Back in the Soviet era, there were three "Mao": Big Mao referred to Russia, Second Mao to Ukraine, and Third Mao to Belarus. There was no Fourth Mao. After all, things usually stop at three.
Russia's influence on Western Europe and Asia was limited in terms of economy and art, but among its bordering nations—especially the former Soviet states—it remained one of the most powerful cultural forces.
For example, Russia's national television station might only attract around 30 million viewers domestically, but when combined with audiences in neighboring countries, viewership could easily exceed a hundred million.
The Saint Petersburg International Cultural Forum was scheduled to be broadcast in the evening segment of National Arts, starting at 7 p.m. The event spanned over a week and included segments on dance, opera, literature, film, and architecture. The sheer amount of footage was staggering.
Naturally, only the most refined parts were selected for broadcast. In the architecture section, for instance, they showed aerial footage of Victory Park and highlighted several of its structures with explanatory text layered over the visuals.
Afterward, they briefly interviewed a few standout architects. The entire segment lasted about ten minutes.
The vocal performance section received more airtime. Selected performances were featured, but only Chu Zhi's rendition of Katyusha was aired in full—not as a favor, but because the song was only two and a half minutes long.
This goes to show: sometimes, shorter is better.
"Now connecting with the singer of the outstanding performance Katyusha, the Chinese vocalist Chu Zhi—Mr. Chu."
The national TV host introduced him with a dramatic breath and a bit of tongue roll. During the interview, his tone became more formal.
"Mr. Chu, what kind of emotion did you intend to express when composing Katyusha?"
"I believe that once a song is released, it no longer entirely belongs to the singer. The listeners bring their own interpretations. So, what I wanted to express isn't important." Chu Zhi replied in Russian.
It sounded like an answer, but also like he had said nothing at all.
"Then, Mr. Chu, what are your hopes for Katyusha?"
"I hope Katyusha can become synonymous with pure and beautiful girls." As he spoke, Chu Zhi couldn't help but think of Xiao Wei.
Two simple questions.
The National Arts program ran for a full three hours, wrapping up precisely at 10 p.m. Moscow time. By the next morning, Katyusha had swept through all Russian-speaking regions like wildfire.
What set this apart was that the song didn't just resonate with Gen Z. It deeply moved those born in the '80s, '70s, and even the '60s.
And this demographic—regardless of whether they lived in Russia, Ukraine, or Belarus—held key positions in society.
They might not navigate the internet as effortlessly as the younger generation, but their voices held more sway in traditional media.
For example, major newspapers like Pravda, Independent Daily, and Russia Today. Within two days of the National Arts broadcast, Katyusha and Chu Zhi appeared in the sub-headlines of multiple cultural sections.
Of course, they didn't make front-page headlines. Political news always takes precedence in mainstream media.
"From its arrangement and composition to its lyrics, Katyusha embodies the spirit of folk songs passed down from the Soviet era. Yet this song was composed in 2021 by a singer from Chinese. Composer Nikita analyzed the structure and atmosphere of the piece..." — Independent Daily
"Unveiling how the Chinese singer Chu Zhi could write a song like Katyusha. Based on available materials, Mr. Chu's outstanding Russian fluency on variety shows, and his deep understanding of Russian folk music in Opera 2 and Lullaby, I recognize him as a foreigner who truly understands Russian history!" — Labor News
If Opera 2 and Lullaby had only made Chu Zhi modestly known in Russia, Katyusha had now made him a household name overnight.
Aurora Vadimshchechen Gerasim, a lesbian girl who had participated in the same variety program, remembered things clearly.
Her father, Vadim, was the boss of the Tomahawk gang. He was also adamantly opposed to his daughter befriending Chu Zhi.
The reason? During Opera 2, Chu Zhi's high notes convinced Vadim—who claimed to have seen a vampire in his youth—that Chu Zhi was a hidden vampire.
"Making friends with vampires is too risky," Vadim had warned.
Aurora had originally wanted to have a normal musical friendship with Chu Zhi, but after that, she kept her distance. Otherwise, given her personality, if she had known Chu Zhi was in Saint Petersburg, she would have taken him out for dinner as a proper welcome.
For the record, the rumors in China, Japan, and Korea that Chu Zhi "wasn't human" actually originated in Russia.
"I think you can be friends with the Chinese singer Chu Zhi," Vadim said to his daughter after hearing Katyusha.
So he finally realized that vampire stuff was nonsense?
Just as Aurora was about to respond in relief, she heard her father add, "Even if he is a vampire, a vampire who can sing like that must be a good one."
"???"
