Globusz^® Publishing 

The vast continent of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (U.S.S.R.) covers about one-sixth of the earth’s land surface area. It is divided into fifteen republics – of which we visited two: Russia, which is by far the largest, and White Russia, also known as Byelorussia.

Prior to leaving England, we had paid for all our proposed camping accommodation in the country through Thomas Cook and the U.S.S.R. travel organisation, ‘Intourist’. This was, in fact, a necessary condition to be satisfied before a visa could be issued. When the booking was made, it allowed for the services of an official guide-interpreter on half a day for every two days spent in the country. As we were staying for two weeks, we had tickets entitling us to three and a half days with an official guide.

I suppose we had almost taken for granted the fact that we had been able to pass easily from country to country so far, but having cleared Finnish customs; we experienced a change in our attitude of mind as well as a change of country. We stopped at the Russian barrier; where there were signs indicating that photography was forbidden. Two soldiers with guns approached us and asked for our passports, which they took with them into a small army car. After some delay, they signalled that we should follow behind them in our Land Rover. Nothing could be seen through the dense plantation of fir trees on either side of the road, but we occasionally noticed a lookout tower looming above. After a few kilometres we arrived at the actual customs office, where a soldier noted the registration number of our vehicle and checked that both back and front plates were the same. A couple of women customs officials approached and asked if we had any fruit or vegetables. Whilst in Finland, someone had mentioned to us that it was illegal to bring fresh fruit or vegetables into Russia, so we had eaten all that we had, with the exception of two oranges. Their eagerness to confiscate the fruit suggested that it would have probably been shared between them later and that there was a scarcity. We were sure that someone would want to look inside the car and finally three soldiers appeared and asked if they could “Control” our Land Rover. We opened the rear door; half expecting them to take one look at our washing hanging on an improvised line and think better of it. We were not so fortunate, they walked straight in without batting an eyelid and, with ruthless efficiency, proceeded to open nearly every box and package that we had. We recognised, to some extent, the need to do this, but felt a great deal of the searching was more curiosity than necessity. As they started taking out the front seats to get to our storage tins and oilcans, we wondered where they would stop.

Perhaps I should explain that, before our departure, Audrey’s father had pressed an air gun into my hands and we had taken it with us, thinking that at least it would look formidable if the need ever arose. It was within inches of the backs of the seats, wrapped amongst tent materials and waterproof clothing. We had just signed a form to the effect that we did not possess any firearms, but now we may have to explain the existence of this mock gun that could not hurt a rabbit at point black range. How does one explain to a border guard, who just a few minutes earlier had put our compass to his ear thinking it was a watch, that this particular gun was not a firearm? Luckily, the attention of all three soldiers was attracted by our tape recorder that had just been found. As they left the Land Rover, I replaced all the seats and hoped that they would not want them out again. Our tape recorder was ‘sealed’, so that it could not be used in the country, and a harmless scout’s knife was confiscated, as it came under the classification of a weapon.Luckily, a more vicious-looking meat knife escaped their searching eyes. The whole business seemed absurd and by now we had passed through the stages of being unconcerned, indignant and annoyed; now this gave way to anger, as our knife disappeared into the guard’s pocket. An argument followed, from which I gathered that it would be returned when we drove back into Finland. Of course, we were not going back that way. I asked if they would seal it in the bag with the tape recorder, and one of the soldiers agreed, but his companion thought otherwise. I was handed a form printed in Russian that neither of us could understand. Apparently, when signed, it would allow us to collect the knife when we returned. Repeating that we would not be returning, I refused to accept the receipt, reasoning that it was useless. In complete exasperation, I threw it across the counter and stamped angrily outside. We were off to a bad start and felt that from now on we had better be careful not to step out of line.

When all was finished, we drove on towards Vyborg, feeling quite relieved to be on our way at last, but conscious that we must keep strictly to the allocated ‘Intourist’ routes. The impersonal approach had left us wondering what was in store for us during the next few weeks.

A short rest at the roadside for some refreshment punctuated the journey, and some stocky built Russian women who were walking past, offered us some of the bilberries that they had just gathered. Somehow these women looked just as we had always imagined, with white cotton headscarves and heavy shoes. We certainly attracted the attention of curious farm workers and nearly every child who noticed us came running towards us with an arm outstretched. Initially we misinterpreted this to mean, “Greetings to you from the Youth of Russia”. Later we learned the petit bourgeois truth; it meant, “Have you any chewing gum?”

Our tank was nearly empty as we entered Vyborg, and, hoping that it would be possible to buy petrol without coupons, we pulled in towards some pumps. Just as I turned, we both realised that I must have broken a traffic regulation, because a militiaman, or policeman, was leaving his post and bearing down on us looking most displeased. Fortunately for us at that moment a woman also arrived on the scene and spoke to him just as he was about to argue with us. Apparently satisfied, he walked off, and we heard no more of the incident. The woman, whom we later discovered was a representative from the ‘Intourist’ office, then turned towards us and asked if I had insurance.

I assured her that we had and, as I was getting petrol, asked Audrey to find it. Everything had been left in a chaotic condition from the customs search, so to lay hand on the papers immediately was impossibility. The woman appeared to be annoyed by this, remarking severely that there must be something wrong. The implication was that if we could not show her the insurance, it could be that we hadn’t one. Eventually it was found and she then explained in precise terms that we must go to the first floor of the railway station to obtain our petrol coupons, and then give the required number of coupons to the woman who operated the petrol pump.

The railway station was on the opposite side of the square. Inside were crowds of people, some in groups talking, others eagerly queuing for food from stalls. These had wire mesh covers across the front, with just enough space for the customer to receive and pay for his goods. Up on the first floor, there was no sign of a tourist office. We looked around for a while, before going into a room to enquire.

Quite to our surprise, we again met the same person whom we had just left.

“What are you doing? Why are you here?” – She demanded with obvious irritation.

“We are looking for the tourist office” – we replied.

“But I have already explained – she said in exasperation – you must go to the first floor.”

“Well, what’s this if it’s not the first floor?” – We countered, equally annoyed.

“This is the second floor” – she said slowly and deliberately, as if talking to a couple of backward schoolchildren.

“Downstairs is the first floor. Why do you not understand? The Americans do.”

As she said American, we realised what had happened. We spent some time explaining to her that in England we have a ground floor, then a first floor.

She was clearly taken aback by this piece of information but unfortunately lacked the ability to regard the situation as a simple misunderstanding.

This meeting was to give us an idea of what we were going to encounter again and again during our stay in Russia. Most of this woman’s conversation with us was an instruction, cold an accurate, at least in her mind. It was not at all personal, but almost as if it was an official organisation speaking, rather than a human being. Which I suppose was basically true.

So at last on the ground floor, we found the Intourist Office, and a young man gave us our necessary petrol coupons, together with camping vouchers and some tourist information leaflets.

Checking up on the maps as we left the town we realised that we still had a fair distance to cover. As we had just put our watches an hour forward, it was even later than we had thought. Anxious to make up time, we drove off in such a hurry that we completely forgot to give the petrol pump attendant the necessary coupons. Joking with each other that the news had probably already been sent ahead of us on our route, and the militia would be waiting to arrest us, we decided to turn back and pay up! It occurred to me, as I made an entry in our logbook, that the date was 3rd of September; the day war broke out. What a day!

Some of the speed limits in towns were very low, perhaps six or twelve miles an hour. All drivers adhered strictly to these limits, and some citizens were highway conscious to the extent that they quickly pointed out that we should not have stopped in a particular area, even if we had only parked to ask them for a direction.

