LENINGRAD-MOSCOW-TBILISSI

A journey through Nietland

On the visa given to me by the Soviets, my itinerary is clearly stated: Leningrad to Caucasia, then on to Moldavia, passing through the Ukraine along the way. I’ll leave the country through Romania. The entire trip is scheduled to last two months. I am not allowed to change the itinerary and must adhere strictly to the dates indicated. The formalities required to enter the country are endless, but I quickly realize that on the Soviet scale half of a day is nothing. Books and newspapers are carefully disassembled. My LPs are counted, because I’ll have to show them at customs again when I leave the country.

There’s a toll charge to use the roads, which is a testament to the bold sense of humor on the part of those in charge of the state highway system.

Finally, I’m let loose in the Soviet Union! (The impressions that follow are given in chronological order). First stop: Leningrad. My initial contact with the country is, unfortunately, tarnished by the more mundane aspects of everyday life, especially under the existing conditions of travel. These first impressions failed to unearth the hidden physical, human, and artistic treasures of the country.

 
Here in magnificent Leningrad, for instance, I stop at an ignominiously filthy camping ground (I would eventually discover that filth is the common denominator of every camping ground in the region). The sinks and toilets are unspeakably repulsive, especially when the water is cut off for days at a time (the shortages ironically coincide with the widespread use of Pravda as toilet paper--the ultimate vote of confidence on the part of its readers). Before I even arrive at the Hermitage, I’m bombarded with an onslaught of requests for black market products. Anything from the West is in high demand. "NIE RABOTAIET" (OUT OF ORDER) signs are everywhere: in elevators, department stores, even in the museums. Then, of course, there’s the alcoholism, an inexhaustible source of inspiration and communication for some, a source of misfortune for others. A prison system for drunks has even been set up. Here in Leningrad there is a special section reserved exclusively for foreigners (primarily Finns), who pay for their misconduct...in cash.

The country is rampant with corruption and swindling. Tourists and musicians must simply make the best of it. The lines are endless. For those with great patience and a sense of humor, however, they provide an ideal opportunity to meet people. The guided tours are a source of frustration and disappointment. Case in point: In Novgorod, the next stop on my itinerary, and the Russian principality’s first capital (ninth century), which possesses spectacular fortresses and a wealth of cultural icons, a guide gets in my car and proceeds to give me the standard state mandated drivel. His dialectical prattle is centered on three key points:

1. Before the Revolution, Novgorod was an insignificant village, plagued by poverty and injustice.
2. After 1917 the village began to prosper.
3. Fascists destroyed the main structures during the second world war.
The corollary: Thanks to the unwavering will and determination of the Soviet people, supported by their enlightened and skillful leaders, you cannot help but be dazzled and impressed by the rapid reconstruction that stands before you.

The tours end on an anecdotal note. In this particular case, I’m told about Ivan the Terrible, who devised an ingenious method of collecting his vassals’ hidden savings: He was able to refresh their memory by boiling their feet in an upturned bell. However, with a bottle of the local champagne (champagnskoye), the atmosphere can change faster than the color of a breathalyzer balloon. A few bars on the guitar or the unexpected arrival of some fellow musicians and the guide begins to sing. In this case a guzla (an ancient lute characteristic of the region) player gave us a survey of the history of Russian music, until we had depleted our bottles and our energy.

*******

In Moscow the frustrations of everyday life remain intact, but the visitor's morale is less affected by it. Any incident can provide an opportunity to make contact—occasionally an interesting one. For instance, while buying a copy of L'Humanité, the lone French-language communist publication available at the newspaper stands here, a man addresses me in French. He turns out to be a film director. He is Jewish, which entitles him to a special passport, which in turn allows him to settle in Birobidjan, an autonomous region granted to the chosen people by Stalin (unfortunately, the region is located in the most remote part of Siberia). He strongly regrets not being able to travel abroad. Asking for a visa to emigrate would cost him his job. On top of that he would have to pay a considerable amount of money to the state, as reimbursement for his studies. Ironically, this passport would eventually enable Jews to emigrate relatively easily, something other Russians were not permitted to do at the time.

The French ambassador asks me to give a concert at his exquisite residence, the Dimitrov Palace. Musicians and state officials alike are excited about the first recital by a Western guitarist since Segovia performed here in 1933. During the intermission, a woman, typified by her old world charm and manners, comes to see me.

- Excuse me, but I would love to have one of your records; my husband absolutely adored the guitar!

Although I don’t suspect her of selling on the black market, I can’t really give away my records to everyone who asks me.

- What a pity. My former husband would have so enjoyed this concert.

