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In September 1997 the National Bolshevik Party completed a union with Anpilov and Terekhov. We signed a three-sided agreement that we would run in the elections in December 1999 together and we would hold all kinds of political actions as a united block together, including demonstrations. We signed the agreement in my office in the Bunker, and at that point I suggested that the new block be called "The Front of Working People, the Army and Youth. "We adopted the name temporarily. We sewed a long red banner.

Alexander Dugin started excessively lauding in every FTN article how only Dugin was able to do that. I started to organize my own people and take them onto the streets with Anpilov's people. At the big gatherings, we would get together at Oktyabrskaya Metro at 8:30 near the Lenin statue. Our flags were visible from afar. Journalists ran to us in waves. Around 9 o'clock, I began to draw up the column. In front I placed our red standard on two poles with "National Bolshevik Party " written on it and the image of the Limonka grenade in the center. That same image is on the Limonka newspaper and my left bicep. Dividing into ranks, party members lined up behind the entire length of the standard. They carried slogans between the ranks:"We hate the government!", the Party's credo:"Russia is everything! Everything else is nothing!", "Capitalism is crap!", "Eat the rich!" We had an entire assortment, plus slogans tailored to the day:say, on February 23, 2000, we carried the slogans "Down with the autocracy and the succession to the throne!" and "Putin, we didn't invite you;get out!"

While we were still gathering, I roused the boys, addressed them through a megaphone, explaining what was happening today in politics. I joked and started to ignite them.

"Clear your throats!" I yelled.. "It's time!All right, let's go:A good bourgeois is a dead bourgeois!A good bourgeois is a dead bourgeois! It's weak!Louder!Unite!Open your mouths!More fiercely!Exert yourselves! Capitalism is crap!Capitalism is crap!"

They caught fire step by step. Anpilov appeared and met me, "Greetings to the great Party of National Bolsheviks!"

Colonel Terekhov came up, simple babushkas and dedushkas approached us, pensioners, simple people. For a long time our flag challenged their suspicions:"Do you know that your flag is similar to. . . "

"We know, " we said. . "All flags are alike: there are only a few basic colors, we can't make ourselves a flag out of quilt scraps. "

"Yes, but the older generation under- stands that flag as. . . "

The coldest was February 23. But the march route was usually short, not from Oktyabrskaya, and each time the powers that be cut off a piece of the march route. If we had gathered initially at Belorussky, then later on it was at Mayakovskaya and in 2000 already at Pushkin Square.

We generally went from Oktyabrskaya on November 7 and May 1. The march route went up Yakimanka, past the French embassy building, further to the bridge and across the canal of the Moscow River, turn- ing to the right along the canal to Bolotnaya Square, exiting onto the large bridge across the Moscow River and from there onto Vasilevsky Spusk -- towards the rear part of St. Basil's Cathedral, where an ordinary meeting would be held. The coldest time on that march route was the Seventh of November. But the boys liked it. One time there was a wild snowstorm after which my sheepskin coat couldn't dry out for a week. A passionate struggle against the elements was added that day to the passionate politi- cal one and, because of that, the procession was particularly successful. They still remember it up until the present.

We departed from our place at 9:30. Working Russia spread out salt, walking disorderly, however they could. Anpilov was barely able to pronounce the first two or three slogans. We usually walked at the tail of the demonstration. Ownerless red youth, party-less punks, the leftovers of the anarchists came to us (in front of our personnel and sympathizers). Our column was strikingly young, energetic. Our style was strikingly new for our country, and for any other. Not a second without shouts, we used those cries:like when everyone switched to running practically in place with the loud cries. It was the defeatists and passersby and our partners. And our shouts were paradoxical. Their authorship was often the collective. If I thought up, "We hate the government!", then the masses in the column would shout, "For our old men -- we'll cut off ears!" I walked and said through the megaphone that they tempted and beckoned me from the column. Now one of the boys relieved me or maybe there were several megaphones. Fresh young faces, shouts, enthusi- asm, laughter, measured steps. It was a joy to look at us and our flags over us.

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