Repost from @realtimers: • Do the Russian people know what’s really going on in Ukraine? • Do they talk to their neighbors about it? • What doesn’t fit in your ass and doesn’t buzz? Russia expert & @puckdotnews founding partner @JuliaIoffe answers ALL THREE of these questions (and more!) on #RealTimeHBO. Stream the latest episode on @HBOMax.
I miss California 😭🍹🌞
I miss California 😭🍹🌞
“Yulia, you saved me.” Last summer, when her husband, Russian opposition leader Alexey Navalny, was poisoned by the Kremlin, the world saw Yulia Navalnaya fight the dragon of the Russian state and win. She became the measure of decency and nobility for millions of Russians, and many asked themselves if they would be capable of such grace and strength under such duress. And of course, everyone wanted a love like hers and Alexey’s. As one of their friends told me, “This is the motivator. In addition to his personal ambition, he needs to constantly prove to this beautiful woman that he is worthy of her.” I hope you will enjoy reading this profile of Yulia Navalnaya as much as I loved writing it. Link in bio, and you can find it in the September issue of Vanity Fair. 📸 by @evgenyfeldman #navalny #yulianavalnaya #russia
🎶vaccine, vaccine, vacciiiiiine🎶
Emilia Isaakovna Bruk, 8.14.1934 – 12.19.2020. This weekend, my grandmother Emma died of #COVID19. She survived so much—a world war and the Holocaust, both of which took so many of her family members; Stalin and the Doctor’s Plot, which nearly derailed her medical career; the Soviet Union itself, as well as her parents and brother, whom she idolized till the end of her days, scores of friends, and two husbands, both of whom she loved to distraction. But this doesn’t begin to capture the irrepressible Emma Bruk. In the censorship and totalitarian control of the Soviet Union, she lived with an inner freedom that is nothing short of remarkable. It went beyond reading and passing around samizdat and helping dissidents and manning the barricades when the tanks rolled into Moscow in August 1991, though she did all that, too. It was about living on her own terms, about not letting anything diminish the purity of her ideals and hopes for a country she loved and refused to give up on, even when her only daughter took her only two grandchildren to another country, far beyond the Iron Curtain. She found her freedom in the people she surrounded herself with, many of whom were her former patients, people who remained her close friends long after she finished treating their hearts. She found it in the vast beauty of the mountains, which she climbed with friends, in the songs of the great bards she sang around campfires in that same beautiful voice I heard over my bed in the dark as a child. She found it in her work as a doctor, both at the Botkin Hospital and Moscow Art Theater, until she finally, reluctantly retired at 77. (She took great pride in the fact that her desk at the latter was next door to the old office of Mikhail Bulgakov, a writer, dramaturg, and fellow physician.) She lived independently till the end, despite her failing heart and the brain tumor that was growing unbeknownst to her. She followed the news and went to protests—her heart, she always said, hurt for Russia. She went to the theater, concerts, and exhibits; she traveled and saw her many friends and never diminishing number of informal patients. [continued in comments]
Emilia Isaakovna Bruk, 8.14.1934 – 12.19.2020. This weekend, my grandmother Emma died of #COVID19. She survived so much—a world war and the Holocaust, both of which took so many of her family members; Stalin and the Doctor’s Plot, which nearly derailed her medical career; the Soviet Union itself, as well as her parents and brother, whom she idolized till the end of her days, scores of friends, and two husbands, both of whom she loved to distraction. But this doesn’t begin to capture the irrepressible Emma Bruk. In the censorship and totalitarian control of the Soviet Union, she lived with an inner freedom that is nothing short of remarkable. It went beyond reading and passing around samizdat and helping dissidents and manning the barricades when the tanks rolled into Moscow in August 1991, though she did all that, too. It was about living on her own terms, about not letting anything diminish the purity of her ideals and hopes for a country she loved and refused to give up on, even when her only daughter took her only two grandchildren to another country, far beyond the Iron Curtain. She found her freedom in the people she surrounded herself with, many of whom were her former patients, people who remained her close friends long after she finished treating their hearts. She found it in the vast beauty of the mountains, which