EDITOR'S NOTE: This story is from the Inlander archives, having first been published on January 18, 2006. You'll notice the designation "Russian" as a catch-all descriptor throughout, as we did not differentiate between different nationalities and ethnic groups in our editing process at the time. Some of the people profiled here were from what is now Ukraine and other Slavic regions, but all of them are from countries that were part of the Soviet Union prior to 1991.
Last summer, there was a bad car accident out in Mead. As the Russian names of the victims were broadcast, I was reminded in this sad, strange way of Spokane's large Russian-speaking community from the cluster of republics that replaced the Soviet Union. The year before, the Chase Gallery at City Hall showed a retrospective of the work of Leonid Bergoltsev, a well-known Soviet photographer. Why would such a man have been drawn to Spokane? And whatever his reasons were, what kept him and all the other Russians — by recent estimates, some 25,000 Russian language speakers from places such as Russia, Ukraine, Moldova, Kazakhstan and Belarus — in our smallish Eastern Washington city when they might find much larger enclaves of their countrymen in Seattle or Portland or San Francisco?
The reasons, I discovered, are the same ones that have brought immigrants to these shores since the dawn of the nation: freedom from religious persecution, economic opportunity, ties to family already in America and attraction to a place that reminded them of the home they had left behind. Sometimes all of these converged at once. The religious refugees, by far the largest group, had first come in the late 1980s. I wondered how they had fared, whether they had put down roots and realized whatever version of the American dream they had been pursuing.
We learned the American immigrant story as children, slogging our way through grade school history classes, gaping at movies and TV miniseries. The oppressed or impoverished immigrant makes his way to our teeming shores, finds an unpleasant bottom-rung job, struggles to learn English and is sneered at and kicked around by those who got here before him, in a kind of immigrant hazing ritual. But — the story continues — through dint of hard work and just plain grit, he improves his lot. In a couple of generations, his American offspring are indistinguishable from the general tide of home-owning, beer-drinking, flag-waving, rugged individualists stretching from sea to shining sea. How, I wondered, did the Russians' stories compare to the larger American immigrant story?
ALEX KAPRIAN
If ever there was an immigrant success story, it is Alex Kaprian's. His flight to the United States also illustrates the story of Spokane's religious refugees from the Soviet Union. He grew up in a devout Christian family in Mariupol, Ukraine, and his memories of the Soviet government's persecution of his family are still vivid. Though he was one of the best students, he was not recognized for his talent in the government-run schools and he recalls being beaten up at school several times for being Christian. For the Soviets, Christianity presented an ideological threat to the ideals of the communist state, in which God had no place.
In the late 1980s came Gorbachev and glasnost, and in a kind of modern-day exodus, Jews and Christians began to leave the country that had never wanted them. Using fake Jewish passports, Kaprian, his six children and his pregnant wife left Ukraine in October 1989, landing first in Czechoslovakia, then Austria and, finally, Italy. Safely out of the Soviet Union, they revealed that they were Christians and were granted religious refugee status. Kaprian explains the passport ruse, saying that Christians had helped Jews during World War II, and the Jews remembered and helped Christians leave with them.
The family arrived in Fresno, Calif., in January 1990. Then 27 years old, Kaprian says he was "shocked at first" — at the astonishing abundance in the grocery stores, as well as the ethnic diversity of the community. He soon began preaching at an immigrant church, whose members saw in him the potential to be a leader. In 1992, the family moved again, to Spokane, where his wife had relatives and where he says some houses were going for $40,000 and federal programs offered help even if a family was on public assistance. He found a job with the International Refugee Council, then in 1993 he started with DSHS as a community worker serving refugees.
Meanwhile, he had begun a little church, with just a few families from Mariupol. But Kaprian says he had "a vision from God" of a new church, a more American sort of church, one based purely on the Bible. In January 1994, with just 48 people, Kaprian created Pilgrim Slavic Baptist Church. Here, Kaprian says, "we accept everybody," and the church has shown the growth to prove it. Membership now stands at around 600 souls, and as many as 1,000 attend morning and evening Sunday services. There is a children's Sunday school, a youth group, a choir and even a Web site.
"For immigrants," Kaprian says, "the church is everything."
