Sibir (2 page)

In dealing with the literal translation and spelling of Russian words I have been somewhat arbitrary since there is no universally accepted standard. However, Russian friends assure me that my translations are quite comprehensible.

It is obvious that I could not have assembled the information in this book, or indeed made the journeys at all, without a great deal of cooperation from organizations and individuals in the Soviet Union. They are all mentioned in the book so there is no need to list them here. I extend my heartfelt thanks to all of them.

Certain editorial corrections and additions were made for this new edition.

Port Hope, Ontario

February 1973

W
HEN CLAIRE
and I arrived in Leningrad in the autumn of 1966 aboard the
Alexander Pushkin
, we were met by Yuri Rytkheu. Yura (the affectionate form of Yuri) was then thirty-five years of age. He was a Chukchee – a member of a native people living in the extreme northeastern corner of Asia almost within sight of Alaska. Born in a
yaranga
– a sod shanty roofed with walrus hide – Yura grew up in a primitive coastal village where he attended the first school to be built in Chukotka. He did so well that he was chosen to go on to a higher education which, in his case, meant Leningrad University. Even before graduation he had begun to write, first in his own language and then in Russian. When I met him he was already the author of twelve novels.

Erect, a trifle portly, with wide, mobile lips and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses which glittered inscrutably from
an impassive face, he had the natural dignity and presence of an Asiatic princeling. But under his mask was a droll sense of humour, a questioning mind, and a complex blend of native Asian and acquired European characteristics.

Yura introduced me to the foremost northern experts in Leningrad – men and women who were tremendous enthusiasts and who were almost embarrassingly anxious to tell me about their work. Later we went to Moscow and I was again introduced to many people involved in the development of the Soviet north. What all these people had to tell me was fascinating, but after a while I began to grow a little restive.

I confided the reasons for my distress to Yura. “This is all very interesting, but what I’d really like is to see for myself what is happening in your north.”

“Where you want to go?” asked Yura.

That was a stopper. I knew so little of the Soviet arctic that I could not fasten on a single name.

“Oh,” I said airily, “Northeast Siberia, I suppose. It’s the closest to Canada.”

Yura merely nodded. Next morning he arrived at our room in the Hotel Pekin to tell Claire and me we had permission to go anywhere in Siberia – as long as we could pay our way.

Concealing my incredulity, I accompanied him to the headquarters of the Union of Soviet Writers where, over cognac and cakes, the permission was confirmed by the Director of the Foreign Section. Furthermore the Director instructed his assistant, Freda Lurie, to arrange with the local branches of the Writers’ Union in those areas we might visit to provide us with whatever assistance we should need.

It all seemed suspiciously easy. I had so often heard that, as far as foreigners were concerned, only Communist Party members or trusted fellow travellers were given any real freedom of movement in the
U.S.S.R.
that I
had the horrid feeling somebody had made a mistake about my status. The prospect that the mistake might be discovered while Claire and I were in the depths of Siberia was unnerving. Somewhat awkwardly I tried to explain my apprehensions to the Director.

He was amused. “It is true we do not open up our country to all foreign visitors. This is because so many only come to look for ways to make bad propaganda about us. Nevertheless, we Russians are naturally hospitable, and to any person of good will who is not a victim of too many misconceptions about us, we are happy to extend the best welcome of our people. That you are not a Communist is no difficulty. We believe you will be fair and therefore do not hesitate to let you go where you wish.…” He hesitated for a moment, then smiled and continued, “… anywhere within reason, of course. And I am sure you are a reasonable man.”

The plan he proposed was that Claire and I and Yura would fly first to Yakutsk, capital of the Yakut Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic in northeastern Siberia, and would make that city our operational base. The details of our further travels could be decided on the spot, in consultation with the local experts. Was this agreeable?

“Yakutsk,” I said bluffing bravely, “is where I’ve always wanted to go.”

“Then,” said the Director, draining his glass, “I suggest you contact Aeroflot and get your tickets. Come and tell me about the trip when you get back.”

The lady clerk at the Aeroflot booking office was discouraging. “Yakutsk? I don’t advise it. Really, nobody goes there. And at the beginning of winter, too! Wouldn’t you rather visit the Black Sea?”

