Another Soviet experiment is biting the dust. The Moscow city council has started Âabolishing the despised Âbeehive-like commuÂnal apartment of the commuÂnist era shared by many families.
They are being Âreplaced by cheaply built one-bedroom flats. Housing officials are realistic about the speed with which the 270 000 families living in the city’s 118 000 remaining kommunalkas can be rehoused, however, and their initial 10-year programme has Âalready been extended.
“The time has come to move Âpeople into Âseparate apartments,” said Mikhail Kulikov of the municipal housing department. “Life in a communal flat where people with differÂent temperaments and lifeÂstyles are thrown together to share one Âtoilet and one kitchen is no longer considered a normal existence.”
The kommunalka was conceived as a means of eradicating class Âdivisions after the revolution. Large houses were subdivided for the Âproletariat, and a family was housed in each room. The planners hoped this would forge bonds between residents, and regarded the innoÂvation as an Âexperiment in socialist living. But the buildings began to feature in dissident Soviet literature as one of the greatest evils of the regime.
In his recent memoirs, President VladiÂmir Putin described the tensions of growing up in a St Petersburg communal flat, recalling the kitchen Âarguments between his parents and their neighbours, and the joys of chasing rats on filthy stairways. In Moscow, property developers have bought out many of the Âfamilies housed in handsome pre-Ârevolutionary buildings near the centre. Most of the remaining communal flats are in less desirable buildings in less fashionable parts of town.
Anna Azimova’s home in a ÂStalinist-era block in the north of the city is an extreme example of the genre. There are 16 rooms and 14 families: 43 people sharing one kitchen and one shower. Each family has about 12m2 of space. To avoid queuing for the shower, Azimova, who is the deputy head of the local school, gets up at 4.30am. To escape the crush in the kitchen she prepares breakfast, lunch and supper for her family while her neighbours are sleeping. To exist in such close confines the residents have developed a set of Âunwritten rules that dictate who must take responsibility for everything from washing the floor to changing light bulbs.
Only the building’s three confirmed alcoholics neglect these duties, preferring to Âtorment their neighbours by Âstealing food from the kitchen and inviting stray acquaintances from the Ânearby railway station for all-night Âvodka parties. To the eight children who cycle up and down the central corridor, the lifestyle has a definite appeal. Their parents see its positive side only rarely.
At New Year and Christmas they try to put aside their differences and pull pieces of furniture into the hall to make a long banqueting table. But this time they decided not to, because the ceiling was leaking too Âbadly. “We’re meant to live as a big Âfamily, but it doesn’t work like that. The walls are so thin you can hear people talking quietly. When the Âalcoholics start drinking together the other 40Â of us can’t sleep,” said NataÂsha Zamarakhina (25).
She moved in five years ago. Her husband has lived there all his life. “The gossiping is the most depresÂsing thing,” she said. No one can do anything here without it being discussed by the 13 other families.” Zamarakhina has little hope that she will be rehoused soon. Faced with a long queue of people awaiting new homes, the council gives precedence to World War II veterans, Chernobyl victims and invalids.
The housing department is also committed to obliterating Moscow’s crumbling five-storey 1950s blocks of flats and has contracted developers to build much taller blocks to allow for the gradual resettlement of communal flat inhabitants.