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Alter a boring day ot meetings in the otherwise peaceful parts of Moscow, I returned to my hotel to hear the sounds of battle still going full force. The Kutuzosky bridge had now been cleared of spectators. I decided to observe the matinee performance from the other side of the Moscow River at the Ukraine Hotel, another gothic monstrosity situated directly across the river from the Parliament.
Walking down the other side of the embankment, people were still mesmerized by the sight of their symbol of democracy having holes punched in it. As I got to the Kutuzosky Prospect, the festivities were in full swing on the embankment road leading underneath the bridge up the Ukraine. Music by Hari Krishna. Few paid much attention to the trio which banged a lugubrious dirge on their tambourines. Paratroopers, battle tanks, women and children, clusters of teenagers mingled in a scene from a Fellini movie.
Five T-62 tanks, engines running and turrets aimed directly at the White House were exhausting fumes into a copse of birch trees where spectators, a motley assortment of soldiers, beer and cigarette smoke, mingled in a gaseous cloud. I wandered from this heady cocktail party up the grassy knoll which becomes a park in front of the hotel. Like picnickers at the horse races, spectators were scattered on the grass under the dominating statue of the Ukrainian writer, Taras Shevchenko. Only the checkered blankets and deviled eggs were missing.
An elderly lady had eagerly
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