At the end of the concert, she comes back to try her luck again:

- Tell me, how is it that your husband was so interested in the guitar?

Needless to say, she got her record.

Several guitarists are present. I meet with them the following day in the company of an official interpreter. Such contacts, even though for musical purposes, are still considered suspicious. One of them hands me a letter. "Dear Sir. Would you be so kind as to send me an electric guitar (such and such a brand, such and such a year), strings (brand, 10 sets), as well as the following scores…Please, I beseech you, don’t forget to buy a strong case for the guitar. P.S. If you have room, my wife is very fond of French perfume. P.P.S. If you wish, I can send you in return a Soviet LP."

Such outrageous requests never cease to amaze Westerners, who are constantly under siege whenever they travel in Russia. And yet, they are appropriate to the needs of a people who think of themselves as Westerners (and, for that matter, consumers), but who, having lived in relative poverty for decades, have no true understanding of their neighbors’ wealth.

Mission accomplished in Moscow. I set my sights for the Ukraine and Caucuses. First stop: Orel. "Ancient city full of spectacular monuments," my guidebook proclaims. "The city has grown rapidly since the Revolution." There follow a number of statistics and a slightly fuzzy photograph of the motel, which I won’t bother describing. My young guide takes me on a tour of the city, whose only monument seems to be a memorial to the dead. Then comes the usual refrain:

- Orel used to be...

- However, thanks to…

Nonetheless, she takes me to visit the Lenin monument, on Lenin Square, which is at the end of Lenin Avenue, right across from the Lenin train station.

*******

There isn’t much risk of getting lost on the road to Kharkov. As on every highway network in the Soviet Union, a police officer signals my arrival to his colleague, twenty kilometers ahead. Should I happen to stray, a car would promptly be sent out to "rescue me." I see they’re putting the toll collections to good use.

*******

The city of Kharkov is presented to me as the home of the country’s major university (Lenin University?), as well as a center for medical and dental research . This intrigues me. I’d like to see for myself how medicine is practiced here, since it is said to be of the highest caliber.

-

There are approximately fifteen chairs in a row in which I see people groaning, sweating, spitting, and gasping for breath, in a stifling heat that serves only to highlight the nauseating smell that pervades the room. There are two seats alongside each patient's chair, so each of the fifteen dentists present can alternate between three patients at a time. The room is a bacterial pigsty
I attempt an honorable exit, but my expensive shirt betrays me. A chair is made available for me, much to my horror.

- You see, it doesn’t even hurt! I plead.

My sincerity doesn’t phase them. The (very attractive) practician approaches my mouth with an electrode of some sort. Alarmed, I grab the device. She then applies the other electrode directly to my tooth and turns on the juice. A cattle prod. I squirm like a fish and shout at the top of my lungs, but, held back with restraints, I’m forced to go through this 32 times. The verdict: "There’s nothing wrong with you." At least I was spared the ancient pedal-operated wheel, towering like a gallows above me. Attempting to cheer me up, the young assistant gives me a cleaning. She whispers in my ear

- Is it true that the dentists in France are rich?

To which I reply:

- Is it true that the musicians in the USSR are rich?

Years later, during the period of perestroika, this gap would lead to paradoxical situations and social tensions. The temptation to work with Westerners was simply too strong to resist. Consequently, university professors took jobs as accountants, educated women went out of their way to marry foreigners, any available man from Norway to Togo, and honest men ended up working for the local mafia.

Back at the camping ground, I shared a bottle of champagnskoye with a married couple from New Zealand, both of them doctors. They were members of their country’s Communist party and received an official invitation to the country. They filled me in on their day’s activities.

- We visited several medical establishments..          .

- A dentist’s office?

- Yes, precisely. Their equipment is amazing: turbines, the latest x-ray machines, reclining armchairs… Their infrastructure is excellent. Dentists generally spend 45 minutes per patient. But since there are so many doctors, there’s virtually no waiting.

I tell them what happened to me. They don’t believe a word of it. Assisted by the champagnskoye, we part company on bad terms. The truth of the matter is that there are two distinct healthcare systems in the Soviet Union. And if you want decent care, it’s better to be part of the nomenklatura... Being male I was spared from having to try out one of their maternity wards. These are apparently unlike anything anywhere else, which helps explain the country’s declining birthrate.

*******

In Rostov the Lenin camping ground turns out to be so squalid that I turn around and leave. As a result I arrived early at the next stop on my itinerary, Ordjonikidze. In a state of total panic the authorities grill me, hoping to discover my hidden motives for failing to adhere to the official schedule.

