The Queen of Spades of the Wild 90s

Tatiana Tanicheva

The Queen of Spades of the Wild 90s

From the Author

This book is the confession of a woman who survived an era of upheaval. It is my duty to my beloved daughter, for whom I found the strength to live through the wild 90s, and my duty to the memory of my son, who became a victim of criminal lawlessness.

There is no fiction here. Only the truth – uncomfortable, searing, like the barrel of a pistol against your temple. Names have been changed, but behind every line are real events: genuine threats, real trials, the fear of revenge, death.

I went through the hell of the property redistribution of the 90s, refusing to be a "victim." I became an opponent of a system where a woman was considered a pawn in men's games. For this, I had to pay too high a price.

Why did I decide to make this confession?

So that those who have experienced similar things know: they are not alone.

So that the new generation understands the true price of "wild capitalism."

So that the "executioners" (those still alive) remember: we have not forgotten.

My chronicle of survival:

– Two won court cases against corrupt bigwigs.

– Threats from gangsters (including a nighttime abduction into the woods), witness protection program, forced relocation.

– Seven years of depression, overcome without medication.

– Irreparable losses: first the death of my son, then my mother – blows that did not break me, but tempered me.

After all I endured, I did not just endure – I prevailed, transforming pain into strength. I was deprived of work, but I restored my career. Having survived threats, trials, and the deaths of loved ones, I raised and educated my daughter without outside help. I learned to love life again, even when it seemed impossible.

This book is my answer to those who wanted to break me. To those who took my son. To those who were sure I would give up.

Life is truly beautiful. Especially when it allows you to survive a monstrous and tragic situation – then you understand: you are stronger than you thought. Stronger than they thought you were.

Be brave. Believe in yourself. And remember – no darkness lasts forever.

Chapter 1. Carefree Youth

My Childhood and Youth

My mother was born in Siberia, into a family that lived comfortably before the revolution. Her father had a herd of horses, but after the dekulakization [campaign], all property was seized. My mother, then just a child, cried bitterly when a new coat – a gift she had waited for so long – was ripped from her hands.

The family was exiled to a gold mine in the Kemerovo region. My grandfather worked as a prospector, mined gold, was a Stakhanovite [shock worker], and earned good money. The women in the family – grandmother, mother, and her sister – dug shafts and washed ore themselves. Once, my mother even saw a gold nugget sparkling in the pan like a little sun.

My grandfather hated communists and forbade his children to join the Komsomol [Young Communist League]. In his bag, he kept bonds that eventually turned into useless pieces of paper – there was nowhere to invest them.

My father was born and raised in Eastern Kazakhstan, where his ancestors had moved from the Voronezh province. His father, my grandfather, fought in the war, returned from the front with half of his shoulder gone but with medals for courage. After the war, when the children grew up, my grandparents moved to the Krasnodar region, bought a house with an orchard not far from the city of Novorossiysk.

After finishing school, my mother entered a technical college. After graduating, she moved to her sister in Tashtagol and worked at the military commissariat. She grew into a true green-eyed beauty with long, curly chestnut hair. At a dance, she met my father – a handsome, not very tall man with black curls and warm brown eyes.

"You look like a princess," he told her, twirling her in a waltz. "Your green eyes drive me crazy."

She joked it off, but his persistence and charm melted her heart. A year later, after graduating from the Tomsk Mining Institute, my father returned to Siberia on assignment and proposed to my mother.

I was born in May 1952, and my brother followed a year later. My first vivid childhood memory is a trip to Siberia to visit my mother's parents. We were riding in a cart through the forest, and I saw gadflies buzzing around the horses for the first time.

"Don't be afraid," my mother laughed, covering my face with a scarf. "They're just curious."

In my grandmother's village house, barrels of pine nuts stood in the entryway, and a pig lived in the yard. My brother once poured beer into its trough.

"You little rascal!" my grandfather scolded, while the pig happily grunted, swaying from the unexpected "treat."

