Leningrad, USSR
There is something about this city that endears it most of any Soviet city to foreigners. Even the Russians say that Leningrad is a “western” city, founded as it was more than 250 years ago by Czar Peter the Great as his famed “window to the west.”
As St. Petersburg, the city was the capital of the Russian empire for successive rulers. Catherine the Great held court here in the 19th century when it was in vogue among the intelligentsia to speak French, instead of Russian.
The wild, mystical monk Rasputin cast his spell here, and the last of the Romanov dynasty, the gentle, ineffective Nicholas II abdicated in March, 1917, just a few months before the Bolshevik revolution. The contemporary Leningrad prides itself on being the birthplace of the revolution, and it lays special claim to Lenin himself. Nearly as famous is the World War II defense of Leningrad. For months, the city was out off by German troops. During the blockade, something approximating a million people—a third of the population—died, mostly of starvation.
Because of their city’s history, Leningraders have always felt themselves more sophisticated, more cultured than Muscovites. Their speech is a bit softer, they are not so rude as Muscovites. And these days, they do appear more fashionable than people in Moscow. A tailoring shop on Nevsky Prospect, the mile-long main thoroughfare, displays a handsome white pants suit. Young men sport flared Edwardian suit jackets.
Granted, these are noticeable exceptions. There is a uniformity about Soviet cities, so far as the way people dress, the goods they buy and the apartment houses they live in. But even a foreigner can sense a difference of atmosphere in Leningrad.
To say that Leningrad is a “western” city, however, stretches the imagination. Its older architecture — the town houses of the czarist nobility along the Neva river, for example — has a European flavor. But more than half a century of Soviet rule has divorced Leningrad from its heritage.
In the Dom Knigi, the House of Books along Nevskyj, there is the standard, ritualistic display of Lenin posters and books, and the inevitable section devoted to Marxism-Leninism and bound transcripts of Communist Party congresses and plenums.
The hotels and kiosks sell, among foreign publications, only those of eastern Europe or of foreign Communist parties. The music, films and art are almost wholly Soviet, and in the spirit of “socialist realism.” The newspapers are full of items about leading work brigades in this factory or on that collective farm. The press is campaigning now for overfulfillment of production plant in honor of the 24th party congress scheduled for next March. The news from western Europe and America is predominantly negative; from eastern Europe exclusively favorable.
Shop windows of Gostinii Dvor, the main department store, or of food stores have a lean, bare look to them.
Along one side street, thirty or forty people are lined up to buy small watermelons at 150 a pound. At a sidewalk table, a dozen people crowd around to snatch up red candles at 250 each. There are lines, too, to buy small tomatoes and tiny green pears and apples. In meat stores, the whole counter is thick with people purchasing old looking, fatty chunks of meat at $1 a pound for beef, and 800 for pork.
In a small cafeteria, two sweating women take receipts for porridge, or weiners or soup. When an omlet order is ready, one shouts across the room, “Here, take the omlet!” The old men who man the doorways to ever crowded restaurants unbar the door enough to grunt “No places” and then slam it in your face.
On a late Saturday afternoon, you can see the first drunks of the night staggering down Nevsky Prospect. Vodka, even though a bottle costs about $4 compared with a worker’s monthly wage of about $125, sells briskly in the liquor stores.
In a park, groups of men plant themselves between benches, steady a tattered, thin piece of plywood on their knees and “slap the dominoes.” “A little five,” one says and thumps a domino on the board. A lot of banter, like when Americans play poker.
The old, stout women in white aprons and white caps over their hair tend the ice cream carts. At the automatic “gassed water” machines, you put in a kopeck, rinse the one glass in a weak spray of water and fill it up with something that tastes like carbonated Kool-Aid.
Once in a while along the street, you see someone with a huge, black German police dog, muzzled, and on short leash. Not the kind of animal you keep as a pet when meat costs $1 a pound, but good protection against hooligans.
A cab driver, a Georgian, easy going and relaxed, laughs: “Oh, the Russians, it’s hard to understand them. In Georgia, I live my way, you live your way and that’s it. But here, the Russians are always seeing what everyone else is doing. If I drive up to stand and someone asks me to take him out of turn, everyone begins to complain and shout. And next thing you know, a policeman is taking down my number.”
Away from the main street and stores, the crowds thin—it always looks like a pre-Christmas rush on Nevsky Prospect—and the noise lets down. The park benches on these warm days are full, people stroll along the Neva banks, lounge against building walls. It is a good time to escape from the small rooms and apartments. And those who can, leave the city for a dacha or a room in the countryside during August. Entertainment and diversion remain in short supply. There is a stable monotony, even in a city of more than three million like Leningrad.
Not so much in its individual parts and events, but in its whole way of life, Leningrad lacks the “western” atmosphere. Partly, of course, it is the difference between wealth and poorness, of bright lights and a well-dressed population, and an evening dimness and make-do fashions.
