Just a few days ago, an entire era of our life came to an end. We moved out of our communal apartment, finally. Throughout our lives, we lived in four communal apartments. While moving out of the last one, after throwing away dozens of 100-liter bags of accumulated belongings over five years, I wish to toss into this narrative some metaphorical 100-liter bags of memories so they won’t be lost.
To begin with, what is a communal apartment? Quickly put, it’s a place where many families live in their rooms, sharing a common bathroom, kitchen, corridor, and a yearning to reside in their isolated apartments.
First Communal Living
Our communal era with Lisa started in 2013 when we rented a room on Rudnevo Square, where we would watch from our window the night butterflies of Moscow Avenue. We would tightly shut the windows during summer to avoid hearing the protests around the appellate court concerning the Tymoshenko case. In winter, we would stuff blankets on the balcony to block the cold wind, resulting in us sleeping in animal onesies from the Vorobushka costumes, which, by the way, were in our room at that time.
We had a huge room with lofty ceilings and a balcony that seemed ready to collapse any minute, crashing down on the prosecutors working below—a thought that didn’t stop us from drinking coffee, eating pies, and feeding tits in winter in a specially built birdhouse.
At that time, money was scarce. We saved up for monthly rent in a special pouch, which, when filled up appropriately by the payment date, whispered that we might indulge in something extra. I was working as an animator back then. We wrote rewrite-ups for bicycle routes, assessed film scripts, worked as secret shoppers, and Lisa danced in a group for workshops available on discs. It was a wonderful time because, after returning from “work,” we entered our own home. The best phrase we heard from the landlord was, “Do whatever you want here—I’ll renovate anyway.” Thus, wolves, owls, and celebrities started appearing on the walls, drawn by Lisa with Nadia, while I handcrafted elaborate furniture from objects we found on the streets.
I recall once walking home from work and seeing firefighters putting out a fire in an abandoned house, tossing things out onto the street that belonged to no one for a long time. From there, we hauled two pairs of cross-country skis, one of which ended up hanging on our wall as a shelf for candles, while the others served as a framework for a homemade Christmas tree during winter. From the gradually burning house, old books and records were discarded. We sold the books at a book market, fetching little—barely up to a hundred. We preserved a few records, and one—a Louis Armstrong record from Soviet Melodia—we wrapped in beautiful kraft, pre-painting over “Melodia” so it wouldn’t look cheap, and gave it as a gift to the head of the registration service to melt his heart and acquire that coveted signature freeing us from work in the registration service.
When I started writing this text, I aimed to write only about our last communal apartment, but I can’t stop—too much is intertwined in my mind with those times. So, I will shamelessly continue this longread.
The People
This is a weighty factor in communal living. They are not just neighbors. These are the people you share a kitchen with. Strangers you see more often than your own family. People you lower your gaze before, perhaps because you occupied the shower for too long.
In the first communal apartment, there was a wonderful mature woman living with her two adult sons, one of whom brought fresh catch from the Kharkiv River each morning, and the other was devoutly religious. They were the long-time residents of this communal space. Their enormous apartment gradually had to be sold off piece by piece to survive tough times. It’s hard to imagine how your beloved apartment turns into a communal space inhabited by strangers. They also had a ginger cat that, with each passing day, grew bolder, venturing deeper and longer into our room.