When we arrived at the campsite in Repino, the only one near enough to visit Leningrad, yet thirty miles away from it, we were surprised to find at least five other British vehicles there. The camp was well laid out, with a number of permanently erected tents, a communal kitchen with gas stoves and sinks, and a toilet and showers block. We found that the tents, together with bedding and various cooking implements could be hired very economically.

Although we did not have any need for equipment, we decided to rent one of the tents for a small charge, as it was convenient not to spend time putting up our own. It proved to be quite roomy, with four single iron beds, table, four chairs and two small cupboards.

Having established ourselves, we took a look around to familiarise ourselves with the camp and to meet some of the other people. There were two Australians, who had been travelling for several months, and a group of English schoolgirls, who told us of expensive camping in Poland and warned us of the terrible milk in green bottles available in Russia. They all showed great consternation over the toilets which consisted of a hole between two foot pads, flushed by a cistern from above.Apparently, one had to be very quick out of the door after pulling the chain.

The following day we went into Leningrad and arranged a tour of the city with one of the English groups staying at the camp. As there was only one guide available, we all agreed to go together in their Commer Dormobile.

Before considering Leningrad as it exists today, it would be appropriate to remind ourselves of its turbid history; for events, which happened here, not only greatly affected the lives of Russian people, but also echoed such that their importance is still reverberating in the ears of the western world.

A small trading post near the mouth of the River Neva, captured in the Russo-Swedish wars, did not seem to be a likely place for a capital city, but for the progressive Tsar of the time, Peter the Great, nothing was impossible. Influenced by his travels abroad, he introduced many unpopular but important reforms, and decided that he would build this town into a capital city, his ‘window on the west’. Owing to the necessity of pile driving and the lack of stone in the vicinity, this was at no small expense. Many people, in varying professions, were ordered to move to the new capital, St. Petersburg, and thousands of labourers were brought from the provinces. Not a single cart was allowed into the city, unless some stone was part of its load. Architects came from France, Germany and Italy to create many of the important buildings we can see today.

A succession of Tsars, good and bad, lead us from the reign of Catherine the Great, to the Decembrist uprising in 1825, during the reign of Tsar Nicholas I. A few more unsettled years lead to the assassination of Alexander II and his daughters. Soon afterwards, another assassination plot on Alexander III failed miserably and the student conspirators were hanged. One of these students had a brother, Vladimir Ilich Ulyanov, or Lenin, as he was known later. Who would have believed that this young man was destined to be one of the most idolised men in history?

There seemed nothing that would stem the rising tide of discontent that strangled Russia at the turn of the century. With the advent of the First World War and the acute shortage of food, thousands upon thousands of soldiers with insufficient equipment at their hands, were dying in the trenches beneath the onslaught of the German invasion.

Lenin returned home in 1917, having studied in London and Switzerland. He had worked in the British Museum Library, just as his idol Karl Marx had done, and he based his ideas and beliefs on Marx’s Das Kapital. He would certainly have read a manifesto that Marx had been commissioned to write while he was a member of the Communist League in London, stating its aims and beliefs and concluding with the famous words, “workers of the world unite.”

1917 was the year of two revolutions, one in February, which forced the Tsar to abdicate, and another in October, which brought the Bolsheviks[2] to power under their leader Lenin.

Let us start our tour of this splendid city from 25th October Avenue, named in commemoration of the revolution. As is often the case with Russian place names, it is more commonly known by its familiar old name of Nevsky Prospect. This is the main thoroughfare, important because it links this city with the road to Moscow. It was once the financial centre, but is now regarded more as the cultural centre of the city. As we drove along the wide avenue, we passed the largest bookshop in Leningrad and saw the white colonnades and gilded sculptures of the Stroganov Palace, which belonged to the Counts of Stroganov, who were rich Novgorod merchants. The street was very crowded, and it occurred to us that it had been a long time since we had been amongst so many people.

Looking above their heads, a slender, golden spire caught our attention. An excellent landmark, it surmounts the two hundred and thirty foot tower of the Admiralty, from which all the main streets radiate. We were told that several Tsarist ministers hid themselves inside the Admiralty building during the February Revolution in 1917.

In Decembrist Square, adjacent to the Admiralty, is a fine equestrian statue of Peter the Great, known as the Bronze Horseman, which is said to have inspired Pushkin’s poem, ‘The Bronze Rider’. The tempestuous steed, rearing at the brink of a precipice and trampling on a snake, does much to portray the character of Peter the Great. This square is sometimes used for open-air performances of ballet.

We passed before St. Isaac's cathedral, whose golden cupola is third in order of size after St. Peters, Rome, and St. Paul’s, London, and before long we were standing beside Alexander’s column in the middle of Winter Palace Square. This polished red granite column was erected to commemorate the victory over Napoleon in 1812.

There were no crowds, absolutely nothing to disturb the calm, morning air that day. Even so, we felt an excitement as our thoughts extended back to the terrible Sunday in 1905, when Father Gapon, an orthodox priest, led a deputation to the Winter Palace, in order to deliver a petition to the Tsar. There was nothing to suggest the bloodshed of that day, but as we stood quietly, we could almost hear the crowd assembling. Some two hundred thousand working class people were singing “God save the Tsar”.

They came into the square and gathered in front of the palace. Father Gapon held the petition in his hand, which asked for a minimum wage of two shillings a day for the people, in order to ease their hardships. The crowds were unaware that the Tsar was not at home, but they could see his Cossack troops, who were positioning themselves over on the East Side of the square by the barracks. Cavalry, police and lifeguards were all ready for action. Within minutes they had opened fire. Pandemonium had broken loose. Men women and children lay dead. On this day, later to be remembered as ‘Bloody Sunday’ up to a thousand people were massacred, in an event, which, although suppressed, was to break the foundation of the aristocracy.

The Great Winter Palace is a masterpiece of baroque architecture by Rastrelli. Originally painted red, it is now a more preferable dark green, with doors and windows a contrasting white. Built for Elizabeth I, who died a year before its completion, its first occupants were Peter III and his wife, who became Catherine the Great. She apparently did not like its vast proportions and, as Tsarina, ordered the Hermitage to be built beside the Palace, where she could retire alone, or possibly with a few intimates from her own circle. In 1765 she placed an exhibition there. It was held in one room and was only visited by a few friends who regarded it as a curiosity. Today the Hermitage houses one of the finest art collections in the world.

Our next view was from the vantage point on the banks of the Neva. The cruiser ‘Aurora’ lay berthed, a silent reminder of the days when she was active during the Revolution. Through the autumn haze, we could just distinguish the two beacons in front of the Old Stock Exchange. Now only lit on festive occasions, these serve as landmarks for shipping. On the opposite bank stood the forbidding Peter and Paul fortress, solid and imposing. Passing over Equality Bridge towards this fortress, we came to a small red brick building, which apparently contained the original wooden home of Peter the Great. It would soon be visible to the people, our guide informed us, as a glass one would replace the red brick building.

Our tour ended with a quick visit to the Kirov Sports Stadium. Holding eighty thousand spectators, it is the second largest after that in Moscow, and was built by young volunteers working in their own spare time. On this particular day the stadium was silent, only an enormous portrait of Lenin dominated the empty arena.

