You started winning?
Yes, within about a year or two.
Vera Dmitrievna Gurevich:
I taught Volodya from fifth through eighth grade. And then we had to decide what school to send him to. Most of the class went to School No. 197 on Petra Lavrova Street. But Volodya and Slava Yakovlev chose a school with a special focus on chemistry. I think Slava talked him into it.
I was surprised at the time. But Volodya told me, “We’ll study there a while, and then we’ll see.” He was never hasty. He also got good grades in that school. He had a wonderful teacher named Minna Moiseyevna Yuditskaya. She also taught German. And oddly, I visited the Putins’ home even more often than I had before, as I was helping Volodya with his German. I wanted him to speak German well. He would help me too. Besides teaching elementary school, I taught in the evenings at a technical school for architects and builders. Once, my husband had to go away on a business trip. My daughters were still little at the time. So I said, “Volodya, help me out. I’m coming home late and my girls might be afraid if they wake up.” He would come and look in on them and even stay the night.
I think Volodya is a good person. But he never forgives people who betray him or are mean to him. In any case, that’s what I think.
Volodya wasn’t very popular in his new school, as far as I could tell. But he did have a literature class with a teacher named Kochergin who made the lessons really creative and interesting. I remember one of the topics quite well that he assigned for student compositions. It was unusual for those times: “A revolution has a beginning, a revolution has no end.” Well, you could write a whole treatise on that one!
Right after graduating from school, Volodya announced that he was going to law school. I don’t know what influenced his choice. Why law school? We had thought originally that he would go to a technical institute. Lena Gryaznova went to the technical institute, and they were close. There was much that linked Volodya and Lena. She had starting coming over to the Putin house as early as sixth grade. Volodya was not especially interested in girls; but they were certainly interested in him.
So all of a sudden, he announced to everyone: “I’m going to university.” And I said “How?” And he said “I”ll solve that problem myself.”
Even before I graduated from school, I wanted to work in intelligence. It was a dream of mine, although it seemed about as likely as a flight to Mars. And sure, my ambitions sometimes changed. I also wanted to be a sailor. And at one point I really wanted to be a pilot.
The Academy of Civil Aviation is in Leningrad, and I was hell-bent on getting in. I read the literature and even subscribed to an aviation journal. But then books and spy movies like The Sword and the Shield took hold of my imagination. What amazed me most of all was how one man’s effort could achive what whole armies could not. One spy could decide the fate of thousands of people. At least, that’s the way I understood it.
The Academy of Civil Aviation quickly lost its thrill. I had made my choice. I wanted to be a spy.
My parents didn’t understand this right away. My coach had gone to see them and told them that as an athlete, I could get into an institute practically without passing exams. So they tried to talk me into going to an institute. My coach took their side. He couldn’t understand why I was resisting. “He has a 100 percent chance of getting into that Academy of Civil Aviation,” he told my parents. “And if he doesn’t get into university, then he’ll have to go into the army.”
It was a difficult situation. My father had a very commanding personality. But I dug my heels in and said I had made up my mind.
Then another coach of mine from the Trud Club, Leonid Ionovich, came to visit. He was a clever guy. “Well,” he said to me. “Where are you going?” Of course he already knew. He was just acting sly. I said, “To university.” “Oh, that’s great, good for you,” he said, “in what department?” “The law school,” I answered. Then he roared: “What?! To catch people? What are you doing? You’ll be a cop. Do you understand?!” I was insulted. “I’m not going to be a cop!” I yelled back.
For a year, they put pressure on me every day. That only increased my desire to go to law school. But why law school? Let me explain.
In order to find out how to become a spy, sometime back around the beginning of the ninth grade, I had gone to the office of the KGB Directorate. A guy came out and listened to me. “I want to get a job with you,” I said. “That’s terrific, but there are several issues,” he said. “First, we don’t take people who come to us on their own initiative. Second, you can come to us only after the army or after some type of civilian higher education.”
I was intrigued. “What kind of higher education?” I asked. “Any!” he said. He probably just wanted to get rid of me. “But what kind is preferred?” I asked. “Law school.” And that was that. From that moment on, I began to prepare for the law faculty of Leningrad University. And nobody could stop me.
But my parents and my coaches tried. They threatened me with the prospect of the army for a long time. What they didn’t understand was that the army suited me just fine. Of course it would have slowed my progress a little, but it wouldn’t deter me from my decision.
The coaches, however, had more tricks up their sleeves. When I went to enroll in preparatory classes at the university, I learned that they had made up lists of athletes who were to be given priority in university admissions. I knew for a fact that I wasn’t on any list. But when I was enrolling in classes, my gym teacher tried to force me to join the Burevestnik Club. I asked him, “How come I have to switch over to this?” And he said, “We helped get you into the university, so please be so kind . . .” I knew something was up.
I went to the dean. I walked in and and told him outright, “I’m being forced to transfer into Burevestnik. I don’t think I should do that.” And the dean, Prof. Alekseyev, a kindhearted, good man, said, “Why are they forcing you?” And I said, “Because they supposedly helped me, as an athlete, to get into the university, and now I must pay them back by joining Burevestnik.”
