Stephanie Eldridge of L2C2 worked for the FCO before joining GCHQ. She spent time in Moscow and elsewhere. Here she describes life as a visitor in Moscow.
In September 1972 I stepped off the plane at Moscow airport to be greeted by the sight of an encircling mass of Soviet Border Guards brandishing various sorts of weaponry – in fact, the normal “Welcome to Moscow” given in true friendly Soviet style. This set the tone for the length of my tour in the Soviet Union.
The journey from the airport to not so beautiful downtown Moscow should have put me on my guard; everywhere to be seen were posters proclaiming Glory to the Revolution or making suitably anti-fascist slogans about Hitler and the Nazis and commemorating the Great Patriotic War (WW II). Only 15 minutes drive from the Kremlin on the side of the main airport road stood three huge concrete crosses similar to St. Andrew’s. This, my driver informed me, marked the spot the Germans had reached before their retreat and, of course, inevitable defeat. From then on, I quickly got used to the fact that directions in Russia, unlike those in the UK where you directed by pubs or churches, are given in relation to WWII remains or monuments, including old Messerschmidts and tanks.
The streets of Moscow are, in the main, terrible, except for the main avenues and boulevards. In the middle of these are two broad lines, which only high ranking members of the ruling elite are permitted to use, known as Chaika lanes after the cars used. During my stay in Moscow, Leonid Brezhney was the head of state, and he used a different car each day – Mercedes, Cadillac (all given as presents by foreign states). In fact, although all people were equal, some were more equal than others.
Permission to travel outside the limit set on foreigners always had to be submitted in quadruplicate at least forty-eight hours in advance of the intended travel date, and at weekends by Wednesday noon at the latest. Permission was frequently refused with no explanations as to the reasons, but on the occasions we were able to escape Moscow, the difficulties all seemed well worth while, apart from Soviet toilets, which are similar to those used in the Middle East.
All major cities in the world have their individual and distinct atmospheres and odours. Moscow is a grey city. The nearest I have ever seen in comparison are the scenes in the film “Dr. Zhivago” placed in Moscow. Even when the sun is shining, the overall impression is one of a typical English November day. The odour? Imagine garlic, stale cigarette smoke, stale sweat and cheap perfume mixed together, and that is an approximation.
The visitor to Moscow stands out like a sore thumb. Clothes and attitude are so obviously different. A huge black market exists for Western consumer goods such as jeans, leather and suede goods and even thermal clothes. Once the foreigner has been accustomed to the idea that acceptable tips include cigarettes (US brands preferred) chewing gum and even the humble biro, and that the last things wanted by any self-respecting Muscovite is their own currency, life takes on a somewhat smoother aspect. Souvenirs purchased at the State-owned gift shops are only for those with hard currencies such as US dollars, sterling etc. Petrol must be purchased by coupons which in turn are paid for in hard currencies.
Life was nothing if not interesting in Moscow. The two words of Russian essential to any visitor are ‘closed’ and ‘under repair’ because everything in Moscow comes under these two headings, even poor old Dead Fred (the affectionate name given to Lenin by foreigners) who is re-preserved every year. A relatively small area of the city was open to all comers, provided nothing of military interest was about. Sailors on leave always sported uniforms with the names of their vessels covered up (shades of wartime Britain) so as not to disclosed which ships were not at sea. Women could be seen on construction sites working at the same jobs as men; they also drove buses long before it became a commonplace occurrence in the UK. In the small hours of the morning, old ladies swept the streets, especially in winter before the snow ploughs were out and about.
Perhaps my favourite memory of my travels in the USSR involved a carefully planned expedition to visit Tolstoy’s house, which was a couple of hours drive from Moscow. Permission was sought for this trip, and duly granted. A mini UN (1 Canadian, ! American and 2 Brits) set off at the crack of dawn and carefully, or so we thought, followed directions (right pass the Messerschmidt, go on to the war memorial etc.) and proceeded to get completely lost. Finally, we decided to go on to the nearest crossroads and hope to find some helpful soul to give us the correct route. We stopped at the crossroads according to plan, but we had no choice in the matter as several GAI (traffic police) patrol cars and motorbikes were blocking the road. Papers and identification documents being demanded we handed them over, explaining what had happened. A wait of over three hours ensured, during which time we were refused permission to telephone Embassies or anyone else and were left in the car to stew. Finally a document was produced, hand written and covering several pages, which we were told to sign. After attempting to read the document, we managed to decipher enough to realise that they were convinced we were spies, and wished us to sign a confession. A stalemate ensued, and after another hour we were finally allowed to leave, but only to go directly back to Moscow, not passing Go and certainly not collecting the loot (in our case the visit to Tolstoy’s house). Somewhat subdued, we turned the car around and headed back to Moscow, and were cheered up when we saw that we were being checked in at every patrol post along the way, giving all those concerned at least two weeks paperwork. We also were highly flattered to be thought of as spies, even though none of us fitted the traditional picture.
The other fact of life in Moscow was getting used to the idea that all foreigners were followed or watched, and residences and other places used by foreigners were bugged. This became a challenge to some, who were determined to find the bugs. The final outcome of this was when a BOAC crew, over-nighting on their flight to Tokyo, were put in a suite in the Hotel Rossiya, Moscow’s pride and joy. After searching for some time and finding nothing they decided to lift the carpets and search underneath. To their delight, they came across a metal grille, which they were convinced covered a bug. Setting to with a will, they unscrewed the grille, and were horrified to hear a huge crash from the floor below. The grille had, in fact, been the securing of a priceless chandelier, which had fallen to the ground and was smashed to pieces. The evening this happened was a Friday, and custom was for all Westerners to congregate at the US Marine bar to celebrate TGIF*. When the crew walked into the bar, they realised just how good the Moscow grapevine was, as everybody present stood to their feet and applauded. That was the end of the great bug hunt.
*Thank God It’s Friday!
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