Aurora's mind filled with question marks. What was he even talking about?
Seeing the confusion in his daughter's eyes, Vadim decided to clarify.
"It's time you knew. Do you know how I got the scar on my arm? When I was seventeen, I fought a savage vampire and was bitten by its fangs.
I was on the verge of death. I even remember the vampire's breath stank horribly when it opened its mouth. That sound—it's burned into my memory forever. Chu Zhi's voice was just like it." Vadim was dead serious.
The truth? He had gotten drunk, wandered into an alley, and stumbled upon two dogs... mating. He had shouted in shock, startling the male dog into going flaccid.
The rest was predictable. He got into a scuffle with the dogs.
Aurora only knew this because her late mother had told her. Resisting the urge to expose the lie, she simply asked, "So you like Katyusha?"
"I do. I think it's the kind of song that could be played at both weddings and funerals. A good song." Vadim's praise was plainspoken.
"At both weddings and funerals… Is that a compliment?" Aurora asked.
"It is," Vadim replied earnestly. "A song that fits both occasions represents the soul of a people. If a single song can touch both joy and sorrow, then it reaches into the core of a nation."
Aurora thought about it. For a burly man like her father to say something so insightful—it reminded her of the Russian wedding song Crossing the River, which showed a strong man's hidden tenderness.
"Bzz bzz bzz—" Vadim's phone vibrated, but he didn't answer immediately.
Aurora naturally said, "I'm going to my room to write a song. Don't disturb me before lunch tomorrow."
"Of course. That's your right," Vadim replied. He only picked up the call after his daughter left. Many gang matters were kept deliberately from her. Aurora had chosen the path of music and didn't want to know more.
Her room was on the second floor, a spacious suite with over 180 square meters, including a bedroom, living room, and piano room.
She passed through the living room into her study. On the desk was a Quick Chinese Dictionary. Her brows furrowed. Aurora was struggling.
"Captain Chu's creativity is too strong… and I haven't even mastered Chinese yet." Aurora had a stubborn streak. Since Chu Zhi could teach himself Russian and write amazing Russian songs, she believed she could teach herself Chinese and write equally impressive Chinese lyrics. But after a year of trying, it still felt hopeless.
After thirty more minutes of Chinese study torture, she picked up her phone to rest her mind.
From her own experience, Chinese was far harder to learn than English.
The moment she unlocked the screen, a push notification appeared:
Russia Today News:
"I'm searching for someone named Soviet. He was born in 1905, disappeared in 1991, and I haven't seen him since. He wore a military cap and coat, carried a sickle in one hand and a hammer in the other. He helped many people. Can anyone tell me if he's still alive?"
Voice of Russia:
"In the town of Tomat, I found the real story behind Katyusha. It happened during World War II. A young woman waited thirty-nine years for her fiancé, who died during a border conflict between the Soviet Union and Japan, recorded in history as the Battle of Lake Khasan."
Normally, buzz spread from the internet to print. But this time, it was the reverse.
Whether due to some twist in time or deliberate cultural messaging, Chu Zhi's Katyusha had somehow become linked to World War II.
In fairness, Chu Zhi himself had said that the song's inspiration did originate from that era. But without publicity, the public would never know. They'd just think it was a catchy folk tune.
Russia Channel One:
"96-year-old Red Army veteran Khamid Uzgano, now living in Fergana Province, enjoys the blessings of five generations under one roof.
In 1942, at the age of seventeen, Uzgano joined the Battle of Stalingrad after brief military training. He later crossed the Greater Khingan Mountains and fought alongside Chinese residents against Japanese invaders.
Yesterday, he called into a radio station, saying that hearing Katyusha instantly brought him back to the battlefield.
'War is too cruel. I hope people everywhere cherish peace,' he said. Numerous musicians have praised Katyusha. Never before has a foreign singer's work been so warmly received in Russia."
Should a foreigner be allowed to stir up the Russian entertainment scene?
Not really. But what can you say, when no one else can write a song like Katyusha?
Take another Russian guest from the same show, Mikhail. He was one of the country's most popular male vocalists—maybe not number one, but definitely top-tier among young to middle-aged audiences.
After hearing Katyusha, Mikhail immediately contacted his vocal coach, Professor Yevgeny from the Gnessin Academy of Music.
"Professor, are there any techniques in this song I could learn from?" Mikhail asked.
"Learn?" Yevgeny's wrinkled face showed confusion. "Opera 2 and Lullaby already showed Mr. Chu's deep knowledge of Russian musical modes. But Katyusha... it's strange. Very strange."
Strange? Mikhail leaned in to listen.