Picnic at the Iron Curtain: A Memoir: From the fall of the Berlin Wall to Ukraine's Orange Revolution

by Susan Viets

  On August 24th, I awoke to sun that streamed in my front windows and a burble of noise from nearby. I lived alone in an apartment on the top of an elegant six-floor turn-of-the-century building, just around the corner from Khreshchatyk. My balcony backed onto October Revolution Square.

  My landlord’s father had planted the palm tree that now soared nearly twelve feet over the bed. He carved extra rooms from space deemed unlivable by Stalin-era inspectors, who enforced strict space allocations; he covertly turned a nook above the staircase landing into a study. He also wrapped a garbage chute pipe that jutted from the wall in plastic, covered it with a polished five-sided mahogany wood box and placed a plant holder on top. A service corridor became his dining room.

  The noise surprised me. I never heard street sounds way up here in my private retreat. I lay still and stared up at the palm leaves, wanting to investigate but still comfortable in bed. A few minutes later, I wiped the sleep from my eyes and got up. A moth fluttered past. I had previously located the cupboard where some nested in a pile of my landlord’s old clothes. I cleaned the clothes and thought I had dealt with the moths. The odd one that I continued to see soon exploded into a cloud of sweater-eating menaces. I stuffed every cupboard full of moth balls and invested in expensive pheromone traps. However, they still multiplied and my wardrobe began to disintegrate.

  Wide awake now, I chased the moth and caught it, no easy task in a place covered in patterned wallpaper that offered good camouflage. I continued down the corridor past the galley kitchen, through the dining room and out French doors onto the balcony. I peered through leaves on branches that swayed right next to my balcony and caught glimpses of a crowd gathered in October Revolution Square. Usually piano melodies floated skywards as students at the conservatory across the courtyard practised. That morning I heard the sound of megaphones and chants.

  I made coffee and toast, washed, changed and went out to investigate. On Khreshchatyk, a car passenger shouted through a megaphone, “Don’t be a sheep, march with us to Parliament.” A sea of blue and yellow Ukrainian flags fluttered over the square. It was happening. Rukh had drafted a declaration of independence for Ukraine. Today it would be put to a vote in Parliament. I felt excited but guarded. I could not believe that Rukh would win.

  A group of us monitored the debate from the press gallery in Parliament. During a break, I left Parliament with another journalist to gather comments from people on the streets. The journalist wore a tie; I put on my suit jacket. When we stepped out the door, we saw that the crowd gathered in October Revolution Square had now massed outside Parliament.

  “Han’ba! [Shame].” I heard someone shout. More jeers and chants followed. I looked behind; no one stood there. I soon realized these jeers were hurled at us, which came as a shock. People mistook us for Communists who were trying to leave. I knew the crowd would prevent this in order to preserve Parliament’s required quorum for an independence vote. So this is how a Communist in Rukh territory would be – exposed, outnumbered, fearful of what could happen next. Mostly, though, I felt indignant to be mistaken for one.

  I saw Sashko, The megaphone man. He shouted, “nashyi [ours].” Those words meant rescue. The jeers died down. People swarmed us for a different reason now. Although they could hear the official proceedings broadcast over speakers outside Parliament, they wanted news of behind-the-scenes manoeuvrings inside. We told them what we knew and learned that they would block all the doors to Parliament until the vote passed. The journalist and I separated. I returned to the press gallery. Parliament soon recessed.

  “The Commies are going downstairs to figure out how they should vote,” Lesyia said.

  “I can’t imagine them opting for independence, though Kravchuk seems a changed man since the coup,” I remarked. We discussed how hardline Communists in Ukraine might respond.

  We parted ways, doubting whether Rukh would win enough support for independence.

  I milled about in the hallway, held my shortwave radio and moved from window to window until I found a spot for good radio reception. The BBC news bulletin began with an announcement that Communist Party activities in Moscow had just been suspended. I could not believe what I heard. The Communist Party held the Soviet Union together. It was impossible to imagine the Soviet Union could survive without it. I shouted to friends in the hallway. They crowded around to listen to the broadcast. English speakers translated the news for Ukrainians.