Finding us adamant she gave us our tickets, shaking her head dubiously as she did so. When I paid for them I got a shock. The fare for the round trip of 7,600 miles was 132 rubles – approximately $165!

“At that price,” said Claire pessimistically, “they’ll probably just give us each a pair of wings … or perhaps a second-hand broomstick.”

Although we were content to undertake the trip with only Yura as a companion, he demurred. Yura had studied English for several years but had not had much practice in speaking it until we arrived, and he was not happy at the prospect of serving as our interpreter. I think his pride was also involved. After all, he was a famous writer, and our friend – not our servant. He suggested we should hire a professional interpreter. We called the ever-helpful Freda Lurie and she recommended a young man named Nikolai Kosolopov. Kola, as we soon came to call him, was twenty-three years old and a student of Political Economy at Moscow University. He was small, taut, tidy, and quick as a bird. The son of an engineer father and an engineer mother, he had eschewed that profession himself but had married an engineer, possibly to keep the family tradition alive. Sceptical, but not cynical, he had a flashing sense of humour and an encyclopaedic mind combined with an insatiable curiosity. He had one other important qualification: during the previous two summers he had worked as an Intourist guide, so he knew all the ropes. The prospect of absenting himself from his classrooms in favour of a tour of Siberia delighted him. We were equally delighted to have him with us.

That evening, in the ornately decorated dining room of the Hotel Pekin, we held a meeting of the First Chukchee-Canadian-Russian Siberian Expedition. Yura’s suggestion that the rest of us pledge fealty and obedience to him by inscribing our names in blood on the back of the restaurant’s twenty-five-page menu was unanimously opposed.

I had hoped we could get clear of Moscow in a day or two but this proved impossible. Nothing – but nothing – can be done on the spur of the moment in Moscow. Everything must follow a rigidly preordained
path. Being used to it, the Muscovites don’t seem to mind, but I found it monumentally frustrating to have to spend days chasing petty bureaucrats all over the city in order to conclude simple formalities. Claire nearly went out of her mind trying to assemble a wardrobe suitable to the Siberian climate. Kola was infinitely helpful but, with the best of intentions and the maximum of effort, it took the two of them several days to track down the essentials Claire needed.

Although we were delayed in getting to the north we had the compensation of having the north come to us. At 10 a.m. one Saturday morning Yura phoned our room with the ominous message, carefully enunciated, that: “They … are … coming … now … for … you!”

“They” turned out to be not the secret police but a posse of Yura’s northern cronies. To the distress of Claire’s stomach, they insisted on ordering breakfast in our room – breakfast which consisted of steamed garlic sausages, salami, fried smoked fish, cognac, and champagne. We now discovered that the hotel had been invaded by scores of northerners, mostly from Siberia, who were in town attending some sort of planning conference. I concluded it was not going to be a quiet weekend. Northerners are essentially the same the world over, and when they hit the big cities they do not spend much time resting.

The northern crowd in the Pekin was typical. The only time they simmered down was for a few hours Saturday afternoon when they crowded around
T.V.
sets to watch a football game. After the game we were hauled off to attend a party in the suite of another Yura – an enormous Tatar who, Yuri Rytkheu told us, was a Big Chief on the northern Pacific coast of Siberia. The other guests were a weird mélange of nationalities and professions. There was an Armenian geologist named Edvard who was the discoverer of the Kamchatka gold fields; a magnificently
bosomed Hungarian lady who was, aptly enough, the director of Nursery Schools in Krasnoyarsk; two geophysicists who had just finished a three-year stint in the Kolyma Mountains and were now beginning six months leave; an Evenk reindeer breeder (the Evenk are a native race from northeastern Siberia); a long, lean, and bespectacled young poet named Gleb; a blonde editress of children’s books; one Chukchee author (Yura); two befuddled Canadians, and a bevy of attractive ladies who may or may not have been Party girls – in the non-political sense of the word. Since everybody seemed to be able to speak at least three languages, the place was Babel. It did not seem to matter. A big radio was carted in and set playing full blast and those who could find room began to dance.

