The Secret Life of a Russian Santa Claus

The New Year’s Eve visit of Father Frost (Ded Moroz — Russia’s version of Santa Claus) is a cherished tradition in Russia. At least once in their young lives, little children are kept up late to see a masqueraded friend or relative come around and hand out toys to good little boys and girls ... And while the kids’ and parents’ side of this tradition’s “story” are easy to imagine, much less is known about those who are imposed upon to don the red robe and white beard ... So Russian Life asked a modern day Russian Santa Claus, Alexei Pospelov, to share his story.

It was my 13th visit and, as Father Frost for the Moscow design bureau Salyut, I was as red as my costume. Not that I minded the ominous number 13. I am never superstitious, not even on New Year’s Eve! It was just that the hosts were being far too hospitable. Instead of the routine ugoscheniye (treat) at the entrance to the apartment (a shot of vodka, plus a salty snack picked from a plate with a fork), they insisted on offering Marina (my Snegurochka, or Snowmaiden) and I two seats of honor at the New Year’s table.

Of course, I had only myself to blame for the dinner invitation. Sure, the vodka shot had gone down easily. But, after twelve previous “treats,” I had a hard time spearing a marinated mushroom from a bowl full of juicy marinade. So the young host, Irina, took pity on me. “Hey, take your time! Why don’t you sit with us for a while? The kuranty [Kremlin tower bells] have already struck 12! No sweat.”

“No sweat”?! Easy for her to say. This Ded Moroz was baking in his thick wool suit.

I loosened my long cotton beard and dreamed of a session in the banya. But that would have to wait. It was half past midnight and I had two more visits to make on my rounds. Both were in the neighborhood, so I dropped my half-full sacks of gifts on the pine needle-covered parquet, resigning myself to my fate.

I knew what was to come. Irina’s children were anxious to perform their “home assignments” so that they could earn the gifts brought by Ded Moroz. And by this thirteenth stop, truth be told, I wasn’t sure I could get through it. The repertoire rarely varied from house to house.

Of course, I would rather be playing my guitar and singing with friends or watching Ogonyok’s TV party or ... But no, the show must go on! Kids are kids and they need to have their party.

12-year old Masha was timid and stumbled over her first line of Pushkin: “Moroz I Solntse den chudesny...” (Frost and sun, it was a miraculous day.) Oops. That did it. My reddened mug must have frightened her—she burst into tears. Thankfully, Marina, the able Snowmaiden, pulled a pirated Barbie doll and some Red October chocolates from my bag and the jittery Masha was quickly consoled.

Younger brother Kostya was not old enough to be so nervous. He was happy and excited and had no trouble singing a capella: “V Lesu rodilas yolochka, v lesu ona rosla.” (Once upon a time a fur-tree was born, in a forest she grew...)

“Zimoy i letom stroynaya, zelyonya byla,” (“Green and slim it was in winter”) I interjected with a quick wink in Marina’s direction. Wasn’t I clever now! Happy with myself for this flourish, I drank down a shot of cognac, “to polish the whole thing,” and pulled a coveted plastic saber with shield from the bottom of my sack. Kostya was enthralled and immediately forgave my interruption of his performance.

Having completed the compulsory exercises, I knew this was the perfect time to make for the door and finish off those last two clients. But then Ira, alas, came traipsing in with the goryachee (main course): duck with apples. The temptation was overpowering. I had tasted more than my share of Stolichny salads and been stuffed with every salty snack imaginable tonight, but had not been offered anything hot. I hesitated and was lost...

“Nikakhikh ‘nyet’” (“I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer”), Irina declared, ever so sweetly, while blocking my only exit. The scent of baked duck wafted over me. All hope was lost.

“You want to offend my mother?” Irina continued. “This duck was made with her famous Antonovkas.” Irina nodded meaningfully toward the head of the table. There sat the apple grower in question, Galina Petrovna, obviously not a force to be trifled with.

Well, far be it for me to offend my host (or her mother), much less my stomach. Were it not for this coat and beard, I could truly en—

But wait! Irina, the angel, is sending the little ones off to bed. I guess every littlest dream can come true on New Year’s!

The fairy tale was over. I tossed off my beard, opened my coat, gave a meaningful glance in Marina’s direction and attacked the juicy duck “with all proletarian hatred,” as Gennady Petrovich Guskov, the head of our bureau’s trade union committee, loved to say.

