The best books from Meduza’s publishing house, according to the people who work here

In the three years since Meduza launched its publishing house, we’ve published more than 30 books in Russian. Now, when people ask which we recommend, we have to ask a few questions: Fiction or nonfiction? Or perhaps diaries or autofiction? And on what subject? War, history, politics, film, music, parenting? Yes, we have all of that, and we’re very proud of it. Choosing just one is getting harder. But we gave it a try — and asked our colleagues to write a few sentences about their favorite book from Meduza’s publishing house. Save the list or buy the books as gifts for people you love. Every recommendation here comes straight from the heart.

Galina Timchenko, publisher

Anton Dolin, “Plokhiye russkiye” (“Bad Russians”)

Reading books because it’s all “work — deadlines — got to get it done…” really isn’t as much fun as choosing a book yourself. There’s a story we tell in the newsroom about “Bad Russians”: After the first edit, the manuscript grew by 300,000 characters. And yes, it’s an enormous book, but I found “Bad Russians” as gripping as a detective novel. I even rewatched some of the films I thought I remembered down to the last frame. It was a rare weekend when nothing could get me off the couch. Anton’s extraordinary gift for storytelling is matched by his expertise. I think this is his best book, though he’d surely pick a different one (he’s published 15 already).

Ivan Kolpakov, Meduza’s editor-in-chief

Sergei Lebedev, “Belaya dama” (“The Lady of the Mine”)

Meduza’s publishing house has been around for three years now, and this is still one of my favorite books we’ve published — definitely my favorite work of fiction. The blurb opens with “July 2014, Donbas,” so you might immediately form all kinds of ideas about this book. But unless you already know something about it, I’m sure you won’t guess what it’s like. Anyway, I want to declare my love for this book and its author. Thank you, dear Sergei Lebedev. And to anyone who somehow hasn’t heard of it, I recommend buying it right away.

A. Z., publishing editor

Lana Estemirova, “Pozhaluysta, zhivi” (“Please Live”)

“It mattered to me that this book could be read by a housewife in Ohio, a girl in Germany interested in strong women, and people in Russia who know nothing about Chechnya,” Lana Estemirova says of “Please Live.” For me, the way this book speaks to everyone is perhaps its greatest strength. It brings together hazy childhood memories and wartime chronicles; family stories about how her grandfather survived deportation in 1944 and human rights reports on war crimes in the 1990s; and teenage experiences captured in emails and diaries alongside newspaper articles about the rise of authoritarianism in Chechnya in the 2000s.

The book isn’t detailed enough to be called a biography, isn’t objective enough to claim to be a historical study of Chechnya, and is too painfully true to count as autofiction. But somehow, magically, it weaves together the best of all three genres — more than three, really. A documentary account becomes a sweeping novel about growing up, loss, working through grief, and an immense, incredibly powerful maternal love that even death cannot defeat.

Without false modesty, and with enormous gratitude to the translator who worked under a pseudonym, I’ll say that “Please Live” is equally good in English and Russian.

Dmitry Ivanov, publishing editor

Konstantin Gaaze, “Kuda dreyfuyut diktatury?” (“Where Do Dictatorships Drift?”)

Over these three years, I’ve read quite a few books (and even edited some) devoted to the same question: How did we end up here? Why did Russia attack Ukraine, disregarding the views of its own people, the judgment of the international community, and, finally, historical memory? Different authors offered different answers, but perhaps no one has examined the problem as deeply and systematically as Konstantin Gaaze in “Where Do Dictatorships Drift?” His account doesn’t start in the era of Peter the Great or with Ukraine’s Maidan protests. He aims to show that the current outbreak of Russian aggression was neither predetermined by some historical trajectory nor solely a response to the other side’s actions, as Vladimir Putin’s favorite refrain — “we were left with no choice” — would have it.

