A Russian Journal

by John Steinbeck

  She told other stories in her austere dry voice, but this was the best story, this was the origin of the church.

  The wind whined in through the creaking iron door while she talked. And she said that although the place was deserted now, at various times of the year many thousands of people gather at this church and the courtyard is so crowded that one cannot even sit down or move about. There are people who even climb up on the walls. And during these feasts the service is celebrated in the ancient church. And people come from many, many miles on pilgrimages for these ceremonies, and the church is surrounded by little candles stuck against the walls and burning in the night.

  We left the church and saw the iron door locked, and in the corner of the courtyard the “touched” man still waved his feather and addressed his hoarse speeches to the goats.

  We went to a monastery on the edge of the town where a colony of monks still live. They have their own chapels and their own communal houses.

  These were Christian places when France, and Germany, and England were still pagan. And the Christian stories told here have an Eastern flavor.

  This long pass north of Tiflis is an archeologist’s heaven, for there are remnants of civilizations for thousands of years. High on the cliffs are the square holes of burial places of remote antiquity. The Soviet government’s diggers work all the time at their excavations. Only recently they found a gigantic oil jar filled with golden money—the army pay of an ancient king who had been attacked and had buried his treasure in this place. And everyday the diggers find artifacts that carry the history of Georgia back and back to unsuspected civilizations. In the light of this age, a pier of Pompey’s bridge is a comparatively new structure, and the hydroelectric dam is a real newcomer against this background of antiquity.

  Capa lined up four objects that he wanted to get on one camera plate: the hydroelectric dam, a statue of Lenin, a fifth-century church, and the square hole of a Sumerian grave. But they wouldn’t let him photograph it, because most important of all was the hydroelectric dam, and a photograph of it was considered out of bounds.

  We were wind-burned and weary in the evening, and the stomachs of Capa, and Chmarsky, and me were badly upset. We had been drinking a mineral water called Borjoom, which had a pleasant alkaline taste, and we only discovered after it had done its work that it was a mild purgative, and in the quantities we were drinking it, it was much more than a mild purgative. We were quite weak before we found out the cause of our difficulty.

  In America there are many hundreds of houses where George Washington slept, and in Russia there are many places where Joseph Stalin worked. The railroad shops in Tiflis have against their outer wall a bank of flowers and a giant plaque proclaiming that in this shop Joseph Stalin once had a job. Stalin is a Georgian by birth, and his birthplace, Gori, about seventy kilometers from Tiflis, has already become a national shrine. We were going to visit it.

  It seemed a long way in the jeep, for a jeep seems to go faster than it does. We went again through the windy pass, and out into farther valleys, and through other passes, until at last we came to the town of Gori. It is a town set among the mountains. It is dominated by what we would call a mesa, a tall lone, round mountain, in the middle of the town, and topped by a great castle, which once defended the town and was its place of refuge. The castle is now in ruins. This is the town where Stalin was born, and where he spent his early youth.

  The birthplace of Stalin has been left as it was, and the whole thing covered by an enormous canopy to protect it from the weather. The top of the canopy is of stained glass. The birthplace is a tiny one-story house, built of plaster and rubble, a house of two rooms with a little porch that runs along the front. And even so, the family of Stalin were so poor that they only lived in half of the house, in one room. There is a rope across the door, but one can look inside at the bed, the shallow clothes closet, a little table, a samovar, and a crooked lamp. And in this room the family lived, and cooked, and slept. Square golden marble columns support the canopy of stained glass. And this structure is set in a large rose garden. On the edge of the rose garden there is the museum of Stalin, in which is preserved every article that could be gathered that is associated with his childhood and early manhood—early photographs and paintings of everything that he did, and his police photograph when he was arrested. He was a very handsome young man at that time, with fierce wild eyes. On the wall there is a big map of his travels, and the prisons where he was incarcerated, and the towns in Siberia where he was held. His books and papers are here, and the editorials he wrote for small papers. His life has been consistent, and from the very beginning he started the line that has continued to the present day.

  In all history we could not think of anyone so honored in his lifetime. We can only think of Augustus Caesar in this respect, and we doubt whether even Augustus Caesar had during his lifetime the prestige, the veneration, and the god-like hold on his people that Stalin has. What Stalin says is true to them, even if it seems to be contrary to natural law. His birthplace has already become a place of pilgrimage. People visiting it while we were there spoke in whispers and tiptoed about. A very pretty young girl was in charge of the museum on the day we visited this place, and after her lecture to the group of us, she went into the garden and cut roses and gave everyone a blossom. And the roses were carefully put away to be saved and treasured as a remembrance of a kind of holy place. No, in all history we do not know anything quite comparable to this.

