“I was so used to imagining everything as it happened in books, and picturing to myself everything in the world as I had previously made it up in my dreams, that at first I could not all at once grasp the meaning of this occurrence.”

– Fyodor Dostoevsky

It was the literature that first pulled me toward Russia.

There was a madness in the Russian soul, conveyed in these books, that I found irresistible. The heroes of Russian literature were invariably tortured individuals struggling to live brutal lives in a country they both loved and hated. The heroes of their history books were seldom different. My fascination with this country of contradictions inspired me to forego college after high school, and instead, teach English in Moscow.

I arrived in the former Soviet Union in early November. As if in welcome, all warmth immediately disappeared. Temperatures in Moscow quickly dropped below freezing. The winter was savage, but it was beautiful at the same time. Every day after work, I walked across Red Square, bundled up in an enormous overcoat that I bought for about $15 at some Russian market. I doubt there is anything quite as beautiful as St. Basil’s, blanketed in a pristine snow, its brilliant cupolas glistening as the sun slowly sets over the Kremlin’s sinister walls.

Once night fell, the Russians only seemed to know two ways to pass the darkness – the theater and the bottle. Only in Russia do people sit and ponder whether they should take in great works of opera in one of Moscow’s marvelously constructed theaters or drink themselves into a life-threatening stupor with a $2 bottle of Moskovskaya vodka. One morning, after a particularly cold night, as I entered the Metro on my way to the school, the police were removing a corpse from an underground passage. The night before the corpse had been a man who opted for the bottle, passed out in a tunnel and froze to death.

I always assumed the bottle was the more dangerous option, until this week. In Russia, the theater can, unfortunately, be equally cruel. The other teachers, the Russian students and I frequently patronized the theaters. We saw “Swan Lake,”Boris Gudonov,”Prince Igor,”Romeo and Juliet,” and they were majestic and magical. From the moment we walked into those halls of marble with crystal chandeliers we forgot about the harsh reality outside. I shiver to think of the halls of a theater as they were this week, stained with blood and laced with explosives.

Inside the theater, people could escape from the outside world – the same appeal the vodka had, actually. The magnificent dramas unfolding, and the lovely young ballerinas telling them, captured our minds and hearts. They showed us a Russia worth dreaming about. Yet now when I picture those beautiful stages, I imagine them filled with crazed terrorists. I see the ushers of this past week, not the old babushki helping people find their seats, but militants, hate-possessed, armed with grenades and rifles, threatening to shoot people if they leave their seats. The lovely young ballerina is sprawled across the aisle, a bullet through her head in the name of peace.

My memories of Russia are scarred with this occurrence of the past week. Now, when I try to recall the exotic spires of St. Basil’s, I see the frightened protesters in its shadow; opposed to a war, not because they believe war is wrong, but because they think their family members will be killed if they do not protest. Instead of delighted theater audiences, I picture those horrified people, huddled in the cold theater, no food for two days.

After a night at the theater I used to come home to my host family, perhaps picking up something warm to eat on the way. My bed sat next to a window that overlooked a small reservoir. I remember on nights when I could not sleep, my host brother, Irakli, and I would gaze out at the moon and the fir trees reflected on the ice. It felt so safe. I remember that my host mother, Manana, liked the theater. Especially musicals. I doubt she does anymore.

My scarred memories do not bother me as much as their crushed hopes. In Russia, hopes and dreams were increasingly scarce. I am worried that the Russian soul is dying. I am worried that they are running out of things to love in that brutal country. I know I am.

Josh Zumbrun is a sophomore in the School of Foreign Service and is the assistant Viewpoint editor.