We hardly ever saw the second neighbors, but we heard their moans every night. Returning to the tenants: the woman was kind and pleasant, absolutely unfazed by the fact that while frying eggs in the kitchen, I would hum a clever song I composed myself: “Three eggs! Three, three eggs. Exactly three… Three eggs! Three, three!!!”. She had one fault—she would flush everything imaginable down the toilet, asserting it cleared the pipes. I agreed with her until I had to manually remove a huge grapevine branch from the drain. From cleaner to polluter, it’s just one unpassed pipe turn. Yet you never get mad at neighbors; you accept them as they are. Because when you decide to live in a communal apartment, you agree that in this Kinder Surprise, you might find a collectible hippopotamus or a puzzle or maybe some troublesome guy. Speaking of which, this was our worst period. A troublesome, hypocritical man with tattoos claiming to be a racer moved into one of the rooms in place of the screaming youngsters. Although initially suspicious of him, the situation became clear pretty quickly. At one point, a coffee chain “CoffeeLife” announced a “coffee for a book” campaign. That was Lisa and I’s food business. We would visit the book market, buy books for a grin, visit the coffee place every evening for a big free coffee for a book and a half-priced sandwich after 8 PM, and linger there reading books. I guess due to us exploiting the scheme, the campaign was discontinued, and subsequently, the coffee chain went out of business. But through these schemes, we acquired a book about the zone for just a grin. Once, Lisa lost a bet and had to read the book about the zone and convicts. Gradually, the term “zapomoyennyy” described our neighbor accurately. It refers to the lowest rung in the prison hierarchy. Just touching a “zapomoyennyy” person makes you one too. That’s what he was—slick, smiling, radiating pseudokindness. He did nothing overtly wrong; he was just a convicted man who frequently knocked on our door for various reasons: to ask for music downloads for his player, suggest he buy groceries and have Lisa-sister cook us borshch, or to make a phone call. Each time more frequently and insistently. It was a snowball gathering momentum, which we wanted to stop with a gentle breeze, not a bulldozer. We understood that you couldn’t stop people like him just by saying ‘stop’ to his face; you never know how they might react. The religious son started warning us against interacting with him. The woman complained that the convict, oh sorry—the racer—was bringing over women, drinking with them, and smoking in the apartment. For the convict, it was enough to just say, “sorry, I won’t do it again” and immediately repeat the act. One fortunate day, after returning from a trip, we learned that the “racer” had severely breached the peaceful coexistence in the communal space and, according to the religious son, “drank, screamed, and defecated in every corner.” A strange smell confirmed this. The room owner knocked on the door of our wannabe Formula One racer, opening it herself eventually. We heard screams, rapid footsteps heading towards the exit, and words like “police,” “you’ll go back,” and “the couch wasn’t burned before you.” As he left his pit stop, the racer paused near the religious son and asked, “Did you rat me out, you dog? I’ll remember this,” punching the door next to his head. From then on, we discovered the scarier side of communal living.
Later, we discovered a way to the roof, where we drank coffee a few times while enjoying the sunset. We lived a bit longer and moved out of that apartment, leaving behind a good family and an empty room where for some karmic reason, unpleasant individuals always lived, most likely due to the terrible landlord, who duped people. Later, walking under the balcony of that communal apartment, we noticed the old white wooden windows had been replaced with plastic ones. It’s much more practical and convenient, but in terms of aesthetic beauty, plastic windows are the lowest of the low. They immediately devoured the space’s atmosphere.
The next communal space was the most incredible.
The Best Communal Apartment
When we read an ad saying “renting my atmospheric apartment for creative people,” we were immediately interested. The rent was beyond our budget, but it felt like the perfect match. Let me tell you a bit about this apartment. It was located on the historic street of Kharkiv—Rymarskaya. In a house designed by Rzhepyshevsky—an architect known for his beautiful buildings, having lived in Kharkiv for a decade, creating beautiful structures. A 1919 house. We lived in a home where Rzhepyshevsky resided. We occupied the room that was once his workshop. The room was enormous, with ceilings 4 meters high and parquet flooring. The room was often painted and plastered, but the previous tenants stripped the walls, revealing various layers, resulting in gradients from brown to pink-yellow within.
A huge glass door led to a balcony facing the famous street. Such enormous curtains I had never searched for before.
The furniture included two chairs, a sofa, a cabinet, a desk with a Buddha head on it, and a glass coffee table—everything fit for an evening interview show with a guest like the Dalai Lama, who loves coffee.
In such a space, we had to fend off creative and artistic thoughts that swarmed our minds like ants on a cola stain. Within the apartment lived three other families. One man we never saw—an honest worker. One family was a young couple. A second couple was accompanied by a massive malamute named Mike, who once ate all our trash and now has a million subscribers on YouTube.
These guys had their restroom, so only we used the shared bathroom and kitchen and a large wardrobe where Lenin’s head hid. It was truly an incredible time, a gift of fate.
