Nikolai's apartment is small but comfortable, with high ceilings and a living room with freshly painted lemon-yellow walls. Piles of newspapers and books on communist themes -- Russian Labor newspaper and various treatises by Lenin -- lie atop a cabinet in the living room, and on the wall in Nikolai's bedroom hangs a kind of shrine to two of the most beloved figures in his life.
"On this plate is a picture of my first wife," he says, gesturing toward the portrait of a smiling, fresh-faced young woman. "She died only about five years after we were married. We had a son together; he's in his thirties now. And below that, of course, is Lenin." He pauses for a moment to admire the red velvet banner, then walks into the next room, where he opens a small closet door with a key.
"And this is my police uniform," he says, solemnly removing a gray jacket
adorned with medals. He pulls the jacket on, brushes a bit of lint off the
medals, and says, "I served 24 1/2 years in the police, then got kicked out
when a supervisor framed me for supposedly stealing money taken from a
suspect. Another half-year and I would have been eligible for pension.