But, less tangibly, it is the difference between spontaneity and purposefulness, between uncertainty about the future and organized planning of society. Maybe Leningrad never was the “western” city, really, but the Russian imitation. It lives now, in any case, a Soviet culture.
“You should see Tashkent now,” Boris was saying. “It is a new city, absolutely a new city. New apartment buildings everywhere. After the earthquake (in 1966) money and help came in from all the republics. We now have—you should see it—a new Lenin museum. It cost nine million rubles (almost $10 million), nine million rubles. Steel, glass, marble. Very plain. Entirely contemporary. A beautiful structure.”
Valerii, a young Siberian of 27, sitting at the same table in the Neva restaurant on Nevsky Prospect, nodded approvingly. Like Boris, a Russian who ended up after World War II in the central Asian city of Tashkent, Valerii was a first time tourist to Leningrad. He was a bachelor, a “simple worker” with a longing to be a professional singer.
Boris had with him his two daughters, the elder finishing her last year in Tashkent University, the younger still in high school. It was their first trip to Leningrad, too, and they had been seeing the museums, the Hermitage, the monuments, and they loved it.
A lower-level government bureaucrat, Boris was expansive. He joked about the duck served at the Neva. “There is no meat on the bones. In Tashkent, we know how to eat. That’s the most important. If a man has good food, then everything is better,”
Valerii, the Siberian, agreed. And what he liked about Novosibirsk, his Siberian city of a million people, was the clean air and open country. You go to some Soviet industrial cities, he said, and the smoke hangs over the town.
The Neva restaurant orchestra broke into its opening number. It being a Saturday night, tables were all taken early. High over the circular dance floor, sunk a few steps below the table area, a round, golden metal ring dropped thin rods to the edge of the floor—a suggestion of ship rigging. A bank of floodlights lit the dancing circle, and on dark purple walls, shell-shaped fixtures gave off a dim slow,
A middle-aged man, Boris recounted that he fought during the war near Leningrad, spent two years in a hospital and then joined his mother and two brothers — his father had been killed at the front— in Tashkent.
“I can’t complain,” he said. “I have an apartment, earn good money, I have a dacha and a car”—he pulled out his wallet to display an automobile certificate—“and two fine daughters.” The girls laughed with embarrassment at the public compliment.
“The important thing is that we have no more wars,” Boris went on. “Look, you have children and I have children. We want the same things for them. Decent houses, clothes, education. Isn’t that right?
“And how much is spent on war materiel. You spend billions in America, we spend sixteen or seventeen billion a year…”
Valerii broke in. “Even more. The official budget says sixteen or seventeen billion rubles. But it is probably more than that.”
“No,” Boris objected. “The budget is a law and if it says sixteen or seventeen billion, that’s what it is. But even that—it would build four cities the size of Leningrad. Or a space shot. Think of the cost. One space shot maybe costs fifteen million rubles. How many apartments or schools you could build with that money? You could have free bread and transportation in Leningrad for ten years for that.”
Valerii nodded solemnly in agreement. Yes, that was a big problem, the expenditures on the military and space. He still thought it was more. If the United States spent—what was it, seventy billion dollars — the Soviet Union must spend almost as much.
The male vocalist was getting a big hand. He had just finished a popular song and couples on the dance floor called for a repeat. The singer wore a cream-colored suit, obviously tailored, and matching kid shoes, and kept his hair thick and long. “He has a fine voice,” Boris commented. After the encore, the orchestra went into a loud, brassy number with a quick beat. Couples streamed onto the floor to twist and shake, while Boris and Valerii commented on particularly good dancers.
After a pause, Boris turned to ask the familiar question that Russians put to Americans: “Why was President Kennedy killed? We can’t understand that. We had great respect for him, for him and Roosevelt. It is impossible for us to understand why he was shot.”
Then, back to the theme of war, “Wars don’t do anyone any good. Vietnam — that was foolish on your part.
And now we help the Arabs and you help the Israelis. For what?
“You know, you have your faults, your country, and we have our faults. But we can live together.”
Boris glanced at his watch. It was near eleven o’clock. He and his daughters were tired from a day of museums, and they were leaving the next morning for the Baltic coast, to the beach. It had been an exciting day, Boris teased his daughters. They had not only seen Leningrad, but met an American and a Siberian.
“You are alone?” the waitress asks. “Then sit at that table over there.” A soldier is sipping tea at the table and you study the menu for a while, give your order, then gaze around the room. It is a small restaurant, apparently new, with dark blue walls, and three tall, black candelabras with electric lightbulbs. You comment to the soldier, “This must be a new restaurant.” “Yes,” he answers, then with a grin adds, “and it is the worst food in Leningrad.” So you and he begin to talk, about your having been in Leningrad before, and about his being in the army.
Vladimir—call him that—is in an armored division, an enlisted man, only 21. He was born in a village north of Moscow, and his father had years ago completed what is called the Higher Party School, which trains party cadres. His father eventually became first party secretary of the party organization in a small city. He never rose higher in the party apparatus, however, and retired a few years ago, still dedicated to the organization.