Right in our building was a strip club named “White Parrot.” At night, when throwing out the trash into the black courtyard, you could catch a glimpse of red lights and forbidden sounds distinctly departing typical strip club offerings, emanating from the open service door of White Parrot. We are very grateful for this apartment, even though we left on less pleasant terms. The owners said a bunch of problems required housing sick relatives urgently brought from the village. Understanding the urgency, we too quickly vacated this wonder with a heavy heart, enjoying it for barely three months. My anger soared when I saw photographs of strip dancers on that beloved wall of our room. Later, from the street, I noticed photography equipment inside once our room. Everything aligned in my mind: the sick relatives had become nude photographers for White Parrot. My anger further peaked as it meant moving urgently into the worst apartment I’ve experienced.
The Communal Hell.
The Worst Communal Apartment
An elderly woman who knocked on our room and screamed we hadn’t cleaned the kitchen after ourselves, although we never cooked there. An old woman who claimed she tracked by the drips on the floor that it was us who washed cups and didn’t dry them. A man who yelled at his wife with a small child, throwing her out. Some old man. A room owner who hadn’t paid for gas, so it was about to be cut off for the entire apartment; hence everyone despised her and by association, us too.
The Room
It seemed decent, however in such a pit, even Tom Waits would be the devil. Half of the sockets didn’t work. Cosmetic botches covered horrific holes and damages. A couch, which we slept on, had to be propped up with books to avoid breaking our backs overnight. Nadia initially rented the apartment, yet she got fed up, especially when the owner refused to refund the deposit, demanding penalty fees and her gas bill paid. We decided to escape this dump immediately, leaving behind our cursed deposit in exchange for moral satisfaction, concealing warnings for future tenants drawn straight onto old wallpapers. Friends from Vorobushka helped move everything into a new apartment, to be mentioned later. It resembled not a move but a chicken coop escape. All items rushed out, and we began leaving messages for future dwellers, drawn onto the walls: “these sockets never worked,” “do not remove this gum as it holds a transverse beam,” alongside some witty Monty Python quotes cleverly mixed with household problems appeared, but the door opened and appeared the room owner, staring intently at Nadia, diligently scrawling something with lipstick atop a cabinet.
– What’s this????!!!!! — The owner definitely didn’t whisper.
– We’re moving.— Nadia confidently declared, sliding down the cabinet.
A small room became even tighter, further squeezed in by a man with a gas key. It became extremely cramped.
– Oh, where are my boots??? Nadia, you stole my boots!— screeched the owner from the closet,— black leather ones with fur on heels!
The man with the gas key declared no one leaves until resolved. The owner demanded we pay for repairs, countered with her withheld money being precisely for repairs. Time for the man “nobody leaves, you owe money.” We explained the situation. The man listened. The situation swung 180 degrees.
– Natasha (addressing the owner), I listened, you’re wrong, — we and the owner are shocked, the man turns to us,— if there’re issues, call me, I’m a human rights lawyer, — showing a badge.
Silence filled the room. As the owner stood like a frozen goat, we quietly exited the communal space, ran to the car loaded with belongings, and left.
The Eternal Communal Life
This last apartment was genuinely warm and cozy. With kind neighbors. Possibly an example of a classic communal apartment.
Spacious. A big corridor hosting numerous families, around eight. There was a corridor turn I’d never explored in five years—for the thrill of it, though Lisa claimed there’s another turn beyond.
The room itself—there were two. An apartment within an apartment. In one small room was Nadia, in the larger one—Lisa and I. Fantastic price, central location, landlords—very pleasant people. During my stay, it hosted the most atmospheric winters. Snow enveloped trees outside our window, and if you listened, you could hear it softly landing on the windowsill. The windows were old and beautiful. The ceilings not as high as desired. The window faced a small courtyard where a neighbor grew flowers and a plum tree emitted serenity, though occasionally, shouting children annoyed. Through the window, we witnessed successive cat generations living in garages, often basking on its roof. Possibly, we saw even the great-grandmother of kittens last observed. The most unusual part for outsiders regarding communal living is that each family has its toilet seat. Thus, the bathroom resembles an installation at Pinchuk Art Centre.
