Epic Journeys

My arrival into Moscow came by way of an overnight train from Leningrad. Soon after climbing into by upper berth I pulled out my journal to record my thoughts. Here I was hurtling southward through a darkened winter landscape. Periodically a signal light would flash through our compartment window. The accompanying clanging bell would slowly fade into the distance. Otherwise, our cabin was quiet with only dim reading lights illuminating the interior. A mixture of adventure and loneliness filled my soul as I sat cross legged on my blanket. My brush with disaster moments before, of being left stranded on the train platform, still nagged in my memory. The warmth and safety of my cabin-mates, however, gave solace to my unease. After jotting down some notes I prepared for bed. The swaying motion of the train cars combined with the rhythmic rattle of the tracks made sleeping easy. 

 

The first sign of the capital of Russia came with the slowing of the train. One of passengers on the lower bunk pulled back the curtains to reveal industrial buildings rising up through the morning mist. Frost was etched upon the edges of our window lest we forget it was still winter. Dressing and packing quickly we were all eager to emerge from our tight confines and greet the day, no matter the weather. We were now in the heart of Communist Russia and there was a sort of illicit thrill in our hearts. This country was supposed to be off limits and we could still not believe we were here. 

 

Dragging our suitcases along the platform I was keen not be be surprised by another Russian vagrant. Soon we were all loaded on another red and white Intourist bus and off to the city center. Our first stop was our hotel. Situated across the river from the Kremlin, the Rossiya Hotel was the largest hotel in the world, containing over 3,000 rooms! Unimaginably designed, it took up  two whole city blocks with its 12 stories of concrete and glass. 

 

Having checked into my room, I imagined there were listening devices in the lamps or ceiling corners. It hardly mattered as we all needed to surrender our keys at the front desk when we left the hotel. Easy access and examination of our rooms was probably a daily duty of the hotel staff. 

 

As mentioned the Kremlin was a short distance from our hotel. As I learned earlier in Leningrad, it proved useful to be able to walk independently from the group whenever possible in Russia. However, this morning we re-boarded our two buses and headed for Red Square.

 

There are few grander locations in the world than Red Square. As our buses pulled into the square it felt as if we were driving onto a movie set. I had grown up watching black and white TV in the 60’s. I had viewed news reports about Red Square with fascination. Our household was solidly American and scenes of the Soviet Union always sent Oz-like chills down my spine. I recalled members of the Politburo standing atop the Kremlin Walls viewing military parades rumble across the stony pavement of the Square. 

 

Now we were exiting our buses onto that very pavement. It was an out of body experience. How many tanks, missile carriers and marching boots had stomped over these stones. I could almost feel their vibrations through the soles of my shoes. 

 

Our Intourist guide, Svetlana, had traveled with us to Moscow and now was calling us to attention. Positioning herself so the towers of the Kremlin stood behind her she smiled and waited for us to turn towards her. The day turned out clear and the onion domed Kremlin churches bedecked with gold sparkled against the blue sky. It was an impressive sight. 

 

Standing tall in her red Intourist outfit, Svetlana began explaining the history of Red Square and the Kremlin compound beyond. As university students we were all interested in learning. However, most of us had by now developed critical thinking skills and did not accept everything spoken as fact. A few sideways glances were shared as Svetlana explained the stellar place Russia had achieved in the world. Although her German was flawless, her facts were dubious. 

 

She then led us to the most revered spot on Red Square; the Tomb of Lenin. Situated along the western wall of the Kremlin, this stone block building looks like a mini-ziggurat from Babylon. Blocks of red marble sit atop each other forming a fortress looking structure. We were instructed to form a line at the entrance. There standing at attention were guards in dress uniforms not moving a muscle. We proceeded inside and immediately welcomed a respite from the cold winter air. 

 

Stone steps took us down a flight of stairs where we were greeted by another guard. His duty was to hold his finger to his lips and make a ‘Shushing’ sound over and over again. There was to be no conversation or sounds while viewing the body of Lenin. Turning right and then right again we came into the main chamber where the body lay. A black catafalque held a coffin that was covered with a glass and granite dome. Inside lay the founder of Bolshevism. He was dressed in a suit and tie atop a red cushion. His head and hands were exposed and were equally waxy and lifeless. In 1981 he was already dead some 57 years, longer than he had been alive. 

 

As we processed around the body, guards watched eagle eye on our every move. It felt as if even the dead Lenin was spying on us. As we emerged from the mausoleum I turned to my friend Kurt and said, “Der Teufel liegt dahin.” The devil himself is lying within. It was an eerie spectacle of reverence for a figure who murdered over a million of his fellow countrymen. The bracing cold air which greeted our exit helped wash away our cringeworthy encounter with death. 