she climbed with friends, in the songs of the great bards she sang around campfires in that same beautiful voice I heard over my bed in the dark as a child. She found it in her work as a doctor, both at the Botkin Hospital and Moscow Art Theater, until she finally, reluctantly retired at 77. (She took great pride in the fact that her desk at the latter was next door to the old office of Mikhail Bulgakov, a writer, dramaturg, and fellow physician.) She lived independently till the end, despite her failing heart and the brain tumor that was growing unbeknownst to her. She followed the news and went to protests—her heart, she always said, hurt for Russia. She went to the theater, concerts, and exhibits; she traveled and saw her many friends and never diminishing number of informal patients. [continued in comments]
Emilia Isaakovna Bruk, 8.14.1934 – 12.19.2020. This weekend, my grandmother Emma died of #COVID19. She survived so much—a world war and the Holocaust, both of which took so many of her family members; Stalin and the Doctor’s Plot, which nearly derailed her medical career; the Soviet Union itself, as well as her parents and brother, whom she idolized till the end of her days, scores of friends, and two husbands, both of whom she loved to distraction. But this doesn’t begin to capture the irrepressible Emma Bruk. In the censorship and totalitarian control of the Soviet Union, she lived with an inner freedom that is nothing short of remarkable. It went beyond reading and passing around samizdat and helping dissidents and manning the barricades when the tanks rolled into Moscow in August 1991, though she did all that, too. It was about living on her own terms, about not letting anything diminish the purity of her ideals and hopes for a country she loved and refused to give up on, even when her only daughter took her only two grandchildren to another country, far beyond the Iron Curtain. She found her freedom in the people she surrounded herself with, many of whom were her former patients, people who remained her close friends long after she finished treating their hearts. She found it in the vast beauty of the mountains, which she climbed with friends, in the songs of the great bards she sang around campfires in that same beautiful voice I heard over my bed in the dark as a child. She found it in her work as a doctor, both at the Botkin Hospital and Moscow Art Theater, until she finally, reluctantly retired at 77. (She took great pride in the fact that her desk at the latter was next door to the old office of Mikhail Bulgakov, a writer, dramaturg, and fellow physician.) She lived independently till the end, despite her failing heart and the brain tumor that was growing unbeknownst to her. She followed the news and went to protests—her heart, she always said, hurt for Russia. She went to the theater, concerts, and exhibits; she traveled and saw her many friends and never diminishing number of informal patients. [continued in comments]
Emilia Isaakovna Bruk, 8.14.1934 – 12.19.2020. This weekend, my grandmother Emma died of #COVID19. She survived so much—a world war and the Holocaust, both of which took so many of her family members; Stalin and the Doctor’s Plot, which nearly derailed her medical career; the Soviet Union itself, as well as her parents and brother, whom she idolized till the end of her days, scores of friends, and two husbands, both of whom she loved to distraction. But this doesn’t begin to capture the irrepressible Emma Bruk. In the censorship and totalitarian control of the Soviet Union, she lived with an inner freedom that is nothing short of remarkable. It went beyond reading and passing around samizdat and helping dissidents and manning the barricades when the tanks rolled into Moscow in August 1991, though she did all that, too. It was about living on her own terms, about not letting anything diminish the purity of her ideals and hopes for a country she loved and refused to give up on, even when her only daughter took her only two grandchildren to another country, far beyond the Iron Curtain. She found her freedom in the people she surrounded herself with, many of whom were her former patients, people who remained her close friends long after she finished treating their hearts. She found it in the vast beauty of the mountains, which she climbed with friends, in the songs of the great bards she sang around campfires in that same beautiful voice I heard over my bed in the dark as a child. She found it in her work as a doctor, both at the Botkin Hospital and Moscow Art Theater, until she finally, reluctantly retired at 77. (She took great pride in the fact that her desk at the latter was next door to the old office of Mikhail Bulgakov, a writer, dramaturg, and fellow physician.) She lived independently till the end, despite her failing heart and the brain tumor that was growing unbeknownst to her. She followed the news and went to protests—her heart, she always said, hurt for Russia. She went to the theater, concerts, and exhibits; she traveled and saw her many friends and never diminishing number of informal patients. [continued in comments]
