Russian Railette
I love Russia. I first went to Leningrad, as it was then, in 1959. When I returned as a writer in 2002 and again in 2005 to St. Petersburg, everything had changed. The Russians (well, some of them) had got what they wanted; a Thatcher-inspired market economy. My trip in 2002 was exciting for many reasons. I had been commissioned to write the biography of a forgotten British naval hero and submariner, Captain Francis Cromie CB DSO RN (1882-1918). The ten day research trip had been financed by Sagamagazine, who had also commissioned a serialisation of Cromie’s life. My travelling companion was my good friend photographer Graham Harrison, and we had been booked into St. Petersburg’s Baltiskaya Hotel. (BELOW)
In 1915 Churchill had sent the Royal Navy to fight alongside the Imperial Russian Navy to harass German shipping in the Baltic. Cromie was a teetotal, non-smoking raconteur, musician, mediator, watercolour artist and great orator, loved by his crews and respected by the Russians. He soon made his mark, on one mission destroying 6 enemy ships in one day. He was decorated by Tsar Nicholas with the Order of St. George, the Tsarist version of the VC. Cromie was also a romantic. Although married back home in Portsmouth, he conducted an adulterous affair with a Russian socialite, Sophie Gagarin, and was a regular companion to Baroness Moura Budberg, (Liberal Leader Nick Clegg’s Great Aunt) who later became H.G. Wells’s mistress. What Cromie and the Admiralty hadn’t reckoned with, however, was the Bolshevik Revolution. When Trotsky and Lenin pulled Russia out of the war in 1917, his erstwhile allies, the Russian Navy, mutinied. Cromie eventually sent his 200 men home via Murmansk, after scuttling his flotilla of submarines in the Gulf of Finland. Deeply in love with Sophie Gagarin, he stayed behind as naval attaché in the almost deserted Petrograd British Embassy. During 1918, out of his depth, he became embroiled in an MI5 plot led by the so-called ‘Ace of Spies’ Sidney Reilly, to bring down Lenin’s government. When Red Guards raided the Embassy on August 31 1918, Cromie defended the building in a gun battle, and lost his life. He is buried in St. Petersburg.
In order to cover all the locations in Cromie’s Russian adventure, I needed to travel south to Tallin in Estonia, where the good Captain had initially been based with his submarines. My colleague Graham decided to stay on at the Baltiskaya Hotel, and I had planned a round trip. It would include a train journey on the overnight sleeper to Tallin. After a day’s research in Tallin, I was to catch a ferry to Helsinki, where I would meet my brother Alexander, who has lived in Finland since 1982. I was looking forward to this, as we hadn’t met for 20 years. I would spend a day with Alex, then catch a train back to St. Petersburg, and continue my booking at the Baltiskaya.
At this point in the new Russia’s economic history the Rouble was virtually worthless. With our wallets full of US Dollars, Graham and I felt like millionaires. The first class sleeper ticket for the trip to Tallin was an amazing £26. As I boarded the train at 9 pm, I realised that I was the sole occupant of the sleeper carriage. Apparently, no Russian travellers could afford this luxury. I was ushered on board by two stout, headscarf-wearing middle-aged babushkas in pristine white aprons. It was late June, and in St. Petersburg this meant ‘white nights’, when the sun would not go down until after midnight. The babushkas eyed me suspiciously as they presented me with towels and soap. My compartment, with its neat bed and table, was a delight. I settled in, and sat dreamily with my notebook as the lowering sun streamed through the window. Ah, the joys of the writing life … the pen moved across the pages, spilling thoughtful memories as the train moved through the Russian countryside. This was a thrilling night. I waited until the sun finally sank, pulled down the blinds, stripped off and turned in.
It was about 1.30 am when I awoke. It was dark, and the train was stationary. I’d been aroused by a loud banging on the compartment door. Clad only in my underpants, I staggered to the door and opened it. I was faced with a trio of stern Russian border guards. Two tall, well-built men, both with Kalashnikovs, and a woman. She was straight out of Les Dawson; a squat, dumpy woman built like a wrestler with a face Les would have described as ‘like a bulldog chewing a wasp’. They pushed their way in. Their leader looked at my bed and my rucksack.
“You … are Britishki?” I nodded.
“Meester B-yanton. You have your visa?” I delved into my bag and produced the document and passport. They all examined these, muttering in Russian. The boss, half smiling, asked
“What is business in Russia?” I explained I was a writer working on a biography. He nodded.
