Moscow Russia Development And Redevelopment

Behind a huge white shroud a mile from the Kremlin, construction crews are working in secret to clean up one of the biggest embarrassments of the Cold War. In the U.S. Embassy compound, a six-story curtain surrounds the chancery building that was once supposed to be the top-secret nerve center of United States operations in the Soviet Union. These days, the steady sound of jackhammers comes from behind the curtain.

Behind a huge white shroud a mile from the Kremlin, construction crews are working in secret to clean up one of the biggest embarrassments of the Cold War. In the U.S. Embassy compound, a six-story curtain surrounds the chancery building that was once supposed to be the top-secret nerve center of United States operations in the Soviet Union. These days, the steady sound of jackhammers comes from behind the curtain.

The choir sang in a bare, chilly nook; the altar leaned against an ugly scaffold tangle; and priestly robes swished along a plain concrete floor. But the dignitaries celebrating the Russian Orthodox Christmas on Sunday in Moscow's most ambitious construction project pronounced the atmosphere fittingly festive--even inspiring.

Several times a month, the mayor rolls up with an entourage in black Volga sedans, squeezes his cannonball head into a hard hat and inspects the mammoth, unfinished Christ the Savior Cathedral inside and out. He studies blueprints and timetables. He barks commands. If work is behind schedule, he pounds a fist, chews out a foreman. He checks to make sure there's an endless supply of kvas, a beer-like incentive, on tap for the 2,500 builders who toil round the clock.

Several times a month, the mayor rolls up with an entourage in black Volga sedans, squeezes his cannonball head into a hard hat and inspects the mammoth, unfinished Christ the Savior Cathedral inside and out. He studies blueprints and timetables. He barks commands. If work is behind schedule, he pounds a fist, chews out a foreman. He checks to make sure there's an endless supply of kvas, a beer-like incentive, on tap for the 2,500 builders who toil round the clock.

The choir sang in a bare, chilly nook; the altar leaned against an ugly scaffold tangle; and priestly robes swished along a plain concrete floor. But the dignitaries celebrating the Russian Orthodox Christmas on Sunday in Moscow's most ambitious construction project pronounced the atmosphere fittingly festive--even inspiring.