Memorandum to
Corpse-Worshiping

by Tatiana Pahlen

“Every little god, even the purest, most ideal, not sought for but conceived little god,
is corpse-worshipping…”

“Rotten philistinism is disgusting always, but democratic philistinism,
engaged in the ideological corpse-worship, is especially disgusting.”
Vladimir Lenin (from the excepts of the letter to Maxim Gorky, 1913)

     Recently, while taking pleasure in the Winter 2010 issue of Lapham’s Quarterly, Religion, I stumbled onto this curious piece, which stood out among other treasures. The letter seemed vibrant and quite refreshing. You can obtain it in full on page 38.
     How ironic! The man who provoked this essay became the most worshiped corpse in the history of Russian civilization. A common tourist attraction!
     For nine decades vigilant soldiers have been guarding the useless mummy day and night. Is there any hope for his resurrection? The worshiping began when the infamous syphilitic corpse arrived at its final destination, Red Square. Lenin was pretty much dead long before he kicked the bucket in 1924. Wounded by a poisonous bullet during his speech in the Michelson’s factory by an American anarchist from Brooklyn, Fania Kaplan (the action took place in 1918), he suffered a few strokes, which left him in a vegetative state by 1922. Stalin had his last laugh, installing a former comrade into a dark tomb in the heart of Moscow. Why not Petrograd you might ask? Lenin turned it into the Capital while stripping the Romanoff Dynasty of its royalty. The name of the short-lived Capital was later changed to Leningrad, in his honor.  
     The city lovingly built by Peter the Great, had a history of name changes:  for more than two hundred years it was named Saint Petersburg. After the Bolsheviks took over, they briefly christened it Petrograd in 1914, before changing it to Leningrad in 1924.
     When the Berlin Wall crumbled and a new Russian Revolution shook the Slavs, the Nordic city regained its original name, St. Petersburg, in 1991. Oddly, Moscow was not affected by the new order. The Kremlin Wall got new paint and the corpse worshiping business remained as usual. 
     It was fun to watch the granite faces of young guards, which didn’t twitch even when flies landed on their noses. It was a soldier’s privilege to climb to the highest rank and become one of Lenin’s guardians.  Two of them stand stoically at the mausoleum’s entrance, facing each other with rifles under their armpits. Seemingly immovable, their eyes follow all visitors entering the tomb. The biggest theatre is watching the changing of the guards. Suddenly animated, they count to two, before repositioning their rifles; first raising them in the air, shifting them from left to right, hitting them on the ground, before bringing them up to the elbow again. With their legs stepping as high as martial arts warriors, the soldiers heartily kick the air, keeping each leg stretched with their boot tip pointed upward until they are parallel to their eye level, and then they march slowly, in unison, towards the new brigade. After saluting, they repeat the procedure with their rifles. Then the new guards parade slowly to take their watch.    
     The lines were insanely long. I remember waiting for six hours to glance at the dead man. Not that I chose to do so, I was twelve years old. The woman who dragged me there was a “special friend” of my father,” who also happened to be the Head of the Soviet Treasury Mint. She was presented as Aunt Shura, but in the official environment she was known as Alexandra Michailovna. She was so crazy about my father that I wondered why his face was not inserted on the Russian currency. She alone was in charge of the “print button”.  What did I care, I was granted a new pair of shoes for a special event. They were auburn with a sensible heel, but slightly higher than teenagers would wear. I still remember the strong odor coming from the leather, or was it the rubber sole, similar to those imported tomatoes in the winter? The smell was bothersome, but I was keen to put them on, except...they were too tight!  I suffered through the day and began feeling acute pain with each step, getting closer and closer to the specter of the murderer of the Romanoff bloodline. ‘Hang in there,’ I kept telling myself, fighting convincing tears. ‘A few more steps and it would be over.’ Then I looked at the guards, thinking they have to stay in the heat wearing their heavy uniforms, holding rifles for hours and hours. I felt ashamed that I had no other feelings but those of my damn shoes causing bloody blisters. When the solemn moment approached, I gazed at Lenin’s dummy with conflicting emotions. The sacred body laid high on the red plush pillow, covered by a Soviet flag adorned with the sickle and hammer; his trimmed beard staring upward at the low ceiling, his face retained a trace of a faint smirk.
     And again, the stench of new shoes punched my nose; this time mixed with red carnations that overwhelmed a shadowy room, illuminated by the reddish light bulbs.  Watching other pilgrims, I saw an endless awe written on their mournful faces, including Aunt Shura. She clenched my hand and bit her upper lip hard, brushing off a stream of tears. The masses in line wept openly.  I hardly kept my wicked smile under control. How dare I to commit sacrilege in front of these good people? After all, wasn’t I a product of a Soviet regime? What possessed me? I could barely wait till the funeral ceremony was over.
     Ah, fresh air! “Ideological Corpse-worshiping” came to mind in the shape of a vibrant axiom. It was aimed to belittle the faultless fellow, Maxim Gorky. I kicked off my prized auburn shoes and strolled barefoot circling the Red Square, feeling free like a gypsy.     
     Maxim Gorky traveled shoeless for five years before becoming a solid writer.  In 1921, when the Great Famine brought the citizens of Volga Valley to their knees, two million peasants died of starvation. It was Maxim Gorky who stood up and pleaded for help reaching out to Herbert Hoover and getting a generous aid package from the “American Relief Administration,” that saved ten million lives. Sadly, about the same number of Russian citizens were exterminated by Stalin and Hitler in later years. Till this day I find Maxim Gorky’s action very noble, to appeal on behalf of his people, while Lenin was busy crafting his passionate rhetoric and accusing his opponent Gorky of evil actions, comparing him to “ Rotten philistinism engaged in ideological corpse-worshiping”

 Little did Lenin know he had outwitted his own epitaph! 

February 14-15, 2010