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Narrated by Fred Sanders
Joshua YaffaUnabridged — 14 hours, 58 minutes
Narrated by Fred Sanders
Joshua YaffaUnabridged — 14 hours, 58 minutes
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…a deep and revealing portrait of life inside Vladimir Putin's Russia…Yaffa mines a rich vein, describing his subjects' moral compromises and often ingenious ways of engaging a crooked bureaucracy to show how the Kremlin sustains its authoritarianism…The calculus of compromise Yaffa describes enables him to get to the heart of how the current regime has returned Russia to its traditional political culture.
★ 10/28/2019
Modern Russians strive to serve several masters—conscience, self-interest, and an overbearing government, among them—in this searching, vividly reported debut from New Yorker Moscow correspondent Yaffa. Russian sociologist Yuri Levada’s theory of the “wily man”—a personality type focused on coping with a repressive state that, though it can’t be defeated, can be manipulated for personal gain—provides the framework for understanding Russian society under President Vladimir Putin’s soft authoritarianism, Yaffa contends. He probes this dynamic in profiles of people pursuing worthy goals through unavoidable yet sordid compromises: a liberal television news producer who bends his talents toward glorifying Putin; a human rights activist who stifles criticisms of the Kremlin-backed government in Chechnya so she can help individual victims of the regime; a saintly doctor who tries to save medical refugees from the separatist war in Ukraine by soliciting aid from—and praising—the Russian officials who sponsored the war. Yaffa’s account unfolds like a great Russian novel as shrewdly observed characters wrestle with subtly ironic dilemmas. “One must know when to cower from the state’s blows,” he writes, “and when to slyly ask for a favor.” This superb portrait of contemporary Russia is full of insight and moral drama. (Jan.)
A wonderfully insightful book . . . It is to Mr Yaffa’s credit that in general he avoids simplifying. Even when he describes people who seek cynical advantage from the powerful, the picture is never completely dark; when he portrays moral heroes, he never presents them as infallible. That is how things are in life, perhaps nowhere more so than in Russia.”—The Economist
“A deeply reported account of what it's like to live in Putin's Russia, but it's not about Twitter bots or influencing foreign elections or even Vladimir Putin himself. . . . Yaffa gives us insight into Putin by helping us better understand the political culture that produced him.”—NPR
“Superb . . . [An] excellent new book. . . . Yaffa has distinguished himself with his rigor, his acumen, and his nuanced voice. . . . His in-depth reporting consistently allows him to move beyond the headlines, revealing the deeper historical and sociological patterns that underpin that notoriously contradictory country.”—Foreign Affairs
“Yaffa skilfully weaves together perceptive descriptions of flesh-and-blood people with a balanced evocation of the wider political and historical context. Yaffa has a good eye for colourful detail . . . and he proves attentive to the subtleties and ambiguities of Russian life.”—Tony Wood, Financial Times
“A fascinating and nuanced account that illuminates the myriad conflicting and often contradictory forces that have shaped the Russia of today.”—Douglas Smith, The Wall Street Journal
“[A] highly original and riveting account . . . Good and not-so-good men and women are forced to make difficult choices—and Joshua Yaffa’s remarkable book is a guide to the pain and pleasure of their lives in the public arena.”—Robert Service, Foreign Policy
“Deeply reported and detailed . . . A fascinating exploration into the beliefs and psyches of Russians in many different career fields who reveal their souls to Yaffa, often to a surprising degree but with little apparent fear of reprisal.”—San Francisco Chronicle
“Between Two Fires stands a rank above most publications of its genre because of its effective shoe-leather reporting. Not content with analyzing media coverage or online debates, Yaffa has sought out and interviewed both his central characters and their friends, enemies, and former supporters.”—Greg Afinogenov, Bookforum
“Between Two Fires is a study of compromise, opportunism, and the fraught moral choices available in Putin’s Russia.”—Anne Applebaum, author of Red Famine and Gulag
“In Between Two Fires, Joshua Yaffa brilliantly captures the complex choices and compromises that Russians make to survive, thrive, or remain true to their principles in Putin’s Russia.”—Michael McFaul, former U.S. ambassador to Russia and author of From Cold War to Hot Peace
01/01/2020
Moscow-based New Yorker correspondent Yaffa has been reporting on Russia since first traveling to the county as a college student. In his first book, Yaffa profiles various Russians, from politicians to artists to historians, who have grown up and lived in the shadow of Vladimir Putin's political regime. The narrative begins with a study of Russia shortly before the end of the Cold War, showing how those living in strict environments have the ability to accept harsh rule, yet still manage to manipulate the system in order to achieve personal success. For example, Yaffa follows a humanitarian in Chechnya who can only fulfill their duties by ignoring atrocities and persecutions in that region. With sensitivity, the author tells the stories of people living in a repressive, authoritarian era, how they deal with moral and ethical issues, and how they use the system to their advantage in order to survive. VERDICT A worthy addition to any collection studying contemporary Russia or authoritarianism.—Jason L. Steagall, Arapahoe Libs., Centennial, Colorado
★ 2019-10-14
Memorable portraits of Russians living under Vladimir Putin.
