Word: russian
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Dates: during 1970-1979
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Harvard's other land competitor, Bertha Cohen, a Russian immigrant who when she died in 1965 had properties that virtually ringed Harvard holdings, also stayed aloof from both Cambridge politics and her neighbors. Through land speculation and stock earnings Cohen became a millionare several times over. However, Bradlee recalls, "If you saw her on the street you would never have known she had a dime...
Berg grew up in that city, the son of an immigrant Russian Jewish pharmacist. At Princeton, he excelled in romance languages and stopping balls as the varsity shortstop. Berg lacked confidence that he could make it in the majors, but he reasoned that baseball was the most enjoyable way to earn enough money to study phonetics at the Sorbonne. The Brooklyn Dodgers, who probably thought Berg had said something about liking sour buns, offered him a $5,000 contract...
Like other dissident Russian authors, Vladimir Maximov, 44, has a well-earned lien on the attention of U.S. readers: Western sympathies are automatically stirred by anyone who tilts a pen at totalitarianism. As his writings during the post-Stalinist thaw grew increasingly cool toward Communist ideology, Soviet authorities turned frigid. Maximov's support of party nonpersons, including Alexander Solzhenitsyn, finally brought about his own forced exile to Paris last year...
...Seven Days of Creation arrives with good intentions stamped all over it. Originally published in Germany in 1971 (and still banned in the Soviet Union), the book is a loose recounting of 20th century Russian history seen through the eyes of three aging brothers. Pyotr and Andrei Lashkov have become provincial Communist Party functionaries, while Vasilii acts as a morose janitor for a Moscow apartment house. All are profoundly disillusioned by the course their lives and land have taken. For them, the glorious future promised by the Revolution is not working, and Pyotr wonders...
...Mother Russia. Maximov's art is not yet ready for such awesome competition. His novel is a string of craftsmanlike vignettes awash in hyperbole. Emotions are so consistently overwrought that tempestuousness is soon diminished to nagging petulance. Some of the blame may belong to the translation. One Russian greets another with an improbable, hearty "Hallo, Pal" or a "Come on, Boss...