Kremlin Star

The red star, the great beacon of Communism that shines above the Kremlin, is made of crushed rubies molten into glass, our guide tells us. She may have been referring to an earlier star, which was made up of semiprecious stones, because other sources say that the red color of this one comes from gold. The Communists would have had no trouble finding either on hand - the Kremlin being an ancient and much decorated seat of the Czars.

Back in 1997, the "treasure house" of the Kremlin museum seemed to me a carelessly displayed trove of Romanov booty: Rooms full of carriages, ceremonial gifts from European royals, buckets of gems. The Faberge eggs were given space to shine, however. Each one seemed a tiny world, somewhat like an M.C. Escher illustration - turned inward and completely self-referential.

Outside the treasure house stood the world's largest bell (which had never rung) and the world's largest cannon (which had never shot). I now expect they were literally and figuratively ironic, but at the time, any form of subtlety at all was lost on me. It may have been the opportunity of a lifetime, but - bleary after a nine-hour flight from New York and a quick Russian feast (Champagne, caviar, blinis) at the Radisson Slavyanskaya - a whirlwind tour of the Kremlin was something I was just not ready for.  

I was there as part of a group of journalists invited to witness the 850th anniversary of Moscow. However, just as our plane landed, the world was waking up to the news that Princess Diana had been involved in a serious car crash, and, in a few hours, her death would be formally announced. The result was round-the-clock coverage of Princess Diana's life and death, and a virtual blackout of all other news - including the 850th anniversary of Moscow.

So as the world keened for Princess Di, our group was transported through Moscow, a week's worth of visiting churches, museums, the Bolshoi, the Circus; the homes of Boris Pasternak, Nikolay Gogol, and a "typical pre-Revolution bourgeois"; deluxe restaurants, and sleazy nightclubs. We were often out till all hours, hitching rides from strangers (a local custom; any driver would stop and take you where you wanted to go for gas money). I met a fair amount of people and formed a pretty good idea of life in Moscow. 

About the only sights we weren't shown were those directly pertaining to the Cold War and Communism. So it was with a little consternation that, toward the end of our visit, we found ourselves outside Red Square, but not heading there. I asked the guide, who said that Red Square was closed for the 850th anniversary celebrations - which we were not invited to! I then pointed to a large crowd of people who appeared to be assembling in front of Red Square, and asked what they were doing. "They are waiting to see Lenin's Tomb," she answered as she herded us toward GUM. 

Dragging my feet, I muttered to my colleagues Jon, Mark, and Karen, that I would rather see Lenin than a department store. They agreed, and suddenly we were all in rebellion. Our guide scolded that she could not accompany us and that we would have to leave our cameras behind. Tossing our cameras onto another colleague, we ran to join the Lenin's Tomb crowd - which, it turned out, was moving at a pretty fast clip. Soon, we were a tiny island of English speakers, surrounded by a crowd that only spoke three languages - Russian, German, and the language of an AK-47 being waved in their faces by the soldiers guarding the Tomb.

Turns out we spoke that language, too. Every time a soldier waved his gun in our direction, we understood that we needed to do a bunny hop back; and every time he pointed it in the direction of the Tomb, the crowd in front knew to break off and scurry forward. At one point, a man with a brief case (who was standing in front of Mark) was "detained." It was a little terrifying.

Finally, we was close enough to scurry forward as the soldier indicated. Entering the Tomb single file, we were enveloped in gloom. The black stone walls absorbed most of the light, except that which they gave off as a dull sheen. It was just as well that talking was discouraged, because the walls seemed to absorb sound as well. 

In this atmosphere, my first impression of Lenin was as a light source; the glass box in which he appeared to float was filled with it. Lenin was a small, slight man, but perfectly proportioned. He wore a brown suit, which impressed me with the thickness of its cloth, compared to the fine-boned features of its wearer. And he was encased in wax, his features barely distinct. 

We passed, single file, out of the Tomb, and here was a surprise: Between the Tomb and the Kremlin Wall is a corridor where the final resting places of all of Russia's Communist leaders, save Khrushchev, who is buried in a nearby cemetery, are memorialized. The leaders are interred within the Wall, which is called the Kremlin Wall Necropolis. The rules of the Tomb extend to this area, as two of my colleagues (who came later) found out. One of them had only hidden his camera; when he took it out and tried to take a picture of Stalin's monument, he was "detained" - grabbed and shouted at in both Russian and "AK-47" (waved inches from his face) until he was summarily released.

Back at the hotel, someone informed us that Lenin got "dipped" in wax every six months or so, which accounted for the waxy buildup on his face. She added that he also got a change of clothing from time to time. "Do his clothes change with the fashion?" asked one of the journalists. "Like, was he wearing a Nehru suit in the '60s?" (I think this question was answered by shoving more caviar at us.)

Still, looking at the soul-departed body of the man who changed the 20th century was a strange experience. My husband, who has gazed into the face of Ramses at the Egyptian Museum, knows what I'm saying.

It's like Christopher Marlowe's Dr. Faustus, for whom the Devil conjured a zombielike Helen of Troy. Without that spark of life that made them great, one can only look at their wizened remains, and wonder, like Faustus: "Is this the face that launched a thousand ships?"