Konstantin reconstructs the basic logic of autocracy from Herodotus to the present to show that the Kremlin’s stance toward the West developed along the fairly common “besieged fortress” model. Ukraine became the target of the attack through a whole series of steps taken by Vladimir Putin and his inner circle beginning in 2008. Those steps pulled in different directions and were sometimes independent of one another. Readers will learn how an autocrat’s fears prompt his inner circle to peddle threats, where the “Putin majority” came from and what sustains it, why liberal economists and administrators lost their strategic struggle with officials from the security services and law enforcement, and, finally, how the 2008–09 global financial crisis relates to Putin’s conviction that America could no longer tell him what to do. Where do dictatorships drift? Konstantin Gaaze’s answer: often toward a major war, though with whom and on what terms depends on the particular historical circumstances.

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Hi, I’m Vladislav Gorin.

I’m the host of Meduza’s daily Russian-language news podcast. This summer, the Russian authorities opened a criminal case against me — not for committing a crime, but for telling the truth about Russia and its war against Ukraine.

Because the Kremlin has branded me a criminal, I can’t go home. I also can’t safely travel to countries like Turkey — even though it’s a NATO member — because I could be arrested and extradited to Russia. I can’t even renew my passport at the consulate anymore. 

None of this is going to stop me. I know there are hundreds of thousands of people in Russia who don’t want this war and who still believe in freedom and democracy, and they deserve access to independent journalism. Please support Meduza so I can keep reaching them.

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Sonya, publishing manager

Konstantin Zarubin, “Nashe serdtse byotsya za vsekh” (“Our Heart Beats for Everyone”)

Some books create worlds that, for some inexplicable reason, lodge in your head for good. You’ll be standing in the checkout line at the supermarket, lost in thought, and suddenly find yourself somewhere far, far away without even noticing. Konstantin Zarubin’s novel is one of the books I “jump” into like that. A Selecta cappuccino from a coffee machine in the gray corridors of Iceland’s immigration office, a commuter train car baked by the summer sun on the Riga–Saulkrasti line, the summer cottage community of Medvedkovo, and an awkward portrait drawn in crayon from a VKontakte photo — I remember every house, every street, and every name in “Our Heart.”

I’m mesmerized by this broken, complicated world, so indifferent to the people who live in it. Absolutely anything can happen there — bad or good. I think it’s this unpredictability (sometimes quite cruel), with all its “chance” coincidences and encounters, that puts our humanity to the test and makes life what it is.

Quoting a review, Zarubin calls his novel “a decent light read.” I think that’s an understatement. “Our Heart” is certainly written with a light touch and plenty of wit, and it’s a pleasure to read. But I don’t think just “a light read” (even a decent one) can get so deep inside your head.

Natasha, manager of Meduza’s Magaz shop

Zhenya Berezhnaya, ”(Ne) o voyne” (”(Not) About War”)

”(Not) About War” is a book about the very first days of the full-scale war and being forced to leave. At first, you tense up with anxiety as you read the especially difficult passages. Then, page by page, you begin to relax. By the end, the heaviness gives way to hope: Everything will be all right.

And yet the war never goes away. It’s there the whole time, but even in a world like this, there’s still room for a miracle. I think that’s what the book is about.

The writing helps, too. Before the war, Zhenya Berezhnaya wrote fairy tales, and you can hear echoes of that in the novel: It’s a painful autobiographical story told in wonderfully warm, inviting language.

The book’s design deserves a mention of its own: Yellow symbols are scattered across a green background — they could be spiky anti-tank obstacles or little flowers with petals. Just like the book itself, where a miracle grows alongside the war.

I’m not the only one who liked it: The novel was shortlisted for the Dar literary prize.

Olya V., publishing staff member

Maria Alyokhina, “Politicheskaya. Kak vyzhit v iz Rossii” (“Political Girl: Life and Fate in Russia”)

I didn’t think I’d like Maria Alyokhina’s “Political Girl: Life and Fate in Russia.” But I was wrong. This book is a candid, dramatic diary that never slips into melodrama. Alyokhina feels injustice acutely, and even in the most difficult situations, she doesn’t let hurt and fear get the better of her.

