Two hours passed before we were shown to our room. In Tsarist times it must have been the height of luxury, but the crimson and gold brocade was worn and the carpet had threadbare patches. An open door led to a large bathroom with over-sized fittings. Wonderful. We could soak in a hot bath and wash off all the grime and fatigue of the journey.
In place of the usual list of hotel regulations on the back of the bedroom door there was a small printed notice.
‘Dorothy,’ we called, ‘does this notice really say what we think it does?’
‘Let’s see. “Bed linen is changed once in five days irrespective of who sleeps here.”’
All three of us hurried to the bed. Sheets and pillow cases were creased and unsavoury with use. It seemed that changing day was near, but not near enough. We rolled the bed linen into a bundle and put it gingerly out in the corridor.
‘In the old days in Russia people always travelled with their own sheets,’ said Dorothy. ‘They thought that using other people’s bed linen was as bad as wearing other people’s clothes.’
‘They may have had something,’ Kenneth said.
‘I don’t see any flecks of blood on the sheets,’ said Dorothy consolingly. ‘It looks as though there aren’t any bugs, at least.’
‘If they won’t give us clean sheets we can sleep under our coats with a blanket on top,’ said Kenneth. ‘The room isn’t cold. And now, what about that hot bath?’
But the big brass taps, even when turned full on, yielded only a few flakes of rust. There was no water at the hand basin either. We waited in vain for someone to answer the bell and finally washed our hands in the housemaid’s cupboard down the corridor.
We had agreed with Nick to meet for dinner in the bar adjoining the dining room, where he was to stand us all a drink on his Intourist coupons. We were hungry, but determined not to worry about the risk of drinking on an empty tummy. There were no guests in the bar, though most of the tables in the dining room were already full. Behind the long mahogany counter and against the rich background of dusty gilded mirrors and carved scrollwork stood an elderly slant-eyed Tartar.
‘The Tartars made the best barmen and butlers in the old days,’ said Dorothy.
The barman seemed pleased to have some foreign customers and enquired, ‘What would the ladies and gentlemen like to drink?’
‘Cocktails,’ said Nick. ‘Dry Martinis.’
‘There is no gin. But of course I have vodka.’
Vodka had not, at that time, become a popular substitute for gin, but we decided to try it.
‘Wait, I must get the ice,’ and the barman hurried away to return with a large block which he placed on the counter. Fumbling in his pocket he drew out a pair of pince-nez, balancing them on his nose, and attacked the ice with an axe, warning us to take cover as he did so. Slivers of ice flew all over the room.
Fatigue and apprehension slipped away as we downed our second and third cocktails and moved over to our table. The dining room was warm with the steamy smells of hot food and not too well washed bodies. Many of the guests were members of the armed forces in neat uniforms, their wives and girlfriends dressed in shiny rayon and printed cotton. Although everyone in the room was, necessarily, privileged, some of the men were wearing open-necked shirts and gym shoes, which struck a discordant note against the opulent, though faded, Tsarist decor.
By now, we were aching with hunger and looking with envy at the plates of borshtch and rich-smelling food at neighbouring tables. Nick signalled to a waiter who shouted back ‘Seychas’, but in Russia ‘at once’ only means that your request has been noted and mayor may not be fulfilled.
Eventually, a bowl of caviar and a carafe of vodka appeared. It was so long since our last cocktail that we were quite ready for a follow-up. After venison stew and sticky cakes, accompanied by yet more vodka, and made absolutely delicious by our sharpened appetites, we felt extremely cheerful.
‘Let’s have an independent sightseeing tour,’ said Kenneth.
No one attempted to interfere as we walked out into the street. Most tourists were closely shepherded, but we were an unscheduled group and not yet part of the system. We set out for the Red Square, just round the block, as we had seen from the map in the foyer. The night was sharp with an early frost and the stars huge and brilliant. At this hour the streets were deserted. We skirted a giant hoarding disguising, presumably, some building project, and turned the corner into the square.
