Ivan Behind The Wheel

More cars for the comrades, but the road ahead is bumpy

To Marxist purists, there is nothing quite so socially corrupting as that ultimate expression of status and self-indulgence, the automobile. If so, the Soviet Union's guardians of socialist virtue need to keep on their toes, because the chariots of decadence are popping up on roads all over the land. The U.S.S.R. is entering the auto age, and neither the state-owned companies that make cars nor the customers who buy them know quite what to make of the transition.

As a result of an increasing emphasis during the Brezhnev years on the production of consumer goods, Soviet auto output has multiplied from 350,000 cars in 1970 to 1.2 million last year -- nearly as many as were turned out in Britain. The growth rate is certain to slow somewhat; last fall Moscow announced that during the next five years it will be redirecting $228 billion into agriculture from other investment programs, including the one for the auto industry. Nonetheless, auto production is expected to reach 2.1 million cars a year by 1980, about equal to U.S. output in 1922.

Only about 4 million Soviet citizens, or 1.5% of the total, own cars, v. 98 million people, or nearly half the population, in the U.S. But the U.S.S.R. does not have nearly a good enough road network to support even the relatively small number of cars already on the highway. Most of the 860,000 miles of highways are poorly graded and/or potholed; 90% of the system is unpaved. During the spring thaw, fully 70% of the entire network becomes an impassable river of mud. According to Pravda, 40,000 miles of new roads must be built or improved by 1980, but road construction is still lagging far behind the rate of increase in traffic.

For the would-be motorist, problems can begin as soon as he decides he wants a car. The cheapest model, the Zaporozhets, a tinny little machine with a top speed of 55 m.p.h., sells for $5,140. The popular and somewhat peppier Zhiguli (top speed: 76 m.p.h.), a Soviet-built version of a Fiat 124, sells for $7,850--not too much above the price of an average U.S. 1978 model, but three times the average annual Soviet wage. About a third of Soviet auto production is for export, largely in the form of a version of the Zhiguli named the Lada. Thus delivery delays for domestic Soviet auto buyers can run to a year or occasionally even three to four years.

Once he gets his car, the proud Soviet owner must endure a nonstop struggle to keep it gassed up and running. Pump stations are few and far between. In the entire U.S.S.R., only 135 service stations are equipped to make even routine repairs; a mere 30 service centers can do major overhauls. Though the Soviet press does not report statistics, auto crashes are numerous, and the fatality rate is high. In some areas, more than a third of the auto accidents result in the death of at least one person. Maybe things will get better in the next generation. In several Soviet towns, including the Transcaucasian city of Kirovabad, local traffic authorities have set up kiddie-town driving schools, where five-and six-year-olds drive miniature cars along scaled-down streets and intersections to learn the rules of the road.

Demand for new cars--and big, luxurious ones at that--seems insatiable. Later this year the Soviets will introduce a Gaz-14 limousine equipped with such bourgeois delights as automatic transmission, power brakes, air conditioning and stereo radio-cassette deck. Alas, in all likelihood the car will be available only to upper-level government officials.

If the commissars get to breeze around in Gaz-14s while the proletariat has to tool behind in Zhigulis, can Demon Envy be avoided? Probably only if a genuine mass auto market of all price ranges can be created. But that may be difficult. One Soviet automaker proposed selling cars on the installment plan to help buyers who cannot afford to pay the full price in cash. A Soviet journal grumped that selling cars on monthly payments would only make waiting lists for delivery even longer. Nonetheless, now that it has whetted the public appetite for cars, the government can scarcely afford to deny the citizens their fill. Now that Moscow has started down the road to a society on wheels, its best bet for keeping the populace happy would seem to be to keep Volgas, Zhigulis --yes, and Gaz-14s--rolling off the assembly lines as fast as possible.

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