Gadfly in Russia

  When I said we were making a lot of Monopoly money he wanted to know about the game, and after explaining I went on to say that in England, if not the whole of the Western world, it had always been the favourite pastime of young would-be capitalists. He was appalled when I said that even children took to it with avidity. Not only that, but the Bolshevik leaders in the ’twenties and ’thirties played it behind locked doors in the Kremlin. Stalin loved it, and had a special Russian version made, but someone playing with him had the temerity to cheat. He must have been full of vodka, but Stalin had him arrested, and it was that which set off the purges.

  A brigade of Red Army tanks was crossing the road, and the general who leaned out of his staff jeep had a fit when I stopped to watch the spectacle from close by, which was like a scene from the movies, or a page out of The Volga Rises in Europe by Curzio Malaparte.

  His big face turning purple at the sight of our foreign number plates, as if I might report on the manoeuvres when back in London, he screamed at us to get moving and out of the way. George, who told me that his language had been worse than any he had heard in his life, thought we had better do so, and I did as well, in case he ordered a tank to nudge us off the road, or even blow us clear with a well-aimed shell. ‘They don’t fuck about in the Red Army,’ George added, so I revved up and got well out of it.

  Beyond Proskurov – Khelmnitsky – the day turned hot and sultry, but there wasn’t much traffic. A hundred yards or so into the steppe two windmills appeared, unused and lonely, neither man nor bird anywhere. When we stopped I hoped one of the arms at least would creak and start moving under the metallic sky.

  Each mill had six sails holed in several places, and if turning they would almost have brushed the soil. Their towers were squat, not in good condition, and a short distance away was a large recently built shed with three doors. Telegraph wires ran along the road, but the only sound broaching the silence was the click of my camera.

  The photograph developed in London showed three men sitting by one of the lower sails. They were unmistakably smiling at the camera, so why hadn’t I noticed them? Well, neither had George. I’d been sure no one was about, unless my eyes had been so attuned to the road they had grown black patches momentarily – which was unlikely. It was eerie nevertheless, for if anyone had been there I would surely have spotted them, wouldn’t I? The photograph said it hadn’t lied, so who, or what, was right?

  I was as close to Ulashkovtsy – or Loshkovitz, my mother-in-law’s birthplace – as I could have been. ‘Only a hundred kilometres, a mere bagatelle,’ I said to George, ‘though it might as well be five hundred, since it’s out of bounds. She will certainly be disappointed. What say we light off in that direction, and let the devil take the hind legs? Sturdy old Peugeot can hump along very well on dirt roads, and we can steer by the compass.’

  He put on a languid mock upper-class English drawl: ‘My dear fellow, I won’t encourage you, because I know you’ll never make it. We might even come across those tanks again. They travel awfully fast.’

  Kamenets Podolski, a picturesque town, had been given two hotels by Baedeker, but we missed both, even supposing they still existed. After slowly crossing a Turkish bridge over the River Smotrich we took photographs of the rearward view, churches and a monastery high above the ravine and surrounding trees.

  ‘Only another hundred kilometres and we’ll be in Chernovtsy.’ George looked up from the map. ‘And it’s our last day together, my friend. How very sad for me.’

  ‘The same for me as well, old pal.’ We went over the Dneister at Khotin, and soon afterwards turned westerly through fertile country with many villages. An agglomeration of houses on a hill to the right near Chernovtsy signified Sadagora, another great centre of Jewish Hassidism. The place was marked on the large scale Austrian staff map, but George didn’t consider that spy material because it was so out of date.

  I noticed a sandy bathing place, before turning to cross the Pruth and trundling up the main street. We found our hotel easily, for it stood prominently on the same thoroughfare. According to the AA the day’s tally had been 351 miles.

  After a wash and change we went for a six o’clock stroll towards the river to exercise our legs. Chernovtsy, or Czernowitz, was the nearest stop to my mother-in-law’s birthplace, so I carried the camera to get a few shots of the streets and typical houses which she might have known, little of their aspect having changed since her day.