The bathroom looked like a scene from Terry Gilliam’s Brazil—each had a tap, about eight, layered over one another. Once the owner asked Nadia (in the fourth year of our stay): “Have you found the secret room yet, the entrance beneath your cabinet?” What?? What?? Shifting the huge heavy cabinet, we uncovered an old hatch hidden beneath the linoleum. Opening it, we saw stairs. Descending, we found a room. A cabinet, sideboard, jars, chairs, crosses, icons, flagpole tips with USSR symbols. Shining a light on the floor, saw another section below, boarded up. Initially, it was a three-story house with two stairways. Presumably, residents later decided they only needed one entrance, demolished stairs, constructed partitions, and created secret rooms, undoubtedly unregistered to surprise tenants. The apartment had only one enemy—the carpet. Likely, it provided sanctuary for dust mites and ambrosia pollen, directly contradicting my healthy body’s conventions. Essentially, my allergy began while attempting to clean the carpet. For about an hour, I scrubbed the synthetic ‘fur’ that absorbed everything falling on it over ten years. Then I diligently vacuumed. Then I nearly swelled from sneezing without understanding what was happening but now clearly realizing my body perceived it as an attack and counterattacked. Since then, I avoid carpets.
Inside the apartment, a boiler hung by the entrance. Once, Nadia’s tone indicated something was wrong. I came out and saw her placing rags under the boiler. The pipe supplying hot water far into the shower was leaking. Temporarily taping it seemed a fix. I realized the futility when hot water started chipping plaster off the ceiling. It seemed we even glimpsed a rainbow inside the apartment.
The communal apartment was decorated with early 2000s wallpapers, quickly disappearing under drawings, posters, and fliers. The huge world map gifted to Lisa for her birthday transformed the space. Then throws, vases, figurines—it was also the golden time of second-hand treasures in our lives—these items gradually aligned the apartment with our desires and tastes.
There were times we lived cozily and warmly. But always how did we live? Correct—joyfully.
Here’s a series of photos where I pop over to Nadia’s room with questions or meta-jokes. They came in handy.
The People
It’s fateful that many people lived here, changed. But across five years, not a single malevolent person. There were interesting ones with quirks. Though definitely, we too appeared unusual to our neighbors. Leasing the apartment coincided with our theater Vorobushka’s golden years, hence Sergei Vavilov fully red and Andrey Schastlivtsev entirely black washed in the communal bathroom, trying to scrub off makeup from “Kindness Kindness Halva” performance; all doors wide open for countless costume flows, or me appearing at 2 am in gray-haired elder or tiger makeup. Yet the neighbors matched the merriment. Once accused Nadia and Lisa of stealing a tiger top from a pajama set. There was a boy who never flushed. Many cockroaches. Horrendous kitchen music: from Vinnik to some unknown, I imagine as a mustached cheap marshmallow choir sings. But over five years, overall very good and kind people. The head of the communal apartment—Lyubov Mikhailovna—a very pleasant woman. She shared delightful stories about her grandson, maturing right in our hearing. Even amidst difficulties, she smiled, radiating light.
Upon arrival, a lone elderly woman lived in one room. Very old. Our favorite companion. Once, she caught the scent of brewing coffee in the pot, we offered her some, she agreed. I meticulously brewed it soft, precisely, for someone proclaiming last drinking natural coffee a decade ago. Responsibility for coffee culture weighed upon me. Once, Granny Shura mentioned expensive groceries, leading us to place a social purchase bag at her door on New Year’s Eve. No words. Supposedly, she was delighted, completely clueless about its origin. She never found out, as we left for holidays. An even sadder story involving Granny Shura unfolded. On May 9th, we intended to congratulate her with flowers. At her door, I heard conversations. Inquiring neighbors revealed Granny Shura’s relatives visiting. Respecting the rarity, not wanting to disrupt her sacred moment, I decided presenting flowers the following day wasn’t tragic. Morning kitchen news confirmed her relatives took her for a walk, during which she succumbed to a heart attack and passed away. The flowers meant for her remained on our windowsill.
Once, good photographer Pavel Dorogoy documented my day for a project. These captures illustrate communal life.
Undoubtedly, everything that transpired during these communal years we will recall with smiles, including the “racer,” allergy, or theft accusations. Communal apartments are undeniably an entire epoch. And likely, it concluded. The specific reason fueling the desire for fully isolated living remains unclear: whether the assumed collective time waiting for bathroom access equates to several days, or sheer disinterest in other’s kitchen scents. Unknown. Most likely tired. But not the exhaustion needing therapy or psychological help. Just the kind where you can sit over a coffee recalling these tales with a smile. Apologies for perhaps sharing such a “cute” text. Could have written more sharply or wittily. Somehow, don’t feel like it.
Thank you!
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