But our seemingly prosperous family had a dark side: my father drank and raised his hand against my mother. This also affected his career. My father was a skilled specialist and inventor, possessed a remarkable mind, completed postgraduate studies, wrote a dissertation, but went on a bender and didn't show up for the defense, so he failed to receive the title of Candidate of Technical Sciences. That title came with a monthly salary bonus in those days, but my father missed that opportunity and regretted it deeply all his life. At work, they forgave his "weakness," but I, seeing how our family and my mother suffered, firmly decided that there would never be a drinking man in my life.

My parents raised us strictly. I addressed them formally as "vy" [you], and for getting C's [troykas], my father reached for his belt.

"Mathematics is the queen of sciences!" he would thunder, and I, sobbing, would think faster about how to solve the problem.

When he was in a good mood, he composed funny poems. I remember how he parodied Mayakovsky, scaring me with the prospect of becoming a "garbage man":

To become a driver is good,But a garbage man is better!I'd become a garbage man,Let them teach me how.Get up, the bell is ringing,And I run forward with a bucket!Garbage man, quickly, the bucket,It smells awful!The garbage man proudly raised the bucket,Lifted it and poured it out.

My brother and I rolled on the floor laughing and begged for more. He continued improvising:

The car goes out of town,Carrying Tatyana with a shovel.Tatyana took the shovel,Began to gather manure.And nearby a crow: caw, caw,Serves you right, you "Durkur" [likely a nonsense word or play on "durak" – fool].Probably you studied poorly,That's why it turned out like this!

I remembered my father's admonition forever: "Study well if you want to achieve something."

At school, boys would escort me home in a crowd and fight among themselves for the right to carry my briefcase. I hid from them under the desk so they wouldn't see me, and then ran home. Once, my father accidentally saw me kissing a boy who was walking me home for the first time. For that, he slapped me. He could be affectionate and funny, composing poems, but in anger, he became cruel.

First Love and First Tragedy

My parents sent me and my brother south to our grandparents' village every summer so we could eat fruit to our heart's content and swim in the Black Sea. We were afraid of our grandfather's stern temper and tried to behave so as not to provoke his displeasure. Grandma and grandpa had a cow – we drank fresh milk every day – they also kept chickens, rabbits, even had a few beehives. In the basement, there were always barrels of homemade grape wine. Fruit trees grew near the house, and we constantly feasted on their fruit. We really loved spending summer vacations in the village.

At that time, my great-grandmother was still alive, almost a hundred years old. Despite her wrinkled face, she was so sweet that I called her "Dolly." She didn't remember anything anymore and thought she lived in Tsarist Russia. My cousin Sergei decided to play a trick on her; he showed her a portrait of Leonid Ilyich Brezhnev and said it was the Tsar. Every time she passed the portrait, she crossed herself, thinking she was praying to the Tsar, and the boys laughed.

Having experienced hunger once, my great-grandmother hid bread and candies under the mattress and stole sugar from the kitchen table when no one was looking. Despite her age, she walked around the yard on her own, leaning on a stick, but didn't recogniz anyone. On my father's side, our family had long-livers; perhaps I inherited their genes.

When I turned fourteen, I came to my grandparents for vacation again, and my cousin Sergei introduced me to his friend, Valera. He was incredibly handsome – in a bright yellow plaid shirt, with a white-toothed smile – and I fell in love with him at first sight. We rode on motorcycle, swam, sunbathed, even sneaked into someone else's orchard at night for apples.

It was such a happy time, I felt like I was walking on air. But summer ended quickly, and I had to leave. We agreed to meet the next summer, but in the fall, I received a letter: Valera had crashed his motorcycle on his way to meet his brother. The headlights of an oncoming car blinded him, and he crashed into the bridge railing. The news of his death was a real tragedy for me. I sobbed, drank valerian drops, and didn't want to believe he was gone. The next summer, I came to my grandmother's again, but now I visited his grave. The pain of losing a loved one took a long time to heal.

Forty years later, my brother Sergei gave me a letter from Valera that he had kept all these years. In it, he confessed that he had also fallen in love with me. I keep this letter as a memory of my first love and the first tragedy in my life.