Throughout the morning, our guide had been most pleasant and informative, willing to answer all our questions. Talking about housing conditions, we learned that a family of three working people would probably live in two rooms. If they needed additional space, they must have very good reasons for it. For example, if one was sick, or there was a need to practice art or music, an extra room may be granted. Every application would be considered on its merits. Regarding education, there were still not enough schools and children were obliged to attend either in the morning or afternoon.

We thanked the guide and she asked if there was anything else that she could do to help us. We all felt ravenously hungry, so she escorted us to a small restaurant. Accompanying us inside, she made sure that we knew how to order the meal. Although the restaurant was crowded, we were served quickly and enjoyed a typical Russian soup of chicken, potatoes and carrots. Really this was a meal on its own, but we followed it up with fish and white cabbage, all for the reasonable price of just over one rouble, (seven shillings and sixpence), for us both.

Our mail had been sent to Intourist, Leningrad, which seemed rather a vague address, but we learned that it would be available at the Hotel October. About two hours later, and having surely committed several driving offences, we arrived in front of a very large building and were directed upstairs to a room, in which sat an Intourist representative. We waited for some time before she beckoned us to her desk, where we asked for our mail. She picked up a telephone, spoke to someone and then handed it to me. I explained to the woman at the other end what we wanted, but could not distinguish what she was saying. Our Intourist representative behind the desk became quite impatient when we asked her to explain what we must do, and for some unknown reason, instead of answering in English, as she had originally done, would speak only in Russian. We were at a complete loss for what to do, especially as she then got up and left the room. Hurrying after her and thinking she was showing us where to go, we were amazed when she turned back and sat once again behind her desk.

Our frustration was beginning to show again when, by some good fortune, another woman, who had been in the room all the time, now seemed prepared to help us. Speaking good English, she told us that we must go out of the building and look for the Post entrance. After passing along a maze of corridors, we found ourselves outside the Hotel and rather wearily decided that we must begin again. The Post entrance was we discovered at the side of the building, and once inside we made further enquiries. Whenever we went into any hotel we found on every floor, at the top of each flight of stairs, a desk complete with a middle-aged woman, past whose watchful eye one could never move unnoticed. At times this was quite unnerving, but today we felt in need of all the help possible. Finally, rather like arriving at a winning post, we found the room. A young girl asked us to write our names on a piece of paper. This we did, writing clearly our names in full. Glancing at the paper the girl quickly flipped through a large box of letters and handed us two. We were quite certain that there would be more, but she said there were no others. Insisting that we should receive more, we asked her to look under my Christian name initial instead of my surname. The girl quite obviously resented being asked to look again, as though we were implying that she did not know her job. However, several more letters were found, and we later learned that three more were not given to us. We left thinking that, perhaps, we were lucky to have got any post at all. Interestingly enough, this was the only country where we encountered such difficulty.

Such was our second encounter with Intourist and officialdom. In contrast, as we asked a person, just about to walk away from his car, the direction we should take for Repino, he immediately jumped back into the car with his wife and proceeded to guide us for some miles out of the city and on to the right road, stopping every so often to make sure that we were following. Before he turned back for Leningrad, he gave us a few directions on a piece of paper, and waited until we had driven off. He would not even accept a cigarette, and seemed quite delighted to have been able to help.

Confidently driving along and following his written directions, I turned left at a road junction at what appeared to be a green filter light. A militiaman standing on the corner gave several shrill blasts on his whistle and waved frantically at us to stop. Calling me out of the vehicle, he promptly fined me one rouble, as far as I could make out this was for failing to wait for a second green light to appear. Pleading ignorance as a tourist was useless. Whatever I said it was obvious he was determined to claim the rouble and handed me, in return, two white tickets.

Needing some potatoes for our evening meal, we stopped further along our road to the camp and Audrey set off to investigate. Finding what she thought was the right queue she joined on the end. It was not until she had waited for some time and had moved to the inside of the building that she became aware of steam. As she looked around she noticed people walking past with bunches of fine branches and large bars of yellow soap. It suddenly dawned on her, as she moved towards a small hatchway, that this was no potato queue, it was for a Russian sauna bath. Outside she spoke to a young girl, who was able to understand German, and with her help found the right place. It must be mentioned that shops were never very apparent, for goods were hardly ever displayed. The greengrocer was eventually located in a room on the ground floor of a block of flats.

Meanwhile, I had got into conversation with a militiaman. Deciding to play safe, I had asked if I was parked in the correct place. He was much more pleasant than the last fellow was and, although we had some language difficulty, we got on to common ground with the aid of some maps, which I had on the seat beside me. He showed great interest in the Land Rover and wanted facts about the engine capacity and horsepower. He was very impressed at its sturdy appearance and implied that they had plenty of trouble with their vehicles.

Before we pulled into the camp at Repino, we stopped for petrol, and, whilst filling up, a young boy came along to ask if we had any shirts or socks to sell. We hadn’t any, but gathered that we could have made a handsome profit on such a sale. Some of the other English travellers at the camp were complaining bitterly about being fined a rouble, and on comparing notes, decided that we had all been charged for the same offence at the same place. The militiaman had stopped four different groups of campers and had fined three of them. Fortunately for the fourth group, one person spoke very good Russian.

As we sat down for dinner that night we thought that it had been quite an eventful day, and in addition we received a letter from home, with an enclosed cutting telling of an epidemic, namely cholera, that had closed the Iran-Pakistan border.

We left Leningrad by the Moscow Prospect, which adheres to the line of the Pulkovo Observatory Meridian. The drive, our first full day travelling in Russia, was to take us across the Nordic plain of marsh and swamp, not in itself very interesting scenery, but there was always something to catch our eye.

Not many miles out of Leningrad, we came to some memorial obelisks at the roadside, which were old tank traps, which commemorated the place where the Nazi advance was checked in 1941.

The road tended to be very straight for long distances and traffic was more or less limited to lorries. Although these were fully loaded, there were many people, waiting for lifts in them. Each small village along the route was identical to the one before; dark wooden houses, with ornately carved window frames flanked each side of the road, each set behind neat wooden fences. There generally seemed to be enough ground to enclose a good stock of vegetables and invariably a number of giant yellow sunflowers. Some of these picturesque houses would undoubtedly have been dachas, summer dwellings used by people from the city. In each of the villages we kept below the regulation speed of around 10 mph. Young children played on the rough earthy paths at the side of the road, and women with kerchiefs carried pails of water from the village pump. While at the pond, a regular meeting place for all the ducks and gaggles of geese, bedlam would invariably be let loose. A flustered and squawking chicken narrowly missed our vehicle as it ran across the path. Not many of the men folk were evident during the day, but of an evening they would be sitting outside on wooden benches talking to each other about the doings of the day. It was quite clear that the people were not used to the hurried mechanised age, as many a time a villager set off across the road without a glance to see if anything was coming.

Along several stretches of road were double rows of newly planted trees, and we wondered if they were for snow breaks, to improve the marshland scenery, or to hide what lay behind. Sometimes, amongst the trees was a brightly coloured summerhouse with ornamental seats. These areas were for picnicking, and we often made use of them, even though we never saw anyone else doing so. Perhaps this was not the season for picnics.

We drove into the Novgorod campsite, seven miles south of the town, and again decided to use one of the permanently erected tents. The girls at the entrance gave us a card with a number on it and we walked along the gravel path until we came to the tent that had been allotted to us. We untied the canvas flaps and went inside. There was the usual heavy iron bedstead standing on the boarded floor, and upon each of them was a thin mattress and pillow that smelt rather damp. Also, there was a metal-topped table and three fold-up canvas chairs.