As a matter of fact, if it were not for Gennady Petrovich, I might have been sitting home with friends on New Year’s. “There is the market now, Petrovich,” I said after being informed of the trade union’s decision. “You can even order a Baba Yaga to come visit, let alone a Father Frost.”

“Oh, sure, we’re going to have one of these new, private Ded Morozes,” Petrovich parried. “The ones that look more like a Santa Claus than one of our trusted Father Frosts. And how many of our employees could afford this ‘market alternative,’ eh? You tell me.”

“Not many,”I sheepishly admitted.

Before the trade union at Salyut had selected me as Father Frost, I thought of calling one myself. But to get a Ded Moroz to visit the kids would cost two to three hundred rubles. That’s half mother’s pension. I earn decent enough money, when you add in some moonlighting doing drawings for technical institute students. But 200 rubles just like that for a fairy tale? The moral costs alone are disabling—this money could buy fifteen, if not 20, lunches in the local canteen (dessert included!). Or five bottles of vodka ...

So, despite the expansion of all sorts of private businesses offering Ded Moroz services, Salyut employees stuck to the tried and true traditions. Our Ded Moroz would pay his visits thanks to the trade union’s “Holiday Fund.” And the bureau director would “sacrifice” his personal car for the night—easy enough when you are going to be sitting cozily at home around the New Year’s table ...

The hard part was to pick a Ded Moroz and Snegurochka who would willingly sacrifice their New Year’s to the common cause. Volunteerism had long since faded from memory, so Salyut tackled the problem in the usual way – by drawing a name from a fur hat. As the duty was taxing to health and hearth, last year’s Ded Moroz was automatically exempted from the drawing. But it seemed plenty others had negotiated other exemptions – this one was traveling, this one’s wife had the flu, this one was too old. So even before the paper was drawn, I knew my number was up. Needless to say, my kids were not happy with this turn of events ...

Irina’s duck was indeed delicious. The sour Antonovkas added just the right flavor to the meat and the potatoes roasted in duck fat simply melted in my mouth. Surely this would provide a good, protective layer for my stomach against the combined forces of the champagne (stops 6, 9 and 10) and vodka (all stops). Of course, I should have skipped the cognac ...

By now, the party at home is surely revving up. They must have taken the guitar from the wall and begun to sing ...

“Do you have a guitar?” I ask Irina. She returns with an old six-string Leningradskaya that had been hidden in a cupboard.

“It’s my dad’s,” she says. “I’m not sure it’s in tune. We thought Masha would play, but it turned out she hasn’t got the ear for it.”

I wiped the duck grease from my hands and lost myself in tuning the old guitar. I thought for a moment what to strum and the song came out before I myself had time to answer ... everyone knows Okudzhava’s “Miss Luck” ... and what is more important on New Year’s than luck?

Truth be told, I am of the Grebenshchikov or Time Machine generation. But it was Okudzhava’s night tonight. A night of sweet melodies and poignant lyrics. Irina asked for “The Grape’s Stone.” Galina Petrovna pined for “My Arbat.”

The cranberry liqueur—straight from Galina Petrovna’s dacha, someone murmured—had mysteriously appeared in the center of the table, glowing red in a chiseled glass carafe.

“Oh Arbat, my Arbat — you are my religion...”

Galina Petrovna was won over. She cut the honey pie and placed the first slice right in front of me. Irina filled a small glass with the ruby colored nalivka ...

“Hello ... Alexei! ... you there?”

“What the – Petrovich?! It’s you, is it? The one I have to thank for lying here on my death bead?” I looked over at the clock. Eight-o’clock. In the evening. I had slept through the first day of the new year.

“So, how was it?” Petrovich asked. “I heard that duck with apples played a bad trick on you, eh?”

I didn’t even have the strength to respond to the taunt. Holding up the phone was all I could muster and that was going fast.

“Never mind the Lukins and the Maslovs,” he continued. “Marina visited them today and delivered the gifts.”

“Akkhhhh, I never made it to the last two stops...” As if I didn’t feel miserable enough as it was.

“Take heart, Lyosha, last year the Ded Moroz had four no-shows. Everybody says you were great, really! Maybe you can make up for it by trying again next year, though, eh?”

I caught myself before replying with a tirade that I would later regret. Barely. “Sure,” I said, “if you play the Snowmaiden for me.”

“Me?! C’mon, how would a Snowmaiden look with a moustache and my ugly mug? It’s not like the disguise of a man as a woman is a fresh joke.”

“Well,” I said, “after the first couple of visits, what difference does it make anyway?”   RL