  George said I shouldn’t take pictures in the town, and I wanted to know why, refusing to worry whether or not my behaviour would figure in his obligatory report when he got back to Moscow. ‘Is it because a few of the houses are a bit run down? Or that there are bridges, barracks and airfields in the vicinity? I can’t see any. I’m only an innocent tourist wanting to record memories of the surroundings, and if the authorities have any objection they can take a running jump at themselves.’

  I explained the meaning of ‘running jump’, or tried to and so, not holding anything against me, he was good natured enough to say no more, while I went on clicking at balconies and façades.

  At our farewell dinner we talked again, over vodka and then champagne, about the possibility of his coming to London. ‘The sooner the better. I’ll be waiting for you.’ In the morning he would set out on a 24-hour journey to Moscow, while I would make my way to the Rumanian frontier, only one Monte Cristo in distance. I agreed to this short lap on my own, because if he came with me he might not get his train till the following day. He wanted to hasten back to the arms of his girlfriend, and who could blame him? ‘I hope the tears are dry on her blouse by the time you get there.’

  I made sure he had enough cigars for the journey, and promised to send books from London as soon as possible. The Ost Europa map used on the trip was sufficiently clean for me to leave as a gift for his uncle.

  Saturday, 1 July

  While packing his case in the hotel room after breakfast, and contemplating the long and roundabout route to Moscow, the telephone rang, as I was told by George much later.

  A stern male voice exploded into the earpiece: ‘This is Colonel Burdenko (let’s call him). I’m glad I’ve found you at last. You’re in very serious trouble, Comrade Andjaparidze. Is it true that yesterday you were in the car of a foreign spy, who was observed looking at maps, taking photographs, and working a radio while parked close to the military aerodrome at Ivcha? I don’t want any of your lies, so be careful what you say. At the moment I’m making a report on the matter, but thought it better for us to talk before having you arrested. Explain yourself, if you can.’

  George was shocked at the colonel’s screed, and had visions, even though innocent, of never seeing mother, aunt, or girlfriend again, or at least not before returning from a ten-year stretch in some prison beyond the Urals. Maybe they would even have him shot.

  He told the colonel that the stop had been at that particular place only by coincidence. The Englishman had seen space at the roadside and decided to pull in because we were hungry and had to eat. The English writer had looked at the map to find out how many miles we were from Chernovtsy.

  The colonel broke in: ‘That’s a lie and you know it. It’s impossible. You don’t try to find out a fact of that sort unless you’re at a crossroads, or in a town where there are signposts. Don’t try to deceive me, or it will turn out very bad for you. And the radio, what do you say about that?’

  George wondered if the man was joking, or if he was a hoaxer, yet knew it couldn’t be when the colonel shouted at his carelessness and unpatriotic lack of vigilance in having co-operated with a potential enemy who wanted to snoop – with a camera as well – on military installations.

  With many reiterations George said that neither of us had known there was an airbase in the area. Employing all his diplomatic charms, which meant a good deal of vocal kowtowing, he was finally able to calm the conversation by reminding the colonel that the road was, after all, on the specified Intourist route, and that many foreign cars (i
ncluding German cars) passed the aerodrome without knowing it to exist. ‘We only stopped to eat, and we wouldn’t have done so if we had known.’

  Not even a fiery colonel could doubt George’s innocence for long. ‘All right. I’ll try to get you off the hook, but don’t ever let anything like that happen again. You’re old enough to know that we have to be careful about security.’

  I had left the hotel at nine and knew nothing of that at the time. I drove up to the central square, the old Austrian Ringplatz, which seemed already in another country, not having the dimensions of those in Russia or the Ukraine, with their vast open fields of fire in case of an insurrection.

  The square was homely, and small, and trams rattled around like toys in Hamley’s window, so Austrian I looked for a confectioner’s, where I could linger over a sachertorte with coils of cream to go with the coffee – a dream, because such availability had long since gone, and stay I couldn’t, for the urge was on me to quit Russia as soon as possible.