“Well, this may be the most attractive site in Russia – Audrey muttered, reading from an Intourist leaflet – but it doesn’t look very inviting does it?”

“Let’s have a look in the tents on either side, maybe the mattresses and pillows are in a better condition” – I suggested. The furnishings in the other tents were identical, so we decided to make use of our sleeping bags.

It was a grey, drizzling day and the dark canal water on the far side of the path only served to make us feel chillier. A frog jumped across the grass ahead of us, as we made our way to the kitchen.

Once we had begun to prepare our food we felt warmer and more at home in these bleak and unfamiliar surroundings. The door opened and an elderly couple came in. The woman spoke French fluently, and kept up a constant flow of conversation, as she also set about some cooking. The weather had certainly not dampened her enthusiasm!

Driving a short distance we came to the Yuriev monastery situated near the River Volkhov. The building appeared to be derelict, but the brilliant blue domes with their golden stars stood out against the sombre sky, indicating that the monastery was still used. Although we did not see any monks, we were surprised to find several families living within its confines, and to learn that part of the building was used as a school.

The church of St. George in the middle of the quadrangle was locked. Two boys were quick to come and help. Michael told us he would be able to obtain the key, as he was studying history, and left us for a while. Sure enough, he returned with a large key and opened the door. Inside we were able to see that the vaulted ceiling was completely covered with golden frescoes. We spent some time gazing in admiration at the wonderful craftsmanship. His friend, Alexander waited outside with us while Michael returned the key, and several school children came up to us with bulging satchels. We looked through some of their schoolbooks and they, in turn, wanted to have a good peer into the Land Rover.

Back at the camping site that same evening, we had a long talk on many varied subjects with our two friends. At all times they were keenly interested in everything we could tell them about our life in England, and the capitalist countries. From them we learned more of the educational system. Children between nine and fourteen belong to the Pioneer Movement and on entry make a solemn oath to love the Soviet Union, to live, to study, and to fight according to the teachings of Lenin. Between the ages of fifteen and eighteen a large number of these Pioneers transfer to the Komsomol, another communist party youth organisation, preparatory to their becoming members of the communist party. Michael indicated that about thirty-six per cent of the youth belonged to Komsomol. They were both anxious to know more about The Beatles, and envied us being able to buy records easily. For them it was impossible. Their information about space travel was geared to competition with America, but it was clear that they were concerned with the future peace of the world, rather than their country’s scientific achievements in this field.

We questioned them both about the lack of freedom of Russian authors to publish, and were surprised how often their answers seemed to be influenced by communist teachings, rather than their individual thoughts. When we mentioned Pasternak’s ‘Dr. Zhivago’, they said that they did not think a man like Zhivago was the right person upon which to base our idea of a Russian.

We were happy that we had been able to have this interesting discussion with Michael and Alexander, and grateful, too, for their assistance in showing us around Novgorod.

A drive of 225 miles took us over long, straight roads to Kalinin situated on the River Volga. This was another Old Russian city and formerly named Tver. In the fifteenth century there was a good deal of trading with the Baltic States, Crimea, the Caucasus and other countries of the Near East and Central Asia. One Tver merchant, Afanasy Nikitin became the first Russian to reach India and as a result promoted trade between the two countries. His statue is on the left bank of the Volga, supposedly on the spot where he first set sail, and shows him standing on the prow of a ship. Sitting on the riverbank we imagined we had something in common with him, as we, also, were travelling to India.

Looking down to where the river was gently lapping against the stones, we saw several women doing their washing by slapping vigorously with a stick the wet garments that they had placed over the rocks. In midstream a pleasure boat was passing under a bridge and coming across in front of us. Popular music was being relayed very loudly; it must have been deafening on board, but the passengers seemed to be enjoying their trip. Over on the opposite bank, a building with two towers caught our attention. We did not know what it was, but there was a short word in the Cyrillic alphabet prominently displayed across it - so we looked in our book to find the English equivalent. It meant ‘Star’. The building we discovered later was a cinema.

After a restful hour, we returned at a leisurely pace to our Land Rover, around which a large crowd had collected. Our first thought that we were committing some parking offence was not well founded. The people, about thirty altogether, were just interested in the assortment of things that were visible through the window.

We had quite a job to get the doors open and ourselves inside, as nobody attempted to move away. Perhaps they thought we were onlookers, too. Once it was established that we were the owners there were plenty of questions about our vehicle to be answered. Some of the men even knelt in the road to peer underneath at the suspension, and our locks on the petrol cap and bonnet seemed to puzzle them. Looking into the driving mirror as we moved off, I could see the crowd still standing around the space where we had been. Their attention could have been held a lot longer had we had the time.

Once we had established our campsite at Butovo on the outskirts of Moscow we made our way to Red Square and looked to where the red flag of the Soviet Union extended reluctantly from its mast above the Kremlin Senate Building. We pondered over the crossed hammer and sickle signifying the union of factory and agricultural workers, and the single star representing the final authority of the State.

A young man spoke to us and after the usual preamble, we asked if he could assist us in buying some shopping in the largest department store G.U.M., which occupies a prominent position in Red Square, opposite the Kremlin walls. He was a great help, guiding us round the various departments, which were thronged with shoppers. We decided that it would be a good idea if he could show us a cheap restaurant where we could have a meal together. He did just as we had requested, taking us into a workers, self-service restaurant. It was about the bleakest place we had yet eaten in, and unfortunately it was not very clean. The food was already served onto plates waiting to be taken, but not kept on a hotplate. We found a table to ourselves, but after sitting down realised that there were no knives available to cut our meat. Our new friend rushed back to the counter, and after waiting some time returned triumphantly with one knife that we shared between us. Almost as soon as I had started to use it, someone clearing the tables came up to ask for it to be returned, but we managed to keep it until our meal was finished. Looking round we saw that no one else was using one; were they regarded as dangerous, as our Boy Scout’s knife had been, or did they think they would be stolen?

Talking with Ivan after our meal, we noted that whenever we got around to the subject of politics, he talked very softly behind a raised glass so that he would not be overheard by anyone else on adjacent tables. He told us of the complete authority of the State, of the militia, and how difficult it was for an individual to get things done, and, indeed, how impossible it was for a person to act on their individual thought. In fact, it was necessary to programme one’s life along the party line, and if one did not conform the future was not very bright. It was a sobering thought, but this was as we had imagined the system to be, although we had hoped to prove ourselves wrong. Here was an example of a man who had some criticisms of his country’s methods, yet was frightened that he would be overheard presenting his thoughts aloud. We gathered that his uncle had been imprisoned for expressing his non-party views. Ivan felt very bitter about this and was also concerned by the enquiries he had received from an American pen friend who had supposedly sent him a record as a gift. He had never received it. We talked of Khrushchev, who had not earned the respect that we had imagined. Ivan consistently repeated a nickname, which translated meant ‘Corn King’. This stemmed from the time when Khrushchev had made very bad estimates of the quantity of corn that needed to be produced.

Later, seated in the Land Rover, Ivan asked if there was anything we had that he could buy, particularly nylon shirts. It was obvious that there was a market for all that we possessed but we really had not brought enough with us to spare him any clothes. Finally, to his delight, we sacrificed a pair of sunglasses, as we did not want to disappoint him. The profit that could be made on black market goods must be considerable. We had heard that five pounds had been given to an Australian for a worn white cotton shirt, and that an English suit, costing twelve pounds had fetched at least four or five times the amount. Ivan said he would be very pleased to write to us when we returned to England, but hastily reminded us that on no account should we mention politics.

