Babinsky. School (1952 – 1963). 8: Idol of Imported Stuff. Lingerie Issue

Babinsky. School (1952 – 1963). 8: Idol of Imported Stuff. Lingerie Issue

Line for bras. (Photo from http://forum.armkb.com).

Line for bras. (Photo from http://forum.armkb.com).

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The Idol of Imported Stuff.

Outside school walls, the malicious influence of Western music and fashion on the Soviet culture and the society, in general, grew in geometrical proportion to the din that criticized the parasitical youth for idolatry of the idealess West.

That disorienting influence manifested itself in the craving for the depraved boogie-woogie, Charleston, rock-n-roll; narrow “pipe” pants reflecting the young men’s view of the world; provocative makeup and platform shoes; hairstyle Babette copied from Brigitte Bardot’s movie Babette Goes to War.

Not to mention jazz—“playing a saxophone is one step away from using a knife.” Not to mention women observed brazenly wearing slacks in public. All of the above weaknesses undoubtedly played to the enemy’s interests.

The currency reform of 1961 brought about more shortages and exorbitant prices for imported goods. The planned-to-death, dull, low-quality Soviet-made inventory fired up an indiscriminate fascination with products originated abroad, the farther west the better.

We owned a Czech-made set of dishes for six, complete with a tureen and four kinds of plates. It took a convoluted blat scheme for Rakhil to get it, therefore we used it on my birthdays and a few extra-special occasions, always with reminders that the dishes were Czech and precious.

The word imported translated to avant-garde, with the capitalist origin on the top of the status pole and almost capitalist, quality-wise, East Germany and Yugoslavia close second. Black suits from France flew off the shelves in a flash; as quickly they fell apart at the seams—these were burial suits.

No stores were privately owned in the Soviet Union; the pricing was centralized. Foreign-made goods, though more expensive than domestic, were not out of reach monetarily and, in theory, required no blat to obtain them.

In reality, the staff set aside the goods for themselves and for customers paying extra or owed favors. They put them under the counter, a location safeguarded from the public like a bank vault. This circumstance thinned the availability drastically.

When the deficit popped up—was “dumped,” in the Soviet vernacular (literal translation: thrown out)—the throngs in the streets reminded Rakhil of the throngs that had surrounded the cattle trains evacuating people from Kiev before the Germans took the city.

Queues formed in minutes and often on the strength of a wishful rumor. If you were fortunate to reach the goodies, you snapped up the maximum of anything, regardless of size, color, or need. A sane person would not ignore a queue, period.

Nothing could reduce the allure of imported goods. A counterculture of stilyagi (style-obsessed) surfaced, too widespread to be persecuted. The Soviet press mocked them but admitted some shortcomings in the light industry and emphasized the need to improve the quality of consumer goods.

These shortcomings bolstered the fuss over pretty clothes and creature comforts used by the bourgeois savages to corrupt young communism-builders’ minds.

The fact that the humdrum Russian valenki inspired a Western designer attending a Soviet fashion show to create fancy women’s boots caused acute embarrassment. The media wrung their hands over the failure of home-grown talent to identify a sure-fire trend staring them in the face. Again, they lamented, the enemies got away with appropriating something that rightfully belonged to the motherland.

Soviet consumers did not need the media to reveal that capitalists or Eastern Europe and the Baltic republics, produced better clothes, shoes, pens, perfume, stereo players and household goods.

The superior quality and variety did not tell the whole story. The vision of the forbidden world behind the item was no less titillating. (For days following the business trip to Yugoslavia by the head and the Party boss of my company, female staff surrounded them in the hallways just to soak in the sight of their soft leather shoes that screamed “imported.” Firsthand details, not-to-be-divulged but freely circulating, of an alien life, namely the striptease they attended with the group’s KGB overseers, were equally tantalizing.)

The Lingerie Issue.

Luckily, I inherited Rakhil’s indifference to fashion but flaunters of non-Soviet-made clothes were a painful sight to behold for most women.

The awareness of choices and glamor spread to lingerie. Pantyhose crossed the border from Czechoslovakia in the late 1960s and, for a long time, they were a deficit. Even pantyhose produced domestically beginning in 1970s were unaffordable; in 1976, a pair cost four rubles, almost my daily wages; I purchased the first pair in Chicago.

Tricot for the winter made from sweatpants material. Underwear worn by Soviet women over tricot made of lighter material until modern designs became available and affordable in the 1970s. Soviet tricot remained as bulky and anti-erotic as ever, and came only in blue,  pink and yellow. Some women fashioned pantyhose by attaching tricot to stockings.

In stores, bras came in three sizes.

Trying on a made-to-order bra. (Photo from http://tanjand.livejournal/482460.html).
Trying on a made-to-order bra. (Photo from http://tanjand.livejournal/482460.html).

Other sizes were ordered at ateliers or bought at the market from seamstresses who illegally made them at home. It got so bad that the Minister of Culture, a female, stated at the Party meeting of the highest order: “Every Soviet woman has the right to wear a quality bra.”

The public bathroom on the main street, Kreshchatik, teemed with frumpy women clutching roomy purses. The more enterprising sellers, on guard against a random militia ambush, waylaid potential customers on the way to the facility. With a practiced glance they appraised their prey’s worth and her degree of aversion to domestic underclothing.

Upon finding a suitable mark, they accosted the prospect with a nod toward the purse and a faint “Czech underwear?” or “German bra?” A pair of underwear that went for a day’s wages passed through many channels, beginning with a sailor or a ballerina traveling internationally and ending in the Kiev public bathroom.

(Yves Montand, a sufficiently left-leaning French singer to perform in the USSR, was bowled over by the ugliness of Soviet lingerie. He purchased a large amount of tricot, bras with bell-shaped cups,

Cambric slip. Worn under a dress. and slips somebody called cassocks that found their way onto a Paris exhibit “Underthings they are loved in.” To the French, worshippers of women’s beauty, that collection, though entertaining, proved the inadequacy of the Soviet regime perhaps more persuasively than human rights violations.)

More flirtatious Soviet-made lingerie with scratchy lace burst on the scene in the early 1960s. In Kiev, a store dedicated exclusively to underclothing opened next to the city’s central movie theater. It was small and always crowded.

To improve the quality of the lace, the Ukrainian Ministry of Light Industry acquired Italian lace-weaving equipment. Newspapers showed Party officials observing the luxurious purchase operated by Soviet workers.

In a predictable scenario, the Ministry declined maintenance agreements, the workers ignored manuals. Eventually, hammers, the preferred repair tool, turned the capricious machinery into scrap metal. Someone told me that the electronic equipment received from Japan had tags, in Russian, “do not use hammer to open.”

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