In his first book, New Yorker Moscow correspondent Yaffa begins with Yuri Levada, a pioneering sociologist whose massive survey during the collapse of communism showed plummeting enthusiasm for a strong leader, desire for an honest appraisal of their nation's history, and more personal responsibility. He concluded that the passive if wily "Soviet Man" was disappearing in favor of a self-reliant individual yearning for freedom. In 2000, Levada reversed himself. Following the disastrous 1990s, Russians welcomed Putin, and they continue to give him approval ratings of over 80%. This is in "no small measure a product of the state's monopolistic control over television, the media with the widest reach, and its squelching of those who would represent an alternative." After this introduction, Yaffa delivers eight long, engrossing New Yorker-style profiles. One of the most significant of these figures is Konstantin Ernst, head of Channel One, Russia's largest TV network. "Even as Channel One faithfully transmits the Kremlin's line," writes the author, "it does so with a measure of professionalism and restraint" and demonstrates genuine creativity in apolitical areas such as culture and history. Among Yaffa's other powerful portraits are those of a saintly doctor who became a national hero caring for children during the gruesome Russian-Ukraine insurgency but found herself roped into endorsing the Russian side in a war she hated; a patriotic Russian entrepreneur in Crimea who despised living under the inefficient, corrupt Ukrainian government—while he rejoiced at Putin's takeover, he discovered that life was harder under a more efficiently corrupt Russia; and a human rights crusader who, frustrated at her impotence, took a job in the government human rights office, a largely ceremonial position that now and then allows her to do a good deed.
Gripping, disturbing stories of life under an oppressive yet wildly popular autocrat.
| BN ID: | 2940173991027 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Penguin Random House |
| Publication date: | 01/14/2020 |
| Edition description: | Unabridged |
Chapter 1
Master of Ceremonies
In the final days of 1999, just as he had each December for several years, Konstantin Ernst prepared to film the presidential New Year’s address. Ernst, then thirty-eight, with a face of cheerful, perpetual bemusement and a floppy mane of brown hair that nearly covered his shoulders, is the head of Channel One, the network with the country’s largest reach, a position that grants him the stature of an unofficial government minister. He is not only the chief producer of his channel, but also, by extension, the director of the visual style and aesthetics of the country’s political life—at least the part its rulers wish to transmit to the public. The New Year’s address, delivered at the stroke of midnight, is a way to do exactly that: a way for a Russian leader to impart a sense of narrative to the year past and offer some guiding clues and symbols for the year to come. The tradition took shape in the seventies, under Leonid Brezhnev, whose rule stretched on for so long that his droning, puffy-faced New Year’s addresses all blended together. Gorbachev tried to instill a sense of discipline and purpose in his New Year’s appearances, even as, with each passing year, the country was in a state of slow-motion disintegration.
Boris Yeltsin, who took power in 1991, continued the tradition. And so, on December 27, 1999, three days before the new millennium, Ernst and a crew from Channel One made their way to the Kremlin to film Yeltsin’s address ahead of time, to have everything ready in advance per long-standing practice. By the late nineties, Yeltsin, once a feisty, charismatic advocate of democratic reform, had entered a spiral of decay of both body and spirit, becoming an enervated shell of his former self. He was still capable of episodic vitality, but was largely weakened and chiefly concerned with leaving office in a way that would keep him and his family safe and immune from prosecution. The country was only a year removed from a devastating financial crash that had led the government to default on its debt and saw the ruble lose 75 percent of its value; at the same time, Russian troops were fighting their second costly war in a decade in Chechnya, a would-be breakaway republic in the Caucasus. Ernst watched as Yeltsin sat in front of a decorated tree in the Kremlin reception hall and spoke a few saccharine words into the camera, the standard appeal to unity and patriotism and the opportunities of the new year—including, as Yeltsin mentioned, the upcoming presidential election in the spring that would determine his successor.
After he finished, as the Channel One crew was packing up, Yeltsin told Ernst that he wasn’t satisfied with his address. He said he didn’t like the way his words had come out, and he was also feeling hoarse—could they rerecord a new version sometime in the coming days? Ernst said yes, of course, but they should hurry, since there wasn’t much time left before the new year. Yeltsin proposed the thirty-first of December; Ernst pleaded for an earlier appointment, reminding him that given Russia’s massive size and eleven time zones, the clock strikes midnight in Chukotka—the first place the president’s address is aired—when it is still the early afternoon in Moscow. Fine, Yeltsin said, come on New Year’s Eve at five in the morning.