Returning to Red Square, we found one of the longest queues that we had ever seen. It extended from Lenin’s Mausoleum, an austere fortress like building, right along the length of the Kremlin wall to disappear out of the square and into the side streets.

Our guide, a quietly spoken and rather withdrawn girl, named Alice, was waiting to show us various places of interest, including Lenin’s Tomb. At a point near the edge of Red Square, she stopped to speak with a militiaman, and then took us to join the queue for the tomb, at a place where all tourists are allowed to, thus saving us the agony of such a long wait. Nobody objected, and a few made way for us to stand in front of them.

While we were waiting, a group of Young Pioneers, dressed in white, with their identifying red neck scarves making a pleasant flash of colour to the dull day, marched across to the tomb carrying a large wreath which was laid near the base. From this red granite mausoleum, various dignitaries watch the great processions, such as those held on May Day.

Several militiamen stood by the queue and, occasionally, with a shrill whistle and pointing their truncheons, they would reprimand people who put even one foot over a white line along which the queue was positioned. They had no traffic to command for none is allowed in Red Square. There were some tourists, but the majority were Russians patiently waiting, and dedicated to their pilgrimage. Slowly the people shuffled forward intent to pay their tributes to a man that has, since his death in 1924 filled the need for a saviour in the religious void created by communism.

As we came closer to the tomb, we could see that two soldiers were stationed at the entrance. We passed between them, glancing up as we did so at the large Cyrillic letters forming the word Lenin, which were cut into the stone. A respectful silence was maintained as we passed slowly down some steps into semi-darkness. We had expected to see only a stone sarcophagus but turning a corner to the right we saw a glass case containing the embalmed body of Lenin. The whole effect was eerie; Lenin’s waxed face, with distinguishing short beard, shone with a luminous pink light. The people filed silently past the motionless soldiers. What did these Russians think of this great man; was he really so much of a god to them, or were they like sheep? Certainly one cannot deny the importance of his political career and the continuation of his ideas in the policies of Russian leaders since, but I must confess to a very uneasy feeling when I think of the total indoctrination of the minds of simple-living folk.

Emerging into daylight, and taking a deep breath of fresh air, we turned to the back of the mausoleum and walked alongside the Kremlin wall. Here were several graves and plaques to commemorate previous Russian leaders and important members of the Communist movement. All the graves, with one exception, had a small tombstone surmounted with a bust. The exception is the resting place of Josef Stalin, the final degradation for a man who previously had occupied an exalted position beside Lenin.

From here we walked across the Square to St. Basil’s Cathedral. This is the fairy-tale like, much photographed monument that identifies Moscow, much as the Eiffel Tower, the Houses of Parliament, or the Statue of Liberty does for their countries. Its form defies simple description. There is a tall, central tower, topped by a small gold, onion-shaped cupola. Eight towers completely different in shape, height, and design, each having a multi-coloured dome, twisting above them rather like a turban, surround this. Alice took us inside the small chapels beneath each dome, which were all decorated with the most beautiful gold mosaic work, and told us that this Cathedral had been built during the reign of Ivan the Terrible. He had decreed that the architect, Posnik, should be blinded, so that never again would he be able to create such a unique masterpiece.

From St. Basil’s, we could see that Red Square is not red, nor even square, but by using some imagination, one can discern that the enormous, many-towered, brick walls of the Kremlin contain some reddish colour. In the Russian language the word Red means beautiful. We followed Alice across the square and through the arched gateway of the Spasskaya Clock Tower into the Kremlin. This tower was originally known as the tower of St. Saviour, as there used to be an icon of Christ over the gateway. Until 1917, all who passed through had to salute the icon.

Once inside the Kremlin, we walked towards the Soborny Square and were confronted by the enormous Tsar Bell. It is about twenty feet high, weighs nearly two hundred tons, and rests on a granite base. The bell was cast in 1735, and while being hoisted preparatory to being hung, the supporting structure collapsed, and it fell to the ground. A fragment weighing about eleven tons broke off, and the bell has remained on the ground until the present day.

Ivan the Great’s Bell Tower, originally serving as a watchtower for the Kremlin when it was a fortress, looks over the golden domes and cupolas of the cathedrals. The bell from this tower used to be the first bell to ring at Easter time, a signal for all the bells of several hundred churches in Moscow to peal out their chimes.

Grouped together in the Soborny Square are three Cathedrals, the Uspensky, the Blagoveshchensky, otherwise Annunciation, and the Arkhangelsky, all with magnificent golden icons, murals and frescoes on walls, ceilings and pillars. The Uspensky is the oldest cathedral, being completed in 1489, and here the Tsars were crowned after the 16th Century. The Annunciation Cathedral was regarded as the home chapel of the Tsars, and the Arkhangelsky was where their bodies were laid to rest in great sarcophagi.

The State Armoury was visited next. This was built by Monarchs to house their treasures, and there was a great queue waiting in the entrance hall. The queue didn’t seem to move very fast, but eventually we found the reason why. Everyone is obliged to cover their feet with old felt slippers, which are put on over one’s shoes. They were available in a huge box, which contained a jumbled variety of all sizes. It took us some minutes to extricate a pair of a suitable size that were complete with laces. When the laces were tied, they invariably cut into our ankles, making walking most painful, but if slackened off a ridiculous situation arose, where one could not walk more than one step without them falling off. So, like a couple of crippled patients in a hospital, we slithered across the highly polished wood floors, gazing at the splendid and extravagant exhibition of riches that were showered upon the Tsars of the time. There were several imperial coaches, one of which had been presented by Queen Elizabeth I to Boris Godunuv, many crowns, thrones, icons, clocks, silverware and jewelled eggs. In one case was the silver embroidered wedding dress of Catherine the Great, in another, the boots of Peter the Great. The armoury contained a large collection of firearms and weapons of all kinds, an impressive show by any standard.

Unlike our guide in Leningrad, Alice had not been very informative about the various buildings, and when she did speak it was in such a low-pitched monotonous voice that Audrey, who was trying to take notes, while I took photographs, had great difficulty in understanding. She seemed, however, to have some plan for the order of sightseeing, and told us that we would later visit Tolstoy’s House. We left the Kremlin, passing on our way out the enormous Tsar cannon, with a calibre of almost three feet.

Tolstoy’s house was one of the older houses in Moscow, built of wood and rather dark, probably looking very much as it was during the time when he lived there, between 1812 to 1901. Many original items of furniture were displayed and these included his own desk and his chair that had its legs sawn off to make it lower, for Tolstoy was very shortsighted and refused to wear glasses. His wife also had a writing desk, and we were told that she wrote out ‘War and Peace’ at least thirty times.

Tolstoy was born of a good family in 1828. During his lifetime he became very sympathetic towards the serfs and their sufferings and, long before the Emancipation Act for their freedom had been introduced, he himself had freed the serfs on his own estate. He was so against one man owning more than another that he even regarded his leather-bound chairs as too good for him. Before his death in 1910, he had completed several works, including ‘War and Peace’ and’ Anna Karenina’ .

During our travels round Moscow on this particular day, we had twice run foul of the same militiaman on traffic duty. On the second occasion, a frantic blast on a whistle indicated that we’d again done something wrong. In that split second when one decides what to do and fearing another fine, I chose to drive on. Alice had certainly been no help with directions. Whenever I asked her which turning to take - her answers were either very vague or non-existent, so Audrey and I had to work out our own route with the aid of a map.