Relays of waitresses appeared laden with trays of food and drink, and when the table would hold no more they spread their largesse on the beds. The provisions seemed to be mainly raw eggs, raw tomatoes, Ukrainian baked chicken legs, and enough vodka, cognac, and champagne to sink the place. The raw eggs were eaten by sucking them, and they were not at all bad if followed immediately by a dollop of vodka which doubtless cooked them before they reached bottom.

The reindeer breeder spoke French and the Hungarian lady spoke French and English so we three had a conversation. I learned quite a lot about reindeer and would have learned more except that the lady’s dress was so décolleté that every time she turned toward the reindeer man he lapsed into passionate Evenk which
none
of us could understand. Edvard, the Armenian, had taken a fancy to Claire and she was learning a great deal about Armenians.

It was a good party. I have enjoyed many like it in the Canadian north, although this one had a notable distinction; these people never did get out of hand. When the singing began (and you have to hear Russians singing at a party to believe it) Yura (Tatar) went down the hall both
ways from the suite, checking with the neighbours to see if they were being disturbed by the noise. Apparently nobody was. In fact most of them came back with Yura and joined the party. But at 1 a.m., apparently by common consent, everyone packed it in and we all went off to bed.

It may be thought that we saw little of the tourist attractions of Moscow. This is true, although it was not for want of trying. On one occasion we set out to visit the famous Moscow Exhibition Park. After an hour’s drive we arrived there to find the main gates open, the ticket sellers happy to accept our money, but every single one of the pavilions locked up tight. On another occasion I tried to visit the Military Museum and had the same experience, even though I had carefully checked the hours when it was supposed to be open. There is a special kind of independent arbitrariness in the way public institutions are run in Moscow, and this includes restaurants and stores. They seem to close when, and for as long as, the whim of the moment dictates. This lends a piquant element of uncertainty to Moscow life. One is never sure how any expedition will turn out; and this could hardly be better illustrated than by the Franko Affair.

It began in the dining room of the Writers’ Club, one of the most sumptuous establishments in Moscow and formerly the headquarters of the Masonic movement, and a favourite haunt of Leo Tolstoy. Claire and I were there one evening in company with Laura Kuskov, a petite blonde translator. We were relaxing after a five-course meal and desultorily discussing life and letters with an admiral of the Soviet navy who was also a much-published author, when a brisk young man named Sasha dashed up to our table. Sasha was a secretary with the Foreign Department of the Writers Union. He thrust three tickets into my hand.

“Great surprise,” he cried. “Invitations to celebration of most famous Ukraine poet. Special good seats for you to see!” Whereupon he turned and dashed away as if,
just possibly, he wanted to be sure we had no chance to refuse.

“Where is it?” Laura called after him.

“Is here … at 8 o’clock!” Sasha replied and vanished.

We assumed he meant the theatre on the second floor of the Club, so we sipped our cognac and continued chatting with the admiral, who was greatly interested in the kilt I was wearing. He seemed a little dubious about its practicability in Siberia, whither we had told him we were going.

A few minutes before 8:00, we ambled upstairs to the theatre and presented our tickets. The lady doorkeeper seemed puzzled. “Tonight is here scientific films … you are welcome, of course, but here is no poet celebration.”

Laura snatched the tickets and scrutinized them. “Oh God!” she cried. “It’s at Tchaikovsky Theatre! That
Sasha
!”

Happily there was a taxi outside and under Laura’s goading the driver made speed. A few minutes later he slewed to a stop and Claire and I were about to bundle out when Laura leaned over, clouted the driver on the shoulder, and screamed: “No! No! You idiot! This is Tchaikovsky
Hall
!”

The driver took off before I could even slam the door, and at exactly 8 p.m. delivered us to the ornate portico of the Tchaikovsky Theatre.

Now although it may be socially acceptable for North American theatre-goers to arrive late at a performance, in the Soviet Union such an action constitutes the worst kind of gaffe. Laura was in a state bordering on panic as she whipped us into the inner corridor, waving our tickets like flags in front of every usher she saw, and running us along like driven sheep in the direction they indicated. Nobody looked closely at the tickets.