“Where is your notebook?” I produced my leather-bound journal. He held it for a moment, then threw it onto the bed. “No. Where is your computernotebook?”
There were not many laptops around in 2002, but being from ‘the West’ they expected me to have one. When I told them I didn’t, they seemed incredulous.
“You say you are rich man writer. Live in big house in London. But you have no computer notebook.” I explained that no, I didn’t live in a big house in London, and that I wasn’t rich I could not afford a ‘computer notebook’. They chatted among themselves again, and Les Dawson’s mother-in-law glared at me, then pointed to an A4 folder on the table. The boss stepped forward and picked up the folder. It contained several photographs of all the WW1 submarines Cromie had been in charge of. This new discovery saw all three gather around, staring wide-eyed as the pages were turned. They glanced back at me frequently as they babbled on in Russian. I could tell by the frosty atmosphere that I was now regarded as some kind of spy. The boss then grabbed my framed rucksack and began to empty it on the bed. Shirts, underwear, everything was scattered as they all delved among the laundry looking for more clues. Feeling stupid, standing there in my underpants, I explained as clearly as
I could that the submarines were British, from the first World War, and that I was researching history. They listened, and then went into another huddle. The boss faced me again and smiled sardonically.
“You say you are big writer, live in big house in London but no computer notebook. You look at submarines. Where is your address in London?” Well, at least this time I’d gone from being a ‘rich’ writer to a big one. But the geography problem appeared persistent. I pointed at my passport, which the female bulldog still clutched to her ample bosom. She opened it and they examined the address.
“It say here … Mans-field. Mans-field is London?” I explained that it was notLondon, but Nottinghamshire, and that Mansfield was the ancient heart of Sherwood Forest. At this announcement the two men broke into broad grins whilst the female Mount Rushmore retained her granite dullness. The boss broke into a chuckle.
“Robin Hood!” he cried. Then his comrade wailed, “Sherwood Forest! Kevin Costner!”
Then the boss; “You know Kevin Costner? Is Robin Hood. Sherwood Forest. You know him?”
I took a risk. “Yes, I know Kevin Costner. Big hero in my town. Robin Hood.” He smiled, then said
“I tell Buddha woman this!” He turned to the bulldog and, as far as I could discern, explained to her that I was one of Robin Hood’s merry men. The fact seemed to inspire no merriment whatsoever on her despondent visage. I was intrigued that he had referred to her as ‘Buddha woman’, which
I thought was a neat bit of bi-lingual descriptive patois for my benefit. Yes, I could see her as a Buddha. Buddha woman then gave the boss my Russian visa. He handed me my passport, and stuffed my visa in his shirt pocket. I was tired, almost naked and confused, and by now wondering what was happening and why this train was stationary in the middle of the night. I asked if there was anything else I could help them with.
“This train now will go into Estonia. This is frontier. Russia finish here. You OK now, Meester B-yanton. You say hello to Kevin Costner, huh? Tell him me, Aleksander Shialpin, is big fan, huh?” I agreed I would. The trio left. I stood, dazed, and began stuffing everything back into my rucksack. Then it dawned on me - they had taken my visa! I needed that to exit Russia and re-enter from Finland. Still in my underpants, I raced along the corridor and found my trio of inquisitors about to step from the train. As other startled passengers stared at this pink, porcine near-naked foreigner remonstrating with their state guardians I eagerly requested the return of my visa. But Comrade Shialpin shook his head.
“No. I keep. Is only exit visa. Not entry and exit visa. You now leave Russia, I keep visa.”
I explained that I had paid over £300 through the Russian Embassy in London for an entry and exit visa. As the document was in Russian, I’d no idea I’d been sold a pup.
“Then in Tallin, Meester B-yanton, you must go to Russia embassy and apply for new visa.”
