What was I looking for? Manita has seen us off from the steps of the hotel in Sevastopol. There is the last minute negotiation with Sash about the fee to the airport in Simferopol. Why is Simon fretting about Sash taking the mick from us and a cut for himself? Doesn't he understand that Waitrose matured brie has had a metaphorical slice taken out by three or four unknown distributors before it ever reaches his sophisticated taste buds in London? Manita watches this little bit of theatre impassively. OK - are we done? Now it's warm and genuinely expressed embraces for all. She wraps her tiny arms around Bruce's frame and then strokes his hand. She has sensed from the start that he is ailing. But Bruce has said nothing and has gamely kept up over 5 days without a single murmur of discomfort or complaint. He knows he has had some good times, unlucky loves and botched operations - his face carries the bill. Her deft and gentle movements shows she understands - he is not being stoic, for he has lost that capacity. He just "is" and that has really got to her.
We are standing in the Valley of Death. I am pretending to be an expert on Tennyson while gorging on a bunch of completely delicious Muscat grapes. The vines are guarded by some burly types in combat fatigues. After one mouthful, I understand why. But they are in a genial mood and have generously allowed us to pick some to enjoy under the autumn sun. We discuss why their Lordships Cardigan and Lucan were such chumps. There is a lot of banter and then the realisation that this emblematic episode in British military history with some 400 casualties was all over in about twenty minutes. Russian dead in the Great Patriotic War numbered nearly thirty million. Thirty million.
"Can you imagine?". Manita has asked this at various points and I am trying hard to do so. Why are these people in the Maxim Gorky military museum looking at us with faintly hostile looks? We don't seem to be obviously German and I have tried to be respectfully attentive although I have not understood a word that the lady has been saying. Manita does not want to steal the official guide's thunder and leaves her translation to the end. She has already incurred the lady's wrath by bravely pointing out that we are (or think we are) au courant with the history and so don't need the full chapter-and-verse on Soldier Voronov's heroic (and ever-so-slightly improbable) deeds against the fascists. We are here for the big picture. Pictures however, are not allowed. Unless you are a Russian, can you really, really understand the colossal impact of that unprovoked attack in 1941? This is not history just as great ritual but something that has been seared into their genes.
There are many new churches amongst much scruffiness. Are the Russians getting religion again? Manita thinks not. God loves us all, but all must have free will - that is the deal. Yet nearly thirty million is the heavy price of German free will and God will only regain their trust slowly: patriotism is the real faith here. We wander past a bar on the beautiful waterfront. There are young toughs milling around and naturally gorgeous young women pouting and feigning insouciance. Alastair is amusing us with a blue tale of his japes in the British Army. All-of-a-sudden, our loud laughter causes an older group to spring to their feet at a table. Uh-oh. We form a square but are assaulted with hugs and our faces are stroked. "Ya Scotlandiy" - and thus an ally against the fascists. We banter about the apparent power of our aftershave but in a few moments are quiet. It is an astonishing and rare feeling to be individually and collectively moved.
The harbour is full of ships from the Black Sea Fleet just back from the Levant. Around the floating and expensive vessels is much decay. Rusting wharves, dilapidated buildings and half-demolished boats being broken up fill the view behind the fluttering flags. But the water is clear and fish and jellyfish visible. The Russians do not discard what is obsolete, they merely re-cycle it. So many things look crummy but are in full working order. We cross the harbour from the Saint Michael Fortress on the evening commuter boat. It is 20p for 15 minutes of stunning views and peaceful reflection. It is still 18 degrees. There are some people bathing from the marble steps just below the memorial to the "Sunken Ships". I realise that I am sitting in a vessel that carried Soviet marines under fire in the other direction in 1942. We are returning from a beautiful museum in the fortress, funded with private money, that we have had entirely to ourselves. Great reverence has been given to those exhibits showing Russia's attackers in 1854. Why? Do we commemorate our aggressors in such a respectful way? Our feet crunch back-and-forth across the wooden floors spread over 150 yards. Dad would really enjoy this. It has been a long day and I need to take a leak, badly. Amidst all this attention to detail, there genuinely appears to be no loo but I feel ashamed peeing by some ruins with the hazy city and glittering harbour spread before me.