THE KAPRIAN KIDS
In America, there is a longstanding pattern among immigrants that the older people stick closest to the ways of the old country. Their dress, their food, the holidays they celebrate and the language they speak are taken from the country of their birth far more than their adopted country. Young people, sponge-like and adaptable, are one sure measure of how "Americanized" immigrants are. Whether the yardstick is how well they speak English, where they work, who their friends are, or with whom they fall in love, children of immigrants have often ventured further into the broader society, even as they remain strongly influenced by their parents' values. Somehow, they manage to straddle two cultures, and Pilgrim Slavic's Pastor Alex Kaprian's kids are no exception.
Kaprian has nine children; the oldest is 25. Three of them were born in the United States, the other six in Ukraine. Alexei, now 22, was a year old when the Kaprians arrived in Fresno. His two sisters, Veranika, 17, and 15-year-old Tanya, were born in the States. Unlike most Americans of his age, Alexei has two young sons. He works full time as a dispatcher for a trucking company and on Sundays preaches at church. Though he took college classes for two quarters, he's too busy for school right now, he says. "I might go back someday — no time right now. I'm interested in real estate."
He graduated from Lewis and Clark High School but spent little time on school activities or sports. Alexei says, "I guess I felt like I'd have to make my parents pay for it." Instead, he was deeply involved in church activities, including choir and playing saxophone in the orchestra. At home, he adds, "There were always plenty of chores," which rotated among all the Kaprian children. In addition to housework, they were responsible for large projects, too, such as putting in a new garden at the house.
Alexei says he got into a lot of fights at school. He remembers kids tossing insults at him, such as, "You stupid Russian." He says, "No matter how long you live here, you still get picked on." So when it came to friends, "almost all the time friends [were] from church." His parents actively discouraged hanging out with people who weren't Christian. "They were really good about watching who we were friends with." And Mom and Dad found out when the kids strayed: "Every little thing that happens in Spokane, the whole city knows," says Alexei, smiling, "especially Russian-Ukrainian people." Between the ties of culture and church, "we're all together constantly." Even so, he says lots of Russian kids do fall away from the immigrant church because some parents are more permissive and American churches are less strict.
Alexei and his wife Zina met at church youth camp and started dating when she was 16. Since Zina wasn't permitted to go out, he spent time with her under her parents' watchful eyes. Girls are carefully chaperoned, he says, "especially until you gain the trust of the parents. If you're on your own too much you want to do other things." No one thought Zina was a particularly young bride, though, because Russian Christians feel 18 is old enough for girls to marry. Many wed by age 20, 17-year-old Veranika chimes in, and "most girls plan to marry Russian guys. Russian girls make good wives," she says, something even American guys know. But parents stress the importance of marrying other Russian Christians. Of her many cousins, only one has married an American.
As with any immigrant group, language can be a source of tension, and for these teens, peer pressure comes into it as well. "Americans get angry when they hear, like, you talking Russian with a friend," Tanya says. "They're like, 'Stop talking Russian; I can't tell what you're saying.' And we're like, 'Sorry, this is who I am.'"
At gatherings with Russian-speaking relatives, Alexei says, American friends can feel uncomfortable as the Russian flows around them and the jokes go over their heads. But despite the fact that Russian was her first language and the one spoken at home, Tanya says, "I can express myself better in English. It's fun to speak in Russian because that's our native language, but it's more comfortable to speak American." Veranika adds, "Yeah, my Russian's, like, really basic. I can't express myself as much; I sometimes can't find the right words to say what I want to say like I can in English. Even with my Russian friends, we speak half and half because we both understand it."
TATYANA BISTROVSKY
Tatyana Bistrevsky warns Americans that Russians are not habitual smilers, but this tall, dark-haired woman with the contagious laugh and the vivacious personality contradicts her own observation. Bistrevsky left Ukraine to come to the United States 16 years ago, landing first in Tacoma, and later relocating to Spokane to be close to her father, who was in poor health and preferred the four-season climate, so much like home, to the ubiquitous rain and gray skies west of the Cascades.
When it comes to the adjustment to American life, Bistrevsky zeroes in immediately on the biggest hurdle: "I was coming to the United States without any English," she says. Though she studied English books before she left Ukraine, she memorized the words without knowing the meaning. "I was able to say, 'My name is Tatyana; this is my husband.' Just a few phrases — not much, not much. I forced myself to learn!" she laughs. She realizes now she may have underestimated the language barrier but she points out the family didn't know where they would end up. Her husband's mother was Jewish, so they might have gone to Israel. Looking back, she says, "I was ready to move. I just put all my trust in God." Once in the States, she says, "I used body language a lot. For five years, I bought the same things — I was afraid to buy different product at grocery store because I couldn't read labels." She also used TV to learn English, she says. "Sesame Street, yes — I learned together with my kids!"