Vladimir’s bent was different. He finished high school, studied a little English and became absorbed in literature. Though only 21, he has read all of the Russian classics—Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Gogol, Chekov — and many of the American. Hemingway is his favorite, but he likes Faulkner, too, even though Faulkner is difficult for him to nead. He also likes Fitzgerald and Steinbeck.
After we talk for a while, he confides: “You know, we aren’t supposed to talk with foreigners. There’s a military regulation against it. And if you do meet a foreigner, you’re supposed to report the place and time at a special department.
“I suppose it’s a matter of security. But it’s stupidity. No one low down, enlisted men, know any secrets.”
His manner is open and candid, and he likes to talk about Russia. “I’m Russian myself, so I know. And you know what, I don’t think Russians will ever live much better than this, truthfully. It’s their character. Russians like to drink. And then they don’t think. It’s just the way they are.”
We order a flask of red wine, and Vladimir says that he has never talked with an American before and it’s interesting. “We know a lot about your country,” he says. “How many states there are, how you elect your president. I think we admire your system—electing a president. We work another way. Things are decided at the top. You know how Khrushchev was removed. People have no part in it.”
What did he think about Khrushchev?
“Oh,” Vladimir smiles, “he was a peasant. He favored his relatives, like Adzhubei, his son-in-law, who was editor of Izvestia. Adzhubei was an opportunist. Remember Lysenko under Stalin? An opportunist like that.
“True, he denounced Stalin. But in 1939 at the 19th party congress, Khrushchev got up and praised Stalin. Then in 1956 at the 20th congress, he denouncod Stalin. Why? For his own political gain, to increase his own power.”
A small combo—two guitars, piano and drums—assembles. It must be the only authentic rock group in Leningrad. The electric guitars screech in the small room. One couple dances — the boy in a stylish suit, the girl with long hair that flings in the air as she gyrates.
When the music stops, Vladimir leans forward and abruptly asks: “What did you think about Czechoslovakia? An invasion? Right. Vietnam and Czechoslovakia,” he says, crossing two fingers together. “But,” he smiles, “we did it better. Eight hours. Every fifteen minutes troop planes landed at the airport. Of course, the Czechs didn’t fight, They….” Vladimir raises his hands above his head to finish the sentence.
“Still, we think here that the invasion was a last move. It meant that politically we had failed, and the invasion just proved that we had to rely on the military. It was the last step, the last choice.”
The topic led to Leonid Brezhnev, party general secretary. “I’ll tell you a joke about Brezhnev,” Vladimir laughs. “Brezhnev was supposed to give a speech, and the time scheduled was twenty minutes. Just before he rose, his aides gave him the speech and two copies. So Brezhnev gets up. He reads, and reads, and reads. Twenty minutes go past, then half an hour, then a whole hour. What happened? someone asks. His aide says, ‘He read all three copies!’
“Yes, Brezhnev,” Vladimir says, and turns an index finger to his head. “Kosygin is different. He is an intelligent, cultured man, like your (John) Kennedy. If he had more authority, things would be different, but he doesn’t.”
The combo comes back from a break and we listen to the rock. Later, when it tones down, Vladimir is critical. “That isn’t Russian at all. This restaurant isn’t either. I prefer the old Russian songs, but this kind of place is the trend here.”
Had he, changing the subject, read anything by Alexander Solzhenitsyn? “Yes,” Vladimir answers. “I read “One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich” and I’ve heard he has another novel, “Cancer Ward.”
“But,” Vladimir smiles again, “that won’t be published here. You know they expelled Solzhenitsyn from the Writers Union and suggested that he leave the country. A tragedy. He’s our one great contemporary writer. A clean, hard style like Dostoevsky.”
We pay the bill as the lights are turned off and on—eleven o’clock closing. The musicians cluster around another table where several friends are and they all sing for a while.
Out on the street, Vladimir and I walk slowly along. All the restaurants are shutting, and there are other people out looking for taxis or waiting at bus stops. Vladimir asks more about life in the United States. Do we really have poverty in such a rich country? Is it true what Soviet journalists write about America? Is the Negro problem as serious as they say?
“Here,” Vladimir volunteers, “conditions improve. But slowly, very slowly. Agriculture is a disgrace, terrible. And in industry, there is no stimulus. You, with private ownership, have an interest to produce and serve people. But we don’t, you can see that.”
At the hotel, Vladimir apologizes if he has kept me from something. It’s just that he had never met an American. And he liked American literature. And all the best.
© 1970 Mark W. Hopkins
Received in New York on August 25, 1970.
Mark Hopkins is an Alicia Patterson Fund award winner on leave from The Milwaukee Journal. This article may be published with credit to Mr. Hopkins, The Milwaukee Journal and the Alicia Patterson Fund.