Studies and Career Start

In 1969, after successfully finishing school, I went to enroll in the Karaganda Polytechnic Institute. A new, unknown life full of adventures lay ahead, and my heart was filled with joy and anticipation of long-awaited freedom. Lying on the upper bunk in the train car, I dreamed of a happy future.

Two Gypsy women passed by – one young, one old. Suddenly the younger one stopped, touched her companion's sleeve, and pointed at me. The old Gypsy looked carefully in my direction and abruptly said:

"Pretty, but unlucky."

And they moved on, leaving me stunned.

I was struck by her certainty. There were rumors that Gypsies could tell fortunes, but why did she say that to me? My life was just beginning; I was full of strength and energy. Her words hurt me, but I decided not to pay attention to them.

Contrary to her gloomy prediction, miracles began happening to me. Out of nine classmates who came to enroll with me, only I was accepted to the institute. During the physics exam, when I was confused with fear and couldn't answer even a simple question, the dean of the mining faculty entered the auditorium – a legendary "terror" to students. They said someone once sent him a real coffin as "thanks" for his tough character.

"What a beautiful girl!" he suddenly said, looking at me. "How is she answering?"

"She doesn't know Newton's third law," the teacher smiled.

"Give her a 'satisfactory'," the dean unexpectedly ordered. "Maybe she'll pass the competition."

A lucky accident opened the institute's doors for me. The other guys went home, and I, missing one point for the full-time department, enrolled in the correspondence department and got a job as a secretary. The head of the personnel department (the wife of the vice-rector), charmed by my appearance, hired me without a second thought as secretary to two vice-rectors: for scientific work and for academic work, sending me to the office for a month to master the typewriter. So my career began – without experience, without connections, only thanks to luck.

Life suddenly turned into a fairy tale. That same formidable dean unexpectedly took me under his wing. I felt protected: my wishes were fulfilled almost at my first word. I received a salary, a bonus for assisting with scientific work, lived first in a dormitory, then rented an apartment. Everything seemed perfect.

Once, I asked the vice-rector's driver to take me to the outskirts of the city – to a store that sold hard-to-find nylon stockings. It was raining, visibility was terrible, and we crashed at full speed into a herd of sheep crossing the road. Four sheep died on the spot.

An angry shepherd emerged from the fog. He pulled the driver out of the car and held a knife to his throat. I had never seen such furious anger and was afraid he would kill the man right then. But, gathering my courage, I got out and calmly explained: it was an accident due to the bad weather,and we would definitely compensate for the damage.

The man calmed down, released the driver, and immediately began finishing off the wounded animals. Thanks to my request, the vice-rector didn't fire the driver and settled the conflict. But for a long time, I dreamed of that man with a knife in his hand. This incident became an important lesson: in a critical situation, the main thing is not to panic and not to make things worse.

During this period, you could buy inexpensive natural products in Soviet stores, but real delicacies remained hard-to-find. Prices were affordable: a loaf of bread cost 16 kopecks, a kilogram of doctor's sausage – 2 rubles 80 kopecks, a tram ride – just a nickel [5 kopecks]. With an average salary of 120–150 rubles, you could live quite decently. Social stratification was minimal – a skilled worker could earn no less than a factory director.

The state truly cared for its citizens: free education and healthcare, pioneer camps for children. But behind this stability lay another reality – constant shortages. Imported goods, obtained through acquaintances or in commission shops, were considered true luxuries. A person's status was determined by having a carpet on the wall, crystal in the sideboard, or a Czechoslovakian wall unit in the living room.

Once, friends introduced me to Vladimir – a guy from the wealthiest family in the city. When I first stepped into their apartment, I gasped: velvet furniture, crystal chandeliers, carpets with deer – a real museum of Soviet luxury! His parents welcomed me as an honored guest, serving fruit on a silver platter.

