This month, let's take a look at how Russian speakers define a house. Of course, anyone who has been to the former Soviet Union knows that almost everyone who lives in a city resides in an apartment located in a structure that can range from an attractive two-story edifice above a store in the center of town to an 18-floor block of flats surrounded by a cluster of the same, appropriately referred to as a "Massiv." Even more appropriate is that "Massiv" in this context is translated as "Housing Project," which for American-English speakers conjures up all kinds of unpleasant thoughts.
It wouldn't be fair to say that the post-Soviet "Massiv" is like a US ghetto, but it is often decorated with expressive graffiti, which in Ukraine mixes up Russian, Ukrainian and even English. Moreover, the mini playground or "Detskaya Ploschadka" will often be inhabited after hours by unsavory characters in various stages of inebriation. During the day, a few dutiful Babushkas maintain some semblance of order from the "Skameyka," or bench, in front of their "Podyezd" or building entrance. But don't expect them to do anything beyond adding a few colorful if not accurate details to the police report if you are mugged.
Don't get frightened. Now one will know that you are an easy mark. In fact they may not even know that you don't belong there, as many "Massiv" residents are new arrivals themselves. To test this assumption, just ask one of the bench warmers, who aren't all babushkas, the name of a nearby street. If you don't get the right answer, it's not necessarily because the city authorities in Kyiv have translated it from Russian into Ukrainian or decided to honor a nationalist over
a communist. It's also not because the name of the street or the address may not be on the building, which is called a "Dom" in Russian. The real reason is that the Massiv is the first inexpensive stop for those migrating from villages or regional centers.
If you are really "Krutoy," (or cool) you have had a "Dom" built on a plot of land just outside the city. This "Dom," looks more like what we call "a house" in America, in that it may very well have a porch (Kryltso) and backyard. But depending on how nice it is and how the owner feels about it, this structure could just as likely be called a "Dacha."
Are you confused? Well don't look to the dictionary for help. "Dacha" is translated as a country home. Considering that many Soviet citizens had "Dachas," one might get the idea that things weren't so bad off back in the USSR. Unfortunately, these rural structures ranged from little more than a shed with a bed to rustic pleasure palaces for the party elite. Ironically, even Ukrainians who now own fairly well built "Dachas" or out-of-town houses, replete with a sauna and a fireplace, can be seen planting potatoes in their bathing suits on weekends.
Having a good laugh? Well many post-Soviets find the American concept of suburbia - neat rows of houses flanked by long driveways and preceded by the obligatory front lawn - pretty boring. Where is the balcony for storing potatoes and hanging up clothes? Ukrainians ask. We have one "house" which some of us spend our lives paying a mortgage on. They have their city house, which they share with up to one thousand other residents, and their country house. As for the British, what they call a garden is often quite frankly a patch of grass and bushes, if not the back entrance to a Pub.
To clear things up here: "Dom" in Russian can mean a block of flats of varying sizes, an expensive house just outside of town or a humble "khata" (Ukrainian) in a village. The single-story dwellings that line streets far from Kyiv's center can also be called "Dom." Why all the confusion? Because the word "Dom" has changed as much as society: traditional, Soviet, new Russian.
To put it another way, a full-scale rags-to riches story would involve one moving from a "Dom" in the village with no electricity or gas; to a "Dom 14a/2" in a "Massiv" (letter, and extra number indicate just how many buildings a "Dom" can include); then to
a "Dom" in the center, where the lift, the maintenance man and the ground-floor granny all work; and, finally, to your very own "Dom" located in a national park, registered in your ex-wife's name and replete with guard dogs and TV cameras.
Moreover, all the features that are associated with a "Dom" theoretically accompany all the models mentioned above. Besides windows, doors and roofs, every "Dom" has a "Dvor," which is another tricky Russian word. "Dvor" can mean the area behind the block of flats where the "Detskaya Ploschadka" is located, the "back yard" of your summer house or the enclosed "court yard" that one accesses from the street through an archway - which maniacs behind tinted windows unexpectedly shoot out of as you are innocently moving along the sidewalk. The last type of "Dvor" has almost an eastern flavor to it, in that it closes off the house's immediate surroundings from the open street. In days of old, the "Dvor" was the court of the Czar and definitely closed off to passersby.
Nowadays, many "Dvors" are still closed off but far from secure. It is here where the homeless alcoholic, office cigarette smoker or hired killer waits out of view. These social outcasts may also huddle inside one of the "Dom's" many "Podyezd." No matter, because no Russian speaker really feels like he is "Doma" (at home) until he has come out of the lift, crossed the Lesnichnaya Ploschadka (stair landing), and entered the inner "Koridor" (if there is one in his building), which separates his apartment from the elevator area with a locked door. The point of transition from the cruel outside world to the warm comfort of "Doma" is probably when he puts on his "tapki" or slippers, thus bringing no trace of the dirty, public, streets into his home.
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