He said, “Really? That can’t be! Everyone gets into this university on equal terms, judged according to their knowledge, not by some list of athletes. Wait a minute, and I’ll find out.” Then he reached into his desk, got a list out, glanced at it, and asked me my last name. “You’re not on the list,” he said, “So you can safely tell everybody to get lost.” Which I did.
Nevertheless, in intervarsity championships I played on behalf of the university team, as I could do this without transferring from one sports club to the other. Still, the coaches didn’t let up their efforts to recruit me. I told them a hundred times that I would not leave Trud—all my friends were there, and my first coach. I said I would never join another club. I would play for the one I wanted.
Part 3
THE UNIVERSITY STUDENT
Putin studies hard at the university, but still finds time to cruise Leningrad in his Zaporozhets car and compete in judo tournaments. Over the summer he works in construction with his buddies. He has romances and breakups, but his primary passion remains intact: finding a way into the KGB.
Was it hard to get into university?
Yes, it was, because there were 100 slots and only 10 of them were reserved for high school graduates. The rest were for army guys. So for us high-schoolers, the competition was fierce; something like 40 kids per slot. I had gotten a B in composition but A’s in all my other subjects, and I was accepted. By the way, at that time, they didn’t take into account the total grade point average of the applicant. So in tenth grade I could completely devote myself to the subjects that I would have to pass to get into university. If I hadn’t dropped the other subjects, I wouldn’t have gotten in.
Thank God, we had very smart teachers with sharp tactics in our school. Their main goal was to prepare students to get into college. And as soon as they realized that I wasn’t going to become a chemist and wanted to major in the humanities, they didn’t interfere. In fact, q
uite the opposite—they approved.
You evidently studied hard in university, with your future in mind?
Yes, I studied hard. I didn’t become involved in any extracurricular activities. I wasn’t a Komsomol functionary.
Was your stipend enough to cover your living expenses?
No, it wasn’t enough. At first, my parents had to support me. I was a student, and didn’t have any money. I could have earned extra money working construction like a lot of people. But what would have been the point? I was on a construction crew once. I went to Komi, where I chopped trees for the lumber industry and repaired houses. I finished the job and they handed me a packet of money, probably about 1,000 rubles. In those days, a car cost 3,500 or 4,000 rubles. But for a month and a half of work, we got 1,000! So it was good money. Actually, fantastic money.
We earned our pay. And then we had to spend it on something. My two friends and I went to Gagry on vacation without even stopping back in Leningrad. We got there, and on the first day we got drunk chasing shish kebabs down with port wine. Then we tried to think of what to do next. Where could we go to spend the night? There were probably some hotels around, but we didn’t have much hope of getting into them. Late at night, we finally found an old lady who agreed to take us in and give us a room.
We spent several days swimming, tanning, and getting good rest. But soon we had to get out of there and somehow get back home. We were running out of money. We came up with a plan; we would finagle places on the deck of a steamship on its way to Odessa. Then we would take a train to Peter, buying tickets for the top bunks in the sleepers, which were the cheapest.
We pooled our pocket change and realized we had nothing but a few kopecks left for provisions. We decided to buy some tushonka, some canned stew, for the trip. One of the fellows was rather careful—he had more money left over than the other, who was a spendthrift. When we told the more economical friend that he should share his dough, he thought for a minute and then said, “That canned meat is pretty hard on the stomach. That’s not really the right thing to get.” And we said, “Whatever you say. Let’s get going.”
When we got down to the docks, a huge crowd had gathered. The ship was giant as well—a beautiful white ocean-liner. We were told that only passengers with tickets to the cabins were being allowed on, and those with deck seats were not yet being admitted. All the deck passengers had little tickets made out of hard cardboard, but we had larger-sized, mixed-passage tickets that looked like the ones first-class passengers would have had.
My friend who had refused to chip in for the canned meat said, “You know, I don’t like the look of this. I don’t think it’s going to work out. Let’s try to get on right now.” I said, “It’s awkward, let’s just stand here and wait our turn.” He said, “Well, you can stand around if you want. We’re going to get on.” So they went to board the ship, and of course I ran after them.
The ticket-taker asked us what kind of tickets we had. “We have the big ones,” we answered. He waved us on.
So we were let on board the ship with the first-class passengers. And then the foreman or somebody else yelled, “Are there any others for first class?” The crowd on the dock was silent.
He asked once again, “Are there only deck passengers left?” The crowd, hoping they would now be allowed on, cried out excitedly, “Yes, just deck passengers!” To which he shouted, “Raise the plank!”
They lifted the walkway, and suddenly panic broke out on the dock. People were furious. They had been deceived. They had paid money, and now they weren’t being let on the ship. Later they were told that there was a freight overage and that the ship was full.
If we hadn’t gotten on board when we did, we would have been left standing on the dock. And we didn’t have a single kopeck left. I don’t know what we would have done.
