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therly version of Betty Crocker in a pink puffball hat walked up beside me. She nodded at the blue lights above on a building flashing the words Tver Universal Bank.
“Before that there was only one bank. Now there are hundreds. Every new business starts a bank. They all steal.”
“Why are you here?” I asked.
“To defend the constituion,” she replied. “Yeltsin is a fascist and Zionist. You know they say his real name is Yeltsman. He is only for himself. No one cares about the poor people. I have a pension of 20,000 rubles a month. A kilogram of meat costs 10,000 rubles. What can I do? How can people live? Everybody was better before.”
We headed towards the Smolenskaya metro entrance where they was a gathering of people singing with religious fervor the Russian national anthem. The emotion with which they sang - men and women, old and young alike - made their small numbers seem unimportant. On their faces £nd in their voices was the moving expression of something beloved and painful.
As we got closer to the Russian choral singers, she dissolved into mystic serenity, and I headed for another group of people. A heated debate was taking place between a young man attempting to defend “free trade” and a long-haired older man with the look of a dissipated Left-Bank artist. The older man was on the offensive. He had a slight, avuncular you’re-too-voung-to-understand demeanor. Land, and living by Christian principles were at issue.
“God gave us the land, air and water. What God gave us is for everyone. What you make vouself with your God-given talents is yours. Please trade away! But the land is everybody’s and should be used by those who work it. It is not for speculation."
“But what if I have a jug of water. Can 1 sell it?” asked the younger man.
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