Russia's Bitter Chill

Before Litvinenko died, a spokesman for the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service stated bluntly that he was "not the kind of person for whose sake we would spoil bilateral relations [with Britain]," and a Kremlin spokesman said talk about any possible role it may have had in the affair was "sheer nonsense." Sergei Yastrzhembsky, Putin's chief envoy to the European Union, suggested that the murder might be part of "a well-orchestrated campaign or plan to consistently discredit Russia and its leader." Asked about the matter at a Russia-E.U. meeting in Helsinki on Friday, Putin described it as a tragedy and offered his condolences to Litvinenko's family, but he questioned whether the deathbed note was genuine and said he hoped the case wouldn't be whipped up into "a political scandal." Russia stood ready to help British authorities with their investigation, he added.

Whatever the final outcome of the cases, the deaths of Litvinenko and Politkovskaya have chilled Russia's already frosty civil society, and revived memories most Russians would prefer to forget. Back in the bad old days of Soviet rule, fear was prevalent. People who spoke up against Kremlin authoritarianism knew what to expect: harassment, isolation, imprisonment and worse. Most people dared to grumble only in the relative safety of their own kitchens, but a hardy few — advocates of freedom such as Andrei Sakharov and Natan Sharansky — made their dissent public.

In the 15 years since the Soviet Union collapsed, Russia has been transformed; it's now much richer, more democratic and infinitely more open than it was. But, to the alarm of many Russians and some in the West, the old fear is returning. It is fueled by such things as the lists of targeted Russian activists that circulate on the websites of shadowy ultranationalist groups, and also by recent measures taken by the Putin administration, including a squeeze on the independent press and new laws that could be used to silence opposition voices. "There may no longer be shortages of groceries and long lines at every street corner, but Russia today is still a place where human rights and freedom are in short supply," says Ludmilla Alexeyeva, a doyenne of Russian human-rights activists, who co-founded the important Moscow Helsinki Group in 1976. "People who question the policies of our government are increasingly targeted. People who work for human rights are increasingly under attack. So, are we in Russia? Are we back in the U.S.S.R.?"

It's a startling question, but not all that far-fetched. Russian democracy, chaotically vibrant just a decade ago, is looking increasingly fragile as checks and balances to Kremlin power are dismantled. Regional governors and members of the upper house of parliament are no longer elected but appointed; no new political parties can exist or be started, unless endorsed by the Kremlin; it is no longer possible for independent candidates to stand in constituencies for election to the Duma. The continuing conflict in Chechnya has given rise to a slew of allegations about human-rights abuses. And there's a strong impression — real or not — that free speech is potentially dangerous once again, especially if it is used to openly criticize the President or highlight alleged abuses taking place under his aegis.