There is a group of small children aged five or six. They are togged up in military outfits with stiff collars and shoulder boards. Yes, says Manita, military schools still exist. We are at the Malakoff redoubt, scene of some epic Russian resistance in 1855 and the teacher is trying to get the kids to focus on the plaque of Tolstoy who fought there as a young officer. They humour her and then charge off to play on the guns. One has a British inscription on it. There are a lot of squeals, giggles and yells with the little girls getting just as involved in the game as the boys. Edward and Bruce have arranged for us to see another WW2 battery, also named after Gorky. This one is still run by the Russian military and is definitely off-limits. But a ring has been kissed and Yuri, a senior naval officer, is on hand to welcome us. Briefly, we talk to the Admiral in Moscow who has laid it all on. "Have a great time", he says before hanging up. The tour is left in the hands of a marine captain. Some younger soldiers idly stand around, their boredom palpable. Pictures of the truly massive guns are certainly allowed. Snap away, they say. But they are not going to let themselves be caught any other way again.
We are looking out through the dusty light from the high ground above the River Alma. A brand new ticket booth has been installed for this memorial site but it is deserted. The only sign of life is a mongrel bitch, who wants to play. She is a puppy really,with beautiful brindle markings. A tinkling bell announces the arrival of an evening herd. The cows are accompanied by a mare who bosses on her foal when it lingers to graze. The shepherd is straight out of central casting - mop of blond hair, wide face, high cheek bones and incurious eyes. It is hard to tell from these if he could ever be crafty. He is listening to "Hotel California" on his phone, his ear pressed to the speaker. The puppy yaps at an inquisitive calf which faces her down. I tell Manita that I have read "Master & Man", Tolstoy's charming tale of the folly of human greed and the neglect of the wisdom of animals. It is also very short and I feel a bit of a fool, as in trying to show off my great erudition I am really only exposing my shallow capacity for insight. Her favourite book is Bulgakov's "The Master & Margarita". Crikey. I know this to be a proper challenge, a tale of human coping with the Soviet Satan; in 2017 it is probably now well beyond our shrinking span of care or even attention. I tell her Solzhenitsyn had as little time for the prevailing morality of the West as he did for the Communist atheism of the East. She waves a dismissive and diminutive hand. Bulgakov stayed, although surrounded by the state that he feared but perhaps did not despise. Solzhenitsyn departed. Can you imagine?
We are enjoying Harscho and Crimean green soup on some rough benches in the woods. An immaculately turned out waiter is attending to us. The food is delicious - fresh herbs cover everything. An occasional stench wafts from some space behind us but we have had a good day and are in too excellent a frame of mind to be distracted. A man whispers into the ear of a bare-footed woman in a clearing near to us. She jumps, literally jumps up into the air. What has he told her? Then she embraces him. On the way back to town we pass the vagrants. These are not the well-presented and articulate beggars outside Edinburgh Station, some of whom claim to be ex-soldiers. This is proper dereliction - the men and women are smashed, stoned, filthy and mutilated. One is wearing a sailor's hat. Sasha drives on over the bumpy road as they stumble about in the dust behind us and the mood is gone.
Manita plays the speech that Molotov broadcast the day the Nazis attacked the Soviet Union. There is sombre music that was composed in that very moment. A shocked and shaken Stalin rallied himself later to address the nation. "Brothers & Sisters", he began. Only a very tiny fraction of the millions of Russian soldiers that the Germans took as prisoners-of-war were ever to return home alive: just three in every hundred. Can you imagine? If you stand in the centre of Russia and look outwards, what do you see? You are completely surrounded. Why are we such fools?
We turn away from the beach at the mouth of the Alma. A rusting pier is very slowly being reclaimed by the sluggish waves. It is going to be a long contest, but the sea will prevail in the end. There is a stagnant pond in which a beggar fishes, but no sign that the river is actually flowing into the ocean. A bent and ancient woman dressed in motley shuffles towards us and bares her two remaining teeth. Manita says she is a Tartar, a survivor of that Turkic and Muslim tribe that Stalin so ruthlessly cleared from the Crimea lest they defected to the enemy. From within the folds of her grubby gown she produces two perfectly formed, unblemished yellow and soft- cooked cobs of corn. We politely decline with those unnecessary and extravagant gestures of regret that we like to use when foreigners bare gifts in an unfamiliar manner. Alastair tries a few words of Arabic, some of which she catches. Only Manita's stillness saves the situation from complete embarrassment. The woman cheerfully withdraws.