  Without Tovarich George for company, I took the wrong road – that fatal left turning again – and ended up in the outskirts, near squalid decrepit houses on an unpaved lane. A gaggle of untidy children and their mothers looked on as I did a quick three-point manoeuvre over the ruts, and went back to find the proper route.

  It took little time to reach the border, where I was stalled – if that’s the word – and only wanted to get into Rumania and reach the open road of days in Russia. Meanwhile I attended to my notebook, which helped me to be patient.

  Four cars were in front, but the customs officers and frontier police more than took their time. They went so thoroughly over each one that God knew – again – what they were looking for and how much longer the wait would take. It was the reverse performance of getting in from Finland, so I resigned myself to losing half a day.

  It was as hot as an oven, and I didn’t envy the fractious children who filled one of the cars in front. A wind howled through the heat, shimmering across nearby woods on its way to sear the fair fields of the Bukovina. Even wheel hubs were being taken off and sniffed. Was it gold, currency, drugs, or icons – the usual questions. Perhaps they’ll suck oil from the engines, or drain the petrol tanks. All I had was the usual tourist’s stuff, and as for Mark Pinchevsky’s bundle of poems, they were snug in the holdall pocket with my survey maps.

  Czernowitz had always been in a region of shifting frontiers between the Baltic and the Black Sea, shuttlecocked and battledored from Austrians to Russians to Rumanians and back again. Laden wagons in the fifteenth century probably took longer to cross when it was a customs post of Moldavia.

  People were saying goodbye to a Ukrainian family in their Volkswagen Estate, everyone jolly enough except for an old woman wiping tears away with the corner of a headscarf at seeing them – so I hoped – about to depart. Perhaps they had once lived in Chernovtsy and, on becoming displaced as a result of the war, had prospered in Germany, and were now allowed to come back and visit relatives. Two Skodas with Polish number plates drove in from the other side and, if from Warsaw, must have spent a week crossing borders.

  Scribble, scribble, the notebook saved me. I wrote about an imaginary country even more difficult to get into and out of than this one. Nihilism would be the policy of the ruling party, with confusion indescribable (almost) and yet the plot of the novel to be written one day would move on the experiences of six people sent to Nihilon to gather data for a Baedeker-style guidebook. Thus no wait is wasted.

  Two hours later I was signalled through, which wasn’t so long after all. I had grumbled, though only to myself. The gate into terra incognita was opened by a soldier, and I was in Rumania. He indicated that I stop, get out, and wash my hands thoroughly at a tap and bowl surreally in the open air by the side of the track. I did so, using the clean towel provided. I was further amused when told to drive the car on to a large square covered with sawdust, where another soldier with a canister on his back sprayed all four wheels and underparts of the chassis with strong disinfectant. I was glad he didn’t squirt the stuff over my boots as well.

  After the cleansing procedure a tall queenly woman in a grey, well-cut dress over her equally queenly bosom, with dark upswept hair as if it had been coiffured only that morning at the best salon in Bucharest, trod her careful way from the police and customs building and, when I told her how long I had waited to be admitted in to her lovely country, said in good English: ‘That’s Soviet Russia for you. What can you expect from them?’

  She took my passport, visa, and car insurance papers, and in a very short time brought them back all stamped and approved, then showed where to change a ten-pound traveller’s cheque, before leading me to a buffet for a good sustaining lunch. Charmed by her helpfulness, I gave her a signed copy of one of my books in Rumanian, which she graciously received. She would have preferred one in English, perhaps, but I didn’t have one, and she was far too well bred to say anything. At a souvenir shop I bought some embroidered peasant blouses for my sisters, and a wooden musical shepherd’s pipe with ‘Bukovina’ burned along the side.

  Sensing the liberty of open spaces, Peter Peugeot, with a backward nod to George no longer with us, went like a greyhound into beautiful Rumania. At Siret I turned him southwest on to Road 17A, and climbed smoothly into the Carpathian Mountains, the main physical obstacle before the Danube at Belgrade.

  The paving ceased, though the road was dry and well engineered, enough for a fair speed to be maintained on upward curves through spruce and pine forests.