My patience had begun to dwindle, as it often did when driving in an unknown city, when suddenly we realised that once again we were in the same square where the militiaman had whistled at us. He would be bound to recognise the Land Rover, which was quite unlike any other vehicle in the city, and sure enough he did. As he began to stride towards us, the traffic lights changed, so I quickly did a right turn away from the scene of the crime. Numerous blasts from his whistle pierced our ears yet again. It really seemed that we were on the run and for the first time Alice began to look quite animated.

Previously we had asked Alice to direct us to a shop called Gastronom, in order to replenish our food supplies, and it was now that she gave us her first definite direction to turn left at the next road junction. Audrey, following the map closely, realised that this was not the shortest way to Gastronom. In fact, should we follow this route, we would return once again to a further encounter with the militiaman? It was obviously Alice’s intention to see that the law was carried out, so we ignored her directions and hastily drove straight on. This did little to foster a good relationship with Alice, but it did keep us out of trouble.

Gastronom is the shop in Moscow where foreign tourists can buy foods of all description, not generally available to the citizens of Moscow. All the products can be bought with foreign currency only, and it was quite clear that the selection available amazed Alice. Not only were most things a third, or a quarter of the price less than those in Russian shops, there were things like butter, cakes, chocolates and fruit that the people hardly ever see in such quantity. We stocked up with as much as we could with the few English pounds that we had with us, and were relieved to get the opportunity to shop so easily. Although we asked Alice if she would like any shopping, which we would have bought for her, she shook her head.

Walking back to the Land Rover, with a large cardboard box full of food, we wondered what she was really thinking. Was she questioning in her own mind why the food was not available to her? Did she envy or despise us as capitalists? We were not to know, for her face remained expressionless and she could not be drawn into conversation.

Shopping in Moscow must surely be more frustrating and time wasting than anywhere else in the world. As I have mentioned earlier, shops never seemed to be obvious as shops. The exterior of the largest store, G.U.M., which is short for Gosudarstveny Universalny Magazin, reminded us of the Victoria and Albert Museum. Even relatively small shops did not always display in the window the goods that they sell inside. The main shopping thoroughfare, Gorky Street, had been described to us as the Oxford Street of Moscow, but strolling along it we were quickly disillusioned; window dressing was very poor. One large shop had its windows filled with row upon row of jars of jam.

For essential foods such as bread, the shops seemed to open at irregular hours, and there is no indication of these opening times. In addition, long queues often formed reminiscent of wartime rationing in London. After several mistakes, we discovered that one has to queue to buy a ticket from a cashier’s desk for the total cost of the food to be bought. The cashier works out the final price on an abacus, a frame with wooden beads of the type you might still find in some Nursery Schools in England today. These frames were still used in all shops throughout Russia. It was quite difficult for us to work out how much our ticket should be made for, as the food was rarely priced, but once we had the all important ticket, we could return to the counter and exchange it for the shopping. This always involved a queue, so you can understand how much time could be wasted.

Thinking we had learned this complicated system, we confidently decided to buy meat in the same shop and Audrey repeated the process, only to find that this time the girl at the counter was paid directly.You can imagine that we were in quite a muddle but as often happened; someone seeing how bewildered we looked came to our rescue.

Clothing was not very plentiful and what were on show were generally four or five times the price we would pay in England. As we walked along we noticed that, generally speaking, people’s dress was of very poor quality, men wearing open-necked shirts with suits, and women wearing sometimes ankle socks with high-heeled shoes.

Bookshops always had a good selection and plenty of customers. There were also many bookstalls in the streets around, where a large gathering of people could always be found.

Quite a number of people made use of the machines that dispensed a weak, red, cold drink. However, we had a quick snack in a self-service cafe before rejoining Alice, who was to take us to the Tretyakov Art Gallery.

Tretyakov, the merchant presented this gallery to the city in 1892, and it was here that Alice showed, for the first time, real enthusiasm and genuine interest, as she took us through the development of Russian art. One memorable picture covering a complete wall was entitled ‘The Appearance of Christ’. It was painted by Alexander Ivanov, one of the great Russian artists of the 19th Century, and took twenty years to complete. On the remaining walls of the same room were various studies that the artist had made of people and parts of the picture, which he had finally incorporated into the finished masterpiece.

We managed to obtain tickets for the Puppet Theatre one evening, and although we set off with time to spare, we met another student who wanted so much to speak with us that by the time we had parted we had only fifteen minutes to find the theatre. If we had known our way, the time would have been enough, but we got lost and in a terrible muddle, due to the system of no left turns. Traffic regulations are such that all traffic wanting to turn left has to continue past the junction to a place marking a U turn, then drive back to the junction and turn right. We missed the U turn and drove on for some way before we realised our mistake and had to retrace our route. More difficulties with yet another militiaman occurred before we eventually arrived, - extremely late, and in the middle of the performance.Fortunately, we sat next to a young woman who could speak English and was a guide for the visitors next to her. Between explaining to them what was being said she gave us a quick translation. This really was very necessary for complete understanding and enjoyment, for although the puppets were splendid, the narrative was obviously showing the Russian humour at its best. Here we were seeing Russians without reserve and hearing their free and abandoned laughter. It was quite a contrast with the many stern, solemn faces of officialdom that we had met.

This art has evolved to its very high standard over many years. We had never seen such wonderful puppets before; each was projected onto a screen to give larger than life size faces, where even the facial muscles could be moved to give the desired expression. The operators were very skilled and we were surprised when they came onto the stage to see how few there were compared with the large number of puppets. The evening ended with a captivated audience, mostly adults, clapping in time with an engaging little tune.

We also visited the permanent Exhibition of Economic Achievement. As we drove towards it, a very tall structure caught our attention, and we directly identified it as a rocket and vapour trail, pre-cast in concrete. This majestic, sweeping upsurge of power commemorates the successful launching of the first artificial earth satellite. As we walked towards the main entrance gate, we were confronted by yet another impressive monument, a stainless steel sculpture of a man and woman holding a crossed hammer and sickle striding confidently and with purpose into the future. The size of this monument entitled ‘Worker and Collective Farmer’ must be nearing one hundred feet in height. It dwarfed everything else around.

The exhibition covered an area of over five hundred acres and there were many pavilions in this vast open park of lawns, fountains and flowerbeds. Each republic had a pavilion designed to represent its own particular style of architecture. We didn’t find the designs aesthetically pleasing; as with the mass produced sculptures in each village, we found them and the fountains colourful, but too ornate. The pavilions were lofty and often dark inside, with numerous charts and statistics, relating to agriculture, mechanical production, and progress in electronics, food processing or building. We saw peasants marvelling at some quite ordinary labour saving gadget, which would be taken for granted by a westerner. One pavilion, which was most interesting, was devoted to space research, and there were mock sputniks, as well as the original Vostok II showing the scorch marks it received on re-entry to the earth’s atmosphere.

Most tourists to Moscow find their way, or are taken to the Lomonossov University on Lenin Hills. We went with Alice, who reeled off plenty of facts and figures about this building, one of the several ‘wedding cake’ types. We called all the ornately styled architecture by this name.

The University is over seven hundred and eighty feet high, which is more than twice the height of St. Paul’s Cathedral in London. It was built between 1948 and 1953, at a cost of three thousand million roubles, or two hundred and seventy thousand pounds. There is teaching staffs of nearly two thousand, with salaries starting at about three hundred pounds (3,300 roubles) per month, advancing to five hundred pounds for a professor with ten years’ experience.

