A Very Special Fourth of July
In the Summer of 1979, I took the first of what would become several trips to the Soviet Union, later Russia. I was with a group of about twenty Americans. We spent three weeks in Moscow studying at the Pushkin Institute and then transferred to Leningrad where we spent another three weeks studying at the Herzen Institute. We also went sight seeing and took excursions while we were there. The experience was a remarkable one but only partly because of our studies or our excursions. This note is about my first trip to the Soviet Union, about close friendships with people we had grown up to consider our enemies, and about an unforgettable Fourth of July in a place as strange and unlikely as Moscow.
Our group had been in the Soviet Union for less than a week, but it had already become clear to us just how difficult it would be to befriend Soviets. We were all complaining that the only Soviets who weren't afraid to have anything to do with us were black marketeers, who were only interested in our jeans, tee shirts and rock albums. They only wanted to do "beeznis" with us, the word we heard over and over again from the only Soviets brave enough to approach us on the streets and start up a conversation. We were beginning to worry that we were doomed to spend six weeks in Moscow and Leningrad without really getting to know any Soviet citizens.
Little did any of us realize that fate would soon take a kind turn in our direction. For some reason, which today is still a mystery to me, Intourist, the only Soviet travel agency, put us up in a hotel for Soviets and Eastern Europeans, the Bucharest. Americans and other citizens from the West were strictly segregated from Soviets, Eastern Europeans and citizens from so called "third world countries," whose allegiance Moscow actively courted. Although the Bucharest was a bit shabby, it had the look of faded glory from its bygone days as one of Moscow's premier hotels, it was centrally located, and it had great views of the Kremlin. Thanks to some kind of colossal bungle on the part of Intourist, Soviet citizens were put at grave risk, by being exposed to Americans with our capitalist system and our strange ideas about democracy and freedom, a horror beyond description! Actually, there was something to that. After the summer of 1979, neither they nor we would ever be the same.
One day after an outing I was returning to my room, and I noticed that the door to the room next to mine was open. A Soviet was sitting on a chair and listening to American music. He called out to me and asked me if I had a football jersey. American jeans went for as much as a couple of hundred dollars worth of rubles on the black market, but other items of clothing fetched almost that amount. I answered that I didn't but that I was with a group of some twenty other Americans and I was sure at least one of them could help him out.
He invited me in and asked me to sit down. "My name is Volodya," he said. " And I'm Kipp," I replied. Then he pointed to a portable stereo player and said, "The Voice of America"! It was indeed the Voice of America, but it was the Saturday night disco show and Donna Summers was singing, "Love to Love You, Baby!" Just then, two other guys, Andrei and Sasha, came out form an adjoining room. Andrei, Sasha and Volodya were Olympic caliber water polo players, and they were in Moscow for competitions for the 1980 Olympic team. Those of you who are old enough will remember that the Soviet Union hosted the 1980 Summer Olympics and that we would later lead a boycott of those Olympics, because we were so outraged by the Soviet Union's invasion of Afghanistan.
Suddenly, I found myself having an animated conversation with three Olympic caliber Soviet water polo players in a hotel in Moscow while listening to Donna Summers moaning and groaning her way through "Love to Love You, Baby" and looking out the window at the Kremlin! I could have been in a night club in Philadelphia listening to the same music. I just shook my head when I looked out the window and caught a glimpse of the Kremlin in all its magnificence! The experience was the first of many surreal ones I would have that summer in the Soviet Union.
I suggested that that guys meet the other Americans in our group and I invited them to an impromptu Fourth Of July party. I left the room, organized the party, and by the time evening came, we had plenty of vodka, champagne and munchies, which we could easily obtain with dollars and credit cards in special stores called Beryozki, that did not accept rubles. These stores were well stocked with all kinds of goods that Soviet citizens rarely, if ever, saw in their stores, but they could not shop in them, because possessing dollars was illegal.
The party was a memorable one! We Americans were giddy to be celebrating the birth of our country while partying with new Soviet friends, who were not black marketeers and who seemed to like us for ourselves. They were giddy to be partying with the first Americans they had every met and socialized with. Animated conversation, dancing, drinking, eating, and toast after toast to peace, international understanding, and friendship between the United States and the Soviet Union characterized the evening. At one point, Andrei, Sasha and Volodya got up and actually warbled their way through a phonetically written "Star Spangled Banner."
Guffaws of laughter and rounds of applause continually interrupted their performance, but there was something very moving about it. We were all children of the Cold War. We Americans had all grown up fearing the Soviet Union, ducking and covering when we were little, and worrying about the bomb. Our new Soviet friends had grown up fearing the United States, ducking and covering when they were little, and worrying about the bomb. Now, there we were all partying together and getting to know each other not as the enemy but as human beings. And the Soviets were singing OUR National Anthem! Incredible!