  If Stalin can have this amount of power during his lifetime, what will he become when he is dead? In many speeches in Russia we have heard the speaker suddenly quote a line from a speech of Stalin’s that has the stopping quality of the ipse dixit of the medieval scholar who put his argument in the lap of Aristotle. In Russia there is no appeal from the word of Stalin, and there is no argument against anything he says. And however this has been accomplished, by propaganda, by training, by constant reference, by the iconography which is ever present, it is nevertheless true. And you can only get the sense of this force when you hear, as we did many times, the remark, “Stalin has never been wrong. In his whole life he has not been wrong once.” And the man who says it does not offer it as an argument, it is not refutable, he says it as a matter completely true and beyond argument.

  We got into the jeep again, and our cavalry man drove us into one of the side valleys, for we wanted to see the vineyards where the Georgian wine comes from. We went into a narrow valley, and again on all the slopes were fortifications. And there were little farms in the valley and on the mountains on both sides. The vineyards climbed up the mountains. The grapes were just coming to ripeness. And there were orchards too, orchards in which there were orange trees, and apples, and plums, and cherries. The road was narrow and rough, and in places streams cut across it. Our driver whooped with joy, for this he loved. He drove at breakneck speed over the narrow roads, and he watched us narrowly to see if we were frightened—and we were. We had to hold on with both hands to keep from being flung out of the jeep. He struck the streams so hard that water cascaded over the whole of the car and drenched us. We went up through a series of little farming valleys with mountain passes between. On every pass there was a fortification where in old times the people of the farms went for protection when an invasion came through.

  We stopped at last at a collection of houses in a mountain vineyard, where we had planned to have lunch. About a hundred people were collected, dressed in their best clothes, standing quietly about. And pretty soon four men went into one of the houses, and they emerged carrying a casket. The whole group started up the mountain, weaving back and forth, carrying the dead to be buried high up on the slope. We could see them for a long time, getting smaller and smaller as they zigzagged up the mountain trail to the high cemetery.

  We went out into the vineyard and ate a monster lunch which we had brought with us—caviar and sausage, roast saddle of lamb, fresh tomatoes, wine, and black bread. We picked the grapes that were just ready t
o eat and stuffed ourselves with them. And all of this, incidentally, did not do our weakened stomachs any good. The little valley was green and lush and the air was delightfully warm. There was a good smell of green things all over. And after a while we got back in the jeep and went kayoodling down the road again to Gori.

  A visitor to a town in America is taken to see the Chamber of Commerce, the airfield, the new courthouse, the swimming pool, and the armory. And a visitor in Russia is taken to see the museum and the park of culture and rest. In every town there is a park of culture and rest, and we were becoming used to them—the benches, the long plots of flowers, the statues of Stalin and of Lenin, the commemorations in stone of the fighting that was done in this town at the time of the Revolution. To refuse to see the local park of culture and rest would be as bad manners as to refuse to go to see a new real estate development in an American town. Tired as we were from being shaken to death in the jeep, sunburned as we were, for we had no hats, we had to go to the park of culture and rest in Gori.

  We walked along the gravel paths and looked at the flowers, and suddenly we became aware of a curious music that was being played at the back of the park. It was almost like bagpipe music, with a background of drums. We walked toward the sound, and saw three men, two playing flutes and one playing a little drum. We soon saw why the music sounded like that of bagpipes, for the flute players puffed their cheeks, and when they drew breath, their filled cheeks kept the music going, so that there was no interval. The music was savage and wild. The two flutists and the drummer stood at the entrance of a high board fence, and the trees around the fence were clustered with children who were looking into the enclosure.

  We were glad we had come to the park, for this was the national competition of Georgian wrestling, and it was the day of the finals. For three days the competition had gone on, and today the champions of the republic would be chosen.

  Inside the circular board fence was an arena-like place with seats on all sides. The wrestling circle itself was about thirty-five feet in diameter, and the surface was of deep sawdust. At one side was the table of judges, and behind them a little lean-to where the contestants took off their clothes.

  The people were very hospitable to us; they made a place for us on a bench, and they cleared the pathway so that Capa could take photographs of the competition.

  The two flute players and the drummer sat down in the front row, and the contestants were called. They were dressed in an odd costume—short canvas jackets without sleeves, and canvas belts, and short trunks. They were barefooted.

  Each pair of contestants came to the judges’ table and was formally recognized. Then they took their places, one on either side of the circle. And at that moment the music started playing its savage melody, with the heavy drumbeat underneath it. The contestants approached each other and joined battle.

  It is curious wrestling. Its nearest relative is, I suppose, jujitsu. The contestants are not permitted to grasp any part of the body. The only holds permitted are on the jackets and on the belts. Once the holds are established, it is a matter of tripping, of throwing of weight, of forcing your opponent off balance, until you have thrown him to the ground and pinned him down. During the whole attack and defense, the savage music plays, and only when one fighter has lost does the music stop.

  The contests were not long, usually one minute was enough for one or the other of the fighters to be thrown. And in the instant that one contest was over, another pair approached the judges’ table and was recognized. It is a sport which requires incredible speed, and strength, and technique. Indeed, some of the throws were so violent and fast that a man would go sailing through the air at the end of the attack and land on his back.

