Note to Dr. Rumin – I have not read from the blog, but do not need to. I would however greatly appreciate any feedback. It was difficult cutting from my original 4000 word story. Thank you for a wonderful class!
Will you offer future remote classes?
A nondescript fragment of red brick, a remnant of what was once the outer wall of the Kremlin. I’d smuggled it out along with my forbidden rubles.
It was July 1970, at the end of my Junior Year Abroad in France. I grew up during the Cold War. It was important to me to see the Soviet Union, “Our Great Enemy”, with my own eyes, even if only what they wanted me to see. I’d done my homework, knew a few Russian words, and learned the Cyrillic alphabet so that I could read signs and not get lost.
I’d traveled a lot during the year but this was the big one! An affordable French tour of Leningrad, Moscow and Kiev, departing from Paris. A small group, I was the only American. It all happened so quickly, somehow I didn’t have the chance to let my mother know where I was going, but I did send her a postcard from Moscow.
I was expecting gray skies, gray buildings and gray people. It was spectacular summer weather, with brilliant blue skies. Many buildings were pastel green or yellow or blue. Women dressed in shapeless colorful floral dresses. Nothing else was as I expected either.
Our French-speaking Intourist guides were very intrigued with me — their first American. They wanted to know everything about my life in America. What did I do? What sport did I do? Where did I live? I also had questions for them, a few of which caused their faces to just shut down and they didn’t answer, especially when I asked, where did Khrushchev live?
We toured the Hermitage and Winter Palace, St. Isaac’s Cathedral, crossed the Neva River to the Peter and Paul Fortress, where the Cruiser Aurora — which fired the first shot of the Russian Revolution — was anchored; attended a stunning performance of the Kirov ballet; and sailed down the Gulf of Finland to Peter the Great’s Grand Palace, built to rival Versailles.
Most people prefer Leningrad/St Petersburg, but Moscow totally captivated me.
We stayed in the famous Metropol Hotel, across from the Bolshoi Theatre, and a short walk to Red Square and the Kremlin.
The food in the cavernous, drab hotel dining room was dreadful. The sky, buildings and clothes may be colorful but the meat was gray, vegetables almost nonexistent except for gray potatoes and limp gray-green string beans, maybe some peas. There were no soft drinks, Pepsi hadn’t arrived yet. I was a Cokeaholic, in withdrawal, and drank up the group’s quota of limonade. At least it was cool and fizzy.
Whenever I had any free time, I’d dash over to Red Square. I loved it, crowded with Russians and foreigners alike, bordered by iconic St. Basil Cathedral, GUM state department store, Lenin’s Tomb, the Kremlin, and the Moskva River. We toured the Kremlin, the Armory filled with Tsarist jewels, and Lenin’s Tomb, where a guard kept us moving past the waxlike figure who had changed the world.
I was so enthralled that I almost forgot the warnings I had dutifully read before coming, including no photos of military. One of my favorite photos is of a young soldier in Red Square, sweating in his heavy woolen uniform, walking along with a young boy carrying a guitar.
I found it quite significant that the Kremlin Wall was crumbling. One of the group accompanied me and stood watch, while I sidled over and filled my pockets with pieces of the Kremlin wall.
Our farewell dinner was in Kiev, each place set with a little glass for the toast between courses. I thought it best to abstain. I was an ambassador for my country, not only with the Russians but with my French companions. I had to be on my best behavior.
But neither the French nor the Russians would accept that. The French insisted and the Russians poured. I desperately looked around for a potted palm, to no avail. I tried to sip very slowly, but at each Nostrovia!! I was forced to down it. I was getting very drunk. With all my will power, I sat up very straight, tried not to slur my Francais and couldn’t wait to get back to the hotel, where I still had to pack.
Feeling ill, I would drop something in my suitcase, lie down, force myself to get up, put something else in the suitcase and lie down. Somehow I managed to get everything packed and set the alarm. I also remembered to hide my rubles in the bottom of my leather handbag — not smart as it was forbidden to take them out of the country — stashed my pieces of the Kremlin wall in a shoebag, got in bed and passed out.
The next morning, we presented our passports and tickets, checked our bags, but still had to go through customs formalities before boarding. My French group passed through quickly, along with the other passengers.
I was left standing at the counter with my contraband rubles in my handbag, my tote bag and balalaika slung over my shoulder. I had traveled all over Europe, but this was the Soviet Union. I waited as calmly as I could as the official looked through my handbag, then my tote bag filled with all my reading material, Russian and English. He frowned at Time magazine, but put it back. He seemed to approve of Eldridge Cleaver’s Soul on Ice, zipped up the bag and handed it back. Trying not to show my relief, after what felt like hours, I was finally free to board. Well, not quite yet.
Everyone was onboard waiting for me. It was another beautiful sunny day and I had sunglasses on. I walked across the tarmac to the plane. At the foot of the steps stood another official. He asked for my passport. I handed it over. He inspected it. He looked at me, and back to the passport. He did this several times. He told me to remove my sunglasses. He looked closely at me, and again at the passport. After what again seemed like hours, he handed me my passport. I climbed up the steps and boarded the plane with my rubles and pieces of the Kremlin wall. As we took off, I breathed a sigh of relief after a fabulous trip.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Now a horrified world watches Putin’s brutal, senseless war on Ukraine in real time. For what? Is it the beginning of a new Russian empire? Or the beginning of World War III? The nuclear end of the world as we know it? Or perhaps the crumbling of the Kremlin’s Russia, foreshadowed by the crumbling of the Kremlin Wall all those years ago?
Alice L
4/7/22