Like any immigrant group, Russian parents usually learn some English, she says, but it "depends on their personal desire." Her older sister has also been here for 16 years but has remained a homemaker, and has not sought a job or further education. The kids, however, all speak English, which can lead to role reversal among the generations — and a lot of tension. "Because [the kids] already became American, parents have to ask their advice, they have to ask their guidance, they have to ask them to translate. They rely on them." Not so with Bistrevsky, who teaches classes on food and nutrition to other immigrants and consults on immigrant issues with agencies like Spokane Regional Health District; it is others who rely on her.
AS HEALTHY AS AMERICANS?
Food, dress, language — there are all kinds of ways to consider how far an immigrant community has acculturated, and health can be a telling barometer of Americanization. In August, the Spokane Regional Health District published the Slavic Community Health Survey, comparing health habits and data among Slavic-speaking immigrants and English-speaking, native-born Americans. At one level, the Slavic community blends seamlessly into Spokane's mostly pale-complected population as just one more European group absorbed into a larger one. But even after more than 15 years, the language and cultural background of the Russian-speaking community make for real distinctions between it and the larger culture.
Because many observe religious restrictions, Slavic adults are much less likely to drink alcohol, smoke cigarettes or get divorced than the general population. But they are also less likely to have health insurance, get preventive health screenings (such as pap smears) or be seen by a dentist. More of them report that they live in poverty. They suffer in greater numbers from high blood pressure, depression, anxiety and high stress. Only a small number exercise as recommended or eat the recommended five daily servings of fruits and vegetables, and they are also more likely to suffer from obesity.
In keeping with the immigrant pattern, the young take on the habits and attitudes of the surrounding culture more quickly, for good and ill. Though many live in homes in which the adults do not smoke or drink, Slavic teens and young adults use tobacco and alcohol at virtually identical rates to their English-speaking peers. They are only slightly behind English speakers in choosing not to drink and drive. But when it comes to personal safety, they trail American youth in wearing seat belts or using a helmet when riding a bike. And they are far more likely to have been the target of offensive racial comments or physical attacks based on their ethnicity.
A couple of disparities that appear to affect Slavic girls relate to physical violence and weight control. When asked, "[Did] your boyfriend or girlfriend ever hit, slap, or physically hurt you on purpose" in the past 12 months, nearly 21 percent of Slavic youth said yes, compared to 5 percent of English speakers. In general, the unfortunate fact is that it is largely men who hit women, so unless that pattern differs strongly among youth, Slavic girls may be the victims of significantly more violence in relationships. Since weight control is an area where girls are more likely to go to unhealthy extremes than boys, the 32 percent of Slavic youth who reported fasting, taking diet pills, vomiting or taking laxatives, compared to 14 percent of English speakers, are likely to be disproportionately girls. Even factoring in distortions due to small sample size or language barriers, the Slavic population — though it may resemble Spokane superficially — has not assimilated totally.
ERIC MILLER
A man of compact build who speaks with only a slight Russian accent, Eric Miller's youthful looks belie his long workdays at Mariupol Market on Sprague Avenue. Miller, who is Alex Kaprian's brother-in-law, landed first in Fresno, Calif., where he lived for seven years. He attended Fresno Pacific University, earned a degree in history and went on to Fresno State to pursue a teaching degree. He wanted to teach secondary school but by that time the family had moved to Spokane to be near relatives. Miller remembers clearly the winter when family members arrived and the 1996 ice storm was wreaking havoc. He found work as a community liaison with the Spokane Regional Health District for a couple of years, but in 1999, he decided to open a small market on North Monroe catering to Russian immigrants. It was "a challenging year and a half," he recalls, marked by "lots of mistakes." His store competed against Kiev Market, which baked its own bread, he says, drawing a lot of customers.
After absorbing many such lessons, he sought advice from the Small Business Administration, eventually opening the larger store on Sprague. Together with his partner, he added breads baked fresh on the premises, as well as smoked meats and fish. At first, he says, with the sluggish economy in Spokane, it was a challenge to make money. But in time, immigrants from Ukraine and Belarus found their way to the store for familiar foods from the old country. Now sales are growing and Mariupol Market is doing fine. Miller's kids, however, want to become professionals. He encourages them because it's an easier life — one with better hours, holidays and vacations. In the store, at the end of the day, he says, "you still have to mop the floor."