It is time for goodbyes. What a pity we have not met Manita's husband, a naval officer who swept her off her feet and out to the Soviet far East in Kamchatka many years ago. It was a beautiful place, really beautiful, she tells us. What would he have made of us five? Would I like him? Not for the first time, our guide covers her mouth in that charmingly beguiling way and giggles. "He is very noisy" she says. A full laugh now. "Just like you" she says.
What am I doing here? The plane barely seems to be moving and there is very little sound. The birch and pine forests around Moscow are rushing to meet us. The passengers clap as the aircraft safely touches down and roars along the runway. It is not enough to see and hear, I really have to listen. Thirty million - can you imagine? Another tear. Good grief, man. Kazan, Samara, Sevastopol, Manita. One more drop. Were the Russians never wicked ? Does my state help or hinder my understanding? How far should you go to satisfy your curiosity? I am a citizen of my own country. I am already loved. Is that not enough?
"Can you imagine?". Manita has asked this at various points and I am trying hard to do so. Why are these people in the Maxim Gorky military museum looking at us with faintly hostile looks? We don't seem to be obviously German and I have tried to be respectfully attentive although I have not understood a word that the lady has been saying. Manita does not want to steal the official guide's thunder and leaves her translation to the end. She has already incurred the lady's wrath by bravely pointing out that we are (or think we are) au courant with the history and so don't need the full chapter-and-verse on Soldier Voronov's heroic (and ever-so-slightly improbable) deeds against the fascists. We are here for the big picture. Pictures however, are not allowed. Unless you are a Russian, can you really, really understand the colossal impact of that unprovoked attack in 1941? This is not history just as great ritual but something that has been seared into their genes.
There are many new churches amongst much scruffiness. Are the Russians getting religion again? Manita thinks not. God loves us all, but all must have free will - that is the deal. Yet nearly thirty million is the heavy price of German free will and God will only regain their trust slowly: patriotism is the real faith here. We wander past a bar on the beautiful waterfront. There are young toughs milling around and naturally gorgeous young women pouting and feigning insouciance. Alastair is amusing us with a blue tale of his japes in the British Army. All-of-a-sudden, our loud laughter causes an older group to spring to their feet at a table. Uh-oh. We form a square but are assaulted with hugs and our faces are stroked. "Ya Scotlandiy" - and thus an ally against the fascists. We banter about the apparent power of our aftershave but in a few moments are quiet. It is an astonishing and rare feeling to be individually and collectively moved.
The harbour is full of ships from the Black Sea Fleet just back from the Levant. Around the floating and expensive vessels is much decay. Rusting wharves, dilapidated buildings and half-demolished boats being broken up fill the view behind the fluttering flags. But the water is clear and fish and jellyfish visible. The Russians do not discard what is obsolete, they merely re-cycle it. So many things look crummy but are in full working order. We cross the harbour from the Saint Michael Fortress on the evening commuter boat. It is 20p for 15 minutes of stunning views and peaceful reflection. It is still 18 degrees. There are some people bathing from the marble steps just below the memorial to the "Sunken Ships". I realise that I am sitting in a vessel that carried Soviet marines under fire in the other direction in 1942. We are returning from a beautiful museum in the fortress, funded with private money, that we have had entirely to ourselves. Great reverence has been given to those exhibits showing Russia's attackers in 1854. Why? Do we commemorate our aggressors in such a respectful way? Our feet crunch back-and-forth across the wooden floors spread over 150 yards. Dad would really enjoy this. It has been a long day and I need to take a leak, badly. Amidst all this attention to detail, there genuinely appears to be no loo but I feel ashamed peeing by some ruins with the hazy city and glittering harbour spread before me.
There is a group of small children aged five or six. They are togged up in military outfits with stiff collars and shoulder boards. Yes, says Manita, military schools still exist. We are at the Malakoff redoubt, scene of some epic Russian resistance in 1855 and the teacher is trying to get the kids to focus on the plaque of Tolstoy who fought there as a young officer. They humour her and then charge off to play on the guns. One has a British inscription on it. There are a lot of squeals, giggles and yells with the little girls getting just as involved in the game as the boys. Edward and Bruce have arranged for us to see another WW2 battery, also named after Gorky. This one is still run by the Russian military and is definitely off-limits. But a ring has been kissed and Yuri, a senior naval officer, is on hand to welcome us. Briefly, we talk to the Admiral in Moscow who has laid it all on. "Have a great time", he says before hanging up. The tour is left in the hands of a marine captain. Some younger soldiers idly stand around, their boredom palpable. Pictures of the truly massive guns are certainly allowed. Snap away, they say. But they are not going to let themselves be caught any other way again.