Vladimir proposed to me, but I refused – I felt nothing for him but friendly sympathy. Then his father, the head of a mine, came to my institute. He begged me to be softer with his son, telling a terrible story: as a child, Vladimir accidentally poked out a classmate's eye, and since then, he had mental health issues. My refusal to marry him was a blow – soon the guy ended up in a psychiatric hospital. A year later, I met him on the street, but he didn't recognize me…

I loved being the center of attention. A dress sewn from hard-to-find green velvet, obtained through connections, made me the queen of any evening. Hairpieces were in fashion, and I spent hours styling my voluminous hair. My reception area at the vice-rectors' was always drowning in flowers – teachers vied for my attention. One professor who taught strength of materials even proposed, promising to take me to Moscow. When I refused, he tried to get revenge through grades, but the dean quickly put a stop to that.

I really liked my job, but I always dreamed of being part of in the student environment. In my third year, I asked the vice-rector for academic affairs to transfer me to the full-time department, which was considered prestigious for getting a job. The transfer to the full-time department opened a new chapter in my life. A stipend of 40 rubles plus 50 rubles from my father allowed to want for nothing.

My father sent me letters in verse, which, due to their humor, became legendary at the institute:

I really regret not saving some of his poems as a keepsake.

Studying full-time, I took great pleasure in actively participating in the institute's social life, so I often performed on stage and even sang in the institute's ensemble. We guys and I sometimes earned extra money by giving concerts at weddings.

The wall newspaper of the Mechanical-Technological Faculty published a photo of our ensemble at one of the concerts, but someone cut out my photo as a keepsake. The dean was very indignant when he saw the defaced wall newspaper, and my female classmates began joking that I had a secret admirer.

Guys studying in other faculties confessed that they came in whole groups just to look at me when I worked as a secretary, as the polytechnic institute was mostly boys, and there were few striking girls.

My heart didn't remain free for long – I fell in love with Valera, the most charismatic guy at the institute. He was in his final year, played in an ensemble, sang beautifully, and changed girls like gloves. My feelings turned out to be stronger than his fickleness, and when I realized that for him it was just another fling, disappointment caught up with me.

I was young, beautiful, studied well, received many marriage proposals, but I couldn't decide, as I didn't know who to choose. It seemed to me that true love was still ahead.

In 1975, after receiving my diploma as a mechanical engineer, I was assigned to work for three years as a teacher of specialized subjects at the Leninogorsk Mining and Metallurgical Technical School, in the city where I had finished school. Adult life awaited me.

Chapter 2. Failures in Marriage

First Marriage: Love and Disappointment

The Mining and Metallurgical Technical School where I started teaching became a trial for me. Five subjects, among them – the hated strength of materials. How I regretted burning all my notes right after graduation in a fit of youthful maximalism!

Other teachers taught one or two courses, but I was loaded with five. Day department, evening department, diploma consultations, piles of lesson plans… There was no question of a personal life.

The technical school allocated me a room in the teachers' dormitory, where I pored over notes at night. I was already twenty-four, and still not married. Suitors gradually disappeared, and anxiety grew.

At night, sitting in my dorm room, I caught myself thinking: "Is this really all I'm worth? Endless notebooks, fatigue, loneliness?"

I looked the same age as the students, and in the corridors, I was often mistaken for a first-year student. During lectures, the guys looked at me with loving eyes, but didn’t listen to a word about “stress in beams” – from this, their ears burned as if from an open flame.

Once, on a rare free evening, I was introduced to Alexander – the most promising guy in the city. A handsome young man, of average height, from a wealthy family: father – head of a mine, mother – head of the planning department. He himself worked at the mine and was finishing his institute degree extramurally.

"You don't look like a teacher," he smiled at our first meeting. "More like a straight-A student."

I was flattered by his attention. He courted me beautifully: flowers, gifts, introducing me to his friends. After a couple of months, I realized I was pregnant.

"Everything will be fine," Alexander said, proposing. "We'll get married."

My future husband's parents met me warily, but my status as a teacher and modest manners softened them. My father-in-law, an important man with a Polish surname, was proud of his resemblance to Brezhnev. My mother-in-law – wise and calculating – wore a simple suit, although she had lurex suits, gold, and diamonds that she only wore on vacation.

"Why invite envy?" she said.

They had delicacies delivered by company car, but she stood in line for scarce products so everyone could see they lived "like ordinary people."