Traditionally, owning a business has not been admired in Russian society, says Miller. In fact, right after the Russian revolution, it was prohibited altogether. But Baptists had no higher education or well-paid jobs because Russian society shut them out, he says. So among them, it was good to be in business. Nowadays, Russian immigrants often go into construction because it can be lucrative but does not involve much capital. Immigrants can underbid Americans but still offer high quality, he says. Long-haul trucking offers similar advantages, so Russians buy used trucks and compete by taking lower profits. Some even become successful enough to own trucking fleets.
Miller is familiar with the criticisms of immigrants who supposedly make it tough for Americans by accepting less money or working under bad conditions, but he points out they are in a no-win situation. Either they are criticized for taking jobs from Americans and lowering standards, or for taking public assistance if they are not working. Besides, he smiles, "That's what you call competition."
NASTASIA COHEN
To all appearances, Nastasia Cohen is a successful go-getter. She's been in the United States for a couple of years and already has her own business as a Russian interpreter. She also has her own Saturday morning radio show targeted at Russian speakers on the Thin Air community radio station, KYRS. Cohen came to the West not as a religious refugee, but as an educated young Russian woman seeking economic opportunity that she couldn't find back home. With the advent of perestroika and the devaluation of the ruble, she says, the Soviet system "crumbled by the time I was out of high school. Before, your education guaranteed you a place of work. I wanted to have a different future."
She thought she might as well chance it in the West, where she could put her education to better use, maybe even go to medical school. She headed for Canada because she knew people who had emigrated and they said it was a beautiful country, with a climate much like Russia's. She met and married an American man and they now have their own home in Spokane.
But even with all Cohen has accomplished here, she looks back at the old Soviet system and sees some benefits over the go-go, competitive, free-market West. Yes, mobility was restricted under the far-reaching Soviet registration scheme, with every citizen registered in a particular city, entitling them to an apartment allocated by the government — "just to keep everyone under control," she shrugs. But, "everything was free. People could retire." There were also paid vacations for all workers and she says pregnant women received a three-year paid maternity leave. "It's really nice ... Medicine is free. Here, insurance companies run hospitals, so do you really think your doctor is trying to do the best for you?"
Not that she's forgotten the bad stuff. No stranger to religious persecution herself — her father is Jewish — Cohen acknowledges the lack of religious freedom but thinks it has been overblown. "My father suffered from it, but so what? It was not that bad. You just keep doing what you're supposed to be doing — work hard, study hard. Keep your religion to yourself," she says, recalling the Easter cakes her Orthodox mother would bake to celebrate the holiday in their home. "Don't bring trouble on yourself."
While Cohen acknowledges the greater freedoms of the West, she has been here long enough not to idealize it. People back in Russia think everyone is wealthy, she says. "Oh, you live in America. Everything is great. You have so much money" It's almost like they think "as soon as you cross the border, someone is supposed to give you two suitcases loaded with money," she laughs.
But when she thinks back to life in Russia, she remembers the vitality of the streets, the sense of community, and compares it to the isolation of the West, with people enclosed in their cars, always in a hurry. As the economy improves there, she sometimes daydreams about returning to be part of it again, though she's pretty sure her American husband might not be so eager.
LEONID BERGOLTSEV
When the immigrant story sticks to the script, the "tired, huddled masses" come to these shores, throw off oppression and poverty, and step into the American dream of freedom and success. They love this country, think it's the best place in the world and never consider going back. But life doesn't always stick to the script.
Leonid Bergoltsev is a short, stocky man who says his best days are behind him. From 1958-72, he was a globe-trotting photographer with the magazines Soviet Life and Soviet Union. He had a large apartment in Moscow and received dozens of awards for his work. But it is America, he says, that is the "motherland of real-life photography. Life magazine, 1936-1972" — he trots out the magazine's dates from memory — "was my manual during a lot of years." The professional's secret is simple but elusive, says Bergoltsev: "A real magazine photographer must be in right place at right moment and if so, at that moment, God will push with his finger."
He came to America in the late '80s at the invitation of local photographer Don Hamilton. While here, Bergoltsev's daughter Olga met and fell in love with an American man, and so the family came to America. Chance brought this meet-cute here, not a dream of a better life in America. And Bergoltsev admits he misses Russia: "There can be no new motherland — only one, like mother."
But the motherland has moved on. Visiting Moscow four months ago, he saw a Russia that was absolutely another country. People were very different, he says, "more materialistic, closer to America." Scores of Mercedes and SUVs are nudging aside the Russian Lada, the gritty, trusty workhorse of Russian winters. In the country where the ideal had been equality among comrades, the gap between rich and poor now yawns. "Most [Russian] people are much poorer than before," he says.
