten in the 1960s were rockets. We always drew them in the mid-launch, in a glorious upward movement with a bright flame shooting from the tail. The playground rockets resembled those old drawings, only they didn’t fly very far. If you wanted to play the game, you had to be prepared to glide down, to fall, not to fly. The playground rockets were made in the euphoric era of Soviet Space exploration, when the future seemed unusually bright and the march of the progress triumphant.Soon after the first man flew into space, Nikita Khrushchev promised that the children of my generation would live in the era of communism and travel to the moon. We dreamed of going into space before going abroad, of traveling upward, not westward. Somehow we failed in our mission. The dream of cosmis communism did not survive, the miniature rockets did. For some reason, most likely for lack of an alternative, neighbourhood kids still played on these futuristic ruins from another era that seemed remarkably old-fashioned. On the playgrounds of the nouveau riche, the attractions have been updated in the spirit of the time. Brand-new wooden huts with handsome towers in a Russian folkloric style have supplanted the futuristic rockets of the past. [...] I came back to Leningrad for the first time during the exceptionally hot summer of 1989. I used to spend my summers in the country, so such urban heat was new to me. My friend recommended that I not drink any water: “The more you drink in the heat, the more you want to drink,” she said philosophically. The first thing I did when I escaped my friend’s stiflingly cozy apartment was to wander into a half-empty grocery store. There were a few Turkish juices and the greenish bottles of local mineral water standing on the shelf in the “canned foods” section. “Poliustrovo” - I read the label on the bottle and a wave of memories overcame me: smells of Leningrad yards, the salty taste of a bread crust, the
lukewarm sweetness of the tea of yesterday. I rushed to buy several bottles of Poliustrovo in spite of the surprised expression of the saleswoman who tried to dissuade me, pointing at the expensive foreign fruit juices. I opened it at an experienced drunk, knocking off the nontwist cap against the granite steps on the Neva embankment, and drank it straight from the bottle, wondering about the wisdom of the common sense that varies so much from culture to culture. The Poliustrovo was warm and green, or maybe it was just the colour of the bottle. When I arrived back at the apartment smiling triumphantly, my friend burst out laughing. “What happened to your teeth?” she asked. “Did you kiss the stones or something?” Looking into the mirror, I realized that my teeth had acquired a dark grayish stain, the colour of the Neva embankment. “Don’t you remember? We never liked Poliustrovo,” my friend said. “We always tried to buy Borjomi, the one made in the Caucasus, or the drink Baikal, a version of Pepsi. And now you come all the way here for the Poliustrovo. You’ve become so Americanized.“
Credits Images Front & Back: Thomas Taylor Hammond; Old woman and child on a sleigh, Yaroslavl, 1964; CC BY-SA 4.0; December 2020 Stories & Credits: Artem Svetlov; Moscow tram map Osm-mostrans, 2018; CC BY-SA 4.0; December 2020 7: Dr. Bernd Gross; Wohnhäuser in der Bergbaustadt Nalaikh in der Nähe von Ulan Bator; Nailakh o2, 2009; December 2020 8: Dr. Bernd Gross; Nailakh 14; Altes Bergwerk in der Bergbaustadt Nalaikh unweit von Ulan Bator, 2009; December 2020 9: Dr. Bernd Gross; Nailakh 01; Handelszentrum in der Bergbaustadt Nalaikh - unweit von Ulan Bator, 2009; December 2020 13: kishjar?; Kutuzovsky-prospekt-moscow-russia-0001.jpg; 2014; CC BY 2.0 January 2021 16: PastVu; Ilya Varlamov; Славянский бульвар. Универмаг „Минск“; Лучшие произведения советских зодчих 1970-1972 гг. М., 1975, 2015; December 2020; https://pastvu.com/p/155553?fbclid=IwAR1lTPmn5ZvfOk0 YdrlwdpApCFAZl45HlX0meJsHwmNcQmiBzh_3ri18xDo 27: Igor Palmin; Viktor Melnikov, 1990; CC BY-SA 2.0; December 2020 37: Steffen Löwe; Gera Lusan 2010 Karl-Matthes-Straße, 2010; CC BY-SA 3.0; December 2020 39: Jürgen Sindermann - Bundesarchiv; Bundesarchiv Bild 183-R05080006, Rostock, Tischtennis, 1976; CC BY-SA 3.0 DE; December 2020 40: Florian Koppe; Rostock-Evershagen Bertolt Brecht Straße, 2012; CC BYSA 3.0; December 2020
Credits Text Introduction: Walter Benjamin; Berlin Chilhood around 1900; Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, Cambridge, London, 2006; Translator: Howard Eiland; p. 38-42 12: Maxim Gorki; My Childhood; The Century Co., New York, 1915; p. 18-21 26: Clementine Cecil; The Bell Tolls for Moscowâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s Modernist Masterworks, 26-99 in JĂśrg Haspel, Michael Petzet, Anke Zalivako, John Ziesemer; Heritage at Risk - Special Edition 2006: The Soviet Heritage and Europe Modernism; ICOMOS; https://www.icomos.org/fr/116-english-categories/ resources/publications/214-heritage-at-risk-special-edition2006; December 2020 34: Joseph Brodsky; Less than One - Selected Essays; Farrar, Straus, Giroux, New York, 1968; 26-28 44: Svetlana Boym; The Future of Nostalgia; Basic Books, New York, 2001; p. 353-354 Style All place names are in Italic; British English was used; Numbers 1-12 are written out in words; Quotes have been kept original
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