Part 2 — Workers Gone Fishing
You can read the first part here…
(USSR, 1984)
«It’s not about the fish — it’s about the escape».
June 1984. Somewhere near Volgograd.
Earlier that year, in February, Soviet leader Yuri Andropov had died — just 15 months into his term. A former head of the KGB, he had earned a strange reputation among the public: strict, yes, but clever. People half-respected him, half-feared him. For drinkers, however, he would be remembered as the man who dared to raise vodka prices.
By 1983, a half-liter bottle of vodka had climbed from 4.12 rubles to 4.70 — some brands went even higher, to 5.30. For a worker making 150 to 180 rubles per month, that meant vodka was no longer a daily ritual — it became a planned event.
Andropov’s war on alcohol was real: police raids, surprise inspections at factories, and so-called «Andropov patrols» [5] made life tense for anyone who tried to sneak a morning beer or vodka. Slogans appeared in newspapers:
«Say no to drunkenness!»
«Sobriety is the new normal!»
People didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Soviet joke of the era:
— Did you hear? Andropov’s going to ban drinking!
— What about living?
— He hasn’t banned that yet. But they’re working on it!
Meanwhile, in the West…
While Soviet citizens lined up for vodka and feared police patrols, the West was a different planet.
In the summer of 1984:
• Ronald Reagan was president in the US, promising «Morning in America».
• Teenagers were watching Back to the Future, roller-skating to synthesizer music, and lining up not for meat — but for movie tickets.
• In Paris and Milan, high fashion, electronic music, and shopping malls defined urban life.
• MTV played Madonna and Prince. Apple released the Macintosh.
In the USSR, men whispered jokes while waiting for canned fish [8].
In the USA, they whispered over Coca-Cola about computer stocks.
Same year. Different universes.
Back to the Volga
It’s Saturday morning. Two Soviet workers — Sergey, a young milling machine operator, and Petrovich, a seasoned mechanic — are headed to the river. Officially, they’re going fishing. Unofficially, they’re going to breathe.
Both work at the massive Volgograd Tractor Plant, where thousands build farm equipment — and quietly complain about life. Sergey is in his twenties, married, with a six-year-old daughter in the factory daycare. Petrovich, older, nearing retirement, has grown kids and a calm, tired wisdom. Both men avoid political debates. They get their news from Channel One or the occasional ten-minute political briefing held twice a week at the factory — a ritual where someone reads the official line while others yawn and stare at their boots.
They each carry a backpack. Inside:
• Three bottles of vodka (two «Stolichnaya», one «Moskovskaya» [1]),
• black bread, pickled cucumbers, boiled eggs, smoked mackerel,
• a can of worms, matches, enamel mugs, and a pack of Prima [3] cigarettes.
• And folded in newspaper: quiet frustration, fatigue, and the need for silence.
They take the old electric train [4], nod to other men with fishing rods. Someone’s brought a battered radio, tuned to Radio Mayak [11], which hums gently with early-morning music and the same trusted voice reading headlines.
cross a grove of trees, pass decaying garden plots and half-sunken boats — and there it is: Mother Volga. Wide. Still. Indifferent.
«Let’s rest like real men», Sergey mutters, lighting a cigarette.
«Exactly», Petrovich grunts. «She told me not to drink today. So I left before she changed her mind».
They set up near a log and drive a stick into the bank to anchor the bottles in the river. The vodka must be cool — this is sacred. First pour is silent — to honor the river gods, perhaps, or to allow the lines to settle.
Mugs clink. A salty cucumber. A breath.
And then — they talk.
«Watched Spartak vs. Dynamo yesterday?»
«That ref should be arrested. But who am I to judge — I still haven’t found sandals for my daughter».
The fish aren’t biting, but no one complains. That isn’t the point.
By noon, the second bottle opens. A small fire crackles. A pot of soup simmers: potatoes, river fish, bay leaf. Smoke blends with laughter.
«My son wants to be a programmer. What even is that?» – Petrovich wonders.
«It’s like a mechanic, but for things you can’t touch», – Sergey shrugs.
They eat. They drink. They complain.
«Our toilet has no paper. Our cafeteria serves meat like it’s rubber».
«The shift engineer hunts with the boss on weekends. And he tells me to keep my mouth shut».
The third bottle doesn’t make it back home. It disappears somewhere between the train station and the beer kiosk. There, with a foamy mug of Zhigulyovskoye [2] beer, the last piece of smoked fish is devoured.
And in that moment…
They are not workers. Not fathers. Not citizens of a crumbling empire.
They are simply two men, leaning against time, clutching mugs, and watching the river forget everything.
Epilogue — Years Later
A quarter-century has passed. The summer of 1984 faded into a new century, a new country, and new kinds of silence.
Alexander Petrovich, once a quiet master of machine tools, spent the ‘90s hustling — as did many others. For a time, he worked as a night guard at a garage cooperative. Later, he became a building superintendent. Somehow, in the early 2000s, he even ended up in the district council — posing once for a photo, shaking hands with a regional official in front of fishing nets and schoolgirls in folk costumes.