It lay before us, vast, empty and silent, bounded on the further side by the high crenellated walls of the Kremlin. Lenin’s tomb, a great cube of red and black marble, gleamed darkly under the stars. Behind it, a row of steely-grey conifers lined the base of the walls. For five hundred years these walls had encircled a power-house of despotism. In spite of war and revolution and radical changes of personnel, the autocratic system had remained virtually unchanged.
‘Let’s go and have a look at Lenin now,’ suggested Barbara.
But beside the two motionless sentries was a notice, ‘Open from 15 to 18 hours’.
We followed the walls to the great Spasskaya Tower. Sentries with fixed bayonets guarded the entrance which led beneath it into the Kremlin. Co walked calmly up to them. ‘Can we come in?’ he asked.
The men stood unmoved and Co repeated his question. In those days a tour of the Kremlin was not included in any tourist itinerary and it was probably the only time the sentries had heard such a request. One of the men jerked his head towards the porter’s lodge behind him.
‘Come on Co,’ we said, ‘or they’ll arrest us on suspicion. They could probably have us for abnormal behaviour.’
Across the square the cathedral of St Basil, with its swirling onion domes patterned in brilliant colour and its gleaming gold pineapple turrets was like some barbaric object washed up on an empty shore.
Fatigue had vanished with the good dinner and the vodka, and the exhilaration of having slipped the lead and roamed free of supervision, even for a short while, but our feet dragged over the last few hundred yards. By the time we reached our bedroom we hardly cared that the sheets still lay in the passage outside our bedroom door.
Next morning the bathroom taps were still dry, so we rang for the chambermaid. After half an hour a woman appeared.
‘I am the only maid on this floor,’ she said. ‘The bath is out of order.’
‘Then may we have some hot water and a plug for the basin?’
The latter request clearly puzzled her. (Russians will only wash their hands under a running tap and even in Tsarist times travellers had to bring their own plug or do without.)
After another long wait she returned with a small jug of water and stood with it in her hand.
‘Thank you. Please stand it in the basin.’
‘It is the only jug on this floor. I must wait for it.’
We conquered our embarrassment and managed to wash under her unblinking stare.
That morning we were to visit the Embassy, where we hoped to borrow some roubles. The day was brilliantly fine and we decided to go on foot, once again, luckily, unaccompanied. Our way took us through Red Square.
Outside Lenin’s tomb a queue was already forming for the opening in five hours’ time. From a distance, St Basil’s Cathedral looked fairylike, but as we approached we could see that in some places the roof was patched with tin plates, roughly painted, whilst in others the bare wood showed through. Crazy wooden catwalks wandered here and there between the domes. We followed the Kremlin boundary down a steep slope to the bridge over the Moskva River. Palace roofs and church towers, crowned with red stars, clustered behind the wall.
The British Embassy, on the far bank of the river, was formerly the home of a Tsarist sugar magnate. The dignity of the entrance hall, all ‘Gothic’ mahogany panelling and dark mouldings, was marred by a jumble of Bags stacked ready for removal by the King’s messenger. As we waited in the hall a tall figure followed by a very large dog came down the stairs�
�the Ambassador, Sir Stafford Cripps. A friend in the Embassy advanced us some of the roubles which would result from the clandestine sale of the old clothes we had brought with us. These would supplement our Intourist coupons, which could only be used in hotels or on the Trans-Siberian Express.
After lunch at the Metropole we packed. Our tickets and sleeper reservations were handed out by a dark young man with Jewish features.
‘I am your Intourist guide and will accompany you to Vladivostok,’ he introduced himself. ‘Now we must check your luggage.’
Seeing the pile, and thinking probably of the norm, he looked apprehensive. However, we and the smaller pieces were stuffed into an old car, the rest following, we hoped, in a van.
