Of Soviet Santas & Snegurochkas

In the Soviet past, when most Russians were employed at huge working collectives, Ded Moroz figures began paying visits to households from December 22 and continued through January 2. Parents of children did not have to pay for the visit, as it was covered by the local trade union. They merely had to purchase gifts for their children beforehand and then pass them on to the fairy tale hero. The job of Ded Moroz was taken quite seriously by directors of factories or institutes, as the Ded Moroz was officially exempted from work.

Individual visits by Ded Morozes could also be arranged through the then famous firm Zarya, which specialized in social services. Today, a visit by a Zarya Ded Moroz costs at least 300 rubles. Competitors often charge 700 rubles ($27) and more. But in the 1970s, a visit cost just three rubles, fifty kopeks; a visit on December 31 cost five rubles. The average Moscow Ded Moroz would make 5-10 visits per day.

Two of the main criteria for a good Ded Moroz were height and artistic talent. Yuri Davydov had both. A staff writer with Family Council magazine (which focuses on preservation of family traditions), Davydov “worked” as Ded Moroz while he was in secondary school and continued his job while working at the NII  (Research Institute) on Land Planning.

“I remember one of those New Year’s,” Davidov said. “it was in 1970. It was during those famous years they now call the ‘period of stagnation.’ It was some sort of euphoria—there were certain boundaries for behavior at our research institute, but once you were out, nobody stopped you from having fun. Our girls at the institute had sewn a special velvet suit for me, then made a huge sack for gifts. Then they gave me a huge list of people to tour. We would visit people’s homes district-by-district—Moscow is  huge.

“There were two ways of preparing Yuletide gifts for kids: parents of families would visit me at work to hand over previously purchased gifts before the visit, or, sometimes, on January 1st or 2nd, the host would open the door and quickly give the present to me. And a couple of minutes later the children would arrive and I would begin reciting my usual greetings:

ü, ∂·flÚ‡, ·˚Î ‚ ÔÓÎÂÚÂ

‚ ‡ÍÚË‚ÌÓÏ Ò‡ÏÓÎÂÚÂ,

fl Ó·¸ÂÁ‰ËÎ ˆÂÎ˚È Ò‚ÂÚ —

Ë ÔË‚ÂÁ Ç‡Ï ‚ÒÂÏ ÔË‚ÂÚ

(Kids, I am back from a flight  around the world on a turbo plane and I bring you my greetings.)

“Some kids were scared. In this case, I might take off the artificial beard and say ‘Don’t worry, I am just a normal man like everyone else.’ But when the kids were not scared, they would ask to ride on my back or to sit inside the huge sack. Those 10 and older would be suspicious of the disguise—their elder brothers and sisters must have told them about the origins of Ded Moroz.

“But the little ones loved it! One time, as I was dancing my usual dance, I hit the apartment’s chandelier with my head. I caught it just as it was about to fall on my head and, as a result of the bump, it lit up. The kids started applauding, ‘He fixed our electricity, he is a true magician, our Ded Moroz.’ Sometimes you would enter, asking: ‘Where are the kids?’ ‘Oh, forget it,’ the parents would say. ‘They are sleeping. Let’s go straight to the kitchen.’ Remember? The most important things in the Soviet Union always happened in the kitchen?”

The most interesting part of the job, Davydov said, was comparing the homes of rank and file employees those of bosses—the latter were shy about showing how well they lived. “We sort of entered peoples’ sacred space. You would visit a simple mortal and it was all pretty  shabby. But in the case of an institute director or his deputy, you would see crystal all over the place. The bosses would make a point of taking you right to the kitchen, so that you wouldn’t be able to look around the whole apartment.”

The hardest thing for any Ded Moroz was enduring the alcohol. “Quite often, I had quite a mixture in my stomach at the end of the day. Sometimes, when it was possible and if the hosts were distracted, I would pour the drinks on my beard. When we were drinking vodka, it worked okay. But when we would drink something else, like cognac or red wine, my cotton beard got stained.”

People didn’t economize on hospitality, Davydov said. “You know what all the hosts feared most? That the Ded Moroz would think he was not treated properly to beverages and food. Once, I remember that too much partying ended in a blow-up for our team. I was just holding a vodka glass, and then the door to the kitchen opened, a young kid who had woken up (and to whom I had just given a New Year’s gift) came in, stared at us and blurted out, ‘What?! Snegurochka is drinking too?!’ That was an embarassment.”

“But it wasn’t just about drinking or eating,” said Davydov. “Life seemed merrier, people were more open, money didn’t matter that much, we were all making R120 or R180 a month at best. Once, I was riding a metro a few minutes before New Year’s. I realized I was late and I had a bottle of champagne with me. When I knew the clock was about to strike 12, I called out to everyone in the metro car: ‘Hey, guys, it’s the New Year already!’ Everyone was so enlivened. I opened the bottle and those who couldn’t find any replacement for a crystal glass cupped their hands together and had a drink. I can’t picture this happening today. In terms of people-to-people relations, we have lost much more than we have gained. I lived in a 5-story house and I would also play the Ded Moroz in our part of the building. Every neighbor would let you in without even asking who it is.  And today you can’t do this anymore. Everyone has installed a steel door.”

In a recent movie, Bednaya Masha (Poor Masha), a burglar finds out that a Ded Moroz will be visiting the apartment of a rich “New Russian.” So the burglar intercepts the Ded Moroz, puts on his costume and proceeds to steal lots of cash from the rich man’s apartment. But then the burglar falls prey to the tradition of proferring Ded Moroz with drinks—he drinks a shot of cognac left out by the apartment owner and wakes up tied to a chair. The host, apparently suspicious, had added sleeping powder to the drink.

“I can’t even imagine such a film in our day,” Davydov said. “Ded Moroz was a sacred figure. When I was driving up to a house at rush hour and had to walk through the courtyard, everyone would approach and kiss me—then we were not scared by AIDS or anything. We were very friendly back then. Today, these traditions are often broken or being lost. But then, in the end, it all depends on individual families. It doesn’t take much to buy a fir tree or arrange for a Ded Moroz visit among friends or colleagues. I think for kids who are brought up in normal families, it will continue. I know many families of my generation who still do this, though not on the same scale as it used to be.”

Davydov chalks the lost traditions up to the increasing individualism of Russian society. “We stopped living in a collective—back then a working collective was everything. And all these big things they are preparing for New Year’s in Moscow, with the Ostankino TV tower and all, looks artificial to me. I don’t think it will add any joy to the households of ordinary Muscovites.

“This is all on the surface. In the past, each of us had New Year’s in our heart ... Remember how sad it was to see a fir tree ditched in the snow the first days of January? Because it symbolized the end of a fairy tale. When I think that, for so many people, this fairy tale today will never begin ... I think our Russian heart is broken, this is what ...  If it heals and we put its pieces back together, then we will have a true New Year’s again.”