Emilia Isaakovna Bruk, 8.14.1934 – 12.19.2020. This weekend, my grandmother Emma died of #COVID19. She survived so much—a world war and the Holocaust, both of which took so many of her family members; Stalin and the Doctor’s Plot, which nearly derailed her medical career; the Soviet Union itself, as well as her parents and brother, whom she idolized till the end of her days, scores of friends, and two husbands, both of whom she loved to distraction. But this doesn’t begin to capture the irrepressible Emma Bruk. In the censorship and totalitarian control of the Soviet Union, she lived with an inner freedom that is nothing short of remarkable. It went beyond reading and passing around samizdat and helping dissidents and manning the barricades when the tanks rolled into Moscow in August 1991, though she did all that, too. It was about living on her own terms, about not letting anything diminish the purity of her ideals and hopes for a country she loved and refused to give up on, even when her only daughter took her only two grandchildren to another country, far beyond the Iron Curtain. She found her freedom in the people she surrounded herself with, many of whom were her former patients, people who remained her close friends long after she finished treating their hearts. She found it in the vast beauty of the mountains, which she climbed with friends, in the songs of the great bards she sang around campfires in that same beautiful voice I heard over my bed in the dark as a child. She found it in her work as a doctor, both at the Botkin Hospital and Moscow Art Theater, until she finally, reluctantly retired at 77. (She took great pride in the fact that her desk at the latter was next door to the old office of Mikhail Bulgakov, a writer, dramaturg, and fellow physician.) She lived independently till the end, despite her failing heart and the brain tumor that was growing unbeknownst to her. She followed the news and went to protests—her heart, she always said, hurt for Russia. She went to the theater, concerts, and exhibits; she traveled and saw her many friends and never diminishing number of informal patients. [continued in comments]
Emilia Isaakovna Bruk, 8.14.1934 – 12.19.2020. This weekend, my grandmother Emma died of #COVID19. She survived so much—a world war and the Holocaust, both of which took so many of her family members; Stalin and the Doctor’s Plot, which nearly derailed her medical career; the Soviet Union itself, as well as her parents and brother, whom she idolized till the end of her days, scores of friends, and two husbands, both of whom she loved to distraction. But this doesn’t begin to capture the irrepressible Emma Bruk. In the censorship and totalitarian control of the Soviet Union, she lived with an inner freedom that is nothing short of remarkable. It went beyond reading and passing around samizdat and helping dissidents and manning the barricades when the tanks rolled into Moscow in August 1991, though she did all that, too. It was about living on her own terms, about not letting anything diminish the purity of her ideals and hopes for a country she loved and refused to give up on, even when her only daughter took her only two grandchildren to another country, far beyond the Iron Curtain. She found her freedom in the people she surrounded herself with, many of whom were her former patients, people who remained her close friends long after she finished treating their hearts. She found it in the vast beauty of the mountains, which she climbed with friends, in the songs of the great bards she sang around campfires in that same beautiful voice I heard over my bed in the dark as a child. She found it in her work as a doctor, both at the Botkin Hospital and Moscow Art Theater, until she finally, reluctantly retired at 77. (She took great pride in the fact that her desk at the latter was next door to the old office of Mikhail Bulgakov, a writer, dramaturg, and fellow physician.) She lived independently till the end, despite her failing heart and the brain tumor that was growing unbeknownst to her. She followed the news and went to protests—her heart, she always said, hurt for Russia. She went to the theater, concerts, and exhibits; she traveled and saw her many friends and never diminishing number of informal patients. [continued in comments]
Aperol spritz season is open.