The platforms of the Kursk Station, open to the sky, were crowded with passengers, many of them for the Urals and points east. Our luggage was now stacked on the platform. Scenting a kill, an NKVD man who had been observing us was joined by another as the Trans-Siberian Express drew in. ‘We’ll teach them to travel with so much luggage,’ he said loudly. Our porters stood immobilized.
‘Show me which is yours and I’ll help you onto the train with it,’ whispered our Intourist ‘guide’. ‘Be quick.’
Ours was an old Tsarist Wagon-Lits coach, solidly built at a time when ladies and gentlemen travelled with cumbersome baggage. Besides a luggage rack, there was ample storage space extending over the corridor for the length of our compartment.
Kenneth stowed our suitcases rapidly, leaving only a few small objects to be seen in the compartment. ‘I’ll just go out and help Nick,’ he said.
In a moment he was back. ‘It’s no good,’ he said. ‘The second NKVD man saw us taking in the luggage and it must all come out again, he says. Nick seems to be doing all right, but our Intourist chap is in a panic.’
‘I’ll think of something,’ I said urgently. Kenneth hurried out onto the platform.
Something had to be done quickly. Argument would get us nowhere. We had been warned against trying to bribe an official, but a three-pronged attack might be worth trying. Taking a ten-rouble note out of my bag I dropped it on the floor. Close to it I put a bottle of vodka. Then ringing out a hand towel in the small basin next door, I laid it over my eyes and flung myself down on the bunk, feeling nearly as ill as I hoped I looked. The minutes dragged by. Just as I was wondering how long I should have to keep up this act, the door of the compartment opened. My heart missed a beat, but I kept my eyes closed.
‘What’s going on here?’ It was Kenneth’s voice, and he was laughing uncontrollably. ‘You’re not really ill, are you?’
‘Almost. Where are the NKVD men?’
‘I think they’ve forgotten us. They’re dragging some unfortunate chap off the train. A “speculator”, somebody said.’
‘Lock the carriage door and let’s relax,’ I begged.
The compartment, which was to be our home for the next ten days, was comfortably upholstered in crimson velvet with overstuffed arm-rests and plump small bolsters, now a little rubbed and dusty. The dimensions of the carriage were calculated to accommodate sweeping skirts, top hats, swords and uniform greatcoats, as well as ladies’ hats piled with tulle and flowers and the entire wings of birds. All the fittings were of solid brass, bursting here and there into leaf and flower. The water in the shower, we discovered, actually ran, though it was cold. After the Metropole, this was luxury.
Chapter 22
As the train left the station dusk fell. For the next hour we unpacked and arranged our possessions. The roll of ‘Government Property’ hung on its loop of string from a brass hook near the window. The books which had survived the customs at Bigosovsk, our patience cards and travelling clocks were fitted into a net attached to the wall.
When soap and toothbrushes were all in place, with our dressing gowns on the back of the door, we felt really at home, and went on a round of visits. Nick, as might be expected, was beautifully organized. Co and Barbara were happily installed next-door-but-one down the corridor, but Dorothy was frantic. She had been assured that she would be sharing with another woman, but her fellow-passenger had failed to turn up.
‘The attendant has just been in with a Japanese and I believe they mean to move him in here,’ she moaned. ‘They’re so prudish in Russia and yet they put men and women in the same sleeper. They say he’s a diplomat, but how does that help? I shall stand up in the corridor all night.’
‘Let’s go and talk to the attendant,’ I suggested. The attendant, an anxious little man, confirmed our fears. He and his side-kick, he told us, took eight hours on duty and eight hours off the whole way to Vladivostok and back, sharing a shake-down in the cupboard next to the public samovar which stood on a shelf at the end of the corridor. In these circumstances it must have seemed to them most unreasonable that anyone should object to a comfortable bed, especially when the sleeping companion was a diplomat—and Dorothy no longer young.