As for America, shrugs Bergoltsev, "In this country, dollar rides first." Renown and prestige are no substitute, apparently. He looked for work in his field, but didn't hear from employers who promised to call. His friend Don Hamilton organized a retrospective of his work at the Chase Gallery in 2004, but the photographer whose work has been compared with Cartier-Bresson was disappointed that more people did not see it, even as he praises Hamilton for his efforts.
He and his wife Nina live in a modest apartment in Hillyard and get by on Social Security and Bergoltsev's part-time office job. Life consists of two parts, he says, the material and the spiritual. In Russia, the material life is harder but the spiritual life is much better. As to this country's celebrated freedom, says Bergoltsev, "It's very good when it brings some result. In America, you can say anything you want, but they won't listen."
VICTORIYA MCFARLAND
If you spotted 31-year-old ESL teacher Victoriya McFarland on the street, you would assume the petite blond in the brown denim jacket and slacks was just another young American woman. Not until she begins to speak, with the rolling Rs of her native Ukraine, would you believe that she came to Spokane from Alushta, a picturesque city of about 50,000 on the mild Crimean coast.
Thoughtful and earnest, McFarland trained as a teacher at what is now the University of Pushkin in Ukraine and taught middle school and high school for two years. She came to Spokane in October 2003, not as a religious refugee, but with her American husband, whom she had met while he was serving as a Christian missionary in Ukraine after retiring from the Army. She and her husband spent time at a children's cancer hospital where they told Bible stories and played music to entertain the children.
McFarland has a temporary permit to teach adult ESL, but just before Thanksgiving, she took the test required for a Washington teaching certificate. Four-and-a-half hours long with dozens of short answers as well as essays, she exclaims, it was "too much information at once." There is an even more challenging test to pass, and then she will be able to continue as an adult ESL teacher or teach language arts to children in the public schools. Though she enjoys both, she jokes, "Adults are easier to teach, but children are more challenging and interesting. Sometimes kids, like dogs, taking you for walk."
In Ukraine it would be unusual for a woman of her age not to have a family. Taking an American outlook on having children, she says she may wait until she is in her late thirties or even early forties.
When she visited her family in Ukraine recently, her former students teased, "You left us for America." She saw the changes that had taken place and realized, "I could be so useful there." She has thought about going back, but when she saw again the corruption in local elections, she decided there was no going back. She has a good husband and plans for the future. Spokane is her home now.
CRIME AND SUSPICION
You've probably heard the whispers about Russian immigrants involved in crime, many of them whirling around the supposed chop shops, where stolen cars are dissected for parts. Of course, part of the immigrant experience in America is contending with the suspicious glances of the native-born. We may be a nation of immigrants, but we have a long tradition of viewing the newest arrivals as a threat to labor as they take jobs for less pay and drive wages down, or as a drain on the public purse if unemployed, or as criminals taking a shortcut to the American dream. It's been no different for the Russians in Spokane.
Detective Scott Anderson of the Spokane Police Auto Theft Unit says, "There's not a whole lot of trust there," when it comes to the Slavic community and the police. "They are a close-knit community, and we are outsiders." But the lack of information is "not so much of a language barrier — it's more of a culture thing." He continues, "I'm not sure how much they feel comfortable coming forward with information." Still, Slavic criminal involvement is "proportional to the rest of community. Whether they're Eastern European or born and raised here, we have a handful of criminals one way or the other."
He has heard the whispers that Russians are involved in chop shops — but whispers, of course, are not evidence: "We hear the same kinds of rumors and suspicions that you do, but ... where's the proof?" Trust between police and the community is critical because police get information, explains Anderson, when someone runs afoul of the law, blames someone else, and then "they come to us and tell us what's going on."
All of which leads to the question of community outreach. SPD spokesperson Dick Cottam says there is no one at the department who speaks Russian, nor is there anyone assigned to work with Russian speakers to build the trust that's lacking. Budget cuts to the department have reduced the number of community liaison officers and Cottam says any improvement is "at least three years off." The suspicion from the Slavic community is understandable, says Cottam. "Because of their language, culture and history, they tend to be clannish, like any group. That's true everywhere. But it also keeps them from mixing in and becoming part of the community."