Happy 31st America-versary to these weirdos. What a ride it’s been. 🇺🇸
Эмилия Исааковна Брук, 04.08.1934 – 19.12.2020. В субботу ушла моя любимая бабушка Эмма. Она пережила столько за свою насыщенную, непростую жизнь – и войну, и Дело Врачей, и двух мужей, и даже сам Советский Союз – но, к сожалению, она не смогла пережить ковид. Эмма была неординарным человеком, человеком, который жил с такой внутренней свободой, на которую по правилам и Советского Союза и современной России не было разрешения. Она жила так, как она хотела, смело и без страха, умея сохранять и надежду и свои идеалы от того разочарования, которого было немало в её жизни и эпоху. Она была ярым альпинистом и любила песни бардов, которые она с друзьями пела в пути. (Помню, как она мне рассказывала, как её альпинситкая компания стебла их друга, Юрия Визбора, известново ловеласа: “Ты у меня одна,” они пели, смеясь, “словно в лесу сосна!”) Она любила свою профессию и многие ее больные стали ее ближайшими друзьями. (Отработав 40 лет в Боткинской больнице и еще во МХТ-е, она с огромным сожалением ушла на пенсию только в 77 лет.) Любила свою страну, отказываясь покидать её даже когда её единственная и любимая дочь решила эмигрировать и забрала её внучек далеко за Железный Занавес. “Кто же будет Россию спасать?” сказала она на полном серьёзе, и полезла на баррикады, когда в Москву ввели танки в 91м году. На баррикадах она оказалась опять в 93-м, на бесчитанных митингах и на Болотной 6 мая. Она бесконечно ходила по театрам, выставкам, концертам, ездила по гостям и принимала их. (Помню, как позвонила ей поздравить ее с 81-м днём рождения а к её мобильному телефону подошла её знакомая и сообщила мне, что Эмма не может сейчас со мной говорить, поскольку заказывает всем своим гостям такси домой.) Она читала и смотрела все, следила за новостями, сидела в Фейсбуке и Ютюбе, писала смски и названила мне по Фейстайму, что бы узнать, как там продвигается моя книга и заодно прочитать мне часовую лекцию по советской истории поскольку я совсем ничего, в её мнении, не понимала. Она лечила весь свой дом и до конца принимала больных у себя на кухне. [продолжение в комментах]
I’ve known this brilliant young woman since she was just a fresh college graduate, trying to make her way in the world. Now, she’s written “Come to This Court and Cry,” one of the most captivating and haunting books I’ve read in years—part gripping historical thriller, part family mystery—to the point where I’ve been walking around with circles under my eyes all week: I keep thinking, I’ll just read a chapter or two before bed, but I can’t stop and then it’s 3 am. A truly stunning and masterfully woven tale. Run, don’t walk, folks…
It’s my grandmother Emma’s 87th birthday. Normally, I would call her and find her too busy entertaining friends in her apartment, or, if I were in Moscow, I’d take her out to dinner, where she’d invariably order the fish, true to her family’s Odessa roots. But she died back in December of COVID-19. I still catch myself wondering why she hasn’t called in so long or reaching to call her, surprised anew by the void of death. Happy birthday, babulya. I miss you every day.
Puck founding partner and Washington correspondent Julia Ioffe sat down with @StandardIndustries Co-C.E.O., @DavidSWinter for this week’s Standard Speaker Series to provide her expert take on the conflict in Ukraine, and more insight into where Western media often falls short in covering Russia. #StandardSpeakerSeries #UkraineConflict
Last year, we said, “next year in person.” And it happened. And I got to hug and see my other grandmother for the first time in over a year. Chag sameach to everyone celebrating. May next year be even better.
Get yourself a friend who is as genius at friendship as he is at opening the best bar in the city. (And has impeccable taste in wine.)
Another lovely evening at the lovely St. Vincent’s.
Another lovely evening at the lovely St. Vincent’s.