Somebody suggested that we take a walk to Red Square and watch the changing of the guard in front of the mausoleum, where Lenin's preserved body is still on display. We all got up and left the hotel for the short walk to the Kremlin. Needless to say, we were in such a state that none of us cared who noticed us, and in the Soviet Union during the Cold War, somebody always noticed you! We must have made it very easy on those with the least bit of curiosity. No one can miss revelers at the height of their merriment. Looking back, it's a wonder we didn't all get arrested for public rowdiness while walking around the Kremlin. I guess we must have had enough sense, and fear, to quite down in front of the mausoleum. Somehow we pulled it off and returned to the hotel without incident.
Well, almost without incident, that is to say. The next day, our friends told us that their coach told them they were too friendly with the Americans and had to stay away from us. It was the first time we were confronted with the real nature of the system. Coziness with Americans could result in any number of unpleasantries for our new friends, from being kicked off the team to an interview with the KGB and a dossier in their files. Our friends were angry that their coach was trying to tell them with whom they could associate, and they rebelled by not cooling the friendship. They did ask us, though, not to call them from the hotel, because the phones were bugged and to meet them more often outside of the hotel. Small concessions to the KGB!
The friendship turned out to be a most fortuitous one. The guys were from Leningrad and were scheduled to be in Moscow for about a month. We were to be in Moscow for three weeks and then transferred to Leningrad for the second three weeks of our stay in the country. Shortly after we arrived in Leningrad, our friends came home. We were able to pick up right where we had left off with the friendship until we left for home! It was a remarkable six weeks for all of us, as the reader can imagine. There are many other tales to tell about the summer of 1979 in Moscow and Leningrad, and eventually, I will get around to telling them.
Andrei and I have remained close friends, and two years ago we celebrated the Fourth of July in his apartment in Moscow with plenty of good food and drink. And, yes, plenty of memories! Ah, the memories!
An addendum:
Before I finish, I have to tell this story about a desk clerk who worked at the hotel. At the time, my Russian was very weak. When our group was checking in, I was happy to hear one of the desk clerks speaking German with some East Germans, who were also checking in. When I approached the desk, I told her that my German was much better than my Russian and asked if we could speak German. She gladly obliged. She told me she was always thrilled to speak German. She loved the language. German was a beautiful language, even more beautiful than Russian. I was really surprised by that. The Russians are justly very proud of their language. There are many reasons, including something we call World War II and they call The Great Patriotic War, that would make most Russians very reluctant to praise anything German, especially something as culturally basic as the language. I was curious about her assertion, but I didn't say anything further.
As the days went by, this woman and I had many conversations. They began as exchanges of pleasantries, developed into more interesting conversations about Russian and American culture, and even more personal talk of family and friends. However, we never discussed politics.
One evening toward the end of my stay, I came in late. The lobby of the hotel was enormous. It had a cavernous, even intimidating, feel to it. Totalitarian grandiosity! It was late at night, and my friend started telling me about how much I was going to like Leningrad, how beautiful it is, how the hotel, the Astoria, had been the premier hotel in Leningrad before the Revolution and that it still was gorgeous. Suddenly, in this cavernous lobby late at night with no one else present, her voice dropped to a whisper, and I thought I detected fear in it. She asked, "Do you know why I said when you first checked in that I thought German was a more beautiful language even than Russian?" "No, I replied, but I thought it was really curious. I know how proud Russians are of their language." She went on, "I said that because our leaders tell so many lies and have told them for so long that the words in Russian have become utterly meaningless!" I was stunned! Such candor from a Soviet citizen was rare and we hadn't encountered that, even from the athletes, whose lives were, it must be said, rather cushy.
I walked away from that conversation feeling very lucky. Lucky that a Soviet citizen had felt close enough to me to confide in me. Lucky that I enjoyed freedom of speech. Lucky that I lived in a country where I could say anything I wanted about my language or my country and its leaders, openly and without fear. Lucky that I had the freedom to travel. Lucky that I had the freedom to chose any friend I wished and that I could openly and freely associate with him or her anywhere and any time I wanted. Lucky that I was an American. Yes, the Fourth of July took on an even deeper meaning for me that summer. As the years have gone by, I have never forgotten how I felt after my conversation with that desk clerk, and I have not forgotten how I felt about the Fourth of July.
July 4. 1979: Andrei, Barbara, Sarah, Sue and I pose for a group shot.
Andrei about to uncork one of several bottles of Soviet champagne we went through that evening.
Volodya, Sasha and Andrei singing a heartfelt version of the "Soviet National Anthem."
Summer of 1979: Brochure from the Astoria Hotel in Leningrad, USSR. We were told that Elizabeth Taylor had recently stayed there. The Nazi government was so confident it would take Leningrad that it ordered invitations printed for a victory party to be held at the Astoria.
