The Future Is History: How Totalitarianism Reclaimed Russia

"I have fulfilled my life's mission," Yeltsin had said in his address. "Russia will never go back to the past. From now on, Russia will be moving forward. I should not stand in the way. I should not spend another six months holding on to power when the country has a strong man who deserves to be president—and on whom virtually every Russian today is pinning his hopes for the future."¹

Then there were two men in a Kremlin office, one wearing a Navy uniform and the other in a gray civilian suit. Yeltsin shook both their right hands. In their left hands, each held a hard-sided briefcase and something that looked like a camera case. There was no voice-over— only the sound of the Russian national anthem playing—but it was obvious that the four objects together constituted what was known in the vernacular as the "nuclear suitcase." The men shook Putin's hand

next. Then he stepped closer to Yeltsin. Putin was holding a red file folder under his arm. Yeltsin wiped a tear from his left eye. He looked like he had limited mobility now—he seemed bloated—and he had only three fingers on his left hand because of a childhood accident, and all that together made him look awkward and vulnerable, like a giant toddler. Putin, Lyosha thought, looked disoriented and unsure of himself. Lyosha's grandmother was disoriented too, and scared, though in the months leading up to this day she had been quoting Putin copiously and gleefully, mostly his line about the terrorists in the outhouse. On the television, the patriarch of the Russian Orthodox Church, in his tall white hat topped with a golden cross, was watching over the transfer of power.

Then there was Yeltsin wearing an overcoat, opening a door for Putin, who was dressed only in a suit. "Here is your office," said Yeltsin, gesturing with his three-fingered hand. The camera panned to the presidential desk, with a small decorated New Year's tree next to it.*

And then there was Yeltsin out on the porch, in his overcoat and fur hat, with Putin next to him, still wearing only a suit, like a host who has stepped outside for a moment to say goodbye to a departing guest. Yeltsin got into a Mercedes stretch limo and drove off the premises as Putin, flanked by several other men, waved to him from the porch.²

sometimes seryozha thought that he was crazy—or everyone else was. This whole setup with the transfer of power struck him as bizarre, possibly even unreal. On New Year's night, he asked, "Is he putting us on?" But even his grandfather, who was usually Seryozha's political ally and guiding light in the family, said that Putin was saying some reasonable things, making points that Alexander Nikolaevich himself had long been making. He heard Putin speaking about the social responsibility of government—health care, education, culture, words that Yeltsin had never seemed to utter—and this gave him some hope. He was cautious—he said that he feared seeing Putin fall into a trap set by the resurgent bureaucracy, what he called "the nomenklatura monster," and when he heard Putin speak of the need to strengthen the state, his concern grew. Still, he thought the new president deserved a chance.³

And Putin, to him, certainly seemed saner than the outgoing Russian president.

The way everyone seemed to be acting like this was normal, to take this gray little man, announce that he would be president, and watch him ascend to the throne three months later—the way everyone was unfazed by this, made Seryozha feel crazy. He had been feeling that way more and more often.

At Moscow State University, where Seryozha was now studying computer programming, everyone seemed to have been waiting for Putin to come along. Seryozha did not even notice when his portraits began appearing, along with patriotic paraphernalia he had not noticed before: flags, flyers for Putin's Unity Party, posters calling on everyone to vote in the hastily scheduled presidential election. This pretend election of a barely perceptible candidate who was the preordained winner made Seryozha feel like he barely existed himself. It was probably a good thing that his field required virtually no social contact with his fellow students: he could not have grasped their reality if he had wanted to.