We are looking out through the dusty light from the high ground above the River Alma. A brand new ticket booth has been installed for this memorial site but it is deserted. The only sign of life is a mongrel bitch, who wants to play. She is a puppy really,with beautiful brindle markings. A tinkling bell announces the arrival of an evening herd. The cows are accompanied by a mare who bosses on her foal when it lingers to graze. The shepherd is straight out of central casting - mop of blond hair, wide face, high cheek bones and incurious eyes. It is hard to tell from these if he could ever be crafty. He is listening to "Hotel California" on his phone, his ear pressed to the speaker. The puppy yaps at an inquisitive calf which faces her down. I tell Manita that I have read "Master & Man", Tolstoy's charming tale of the folly of human greed and the neglect of the wisdom of animals. It is also very short and I feel a bit of a fool, as in trying to show off my great erudition I am really only exposing my shallow capacity for insight. Her favourite book is Bulgakov's "The Master & Margarita". Crikey. I know this to be a proper challenge, a tale of human coping with the Soviet Satan; in 2017 it is probably now well beyond our shrinking span of care or even attention. I tell her Solzhenitsyn had as little time for the prevailing morality of the West as he did for the Communist atheism of the East. She waves a dismissive and diminutive hand. Bulgakov stayed, although surrounded by the state that he feared but perhaps did not despise. Solzhenitsyn departed. Can you imagine?
We are enjoying Harscho and Crimean green soup on some rough benches in the woods. An immaculately turned out waiter is attending to us. The food is delicious - fresh herbs cover everything. An occasional stench wafts from some space behind us but we have had a good day and are in too excellent a frame of mind to be distracted. A man whispers into the ear of a bare-footed woman in a clearing near to us. She jumps, literally jumps up into the air. What has he told her? Then she embraces him. On the way back to town we pass the vagrants. These are not the well-presented and articulate beggars outside Edinburgh Station, some of whom claim to be ex-soldiers. This is proper dereliction - the men and women are smashed, stoned, filthy and mutilated. One is wearing a sailor's hat. Sasha drives on over the bumpy road as they stumble about in the dust behind us and the mood is gone.
Manita plays the speech that Molotov broadcast the day the Nazis attacked the Soviet Union. There is sombre music that was composed in that very moment. A shocked and shaken Stalin rallied himself later to address the nation. "Brothers & Sisters", he began. Only a very tiny fraction of the millions of Russian soldiers that the Germans took as prisoners-of-war were ever to return home alive: just three in every hundred. Can you imagine? If you stand in the centre of Russia and look outwards, what do you see? You are completely surrounded. Why are we such fools?
We turn away from the beach at the mouth of the Alma. A rusting pier is very slowly being reclaimed by the sluggish waves. It is going to be a long contest, but the sea will prevail in the end. There is a stagnant pond in which a beggar fishes, but no sign that the river is actually flowing into the ocean. A bent and ancient woman dressed in motley shuffles towards us and bares her two remaining teeth. Manita says she is a Tartar, a survivor of that Turkic and Muslim tribe that Stalin so ruthlessly cleared from the Crimea lest they defected to the enemy. From within the folds of her grubby gown she produces two perfectly formed, unblemished yellow and soft- cooked cobs of corn. We politely decline with those unnecessary and extravagant gestures of regret that we like to use when foreigners bare gifts in an unfamiliar manner. Alastair tries a few words of Arabic, some of which she catches. Only Manita's stillness saves the situation from complete embarrassment. The woman cheerfully withdraws.
It is time for goodbyes. What a pity we have not met Manita's husband, a naval officer who swept her off her feet and out to the Soviet far East in Kamchatka many years ago. It was a beautiful place, really beautiful, she tells us. What would he have made of us five? Would I like him? Not for the first time, our guide covers her mouth in that charmingly beguiling way and giggles. "He is very noisy" she says. A full laugh now. "Just like you" she says.
What am I doing here? The plane barely seems to be moving and there is very little sound. The birch and pine forests around Moscow are rushing to meet us. The passengers clap as the aircraft safely touches down and roars along the runway. It is not enough to see and hear, I really have to listen. Thirty million - can you imagine? Another tear. Good grief, man. Kazan, Samara, Sevastopol, Manita. One more drop. Were the Russians never wicked ? Does my state help or hinder my understanding? How far should you go to satisfy your curiosity? I am a citizen of my own country. I am already loved. Is that not enough?
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