I asked how long that would take. “Maybe two, three weeks.” The train was about to leave. I was panicking. This was unreal. The three faces stared impassively back as I spluttered;
“What if I stay in Russia, go back to St. Petersburg, don’t leave Russia?” He pondered, the three murmured to one another. “I have discuss this with Buddha woman. She say OK, but you must get off train now.” I nodded eagerly. He gave Buddha woman my visa, and from her pocket she produced a tiny tin and a small rubber stamp. She held the opened document against the open carriage door, stamped it, and still as grim-faced as ever, handed it back to me. Shialpin then barked;
“Train go in thirty seconds. Get off train now!” I ran along the corridor, found my gaping rucksack, pulled on my shoes and raced back. I fell from the carriage onto the gravel siding. Wherever we were in this stygian darkness, there was no platform. The two male guards laughed as I hastily began dressing as my comfortable departing dream sleeper rumbled along the rails away into the night. Buddha woman wandered off and disappeared into some undergrowth at the side of the track. I imagined she lived in a secret cave somewhere. Aleksander Shialpin and his colleague stayed with me until I’d finished dressing.
“I have idea now,” said Shialpin. “You come now with us to railway station. In morning is train to St. Petersburg. I organise for you special ticket. Do you have American dollars?“ I said I did.
I slumped into the chair and waited.
“Have you cigarette?” he asked. I offered them both a cigarette. They lit up. I asked him where I was.
“Small place called Kingisett, near Estonian Buddha.” It was then that I realised that the title ‘Buddha’ had nothing to do with the Dalai Lama; it was his pronunciation of ‘Border’.
Now it was clear; the official rank of that grim, cheerless matron was ‘the Border woman’.
My two visitors finished their cigarettes and left. I looked at my watch. It was 4.30 am. I tried dozing but the chair was too uncomfortable. At 20 minute intervals the doors would rattle open, then my blonde jailer would stare balefully at me and leave. Soon dawn broke and I looked through the cobwebbed window. I seemed to be in some kind of Fiddler on the Roof country. Small, ramshackle wooden bungalows, smoke winding from tin chimneys. The odd, faint grunt of pigs and an occasional cock crowing. There was another door which led outside into all this rustic splendour, but it too was locked. Then, as the sky brightened, at 6.45 am the doors opened again and an old woman entered carrying a large basket of bread rolls. I suddenly realised how hungry I was. She took them over to the small, Gothic-arched ticket window, behind which a light now shone. The window opened and another old lady took the bread basket inside. I was disregarded by both women. At 7 am, Shialpin returned, this time on his own.
“Give to me twenty dollar. I get you good ticket for St. Petersburg.” I handed over the money. He went to the little window, and then returned with a train ticket. He was then joined by a man in a different uniform, who I took to be a railway porter. By this time I was in dire need of the toilet. I asked where it was. Shialpin pointed through the window at a clump of bushes opposite the building.
“There is toilet.” The railwayman stepped forward and produced a key. He unlocked the door and ushered me out. It was already warm, even though the sun was still low. I shuffled across the dirt track and into the thicket to relieve myself. As I did so, I looked back over my shoulder and saw the two men standing in the open door, watching. This whole experience was now taking on the characteristics of a bizarre dream. I felt dirty, careworn and tired.
Now having avoided a burst bladder, back in the station Shialpin begged another cigarette then handed me my rucksack. I wondered if he ever went to bed, and where he spent his night time hours.
“Come with me now. Train for St. Petersburg arrive five minutes.” It was a fine morning. Birds were singing, the hot sun was beating down as we stood at the end of the platform. I wondered where the blonde Bond girl had gone, and imagined Buddha woman crouched in her cave somewhere over a cauldron of boiling bats. The big, long train hissed and rattled to a halt at the platform. I looked at the ticket. It seemed to indicate a sleeper carriage. Shialpin took me by the elbow and guided me to the further carriage along.
“Here is for you. You share in with Russian in sleep cabin. Have good trip, Meester B-yanton.” We shook hands. He grinned. I climbed on board and stood for a moment. The door closed and I watched him through the window. As the train began to move, he smiled, waved, then shouted
“Kevin Costner! Robin Hood!” And he was gone.
And so I never got to see my estranged brother in Helsinki after all. Nor did I carry out any research in Tallin. I searched for the cabin number, and when I found it, there was none of the quaint intercontinental railway luxury of the night before. It was a four-berth cabin, with each bunk occupied by a Russian paratrooper, with their luggage piled up on the floor between the bunks. The young men looked at me, seemingly disinterested as I lay my rucksack down with theirs, then stretched out on the heap of army kitbags and fell into a deep sleep, filled with dreams of Les Dawson’s mother in law, a blonde female soldier with a gun, Topol singing If I Were a Rich Man, and Josef Stalin painting some railway station doors.
It’s a strange country, Russia. But I still love it.