In the Summer of 1979, I took the first of what would become several trips to the Soviet Union, later Russia. I was with a group of about twenty Americans. We spent three weeks in Moscow studying at the Pushkin Institute and then transferred to Leningrad where we spent another three weeks studying at the Herzen Institute. We also went sight seeing and took excursions while we were there. The experience was a remarkable one but only partly because of our studies or our excursions. This note is about my first trip to the Soviet Union, about close friendships with people we had grown up to consider our enemies, and about an unforgettable Fourth of July in a place as strange and unlikely as Moscow.
Our group had been in the Soviet Union for less than a week, but it had already become clear to us just how difficult it would be to befriend Soviets. We were all complaining that the only Soviets who weren't afraid to have anything to do with us were black marketeers, who were only interested in our jeans, tee shirts and rock albums. They only wanted to do "beeznis" with us, the word we heard over and over again from the only Soviets brave enough to approach us on the streets and start up a conversation. We were beginning to worry that we were doomed to spend six weeks in Moscow and Leningrad without really getting to know any Soviet citizens.
Little did any of us realize that fate would soon take a kind turn in our direction. For some reason, which today is still a mystery to me, Intourist, the only Soviet travel agency, put us up in a hotel for Soviets and Eastern Europeans, the Bucharest. Americans and other citizens from the West were strictly segregated from Soviets, Eastern Europeans and citizens from so called "third world countries," whose allegiance Moscow actively courted. Although the Bucharest was a bit shabby, it had the look of faded glory from its bygone days as one of Moscow's premier hotels, it was centrally located, and it had great views of the Kremlin. Thanks to some kind of colossal bungle on the part of Intourist, Soviet citizens were put at grave risk, by being exposed to Americans with our capitalist system and our strange ideas about democracy and freedom, a horror beyond description! Actually, there was something to that. After the summer of 1979, neither they nor we would ever be the same.
One day after an outing I was returning to my room, and I noticed that the door to the room next to mine was open. A Soviet was sitting on a chair and listening to American music. He called out to me and asked me if I had a football jersey. American jeans went for as much as a couple of hundred dollars worth of rubles on the black market, but other items of clothing fetched almost that amount. I answered that I didn't but that I was with a group of some twenty other Americans and I was sure at least one of them could help him out.
He invited me in and asked me to sit down. "My name is Volodya," he said. " And I'm Kipp," I replied. Then he pointed to a portable stereo player and said, "The Voice of America"! It was indeed the Voice of America, but it was the Saturday night disco show and Donna Summers was singing, "Love to Love You, Baby!" Just then, two other guys, Andrei and Sasha, came out form an adjoining room. Andrei, Sasha and Volodya were Olympic caliber water polo players, and they were in Moscow for competitions for the 1980 Olympic team. Those of you who are old enough will remember that the Soviet Union hosted the 1980 Summer Olympics and that we would later lead a boycott of those Olympics, because we were so outraged by the Soviet Union's invasion of Afghanistan.
Suddenly, I found myself having an animated conversation with three Olympic caliber Soviet water polo players in a hotel in Moscow while listening to Donna Summers moaning and groaning her way through "Love to Love You, Baby" and looking out the window at the Kremlin! I could have been in a night club in Philadelphia listening to the same music. I just shook my head when I looked out the window and caught a glimpse of the Kremlin in all its magnificence! The experience was the first of many surreal ones I would have that summer in the Soviet Union.
I suggested that that guys meet the other Americans in our group and I invited them to an impromptu Fourth Of July party. I left the room, organized the party, and by the time evening came, we had plenty of vodka, champagne and munchies, which we could easily obtain with dollars and credit cards in special stores called Beryozki, that did not accept rubles. These stores were well stocked with all kinds of goods that Soviet citizens rarely, if ever, saw in their stores, but they could not shop in them, because possessing dollars was illegal.
The party was a memorable one! We Americans were giddy to be celebrating the birth of our country while partying with new Soviet friends, who were not black marketeers and who seemed to like us for ourselves. They were giddy to be partying with the first Americans they had every met and socialized with. Animated conversation, dancing, drinking, eating, and toast after toast to peace, international understanding, and friendship between the United States and the Soviet Union characterized the evening. At one point, Andrei, Sasha and Volodya got up and actually warbled their way through a phonetically written "Star Spangled Banner."
Guffaws of laughter and rounds of applause continually interrupted their performance, but there was something very moving about it. We were all children of the Cold War. We Americans had all grown up fearing the Soviet Union, ducking and covering when we were little, and worrying about the bomb. Our new Soviet friends had grown up fearing the United States, ducking and covering when they were little, and worrying about the bomb. Now, there we were all partying together and getting to know each other not as the enemy but as human beings. And the Soviets were singing OUR National Anthem! Incredible!