 

Svetlana next herded us through the enormous gates of the Kremlin complex. We walked into a campus of buildings, both old and new. Her pride of place was evident in the tenor of her voice. She waxed lyrically about the architecture and the beauty of the buildings. She was in her element. The irony of the cluster of ornate churches alongside the newer atheistic congress halls of communism did not dint her fervor. Many in our group began to chuckle at the public paradox of this police state. 

 

We were grateful when she concluded this part of the tour. The February winds had whipped up inside the walls of the Kremlin. Standing exposed to the elements we were tortured by the unyielding bite of winter. Huddling in groups of fours and fives we gladly fled the confines of this charmless space.

 

After lunch we were treated to another paradox, but of an economic variety. Svetlana eagerly led our group to a Beryozka shop on the edge of the Kremlin grounds. As westerners, she proudly announced, we would love shopping here. All of the latest styles and goods were available. Without a hint of sarcasm, she noted that only hard currency was used for purchases. Many of us welcomed this news and perused the shelves and cases of the brightly lit store. Only later did it don on us that average Russians were unable to shop in these particular stores. Not only the guards outside the doors but the lack of western currency prohibited most Russians from making purchases of any kind. Another sad irony of our host nation.

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Surprisingly yet welcome, there was free time before dinner. My friend Kurt and two of his female friends and I decided to walk back to our hotel through Red Square. We wanted to take in this historic plaza once more. We walked past the iconic St. Basil’s Cathedral and its multiple onion shaped domes and variegated painted exterior. It is almost childlike in its gaudy presentation. 

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We ducked into the GUM department store that sits on the western edge of Red Square. It is enormous, as is everything in Moscow. We were greeted by a crush of humanity within. Perhaps it was seeking refuge from the cold without combined with the lure of shopping that made the crowds so dense. We were jostled and shoved about by throngs of earnest shoppers. They moved forwards and sideways in their dark heavy coats and hats. Yes, it was winter, but there was hardly any color to be seen in the outerwear of the residents of Moscow. The grim demeanor of these Muscovites matched their somber winter clothing. 

 

That afternoon in GUM, I learned how to purchase an item in Russia. It was very different than I was used to. Among the display shelves I found a bust of one of my literary heroes, Fyodor Dostoevsky. It was made of cast aluminum with a hollow core. The sculptor had captured the stern look of the author of Crime and Punishment. I brought the art piece to a clerk who indicated that I ought get in a line. Waiting my turn she then took the bust and wrote out a receipt. I then took the receipt to another line and waited my turn. That clerk took my receipt and the required sum of Rubles. I then took my stamped, PAID receipt back to the first clerk and waited in line once again. Handing over my canceled receipt I was handed my newly purchased bust of Dostoevsky. It was of particular significance to me as I was in Russia on the occasion of the 100th anniversary of the great author’s death. 

 

Stepping outside again we began our trek back to our hotel. Along the way, we noticed the abundance of elderly women sweeping the streets. We had seen them elsewhere but had not paid attention. Now we realized that they were a constant element of the winter scenery. It seemed wherever we walked there was an elderly woman bent over with a straw broom pushing snow into piles. A few minutes later we saw men with shovels on their shoulders come along and combine these small piles into yet larger piles. Evidently these piles were then subsequently removed by tractors. It snows a lot in Russia. Alot of people are employed in removing the snow in Russia too.

 

Later it dawned on me that the was a connection between the multiple clerks in the department store and the ubiquitous presence of snow sweepers. Full employment was a boast of communist Russia. Everyone had a job to do. There was bitter irony that the cold and snow kept people employed. 

 

On our way back to the hotel we were approached by some Russian youths. It was our introduction to the enduring popularity of blue jeans in Russia. For Austrians and Americans alike we think nothing of wearing a pair of jeans. They are relatively inexpensive and easily obtained. For Russians they are hard to get and very expensive. The four of us Westerners and the three Russians began a conversation that ricocheted between Russian, German and English and gesturing thrown in. The heart of the matter were the pants that we were wearing. They wanted to know if they cold buy the jeans off our legs. We explained it was winter and we would freeze! They seemed nonplussed by our objections. Finally they realized we were certain and walked away. Back at the hotel we were again propositioned for our pants. But this time by the waiters. Kurt was prepared and made a journey upstairs to his hotel room to make the transaction.  The following day, I made a transaction more costly than a pair of jeans.

 

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