  When the broadcast ended, people drifted away. I tried to absorb the implications of what we had just heard. I went back to the press gallery. Soon MPs returned. The Rukh independence motion was read out for a vote. A friend translated the motion as follows: “As of 24 August, 1991, Ukraine is an independent democratic state. Only the constitution of Ukraine and its government’s resolutions are valid on Ukrainian territory.”

  I sat on the edge of my seat as MPs below pressed their buttons for the vote. I had moved to Kiev and stayed through those early difficult months, hoping for this very moment.

  An electronic board displayed the tally – only two MPs voted against independence. We leaped out of our seats in the press gallery and leaned far over the railing to watch MPs below. Bursting with excitement, we speculated about what would happen next; mostly, though, we took a minute to savour the moment. We had just witnessed history. I wanted to gauge the reaction outside, so I ran out into the lobby and peered down from a window at the square. A huge crowd stood by the main door to Parliament. People held a Ukrainian flag the size of a football field stretched out between them. Then the door to Parliament opened. A small group of MPs marched the flag into the chamber.

  The next morning my mind still raced to understand what had tipped the balance in Rukh’s favour and made hardline Communists vote for independence. I thought maybe they felt cast adrift when Moscow suspended Communist Party activities and that a vote for Ukrainian independence was a vote for the survival of the Ukrainian Communist Party. I went for a morning walk up the hill, toward the Communist Party headquarters. A small group of people stood outside.

  “They’re about to seal the doors,” a stranger told me. “City Council has already cut off communications inside.”

  “But the Communist Party still legally exists here,” I said, confused.

  “The building stands on city land, so the council says it’s authorized to seal it,” the stranger explained. I stood with the crowd, curious to see what would happen next. A few men walked up the steps of this massive white columned building into the lobby. More followed. I trailed behind. We climbed the central staircase. Small groups had already entered a main office. When I arrived, papers lay strewn across the floor. One man riffled through a filing cabinet. Another one shoved Communist Party letterhead in his pockets.

  Then someone shouted “I found it!”

  I turned and saw a man who waved a pad of ink. He also held a Communist Party stamp. I understood his excitement. I had waited so many months for visas and accreditation with that type of official stamp that I almost wanted to grab the stamp from him and hold onto power for a while. I realized, though, that what was worth so much a day ago was worthless now.

  Stamps and paper aside, the looters took nothing of value. Soon they left as a group, walked down the stairs and lined up to polish their shoes on a machine by the door. When everyone had left the building, City Council members sealed the big wooden doors with offically stamped paper. Soon prominent figures, including Leonid Kravchuk, announced their resignations from the Communist Party. Kravchuk said that he had actually quit the party on the first day of the coup.

  So many people wanted to know what was happening in Ukraine. All of us filed stories daily and became almost nonchalant about those once-coveted bylines. With such rapid change, it was hard to decide which stories to cover and where to go. Ukraine had pledged to become non-nuclear in its declaration of sovereignty, but the Americans, in particular, worried about what would happen to nuclear weapons on Ukrainian territory. Russia threatened re
vision of its border with Ukraine if Ukraine seceded from the union. I flew down to Crimea, where I investigated rumours that Crimea might break away from Ukraine and join Russia. Ukraine began to build an army and refused to remit hard-currency funds to Moscow.

  Then one day in early November Bill called.

  “You know how the Chechens joined up with the Ingush, declared independence and voted General Dzhokhar Dudayev as their president last month?” he said. With all that had been happening in Ukraine, I hadn’t paid much attention to events in Russia’s Caucasus region.

  “What! Russia’s unravelling?” I shouted.

  “Yeltsin’s declared a state of emergency and is flying troops down to restore order. I’m going to Grozny to cover it. I’ve got to run.”