Now in his late seventies, he walks to the market each morning. Not to buy. Just to watch the prices on dried fish rise like smoke.
Sergey, the younger one — the guy who once stirred soup over an open fire — moved to the Moscow suburbs after the 1998 financial crash. He lives near his daughter, fixes wiring and pipes for neighbors, and brews homemade liquor with pride. Once in a while, he texts Petrovich: «I miss that fish soup. And that strange thing we used to have — stability».
Portrait: Petrovich in Putin’s Russia
It’s the 2010s. He sits on a worn bench near his apartment block. A baseball cap with a «United Russia» [9] logo shades his tired eyes. He wears track pants and a crumpled shirt. A stick rests in his hand — good for brushing snow, poking litter, or scratching the unreachable.
A mutt lies beside him. A mailbox leans crookedly. An empty beer bottle glints in the grass.
He’s not unhappy. But he’s tired. Not from poverty — from powerlessness.
He remembers the ‘80s. He doesn’t miss the queues, the canned peas, the bathhouse gossip. But he misses the certainty.
You knew your pay would come.
You knew winter would arrive — and the radiators would work.
Your son would go to college because the factory sent him.
Your neighbor wouldn’t suddenly vanish to Monaco, but drank vodka with him by the garages,
That world was grey. But understandable. Its rules stayed put.
Now? The billboards change. The rules shift. The people on top don’t even pretend to explain why they’re there.
He doesn’t envy them. He never did. But he feels invisible.
If you asked him: USSR or today’s Russia?
He’d pause. Exhale. And say:
«I’m for a world where a man can live like a man. The rest? Just signs on a building».
Sometimes, especially in spring, he opens the closet, takes out his old fishing rod, runs a hand along it. Then puts it back. Not yet. But maybe soon.
Postscript — The Elevator That Never Came
They were not dissidents. Not heroes. Not criminals. Just workers.
In the USSR, there was a path for men like them: trade school, factory, awards, vodka. A ceiling low, but fixed. The social elevator? [6] It existed — but only for those with connections, favors, or obedience.
So they didn’t rebel. They adjusted. They waited. They hoped. But deep down, they knew: «We never had it good — and we’ve gotten used to it».
They were cogs. Not dumb. Not broken. Just built into a machine that wasn’t built for dreams.
Why didn’t they rise up?
Because a man who’s worked since sixteen, who’s queued for fish and soap, doesn’t dream of revolutions. He dreams of warmth. Of soup on the table. Of hockey on the TV [7].
And he knows — the decisions have already been made.
Their time was an age of patience. Of resignation. Of a flicker of hope that their children might live better. And if they didn’t? Well… it wouldn’t be the first time.
And that’s why sometimes — to not go mad — they drank.
Because when a tin cup rang against a vodka bottle, it wasn’t just sound. It was sorrow, masked in laughter. Truth, whispered between bites of pickled fish.
Memory, preserved in smoked mackerel and stale bread.
Because in that fleeting buzz, they felt something close to freedom.
Glossary & Cultural Notes for Western Readers
[1] Stolichnaya / Moskovskaya (Vodka brands) – Widely available Soviet vodkas, considered neither elite nor bottom-shelf. Often harsh, consumed quickly, and meant more for effect than pleasure.
[2] Zhigulyovskoye (Beer) – The most common Soviet lager, light and weak by modern standards. Known for inconsistent quality. Sold on tap in street kiosks.
[3] Prima (Cigarettes) – One of the cheapest and most popular cigarette brands in the USSR. No filter. Strong. Iconic among workers. The smell is unforgettable.
[4] Soviet electric trains (Elektrichka) – Outdated but reliable suburban trains, often overcrowded, connecting cities to rural or industrial zones.
[5] «Andropov patrols» – Informal squads of police and volunteers who searched cinemas, saunas, and bars for people skipping work during the day.
[6] «Social elevator» – The idea of upward mobility. In the USSR, this usually meant rising within the system: joining the Communist Party, receiving awards, or being «noticed». For most workers, the elevator never came.
[7] Hockey in the USSR – More than a sport; a point of national pride. Soviet teams regularly beat Canadian professionals, and matches were broadcast to huge audiences. For many men, hockey was the only acceptable «escape» from everyday life.
[8] «Fish queues» / «Canned fish» – A staple of Soviet scarcity. Fish (often sprats, mackerel, or herring in tomato sauce) was one of the few protein sources semi-consistently available in stores. People would line up without knowing what was being sold — they just saw a line and joined it.
[9] United Russia (Единая Россия) – The ruling political party in Russia since the early 2000s. Wears the veneer of democracy but is broadly considered a vehicle of presidential power.
[10] «Political ten-minute briefings» – Short mandatory propaganda sessions held at workplaces, usually on Monday mornings. Workers would stand in place while someone read from Pravda or repeated official government updates.
[11] Radio Mayak – One of the most popular Soviet radio stations, featuring news, music, and government-approved content. Played in kitchens and factory floors across the country.
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