My mother-in-law dreamed of her son becoming a big boss as soon as possible and driving around with a personal driver like his father. So she always repeated:

"Come on, Sasha, quickly earn your portfolio and Petya."

Petya was the name of my father-in-law's driver, who carried out all the family's errands.

Thanks to their connections, my husband's parents exchanged my dorm room for a two-room apartment and bought a furniture set (a luxury at the time). We celebrated the wedding in a restaurant; the dress was made from scarce lace – my mother-in-law got it through "blat" [connections/pull].

After the wedding, my husband and I settled into the new apartment and began waiting for the child's birth. The delivery was difficult: my son didn't cry immediately, having gotten tangled in the umbilical cord, as if he didn't want to be born. When his cry finally sounded, I sighed with relief, but anxiety for his health didn't leave me, so I completely immersed myself in caring for my son.

"Finally, happiness," I thought, "a real family, a loving husband, a child…"

But everyday life set in, and illusions began to crumble. Alexander confessed that he had been addicted to alcohol since childhood.

"Father kept cognac in the fridge," he laughed. "I'd top it up with water after I poured myself a glass."

For me, this was a blow. Since childhood, I had hated drunkenness – I had seen too many tears in my own family. I had vowed that there would be no drinking men in my life.

I also learned that Alexander had studied at the Mining Institute in Moscow but got into a fight with a foreigner while drunk and had to return home. He even managed to get into a fight at the wedding, and I had to break it up.

I tried to be the perfect wife. I signed up for sewing courses and learned to cook. But if a dish wasn't cooked well enough, the plate would fly to the floor.

"Wrong again!" he shouted. "Can't you learn to cook properly?"

I endured silently, but inside, a wave of indignation rose.

After our son was born, Alexander declared:

"I won't go near him until he's a year old. Let him become a person first."

Night feedings, endless diapers, crying – everything fell on my shoulders. Once, when the child had been crying for the third hour straight, I dared to ask:

"Please help, just hold him for a minute…"

"What, can't you handle it?" he snorted, not even looking away from the TV. "That's your duty!"

I bit my lip until it bled, rocking my son, and thought:

"Why should I be alone? Why doesn't he want to be a father? Is this a family – when I'm alone with both the child and the household?" Every time Alexander came home drunk, two feelings fought within me:

"I hate him like this! But he can change… And if not? Then what? Be left alone with a child? Endure the condemnation of relatives and acquaintances?"

Despite his generosity and willingness to provide for the family, when drunk he became aggressive. One night, after a noisy drinking session, he beat me.

"What, you don't respect my friends?!" he screamed when I asked him to turn the music down.

The child was crying, my head was ringing with horror. At that moment, I understood: you can't live like this.

My mother-in-law offered us their four-room apartment (they were planning to move south) just so we wouldn't divorce. But I was adamant, especially since our parents had quarreled among themselves and reconciliation was impossible.

Although I filed for divorce, my heart was breaking with pain. I still loved Alexander – the way he was at the beginning: charming, caring, full of plans for the future. But every time I remembered his drunken antics, I understood I couldn't get that person back.

The divorce was finalized. Alexander returned to his parents, and they forbade us to communicate. I was left alone with a child, with a sense of guilt and an incredible emptiness inside. At night, I sobbed into my pillow, remembering the best moments of our short life together.

"What if I had endured? Forgiven? Maybe he would have quit drinking…"

But then came the bitter realization:

"No. He won't change. And I deserve more."

When my son was nine months old, I put him in nursery school, quit the technical school, and got a job as a junior research fellow in a scientific laboratory.

In 1977, on New Year's, I decided to participate in a beauty contest and won it. I remade my wedding dress into an evening gown, guessed the name of candies blindfolded (sweets are my weakness), and answered all the questions. When they put the crown on me, the red ribbon with "Queen" written on it, and led me around in a circle to music, the hall applauded, and I was overwhelmed with emotions. In Soviet times, beauty contests were very rare, and the winner didn't get any prizes, just a box of candies as a gift. It was my small victory, but inside I still felt lonely and broken.