Dinner would not be served until ten. Meanwhile we must find a solution. In due course the Japanese gentleman arrived with his suitcase and, bowing and hissing, settled into a corner seat in Dorothy’s carriage. There was more bowing and hissing as we introduced ourselves and exchanged visiting cards. Mr Shimada, it seemed, had been Second Secretary at the Japanese Embassy in Moscow and was on his way back to Tokyo. There had been no first-class sleeper available, so he had been given a second-class sleeper in the next coach. He could lie down full length at night, he told us, but the upper berth didn’t fold back during the day, so that he and his partner found the carriage a little cramped. Now that Dorothy’s travelling companion had failed to turn up, he had paid the first-class supplement and was moving in to her compartment.
All this took time to explain, as our only means of communication were Russian, limited on both sides, and German, which Shimada spoke with difficulty.
We explained Dorothy’s reluctance to share a compartment with a member of the opposite sex, but it was an awkward point to plug as Mr Shimada was convinced of the innocence of his intentions and of his own faultless behaviour. We begged him to be chivalrous and sleep in his second-class carriage, offering him the freedom of our own during the day.
Our progress was difficult to check, as each time we thought we had convinced him he would bow and smile and say, ‘Ja, ja ... but I stay here.’ It was only later that we learnt that in Japan ‘no’ is considered a crude word, and is not used in polite conversation.
By dinner time we had got nowhere.
‘Come and have a drink,’ we said to Dorothy. ‘We’re making a vodka and celery juice cocktail. Everything will be all right, you’ll see.’ But our assurances sounded hollow, even to ourselves.
The dining car was arranged with a double row of tables each seating three a side. Two women with cotton handkerchiefs over their heads, and closely resembling the muscular bronzes of the Moscow Metro, were serving bowls of cabbage soup to the diners. This was followed by greyish bread and some rather hard sausage. There was no menu card nor any choice of dishes. Even if the food was not actually harmful, as our American friends had suggested, it was unappetizing and we thought wistfully of the delicious journey provisions we had been obliged to leave behind.
In the few hours since we had left Moscow considerable use had been made of the dining car—or the tablecloths had not been changed since the previous trip, as they were stained with soup and smears of stew left by former diners. So we turned the hanging edges of the cloth back to make use of the clean underside. As the material was coarse, the greasy stains had not seeped through. Unfortunately, at the next meal we found that everyone had copied our attempt at gracious living, so the improvement was only temporary.
This first evening no alcohol was available in the dining car, in spite of Co’s attempts at negotiation, only sticky fruit juice. To drink the water on the train was obviously unwise, so we decided to wait for tea from the samovar which was now bubbling merrily at the end of our corridor.
Dur
ing dinner Mr Shimada sat disconsolately at the far end of the dining car surrounded by some rather uncouth characters—railway workers, probably, with passes to some point along the line. Kenneth walked down and offered him a cigarette. ‘We are so sorry that there is no room at our table. Perhaps we shall see you in our compartment tomorrow.’ Mr Shimada’s reaction was concealed by a deep bow.
‘If we can’t fix anything by midnight,’ Kenneth told Dorothy, ‘I’ll move into your berth and you can share with Peg.’
When we returned from dinner the attendant unlocked our door. This locking-up was routine when my father was in Russia in 1904, but in those days thieves were an acknowledged hazard. When we asked the attendant the reason for this precaution he just shrugged. He had lowered the upper bunk and made up the beds. A small lamp in its curly brass holder shone down on each pillow.
‘You must put your watches on an hour and come to breakfast at nine,’ the attendant told us.
Mr Shimada was standing in the corridor. He seemed a little forlorn. ‘We were looking forward to sharing our compartment with you during the day,’ I ventured. ‘It is a pity.’
‘Ja, ja,’ he murmured, ‘but ...’
I thought of a last desperate move. ‘If we are to be separated,’ I appealed, ‘my husband will be deprived ...’
‘I will spend the morning in your carriage,’ Shimada said suddenly. He called to the attendant. ‘Take my luggage back.’
He turned to us. ‘Till ten o’clock tomorrow.’ He bowed and followed the attendant down the corridor.
Baltic Countdown: A Nation Vanishes Page 17