  After we hung up, I sat in my kitchen and thought about what Bill told me. Chechnya was in Russia, so I had no claim on the story, but I wanted to go anyway. I called the foreign editor and got permission. After our conversation, I felt queasy, almost weak in the knees, and wondered if I should cancel. I phoned Stephen instead. He was also planning a trip to Chechnya. We decided to travel together.

  6

  CHECHNYA

  “Do you have a will?” I asked Stephen. “No,” he said. “Perhaps it’s time to write one.” We sat on hard chairs in the departure lounge at Boryspil airport, the air clouded with cigarette smoke, waiting for our flight to board and our journey to Chechnya to begin.

  I felt discouraged by Stephen’s answer. I thought he might just make a joke and dismiss my question, but if someone so rational considered a will necessary then he must also think death a possibility. I rummaged in my knapsack for a pen and paper and wrote out my will, though I wondered if it would be legally valid. I had a mother, father, brother and sister, few possessions and only a little money. I divided everything that I had, tucked the will away in a money belt with my passports, recapped my pen and then searched the departure lounge for food. I did not want to think about death any longer.

  Our flight left on time. The plane climbed steeply. The temperature in the cabin dropped. I wore my winter coat and now reached inside the pockets for gloves that I put on. I dozed fitfully as our jet lurched through the air. We received no comfort or an explanatory announcement from crew members when the plane dropped suddenly. Heads banged and a dog barked. I heard the clang of buckles as people strapped themselves into their seats, not all successfully. One man, whose seat belt had become unattached trapped a stewardess in the aisle. He waved the seat belt that should have been attached to his seat and demanded that it be secured there again.

  We faced a long trip. The airport in Grozny was closed, so we flew to Mineralnyie Vodi, a Russian city still a long drive from Grozny. When we landed, we found a taxi and began our journey south through the Caucasus mountain range – Nazran first, the capital of Ingushetia (a Chechen ally), and then Grozny. With so many hours stretching ahead in the taxi, I forgot about our destination and slipped into a zone of timelessness. I watched scenery unfold through the windows. We meandered across dusty foothills, mountain valleys and up steep roads, through passes with views of craggy snow-capped mountains.

  “Mount Elbrus is the tallest,” Stephen said, “about 5,600 metres.” I could not process such a figure but felt contained securely behind rock walls. Conflict nearby seemed unimaginable; these bucolic valleys radiated peace, not bloodshed and strife. We stopped at a hotel for the night. The next morning we woke to see the mountain peaks lit with the soft glow of early day sun.

  After breakfast, we continued our journey by taxi. Soon the landscape changed again. Near Nazran we arrived at a makeshift road block and a mass of men. No one wore a uniform or had a gun, at least not one that was visible. The checkpoint consisted of rocks heaped in a large mound and a metal bar across part of the road. About a hundred men and boys stood on or near this barricade. They formed an additional human barrier that prevented passage. Cars pulled up alongside the road. The only visible women sat as occasional passengers in these cars.

  Our taxi driver stopped. Stephen and I got out of the car and approached the barricade. I smelled the rank scent of oily smoke; black plumes rose from fires that burned in the centre of old tires. Sombre men – their mouths straight slashes, no smiles here – stood at the barricade. They all wore fedoras or square fur hats. Some dark-haired boys, hatless and in sweaters, shouted and waved sticks in the air. Others ran along ditches. They watched as more cars reached the barricade and stopped. The crowd of stuck travellers swelled.

  We could not tell who controlled this roadblock. Men and boys seemingly drifted here from places nearby. No one appeared to hold an official position.

  “Good afternoon,” Stephen said as he approached one large, middle-aged man. “We’re foreign journalists.”

  “Where are you from?” the man asked.

  “Britain,” Stephen replied. Suspicious, the man asked Stephen more questions. When we showed him our accreditation cards, he relaxed and shouted “foreign journalists.”