The Lenin Hills provide the Muscovites with some of their favourite excursions, and from where we stood there was a splendid view, looking across the river, down to the massive Lenin Central Stadium. To our immediate right was the ski-jump, frequently used when the hills are under snow, as skiing is one of the most popular pastimes.

We had asked Alice if we could visit a school, and so, leaving the University, we made our way to the Moscow Palace of Young Pioneers, also on Lenin Hills. It was indeed a Palace. Spanning an exterior wall was a very colourful modern mosaic and just inside the main door was a fountain. We had a look at several classrooms, one of which included an amateur Radio station. The rooms were light and airy and looked out on to pleasant gardens. Seeing an observatory dome above the roof, I enquired if we could look inside, but this did not materialise. In one corridor, photographs were displayed on a large notice board showing the misery and suffering in Vietnam. Presumably the idea was to make the children fully aware and publicise the results of American aggressive policy in this area. A discussion was being held in one large hall, and Audrey crept in to listen. Several girls were quite interested to try and talk with her, but Alice was anxious to continue the tour. The children that we saw about the building seemed quite happy and interested in what they were doing. Although we had this opportunity of seeing the Pioneer School, we were a little disappointed, as we had hoped to see something more typical. Agreed, the Pioneers form a very real part of the Russian educational system, but it is for the select few.

Returning once more to the centre of Moscow, we passed several blocks of flats, which were very utilitarian looking and obviously part of a scheme to resolve the acute housing shortage. The streets were busy with traffic, lorries outnumbered private cars. There are laws in Moscow relating to cleanliness and it is an offence to have a dirty car on the road. The militia can fine anyone breaking this law, and we remembered that on our journey into the capital we had several times seen groups of people close by a river or stream. Having driven their cars to the water’s edge, they would spend the entire morning energetically cleaning and polishing, apparently regarding the event as a social occasion.

Unfortunately, it had not been possible for us to obtain tickets for the Bolshoi Ballet, but we were offered tickets for a performance by another company at the Stanislavsky and Nemirovich Danchenko Musical Theatre. After walking along Gorky Street, we made our way to the theatre, determined on this occasion to be on time. There were three ballets on the programme, Scheherazade, some Strauss, and one that we did not recognise. The dancing was brilliant and the artistic effects and scenery were excellent. We thoroughly enjoyed the evening, which was further enhanced by a splendid view of the Kremlin on our way back to the camp. It was the first time that we had seen it at night. The huge red stars above the Kremlin’s towers, and most of the important buildings were illuminated. As we stood there, the slender crescent of the moon appeared from behind the clouds.

Back at the Butovo campsite we made our way to the large kitchen where most of the other campers were preparing their evening meal. It was always interesting surveying other people’s cooking whilst having a friendly chat. The Australians ate well generally, but three American friends seemed able to exist on tea, cigarettes and tuna fish, which they ate straight from a tin. Everyone sat round a large table and there was always plenty of conversation about the day’s happenings and our respective countries. On this particular evening, the Americans arrived looking most frustrated and began complaining bitterly about the inefficiencies of the Intourist Organisation. They were told that tickets for the Bolshoi, which had been promised for them, had been allotted to a party of engineers visiting Moscow. This was the fifth time that they had been disappointed. The tall, dark fellow, with horn-rimmed spectacles, looked as he always did, miserable and cold, and dying for an American cigarette. Daniel, his fair-haired friend, dug deep into his duffle bag for a tin of tuna, whilst the woman with them, an authoress of children’s stories, began making tea. All three were interested in the arts, and most meal times found them expounding on the marvellous icons they had seen in Russia. Their impression of Australians was that they generally rushed about trying to see as much as possible in the shortest time, without even so much as a guide book. To everyone’s amusement, one Australian took a guidebook from his pocket to prove how wrong they were.

Most Australians could never understand why the English did not make the most of their proximity to the Continent and travel further overland. It is true that we had only met a few English people travelling compared with numerous Australians.

Through the open kitchen door, we saw a van pull into the camp. It gave every indication that the occupants had travelled far and wide, for the names of various cities were painted on both sides. In large yellow capitals were the words, ‘Goodwill Tour’. Two Chinese men jumped out, quickly unloaded some food, and in no time they were at the stove preparing eggplants and cucumber fritters in batter. As they sat down to enjoy their meal, we all began to wonder when the goodwill was going to start. It was not to be. Before most of us had stirred the following morning, we heard the noise of their engine, as they drove out of the camp and on to the next town.

The petrol coupons held by tourists enable them to obtain higher-octane petrol not normally available at most garages. In the whole of Moscow, there were no more than two or three pumps capable of delivering this premium fuel; sometimes jerry cans were used instead. On one occasion, as I could not empty the whole of a twenty-litre can into the tank, I asked if I could take the rest with me. The woman petrol pump attendant asked for an additional rouble to pay for the can. Whilst I was trying to sort out the money, another woman came across from her car, and to our surprise offered to pay the rouble for us as a token of friendship.

From Moscow we drove to Minsk over a period of two days. Long stretches of the road surface were covered with corn, evenly spread to dry in the sun and taking up at least half the width of the road. Men and women, using ‘witch’ type brooms made from bunches of twigs, swept the dry corn into heaps, where it was left until collected by lorry. The size of the collective farms was enormous and we watched teams of tractors ploughing the fields.

The second Russian republic that we visited was Byelorussia, which is, to some extent, independent of Russia. It has its own language, which the Tsars had at one time banned, and consequently no books were written in Byelorussian until after 1921. Today there is one television channel in each language and parents may choose to send their children to either a Byelorussian or Russian-speaking school.

Minsk was made the capital in 1919, and has been subject to constant attack, resulting in almost complete devastation.Practically all that one sees has been built in the post-war years.

We made arrangements for a guide to accompany us on a tour of the city and were due to meet her in the foyer of the Hotel Minsk. After waiting around for an hour or so, and wondering if we would be met at all, a young, fair-haired girl came rushing up to us.

“I have been looking everywhere for you, where have you been?” – She asked. The situation was almost familiar to us as we remembered our encounter with the Intourist representative in Vyborg. I looked around the large entrance hall, failing to see how she could have missed us. Should I explain to her that we had been waiting a very long time and that we were, in fact, wondering where she had been? No, this would only aggravate us both, and she looked a friendly girl, a definite improvement on the austere Alice, who had accompanied us in Moscow. We smiled and introduced ourselves.

“I am Emilya. Shall we go to your car?” – She replied in one breath. We led her across the square to where our Land Rover was parked. Even if its appearance surprised her she did not comment upon it. Quickly she climbed in beside us, opened a brief case and withdrew many large photographs of Minsk as it was after the war – almost completely destroyed.

“Now– she said – we will see how Minsk has recovered and has grown into the beautiful city that it is today. Drive first along this road until we come to the Government Building.”

Shortly we stopped and found ourselves confronted with an enormous statue of Lenin.

“The original statue was taken by the Nazis to be melted down – said Emilya – but fortunately the form for the statue still existed in Leningrad. After the war, an exact replica was cast and presented to Minsk by the kind people of Leningrad”.

It occurred to us that Lenin’s face had confronted us from practically every building that we had entered and every village through which we had passed, but this was certainly the largest and most impressive to date.

Continuing the tour, we drove along the wide, tree-lined Sovetskaya Street.

“Stop”– Emilya ordered.