*******

After crossing the Caucasus I arrive in the majestic city of Tbilisi (formerly known as Tiflis). The city is dominated by an enormous statue of a woman. With one hand she proffers a cornucopia (which can’t be put down until completely emptied of its contents) to her friends, with her other she points a sword at her enemies. As a symbol the statue does a good job of summing up the local attitudes. Wine is available in abundant supply here (generally white and very dry). As for the sword, there’s little doubt as to who she’s pointing it at. The Georgians have never cared for either of their protectors--the Turks or the Russians--which is understandable, considering their tragic history. An independent country in 1921, Georgia was invaded by Stalin’s Red Army. Georgian soldiers have always been held in high esteem, renowned for their prowess in war. The campaign to "liberate" Georgia was bloody and didn't end until 1924.

Resistance is centered on an invincible weapon: money. Taking advantage of the perpetual food shortages in the other republics, Georgia makes a killing by selling fruits, vegetables, and wine at exorbitant prices. They make obscene amounts of money. I'm told that there are more cars in Tbilisi than in the entire USSR. The Russians, for whom humor is a form of resistance, like to tell the joke of a schoolteacher asking her pupils to describe their parents' jobs:  

- My name is Irakli. My father sells tomatoes in Moscow.

- My name is Revas. My father is very nice, and he sells oranges in Leningrad.

- My name is Mikheli. My father sells peaches in Novossibirsk.

- And what about you, Mamuka, what does your father do for a living?

- Umm, my father works...he works as an engineer.

The entire class bursts out laughing. The teacher scolds them:

As a footnote, it should be noted that Georgian is the only language in the entire world in which the word "father" is pronounced..."mama." At the university I attend a conference presented by someone who would eventually become my friend: Merab Memerdachvili, one of the USSR’s most brilliant philosophers and also one of the most outspoken. There’s not a single empty seat in the entire amphitheater for his talk. Merab stresses the differences between "real" truth and "factitious" truth. Most of those present know precisely what he’s alluding to. Consequently, his troubles are about to begin. They start when he loses his job back in Moscow as the editor-in-chief of the Soviet Journal of Philosophy.

The Party, of course, was well organized long before the conference took place, as is the case in every potentially "troublesome" university. Before the end of the conference, the doors were locked to prevent the students from filing out until they’d had a chance to hear a statement by the Party theorist.

******* 

As was certainly the case in Asia Minor (of which it is the sole remnant), Georgia is an immense open-air forum. Conversations are fortified by the consumption of large quantities of wine. Generally, there are four table companions in a restaurant. The "tamada" (the head of the table, entrusted with the solemn responsibility of proposing toasts) begins by ordering eight bottles of wine. He also orders enough to properly accommodate a foreign guest (being accompanied by a beautiful woman is a guarantee that you'll never leave sober) or a friend at a neighboring table. He makes sure that more wine is ordered as soon as the last bottle is empty. Anything left over in the last of the eight bottles is considered (I swear, I'm not making this up) a tip for the waiter.

****** 

- You know something, Jean-Pierre, I envy you, Merab tells me between four bottles. You're a musician, driven by some inner force. I, on the other hand, am a virtuoso thinker. I can demonstrate anything. It’s discouraging.

His death, in 1991 was the result of his discouragement and his disarray at seeing his beloved Georgia in turmoil at the arrival of perestroika.

*******

Georgian music makes the trip worthwhile. In a church on a hilltop, the chonguri, the traditional three-stringed lute, accompanies the singing of a strangely dissonant male choir, whose singing varies from a deep bass to "yodeling" tenors. Because of the altitude, the music is gloriously resonant. The sound expands outwardly toward the valley, which is enveloped in the celestial sounds. The polyphonies sound strange to me. Yet my delight upon hearing them is incomparable. It's unlike any harmony I'm familiar with. It evokes timbres and circumstances whose beauty is such that we forget the strangeness of their construction.

******* 

Georgia also produces enamel, using a process that has become obsolete as a result of the separation between gold working and vermeil. But what magnificent vermeil.

*******

Alas, my journey ends on a tragic note. A friend of mine, an actor, poet, and photographer, takes the wheel on the toll road that links Athens to Salonica. This native Californian, unaccustomed to unforeseen obstacles on the road, hits a tractor that unexpectedly pulls out in front of us. The crash is terrifying. We are immediately smothered in a thick cloud of red dust: memories of Africa come to mind. The only reason I'm still alive is because I was resting in the bed in the back of the van when the accident happened. My friend died. While I was attempting to rescue his wife, who was in a state of shock, the inhabitants of the neighboring village ran toward the crash, picking up pieces of the vehicle that lay strewn across the road. This time the alarm didn’t work. My friend was buried, the van completely destroyed, and my nomadic life over. Time to get to "work."