“We don’t choose where we’re born. We don’t choose the color or the lettering on our passports. But we do choose how we live,” Maria writes. The book is her account of that choice. Perhaps “A Political Prisoner” will give you hope and strength — so many people are short of both in these dark days.

And — most importantly — Punkʼs not dead!

Alexander Polivanov, deputy editor-in-chief

Ilya Barabanov and Denis Korotkov, “Nash biznes — smert” (“Our Business Is Death”)

I read Ilya Barabanov and Denis Korotkov’s book about the Wagner private military company roughly two years after Yevgeny Prigozhin’s mutiny and his death. I thought I’d give up halfway through — I mean, what could it tell me about Prigozhin that journalists (including Barabanov and Korotkov themselves) hadn’t already reported?

But “Our Business Is Death” is a book you race through; some of the events feel as if you’re learning about them for the first time. Partly because as soon as something drops out of the news, you forget the details, the things that made it distinctive fade, and all that’s left is a few lines on Wikipedia. From where we stand in 2025–26, Prigozhin’s mutiny seems unimaginable, while his methods of managing people and waging war have, sadly, become commonplace.

A. F., news editor

Sergei Lebedev, “The White Lady” (and more!)

Much of today’s Russian-language publishing abroad focuses on political and social commentary and nonfiction, and that makes sense. It’s really great that Meduza’s publishing house also pays such close attention to contemporary fiction and discovers talented Russian-language authors. Konstantin Zarubin and his novel “Our Heart Beats for Everyone” deserve special mention — it’s a gripping cyberpunk utopia that is, horrifyingly, coming true almost to the letter. Or there’s Natalia Krupenina’s moving young adult book “Ya umeyu padat” (“I Know How to Fall”), a healing balm and a lifeline for teenagers (and adults, too!) in difficult times.

But for now, my top pick is “The Lady of the Mine.”

One setting: a mining settlement in the Donbas. Four characters: Zhanna, Valet, the general, and the engineer. Just five chapters: five days in the summer of 2014. Sergei Lebedev’s novel is compact and full of substance, fewer than 200 pages, but its seemingly simple, self-contained plot quickly expands into a tragedy of universal proportions. The author builds his narrative around the real history of this ill-fated Ukrainian region, closely intertwining events from the current war and a past one: Malaysia Airlines Flight MH17, shot down by pro-Kremlin separatists, and a mine pit that the Nazi occupiers used for executions. The historical parallels really are chilling. It takes your breath away, as great literature does.

P.S. If you do prefer commentary and want more facts about this story, I recommend pairing Lebedev’s novel with “Dom na linii ognya” (“A House in the Line of Fire”), journalist Dmitry Durnev’s true account of the contemporary Donbas.

Katya Abramova, head of communications

Sergei Lebedev, “The Lady of the Mine”

Of course I knew about Sergei’s book: We’d discussed it at work meetings, planned the release, promotional materials, and so on. But I wasn’t in a hurry to read it — I just didn’t have the strength to read any more about war and the Holocaust. Then things didn’t go as planned: My colleagues at the publishing house asked me to help sell books at Sergei’s book event at Berlin’s Panda platforma. I agreed, though without much enthusiasm — it was a Saturday evening. And then… I was spellbound! It was an amazing, fascinating, nuanced discussion that gave me strength without leaving me feeling crushed at all. Despite the difficult subject. I went home and had finished the book by Monday. Now I recommend it to everyone.

From Meduza’s archives

• Russia is in an age of sweeping book censorship. Meanwhile at Meduza: time to publish books the Kremlin hates.
• ‘The number of words you can say keeps shrinking’ Meduza investigates how wartime censorship has (and hasn’t) reshaped Russia’s book industry

At Meduza, we are committed to transparency about our use of artificial intelligence in the newsroom. The story you’re reading was written by one of our living, breathing journalists and translated from Russian using an AI model configured to follow our strict editorial standards. This translation process is the result of extensive testing and refinements to ensure our English-language coverage is timely and accurate. A Meduza editor reviews every draft before publication.

If you find any errors in this translation, please contact us at reports@meduza.io.

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