Ernst and his crew set up their equipment the night before, and returned before dawn on the morning of the thirty-first. Valentin Yumashev, Yeltsin’s son-in-law and confidant, quietly handed Ernst the text of Yeltsin’s new address. Ernst tried to contain his shock: Yeltsin was about to announce his resignation, departing the presidency in sync with the close of one millennium and the dawn of another. His successor would be Vladimir Putin, a politician whom most Russians were just getting to know: Putin had risen from bureaucratic obscurity to become head of the FSB, the post-Soviet successor to the KGB, and had been named Yeltsin’s prime minister four months earlier. Even as Yeltsin’s administration sputtered to a close, he was still capable of the dramatic, unexpected flourish—no one in his government, let alone the country at large, expected him to leave office before the end of his term. Ernst told a production assistant to enter the text into the teleprompter without letting anyone else in on the news. It should come as a surprise to everyone. At ten in the morning, Yeltsin entered the reception hall, took a seat, and began to speak.
“I have taken a decision, one which I pondered long and painfully. I am resigning today, the last day of the departing century,” Yeltsin began. He spoke with the labored cadence of a tired man. “Russia should enter the new millennium with new politicians, new faces, new people who are intelligent, strong, and energetic,” he said. His speech turned reflective, intimate even, spoken in a language of fallibility that Russians had not seen from their leaders before, and have not seen again. “I want to ask your forgiveness—for the dreams that have not come true, and for the things that seemed easy but turned out to be so excruciatingly difficult. I am asking your forgiveness for failing to justify the hopes of those who believed me when I said that we would leap from the gray, stagnating totalitarian past into a bright, prosperous, and civilized future. I believed in that dream, I believed that we would cover the distance in one leap. We didn’t,” he said. His physiognomy matched his words: his eyes were narrow and tired, his breathing heavy and full of pained effort. “I am leaving now. I have done everything I could.”
Yeltsin finished by rubbing a visible tear from his eye. The air in the room was heavy with emotion. Someone from the Channel One crew started to clap, then another, and soon they had all risen to give Yeltsin a standing ovation. They swarmed around him. The most experienced member of the team was a woman named Kaleria Kislova, a veteran producer, then seventy-three, who had filmed every New Year’s address going back to Brezhnev. She walked up to Yeltsin, her face ashen and uncertain, and asked him, “Boris Nikolayevich, how can it be?” He gave her a reassuring hug and said, chuckling, “Here it is, babushka, Saint George’s Day.” It was a moment of wry humor: Saint George’s Day, a holiday in late fall, entered Russian lore during serfdom, as the one time each year when an otherwise indentured peasant was free to move from one baron to another. Yeltsin and the Channel One crew drank champagne, toasting the new year and the import of the scene they had all just shared. Ernst was impressed by the gravity of Yeltsin’s decision: he had voluntarily given up power, an essentially unprecedented move in Russia’s political history—and, in so doing, had restored in Ernst’s mind the image of Yeltsin as a decisive and courageous politician. All the equivocating and sloppiness of the past few years seemed instantly swallowed up by this one moment.
The next order of business was for the Channel One crew to film a New Year’s address by Putin, which would air at midnight, after Yeltsin’s. Putin’s face looked young and taut on camera, a picture of vitality compared to the obviously unwell Yeltsin. “The powers of the head of state have been turned over to me today,” Putin said. His tone was serious, reassuring, businesslike. “I assure you that there will be no vacuum of power, not for a minute. I promise you that any attempts to act contrary to the Russian law and constitution will be cut short.”
Ernst got into a waiting car and set off with copies of both speeches, Yeltsin’s and Putin’s. He sped from the Borovitsky Gate, a commanding tower of red brick on the Kremlin’s western edge, and rode through the capital with a police escort, blue sirens flashing. He headed toward Ostankino, the sprawling complex of television studios and a 2,000-foot-high broadcast tower that beams out the country’s main stations, including Channel One. Once he arrived, Ernst handed over the cassettes and, exactly at noon, gave the order to broadcast Yeltsin’s address.
Ernst watched from his perch in the channel’s control room. Yeltsin hosted a lunch reception with ministers and generals in the Kremlin’s presidential quarters. “The chandeliers, the crystal, the windows—everything glittered with a New Year’s glow,” Yeltsin remembered later. A television was brought in, and his guests, some of the toughest men in the country, watched the announcement in total silence. Putin’s then wife, Lyudmila, was at home and hadn’t watched Yeltsin’s midday address, which meant she was confused when a friend called her five minutes after it ended to congratulate her. She presumed her friend was offering her a standard New Year’s greeting—until the friend explained that Lyudmila’s husband had become the acting president of Russia. A news segment on Channel One showed Yeltsin and Putin standing side by side in the Kremlin’s presidential office, a ceremonial passing of authority more persuasive than any election campaign event. On their way out, Yeltsin told Putin, “Take care of Russia.”