  The audience grew more and more excited as the competition continued and more and more contestants were eliminated. But we had to go. We were to take an evening train for the Black Sea, and before that we had been invited to the opening of the Tiflis Opera. Furthermore, our jeep had developed saddle sores and was giving trouble, and we had seventy kilometers to go before we could even attempt to go to the opera. It was gasoline-line trouble, and we limped back, stopping every little while to blow out the gasoline line.

  We were very tired when we got back to Tiflis, so tired that we refused to go to the opening of the opera. My broken knee had taken a dreadful beating in the mad jeep. I was barely able to walk at all. I wanted an hour in boiling hot water to loosen up the painful kneecap.

  The station, when we finally got to it, was hot and crowded. We walked along a very crowded train and came at last to our carriage, a 1912 first-class wagon-lit of happy memory. Its green velvet was as green as we had remembered. Its dark wood polished and oiled, shining metal and musty smell we well remembered. We wondered where it could have been all these years. The Belgians who built these carriages so many years ago built them for the ages. It was the finest railroad carriage in the world forty years ago, and it is still comfortable, and it is still in good shape. The dark wood grows darker year by year, and the green velvet grows greener. It is a hangover from days of grandeur and royalty.

  It was very hot in the train, and we opened the window in our compartment. Immediately a guard came and closed it, scowling at us. As soon as he was gone, we opened the window again, but he seemed to sense that we would rebel. He was back instantly, closing the window and lecturing us in Russian, and shaking his finger in our faces. He was so fierce about this window that we did not dare open it again, although we were smothering in the hot train. His message translated was that on the trip that night we would be going through many tunnels. If the window were open the smoke of the engine would come into the car and get the green upholstery dirty. We begged him to let us open the window, saying we would even help to clean the upholstery, but he only shook his finger more sternly at us and lectured us again. When a Russian rule is established, there are no deviations.

  That reminded us of a story that was told us by an American military man in Moscow. He said that during the war when the American plane on which he was traveling landed at Moscow, a sentry was sent with orders to let no one on the plane. And when the time came for the party to board the plane, the sentry let no one on. Our man said that he was nearly shot for trying to, in spite of his orders, and his passes, and his identifications. Finally the sentry was changed, not the orders. The commanding officer explained that orders were fixed and that it was much easier to change sentries than to change orders. Sentry number two had orders “Let people on the plane,” while sentry number one had orders “Do not let anyone on the plane.” Two sets of orders, or changed orders, might confuse a man. It was much simpler to change sentries. And also it was probably much better for discipline. The man who enforces one order can do it much more faithfully than one who has to make a decision between two.

  There was not any doubt about it, the guard on our train did not intend to let us get the window open. We could have smothered, and it wouldn’t have made any difference at all. We did not know what the penalty would be for traveling with an open window in our car, but we judged by the seriousness of the guard’s attitude that it must be about ten years’ imprisonment.

  Our train started at last, and we settled in our little sweat box for the night. But the train had no sooner started than it stopped. And all night it stopped about every two miles. We finally fell into a sweaty sleep and dreamed of being caught in a coal mine.

  We awakened very early in the morning to find ourselves in a new kind of country, a completely changed country. We had come into a tropical area where the forests stretched down to the tracks, and where we could see bananas growing, and where the air was moist. The land around Tiflis, and the air, had been dry.

  The little houses beside the track were swaddled in flowers, and the foliage was dense. Hibiscus in bloom climbed up the hills, and there were orange trees everywhere. It was a most rich and beautiful country. In little patches along the track the corn stood as high as it does in Kansas, twice the height
of a man in some places, and there were fields of melons. In the early morning the people came to the entrances of their open and airy houses and watched the train go by. And the women were dressed in brilliant clothing, as tropical people always are. Their head-cloths were red and blue and yellow, and their skirts were bright, figured cloth. We went through forests of bamboo and giant ferns, and through fields of tall tobacco. And now the houses were on stilts, with high ladders to get to the first floor. And under the houses children and dogs played in the early morning light.

  The hills were densely wooded with great trees, and every visible thing was covered with lush growth.

  And then we came to the area of the tea gardens, probably the most beautiful crop in the world. Low hedges of tea spread away for miles and climbed up over the brows of the hills. Even in the early morning lines of women were picking the new leaves from the tops of the tea plants, their fingers fluttering among the bushes like little birds.

  We had awakened very hungry, but it didn’t do us any good. There was nothing to eat on the train. In fact, in all the time we were in Russia we did not find anything to eat on any conveyance. You either take your lunch or you go hungry. This accounts for the bundles the travelers take with them: one-tenth clothing and baggage, and nine-tenths food. We tried again to get a window open, but there were tunnels ahead, and we were forbidden again to open them. In the distance, and far below us, we could see the blue of the sea.