Not long after I came to Altaiskoye, I had the bittersweet opportunity of being privy to yet another Russian cultural experience: the process of death and grieving. Natalya Mikhailovna had a neighbor, Oleg Anatolevich, who died in a car crash two weeks ago at the age of 40. Perhaps the saddest part was that, according to Natalya Mikhailovna, he was something of an alcoholic, if a friendly and benign one, and had died from his own negligence and irresponsibility. There's something about such a shameful, ignominious death that only adds an additional layer of sorrow, depriving the deceased's loved ones of the sort of consolation they might otherwise be able to salvage from so dreadful an occurrence.
The day after Oleg's death, his family held a wake in his apartment, outside of which I managed to take a picture of his coffin and Orthodox cross which was to mark his grave, though I felt somewhat ashamed, as though I were exploiting his death for the sake of a souvenir or curiosity -- I can only hope that the picture can help lead so some sort of enlightenment and understanding that might offset or justify any disrespect I may have paid to the deceased. The Orthodox cross, as you can see, looks like the cross used in any other sect of Christianity, except that it has two additional bars. The smaller one running horizontally across the top symbolizes the sign the Romans hung to mock Jesus -- "Iesus Nazarenus, Rex Iudaeorum" or "Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews" The larger bar that hangs aslant across the bottom symbolizes the paths taken by the two criminals who were crucified alongside him: Dismas and Gestas, if memory serves me. One of them accepted the divinity of Jesus and was told, "You will soon be with me in the Kingdom of Heaven"; the other, it turns out, wasn't so lucky.
Several days later, Oleg's mother, Aunt Lyuda -- who had been a good friend of Natalya Mikhailovna's -- came over with her granddaughter Sasha (a student of mine) and began immediately discussing all the grim details with Natalya Mikhailovna. It turns out that Oleg was the only person Aunt Lyuda had to help her with all the difficult labor that had to be done (harvesting crops, chopping firewood, etc.), although Sasha -- bless her heart -- tried to console her grandmother by saying she would try to do all the work. Aunt Lyuda has another son -- Sasha's father -- who lives out in Vladivostok and wanted to be able to make the funeral, but he was serving in the army and couldn't get a break until weeks later. According to Russian custom, the family of the deceased has pominki (which my dictionary translates as "funeral repast", although I don't currently have an English-to-English dictionary to translate that phrase; basically, it's a memorial feast in the deceased's honor) several times on particular days (the 3rd and 9th, and the 40th, as well as one or two other days I've forgotten), although Aunt Lyuda doesn't know if she'll be able to find the money to pay for it all, especially as she has to buy memorial spoons to give out to everyone at one of the memorial meals.
Apparently, superstition has it that the spirit of the deceased leaves for its final resting place only on the fortieth day, after the morning process has finally come to an end (Aunt Lyuda also has to wear a head scarf for 40 days as a sign of mourning; there's also an Armenian custom that male friends and family of the deceased don't shave their beards for forty days [their women, on he other hand, don't shave their beards even then]). Lyuda believes that the spirit of her son is still with her, and knocked a bottle of kvass (a nonalcoholic fermented beverage with a taste similar to that of beer) -- his favorite drink -- out of her hand as a way of letting her know about his presence. She also recounts a story about a man she knew who got remarried within 40 days after his wife died: apparently his wife appeared to Aunt Lyuda and another woman in a dream on the same night and spoke the same exact words, and that very night, the overeager husband was literally thrown out of his bed by some sort of supernatural force. All in all, an extremely unfortunate affair. I want to offer some words of consolation to Aunt Lyuda, but I know neither her nor the customary phrases well enough to find anything to say. Oh well, hopefully what I've written can serve as some sort of humble tribute. May you rest in peace, Oleg Anatolevich.
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