  Already back in the Balkan part of Central Europe, the mountain air was sweet, and geology under the car gave a firm tread. Roman legions had got this far, so I was culturally nearer home.

  The mind emptied enough for me to give sharp attention to the road. Most agreeably, I was without thought of a final destination, as if free to go for ever from one pleasant and unexplored locality to another, the Wandering yet undriven Jew, having the wherewithall to keep moving for eternity. Rumania seemed the country to do it in after such humane treatment at the frontier, as well as being in an alpine region better on the eyes than the unending flatness of the Ukraine.

  The car was aimed only as far as the next bend, and I refused to imagine the terrain beyond till I got there. For long it was the same, and that was how I liked it. The weather was good, though the sky laid down a roof of low amorphous cloud, and I thought that if it rained I would be scooting through a sea of red mud.

  A German Mercedes full of people and with a perilously laden roofrack came towards me as if about to take one of the hairpin bends. It was, and I got well into the side to let it by. The only car I’d seen for many miles, it slithered on the turn and, thinking it might hit a rock, I did a rapid rundown of what first aid I knew, but whoever was at the wheel came back on course, and arrowed his way towards the frontier hoping, I supposed, to get to Chernovtsy by nightfall. I wished him luck with a wave he wouldn’t have noticed.

  The covered slopes lifted 4,000 feet on either side, though I had little idea of my height above sea level. The air became cooler so I stopped to put on a jacket.

  On a short straight stretch at the col a man stood as if to see me safely over. I took him at first to be a shepherd caring for a few sheep seen earlier. He was moustached and middle aged, a dignified statue formally and locally dressed, wearing smart boots and leggings, and a blanket folded neatly over his chest as if he had been a soldier in younger days. The Tyrolean-style hat had a little green feather up the side, and he held himself as if owning the land around, his stance that of a gamekeeper, or the steward of a gentleman’s estate, though I supposed there were no such in present-day Rumania. As I slowed down to go by he gave a smart and studied salute, which I had time to acknowledge.

  I crossed one branch of the range, then went down to a village, the road going between the backs of squalid wooden houses. The surface was so cut up I feared that even the sturdy Peugeot might get stuck in one of the muddy ruts, but I was soon on a more viable surface
and ascending to another pass of over a thousand metres.

  As the afternoon lengthened, and on joining the main road at Vatra Dornei, I wondered where to spend the night. A finger post pointed a few miles back to Cimpulung, which had a spa hotel providing mud baths, but I already felt muddy enough, and decided to press on for sixty more miles to Bistrita.

  This meant an ascent by more unpaved road to the col of Tihuta, of 1,227 metres. By then I was accustomed to mountain driving, having in any case done much in Spain. The road descended to the banks of the quick flowing Bistrits, on its way to join the Szamos, eventually reaching the Black Sea via Belgrade.

  The road brought me to a village of good houses, showing every sign of prosperity. Crowds gathered around a gypsy band of five lithe young men wearing hats and suits. Maybe it was part of a wedding celebration, for everyone was smiling and entranced in a festival area spilling on to the road.

  They were steamed up for revelry, and it was Saturday night, most of them in traditional costume, young women wearing the sort of blouses I’d bought at the frontier. Pausing a moment at such lively music, I wondered what would happen if I got out of the car and began highstepping among those already on the hop. But I was tired, and would of course have made a fool of myself, no longer having the cool advice of George to deter me. The people would no doubt have been hospitably amused had I done so, filling myself up with the local wine which had a reputation of being as good as the famous Tokay.

  At dusk I drove into Bistrita, an old Saxon town founded in the twelfth century, with a Gothic protestant church in the market place. My Baedeker of Austria–Hungary said that a few miles northwest was a castle that had been destroyed by the townsfolk in 1465, and I suddenly remembered that I had fallen on the very place – Bistrita – where Jonathan Barker spent the night before calling on Count Dracula, though whether he stayed in the same simple one-star hotel I was walking towards with an overnight bag on my shoulders there was no way of knowing.