Somebody suggested that we take a walk to Red Square and watch the changing of the guard in front of the mausoleum, where Lenin's preserved body is still on display. We all got up and left the hotel for the short walk to the Kremlin. Needless to say, we were in such a state that none of us cared who noticed us, and in the Soviet Union during the Cold War, somebody always noticed you! We must have made it very easy on those with the least bit of curiosity. No one can miss revelers at the height of their merriment. Looking back, it's a wonder we didn't all get arrested for public rowdiness while walking around the Kremlin. I guess we must have had enough sense, and fear, to quite down in front of the mausoleum. Somehow we pulled it off and returned to the hotel without incident.
Well, almost without incident, that is to say. The next day, our friends told us that their coach told them they were too friendly with the Americans and had to stay away from us. It was the first time we were confronted with the real nature of the system. Coziness with Americans could result in any number of unpleasantries for our new friends, from being kicked off the team to an interview with the KGB and a dossier in their files. Our friends were angry that their coach was trying to tell them with whom they could associate, and they rebelled by not cooling the friendship. They did ask us, though, not to call them from the hotel, because the phones were bugged and to meet them more often outside of the hotel. Small concessions to the KGB!
The friendship turned out to be a most fortuitous one. The guys were from Leningrad and were scheduled to be in Moscow for about a month. We were to be in Moscow for three weeks and then transferred to Leningrad for the second three weeks of our stay in the country. Shortly after we arrived in Leningrad, our friends came home. We were able to pick up right where we had left off with the friendship until we left for home! It was a remarkable six weeks for all of us, as the reader can imagine. There are many other tales to tell about the summer of 1979 in Moscow and Leningrad, and eventually, I will get around to telling them.
Andrei and I have remained close friends, and two years ago we celebrated the Fourth of July in his apartment in Moscow with plenty of good food and drink. And, yes, plenty of memories! Ah, the memories!
An addendum:
Before I finish, I have to tell this story about a desk clerk who worked at the hotel. At the time, my Russian was very weak. When our group was checking in, I was happy to hear one of the desk clerks speaking German with some East Germans, who were also checking in. When I approached the desk, I told her that my German was much better than my Russian and asked if we could speak German. She gladly obliged. She told me she was always thrilled to speak German. She loved the language. German was a beautiful language, even more beautiful than Russian. I was really surprised by that. The Russians are justly very proud of their language. There are many reasons, including something we call World War II and they call The Great Patriotic War, that would make most Russians very reluctant to praise anything German, especially something as culturally basic as the language. I was curious about her assertion, but I didn't say anything further.
As the days went by, this woman and I had many conversations. They began as exchanges of pleasantries, developed into more interesting conversations about Russian and American culture, and even more personal talk of family and friends. However, we never discussed politics.
One evening toward the end of my stay, I came in late. The lobby of the hotel was enormous. It had a cavernous, even intimidating, feel to it. Totalitarian grandiosity! It was late at night, and my friend started telling me about how much I was going to like Leningrad, how beautiful it is, how the hotel, the Astoria, had been the premier hotel in Leningrad before the Revolution and that it still was gorgeous. Suddenly, in this cavernous lobby late at night with no one else present, her voice dropped to a whisper, and I thought I detected fear in it. She asked, "Do you know why I said when you first checked in that I thought German was a more beautiful language even than Russian?" "No, I replied, but I thought it was really curious. I know how proud Russians are of their language." She went on, "I said that because our leaders tell so many lies and have told them for so long that the words in Russian have become utterly meaningless!" I was stunned! Such candor from a Soviet citizen was rare and we hadn't encountered that, even from the athletes, whose lives were, it must be said, rather cushy.
I walked away from that conversation feeling very lucky. Lucky that a Soviet citizen had felt close enough to me to confide in me. Lucky that I enjoyed freedom of speech. Lucky that I lived in a country where I could say anything I wanted about my language or my country and its leaders, openly and without fear. Lucky that I had the freedom to travel. Lucky that I had the freedom to chose any friend I wished and that I could openly and freely associate with him or her anywhere and any time I wanted. Lucky that I was an American. Yes, the Fourth of July took on an even deeper meaning for me that summer. As the years have gone by, I have never forgotten how I felt after my conversation with that desk clerk, and I have not forgotten how I felt about the Fourth of July.
July 4. 1979: Andrei, Barbara, Sarah, Sue and I pose for a group shot.Andrei about to uncork one of several bottles of Soviet champagne we went through that evening.Volodya, Sasha and Andrei singing a heartfelt version of the "Soviet National Anthem."Summer of 1979: Brochure from the Astoria Hotel in Leningrad, USSR. We were told that Elizabeth Taylor had recently stayed there. The Nazi government was so confident it would take Leningrad that it ordered invitations printed for a victory party to be held at the Astoria.
No comments:
Post a Comment