  A younger man, small and with a bushy moustache, stepped out from the crowd. He told us that he lived in Grozny: “I can take you there,” he said. We paid our taxi driver and collected our bags.

  I felt nervous as I slammed the trunk of the taxi shut. This was the point of no return. The driver started his engine and disappeared in a cloud of dust. The men raised the barrier. Stephen and I passed through and set foot in what these men called the independent Chechen-Ingush Republic; however, Russians still called it part of Russia. I could not imagine Russia would allow Chechnya to just slip away quietly. Bill and Stephen had already worked in conflict zones. I had not. I realized that maybe I only visited one now because I felt competitive with my friends. I caught up with Stephen, who was already standing by the car. When I reached it, our new driver introduced himself.

  “Vakha,” he said. A smile broke out from under his moustache.

  Stephen and I asked Vakha whether the barricade had been there for long.

  “Already for several days.”

  “Have Russian troops arrived?” I asked and hoped that my voice betrayed none of the anxiety that I felt. Stephen seemed so calm.

  “Yes,” he said. “But we trapped them at the airport. They’re leaving.” When we asked for details, Vakha told us that Russian troops had landed in Grozny. Chechen fighters immediately surrounded the planes and refused to let any soldiers out. I felt quite worried by this development. I could not imagine that the Russian military would tolerate such humiliation for long and wondered about conditions the soldiers had endured on board. I imagined an interior clouded with smoke, bored, stressed soldiers who puffed on cigarettes, the smell of in-demand toilets, guns and ammunition everywhere and wondered whether the Chechens had given the soldiers any food or water.

  “We will defeat the enemy,” Vakha said as an almost casual afterthought. We got into the car and headed for Grozny. After travelling for some time, we stopped by a small house on a residential street in the suburbs.

  “Is the hotel nearby?” I asked.

  “We’ll eat now,” Vakha said. “Then I’ll take you to the hotel.” He led us to the back door of the house. He took Stephen through to the living room. When Stephen had passed, two women appeared at the kitchen door. Their heads were covered in brightly patterned scarves. They smiled and said hello. They introduced themselves as our host’s wife and daughter. They wanted to talk (I did too), but Vakha reappeared and insisted that I join Stephen in the front room. I did not know whether to feel pleased that he treated me as an honorary man and let me sit there or offended that he rushed me away, as if I might somehow corrupt his wife and daughter.

  Stephen and I sat on a sofa while Vakha walked back and forth between the kitchen door and the living room. His wife and daughter handed him various objects for the table, which he carried back – knives and forks, glasses, plates and then finally steaming bowls of meat.

  Then Vakha arranged chairs at the table and invited Stephen and me to eat.
He remained standing by the table. I felt uncomfortable with this arrangement, a burden on our host. Stephen asked, “Won’t you join us?”

  Vakha explained that as the youngest brother in a Muslim family, his male siblings cared for him and in exchange he served them. He waited on his elder brothers when they visited as he did with us now. Nothing we said could persuade Vakha to sit with us for long at the table. Once or twice he briefly did but then sprang to his feet again.

  With Vakha shuttling back and forth to the kitchen, Stephen and I had time to look at our surroundings and could not help but notice a large gun that hung on the wall. When Vakha returned after one kitchen trip, Stephen glanced at the gun and asked, “Does it work?”

  “Of course,” Vakha replied. “A house is not a Chechen house without a gun.” On the wall the gun looked harmless, a quaint relic of days gone by. We chatted about local politics and then later, about more personal matters, a topic that I had learned to dread.

  “Are you married?” Vakha asked me.

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “How old are you?” I mumbled that I was in my twenties. “And still not married? Find her a husband,” he ordered Stephen. I asked Vakha how he and his wife met.

  “I kidnapped her.” I wasn’t sure that I understood, so I checked with Stephen, who confirmed that is what Vahka had said.

  “Why did you kidnap your wife?” Stephen asked.