LYUBOV, YEFIMIYIA AND VERA
Victoriya McFarland's adult ESL class meets three days a week in the basement recreation room of the Lincoln Heights Garden Apartments on the South Hill. The 20 warmly dressed retirees who crowd around the long folding tables on this chilly Wednesday morning threatening snow are all Russian-speaking religious refugees. They are mostly women, too — only three men among them. You may have seen some of them, perhaps at Costco or Wal-Mart, and you probably guessed they weren't from around here. The exuberant patterns of their head scarves and knitted hats, their unstudied mix of prints and colors, and not a speck of make-up masking the lines on their faces — all suggest a lack of self-consciousness unusual in American women.
Three of these lively, opinionated older women have volunteered to stay after class and talk to the "Americanski" reporter, with 30-year-old Victoriya serving as interpreter. Sixty-nine-year-old Lyubov Meroshnik emigrated from Ukraine 10 years ago and helped many immigrants pass the citizenship test during the three years she taught the class. Victoriya says, "She doesn't let me make mistakes!" Yefimiyia Bayrak, 59, is from Moldova and has been studying English for eight months. Vera Kolosova came from Kazakhstan and has spent six months in the class.
The hardest thing about not knowing English is not being able to speak to Americans, fellow Christians in particular, to help them understand the Bible properly, says Yefimiya, and not being able to talk to the friendly American neighbor who tries to chat with her. They've used the tools at hand to learn English on their own, too, including watching the news on TV, borrowing language instruction tapes from the library and using the dictionary to look up unfamiliar words. To get even this far, of course, all of them had to master the Roman alphabet. Yefimiya says she had an easier time because Moldovans use it rather than the Cyrillic alphabet. They agree the biggest challenges are correct pronunciation and unfamiliar grammar, as when converting a statement ("You are hot") into a question ("Are you hot?"). Questioners in Russian, instead of reversing the word order, use inflections to make the meaning clear.
Though they are reluctant to venture anything that might be taken as criticism of their adopted country, these immigrants, like any such group, have noticed a few things about American culture — good and bad. American people are very hospitable, they say, and always wear a smile, which has taught them that "even when you are angry, you should smile." Don't Russians smile? They explain that Christians, persecuted for so many years, were afraid to be happy.
Women, they have noticed, are more independent here. Of the three, only Lyubov drives a car and Vera and Yefimiya explain that women back home rarely drive. They were surprised that women of all ages drive here — "even grannies!" says Victoriya. Vera says that her daughter drives her sometimes but "mostly I walk." Yefimiya, who has no car at all, used to walk all the way from her apartment on the South Hill to take English classes at the Institute for Extended Learning on North Monroe.
Vera thinks, "it's not quite right," how well family pets are treated. "It seems like American people like dog or cat more than children." Back home, only a valuable farm animal like a cow might be kept in a house to keep from being stolen. Yefimiya also has some thoughts on the American style of child-rearing. Parents are too permissive, she says, not giving enough "healthy punishment." Spanking, for example, should be meted out more often.
American families are less close-knit, too. Only Lyubov, who has been in Spokane the longest — 10 years — has seen four of her five children disperse throughout the States, with just one son left in Spokane. "In Ukraine, we all lived in one city, even when grown-up," she says. However, even these very religious older women agree with Victoriya that clergy back home often tend to abuse their power; they like that the clergy's influence here is not as strong.
Though they remain largely separated from their adopted country by language, these Russian elders are well satisfied with America on the whole and feel it takes good care of seniors. Yefimiya says, "They treat us like kings and queens!"
LIKE A GOOD RUSSIAN NOVEL...
Well, maybe not "kings and queens" exactly. Leonid Bergoltsev would certainly say differently. Nastasia Cohen might raise her eyebrows and talk about the lack of health care in the land of the free. The Kaprian children know about being picked on for speaking a different language, and just for being different.
But for all the reasons that brought them here — religious freedom, especially, but also reuniting with family and the chance for a better future for themselves and their children — they have been largely successful. They started with little but have improved their lot in a remarkably short space of time — less than 20 years. Most of them have learned some English — from passable to excellent — and combined it with further education to secure better jobs and ownership of their homes. They have started businesses and churches, and now their kids are beginning to have their own families, right here in the Lilac City.
Though they are a world away from Mariupol or Alushta or Novomoskovsk, most of them have found something in Spokane that reminds them of their homelands. They've put something of themselves in this place, too: Improbable as it may once have seemed, Russian stock has taken root in Eastern Washington soil. As in any good Russian novel, the story features an outsized cast of characters, along with plenty of poverty, oppression and struggle. But now they're here, and they seem inclined to stay. This Russian tale seems to be a bit less Tolstoy and a little more Twain. ♦