So we settled into some lifeboats, which hung out over the water. And that was how we got home, as if we were lying in hammocks. For two nights I looked up at the sky, and I couldn’t take my eyes away. The ship sailed on, and the stars seemed to just hang there. Do you know what I mean? Sailors may be used to that, but for me it was a wondrous discovery.
That first evening we ogled the cabin passengers. It made us a little wistful to see how wonderful their lives were. All we had were the lifeboats, the stars, and the tins of tushonka.
Our thrifty friend didn’t have any canned meat. He couldn’t hold out any longer, and went to the restaurant. But the prices there were so high that he quickly came back and said indifferently, “Well, I suppose I wouldn’t mind scarfing down a little tushonka.” But my other friend, who kept strictly to the rules, said, “You know, you should worry about your stomach. It’s not good for you.” So the thrifty guy starved for a day after that. It was cruel, of course, but it was also fair.
When I went to university, I started concentrating on my studies. Athletics took second place. But I did work out regularly and took part in all the All-Union competitions, although it was just by habit, really.
In 1976, I became the city-wide champion. The people in our section included not only amateurs, like me, but also professionals and European and Olympic champions in both sambo and judo.
I became a sambo master black belt after entering university, and then a judo master two years later. I don’t know how it is nowadays, but back then you had to collect a certain number of victories over opponents of a certain level, and to place in serious competitions. For example, you had to be among the top three in the city or get first place in the All-Union competition for Trud.
I remember a couple matches vividly. After one of them I couldn’t even breathe, only croak. My opponent was a strong guy, and I had used up so much energy that I just wheezed instead of inhaling and exhaling. I won, but only by a slim margin.
And then there was the time I lost to the world champion, Volodya Kullenin. Later he began to drink heavily and was murdered on the street. But in university he was a fine athlete, really brilliant and talented. He hadn’t started drinking when I fought him. We were competing for the city championship. He was already world champion. Right away, during the first minutes, I threw him across my back—and did it gracefully, with ease. In principle, the match should have ended right then, but since Kullenin was world champion, it wouldn’t have been right to stop the fight. So they gave me some points and we continued. Of course Kullenin was stronger than me, but I fought hard. Under the rules of this martial art, any sort of crying out is considered a signal of defeat. When Kullenin twisted my elbow backward, the judge seemed to hear me make some grunts. So Kullenin was declared the victor. I remember that match to this day. And I was not ashamed to lose to a world champion.
There was another match I’ll remember for the rest of my life, although it wasn’t one I took part in. I had a friend in university whom I had talked into joining the gym. First he took judo, and he did quite well. Once there was a competition and he was fighting. He took a jump forward and landed headfirst on the mat. His vertebrae were dislocated and he was paralyzed. He died 10 days later in the hospital. He was a good guy. And to this day I regret talking him into taking judo. . . .
Traumas like this were quite frequent during the competitions and matches. People would break their arms or legs. Matches were a form of torture. And training was hard, too. We used to go to an athletic center outside of Leningrad on Khippiyarvi Lake. It’s a fairly large lake, about 17 kilometers wide. Every morning when we got up, we ran around the lake first thing. After our run, there would be exercise, then training, breakfast, more workouts, lunch, rest after lunch, and then workouts again.
We used to travel around the country a lot. Once we went to a match in Moldavia, in preparation for the Spartakiad competition of the peoples of the USSR. It was horribly hot. I was coming out of our workout with my friend Vasya, and wine was for sale everywhere. He said to me, “Let’s toss back a bottle of wine each.” “It’s too hot out,” I replied. “Then let’s just relax,” he said. “Alright, alr
ight. Let’s get some wine,” I said.
We each took a bottle, went back to our room, and flopped down on our beds. He opened his bottle. “It’s too hot,” I said. “I’m not going to.” “Really?” he said. “Okay, have it your way.” He gulped the bottle straight down. Then he looked at me. “Are you sure you aren’t going to have any?” “I’m sure,” I said. So he took the second bottle and knocked it back. He put the empty bottles on the table, and instantly he was out like a light. There he was, suddenly snoring. I really regretted not drinking along with him! I squirmed and squirmed. I couldn’t hold out any longer, and poked him. “Hey, you. You’re snoring, stop it! You’re snoring like an elephant.”
That was pretty much the exception. We didn’t party much, because drinking made the workouts that much harder. There was this one huge guy that worked out with us. His name was Kolya. Not only was he gigantic, but he had this incredible face. He had a massive jaw that jutted forward and a huge overhanging brow. One night some hooligans started picking on him in a dark alley, and he said, “Guys, calm down. Pipe down for just a second.” Then he took out a match, struck it, and held it up to his face. “Just look at me,” he said. And that was the end of that incident.
Sergei Roldugin (soloist in the Mariinsky Theater Symphony Orchestra, a family friend of the Putins, and godfather of Putin’s older daughter, Masha):
Volodya went to school with my brother. When I moved to Leningrad, my brother told me about Vovka. He brought him over to our house, and we hit it off. I think it was in 1977. After that, he became like a brother to me. When I had nowhere to go, I would go over to his house. I would eat and sleep there.
First Person Page 3