“This is the famous Victory Square and before you is the Victory Obelisk, a reminder to the people of all those who fought against Fascism.” With tears in her eyes, she continued:

“Immediately after the outbreak of war Minsk was occupied, but it was not long before the heroic people of our city formed various underground movements. The groups used to meet in the forests in constant danger from the occupying forces. Von Kruper, one of Hitler’s leaders, was placed in charge of this area. However, plans were soon formed to kill him, and a young girl, employed as a servant in his household, eventually informed the partisan movement and duly placed a time bomb under his bed.”

Emilya took us to a green, wooden, country-style house, close by blocks of more recent buildings. This small house is now a museum, a national shrine, where the first session of the Russian Soviet Democratic Party of Workers was held in 1898. Both Marx and Lenin attended this meeting at the peril of their liberty, and possibly their lives. It belonged, at that time, to a railway official, named Romancoff, and, although situated close to a police headquarters, it was felt that they would not look directly under their noses.Delegates from various parts of Russia assembled periodically on the pretext of a birthday party.

“You see this large stove– said Emilya, pointing into the corner of one room – it was always kept burning so that all relevant documents could be destroyed in the event of discovery, and a window was kept open, so that delegates could make a hasty retreat into the forest. The museum owes its present condition to the efforts of Romancoff’s wife, who returned to her home and lived here until 1956, restoring it to its original condition.”

We were then shown the Children’s Railway. The engines and carriages are about a third of full size and carry passengers over a distance of ten kilometres. The interesting fact about this railway is that solely children maintain it.

By now it was time for lunch and we invited Emilya to join us. She thanked us, but politely refused. Arriving back at the Hotel, we asked her if she could help us choose a meal from the menu, and told her how much money we were prepared to pay. After a discussion with the headwaiter, a meal was suggested and the bill came to exactly one kopeck (a penny) less than the price we had asked. Such is the desire for accuracy.

During the meal Emilya returned to ask if we could translate a passage from an English Architect’s Journal, which her husband was having difficulty in understanding. We were glad to be able to help and she seemed very pleased as she left to telephone him.

At least twenty-five cars and coaches had arrived at the camp whilst we had been in Minsk, and many people were milling about. We soon got into conversation with some of them and gathered that they were all from Moscow and were travelling to Brest the following day, to commemorate the twentieth anniversary of the end of the war against Fascism. Earlier in the day we remembered having seen several motorcyclists riding through Minsk, carrying aloft large banners.

Some of the women had collected an assortment of mushrooms from the woods along the way, and were congregating in the kitchen, preparing to boil and fry them in enormous saucepans. Audrey was soon drawn into these preparations, but seeing the variety of colours and the number of small slugs, we had our doubts about eating them. Everyone was very excited about his or her outing, and there was plenty of chatting and laughter. They were all determined that we should be included into the occasion and one group invited us to join them for a drinks of vodka and cognac. We talked late into the night with our Russian friends. Other motorcyclists and mushroom collectors were engaged in noisy conversations elsewhere. It was obviously a communal holiday occasion, during which, as little time as possible should be wasted sleeping.

Eventually we did get to our tent and lay reflecting on some of the things we had seen in the country during our brief stay. A fact so often lost in world politics and on short impersonal visits is that the Russians are anxious to form a basis for common understanding between peoples. However, they do not always give an involuntary smile of friendship. I am not suggesting that they are unfriendly, simply that attitudes are not carried on the lapel. The stolid nature of the citizen, who assumes the right to tell you if you are parking in the wrong place, or that you should not throw litter in the street, does not necessarily indicate his unpleasantness; he is simply identifying himself with the ownership of Communism. As I have said, throughout our stay, we found people most anxious to extend their hand in friendship, but coupled with this was an appalling ignorance of what life was like in the Western World. Although there seemed to be an idea of the relative progress of the United States of America and Russia in the space race, many of the people that we met had great difficulty in grasping the differences in the amenities enjoyed by these countries. The obvious status symbol, the car, was always regarded highly, and very few Russians were able to afford one. When they did have enough money there was a wait of up to two years for the car. You can imagine the raised eyebrows when we talked of families owning two cars and, perhaps, changing them for new ones after a year or so.

I think I have already spoken of their great need to possess things from the West, and how we were approached in the street either for articles of clothing, or to give a black market rate of exchange for foreign currency. Those who came up to us were friendly and helpful, mostly students who wished to try out their English, but in Russia the general term for such people is stilyaga, which loosely translated means ‘teddy-boy’.

The Russians have worked hard to gain the high rate of scientific and industrial progress, but this effort has been made at the expense of the individual and his personal requirements. Housing in the cities is still perhaps, the greatest problem, and although prefabricated block apartment buildings were rising rapidly to stem this need for more homes, overcrowding is predominant. During the evenings we often saw crowds of people slowly walking backwards and forwards in the streets, glad to get out of their confined living accommodation for a breath of air.

The only contact the average Russian can get with the Westerner is the chance meeting with a tourist. They want to know what is happening in the world, and they don’t always realise that their newspapers do not give the whole story. Of course, journalists working in Russia have to be masters in the art of choosing the correct words, in an attempt to get their reports past the censor’s distorting red pencil. So it is difficult for Russians to know of the West, but for us to understand the Soviet character it is necessary to study their history, to appreciate the general hardships and struggles when millions were dying of starvation and how this led to the Revolution and the overthrow of Tsardom.

Communism came offering ownership to people who had nothing, but with this offer came the consequential disillusionment when life was found still to be hard. The State became all-powerful, leaving no room for individual thought or actions. Karl Marx had said that religion was the opium of the people, and many rejected it, but although most people appear to be confident atheists, there is still a great need for a father figure.

Awaking to a damp morning, we packed, had our breakfast and travelled the deserted road to the customs point near Brest. We stopped at the barrier across the road. A soldier some distance away appeared to finger the trigger on his gun. We waited, but nothing happened. A minute or so passed and as there was no attempt to raise the barrier, I decided that I would go over to the soldier to find out what we should do. Audrey thought it would be better if I stayed in the Land Rover. I don’t think she really believed the soldier would fire at me, but she certainly didn’t want me to get out. Another few minutes passed by, and it seemed that unless I made the first move, we would stay there all day, so I opened the door and jumped out to go across to the barrier. As I did so, there was a terrific bang like the report of a gun. Audrey nearly hit the roof, expecting the worst, and I ducked beneath the level of the bonnet for cover. Then we realised that one of our spare cans containing petrol for the stoves had made a sudden explosive noise, owing to a change in temperature. Perhaps the sound had surprised the soldier as much as us, because the barrier was lifted and we drove towards the customs house.

This inspection was a more polite affair than when we had arrived, but it was still a little irksome for us to watch whilst every object was scrutinised. An odd Yugoslavian note from a previous holiday, and worth about two pence, was found in one of our boxes. This caused some confusion and we were severely reprimanded for not entering it on the declaration form. Under threat of confiscation of this pitiful amount, we entered it on the already long list of foreign currency. Our diary and other papers were taken away for perusal, but half an hour later they were returned intact.

At our request the tape recorder seal was broken. We then asked for permission to photograph the customs house, displaying the inevitable portrait of Lenin and various peaceful slogans. The officials reluctantly agreed, but refused to be included in the picture.

We drove across the bridge over the River Bug, which forms the border between Russia and Poland from here to some distance to the South. Our hopes were that we should not have to go through the same performance again at the customs on the Polish side of the bridge.