Whatever Remains

by Penny F. Graham

  As the train sped out of Moscow and into the surrounding countryside, it was good to see green fields and trees once again. We were soon passing small country towns and pretty villages with their unique decorative timber houses. I sat, watching, mesmerised until the evening descended and all I could see was the occasional group of lights where small villages huddled together on the wide dusty plains.

  At 8 am the next day, right on time, the train rolled into Saratov railway station. We had decided to stop at Saratov as it seemed a good start point to pick up one of the passenger steamers that carry Russian holiday makers up and down the river Volga. We were heading for Astrakhan, the final destination of the summer cruise ships. Stepping down from the train and out of our comfort zone that morning was like taking our first step into a completely different Russia. This was rural Russia, no English speakers, tourist offices or friendly YHAs here. We were now on our own.

  We had with us a small, pocket-sized English/Russian dictionary that was to be our constant companion over the next month or so. With our well-thumbed dictionary, cheat sheet of the Cyrillic/Roman alphabets and a few roubles in our pockets, we felt we were ready for anything.

  We took a ramshackle bus down past the city centre to the port hoping to find a suitable hotel close to the water. Not far from where the bus turned to head back up the hill to the main part of town, we saw a large ugly sand-coloured building facing out over the river. From its crumbling wide front steps to the ever-present rows of old-style air conditioning units plugging many of the windows, it was unmistakably a hotel. We negotiated a good price on a room with its own small ancient bathroom and noisy air-con unit obstructing half the window. The hotel décor was dilapidated 1950s, with over used brown leather seating in the foyer, autumn toned carpet runners overlaying green linoleum in the long corridors and cheap peeling wood veneer and washed-out floral curtains in the bedroom. On the two narrow beds that were modestly separated by a small timber cabinet, lay matching pink candlewick chenille bedspreads. Chenille bedspreads had lost favour in Australia in the late sixties — in Russia they were still apparently all the thing.

  On the positive side, it was cheap. Breakfast was included in the price, it was reasonably clean and the bathroom taps delivered hot and cold water. We felt instantly at home.

  We had liked the look of this town as we had trundled along in the noisy, dusty old workhorse that was bus No 1. We are not big city people, Lindsay and I, and it did not take us long to see that this port town with its tree-lined marina, wide dusty city streets, decaying but nevertheless rather grand central buildings, was our kind of place. It only takes a moment, a glimpse of a magical view, a kindly deed by a stranger or a happy experience to make a place important, and so it was to be with Saratov. We would be back here in a few weeks and then again in 2006 on our second visit to Russia. It became a town that we would always think of with great affection.

  Our stay in Saratov was even more enhanced by the discovery of the best produce market we had ever seen. It was huge. Extending for at least half a kilometre, its towering roof gave protection from both sun and rain and the large high windows lit the place well. You could buy anything at that market, bread, dairy, meat, fish, vegetables, flowers, sweets, pastries and drinks, especially vodka. Cheap vodka too, which was my undoing as that evening, after a few glasses with dinner, my legs turned to jelly, and the 3-kilometre walk to the hotel seemed an impossibility. So it was the local bus that night.

  It was mid-September, well past the traditional summer holiday period, and we were worried that the cruise ships may have stopped running. The old port authority building was in bad repair (as were many buildings in Russia at that time — quite rightly, providing the staples of life was of more importance than the repair of mere bricks and mortar) and seemed deserted. At last we happened on a small out of the way room with a middle-aged woman sitting behind a desk. She appeared to be the only person in residence in the whole two storey rambling building. She did not speak a word of English but she was prepared, in fact happy, to try to understand us. And how easy it is to communicate if you really try. With gestures, dictionaries, drawing pictures on bits of paper and in the air, she understood that we were trying to get to Astrakhan by boat and hoped she could organise a cabin for us. Easy, no problem; well, one small problem. The last boat of the season was to pass through Saratov tomorrow around midday and we had booked into, and paid, the hotel for two nights’ accommodation. Oops!

  We decided to take a chance that the hotel would refund one night’s accommodation (and they kindly did) and bought the tickets there and then. After she had worked out the cost on an abacus, we handed over bundles of roubles and received two large white tickets that gave us a cabin (third class) and all meals on the Ivan Sergeyevich Turgenev (named after the famous Russian author). The abacus was, and may still be for all we know, used for many financial transactions in markets and cheaper, downmarket shops. Even in St Petersburg and Moscow we had seen them in use and here, in the country, they were everywhere.

  We spent the rest of the afternoon looking round the town and my diary records that we had chicken and salty prunes for dinner. I don’t remember that particular meal, but if it says we had salty prunes then I am sure we did and most likely enjoyed them too!

  As evening fell, there was a magical transformation, and the main street became a pageant of elegantly dressed Russians. Singles, couples, families and the elderly all put on their finery and sauntered up and down the street. Talking to their friends, flirting, ogling, sizing up the opposite sex or just looking for an eating spot, the whole of Saratov seemed to be out and about in their best. This, we were beginning to realise, was a Russian tradition. In the summer months it gave one the opportunity to show off his or her new clothes, or boyfriend, or girlfriend or newest baby — a time and a place to socialise, gossip and maybe even find a new friend.

  As third class cabins go, ours was not bad. On the small side, with two narrow bunks and a window between, one small cupboard for our clothes and one washbasin. Not exactly luxurious, but not bad either. There were communal showers that cost five kopeks a time and segregated toilets for men and women. The women’s was very old style with dripping taps over large stained washbasins and a constant shortage of toilet paper. Smart travellers take their own in Russia and I was feeling pretty pleased with myself for having the forethought to have bought a roll in the wonderful market in Saratov.

  At our first meal on the IS Turgenev we met Elena, a young woman who was sitting at our table. She turned out to be the only person on the ship who spoke any English. Her command of English was not great; she had studied English at university some years before but, having no opportunity to practise, her vocabulary was limited and, shall we say, inventive. Elena worked in a public relations firm in Kazan, although she had originally trained as a soil scientist. She was in her mid-twenties, pretty, educated and articulate. She was holidaying to recover from a broken long-term relationship. Although she was half our age, we found ourselves drawn to each other’s company.

  We meet many people on our travels, most become just passing memories. With Elena it was different. She was to become important to us. In a few short days she became a friend with whom we have maintained a constant link. Despite living half a world away and having both cultural and language differences, our relationship persists to this day.

  That first journey down the Volga will live with me always. The wide silent river snaked its way through a flat sandy landscape where vast expanses of nothing were interspersed with villages clustered on the shoreline. Picturesque timber houses huddled together, each with its small garden, with an occasional stand of trees to break the ever present wind and spread some summer shade. Flat, sandy, dry, and mostly impoverished looking — the landscape looked so foreign yet familiar. I had the feeling I was coming home even though I had never been here before. I felt quite at ease floating down this large silver river to a city I had never seen. That evening, as the sun set ove
r the water, the sky turned blood red, the shoreline deep purple while the river pushed its way through the dirt dry land.

  Morning brought an amazing sight. Ahead of us, rising from a small hill on the right bank of the river stood the figure of a colossal woman silhouetted against the deepening blue sky. An enormous statue, sword in hand and arm raised in defiance. It was Mother Russia rallying her people to victory.

  We were passing Mamayev Kurgan, known during the siege of Stalingrad as Hill 102, arguably the most important hill in recent Russian history. Mamayev Kurgan overlooks the newly built and impressive city of Volgograd that spreads along the banks of the Volga River. Volgograd is a relatively recent city — renamed, repopulated and rebuilt from the ruins of Stalingrad, the site of one of the bloodiest battles of World War II.

  The battle of Stalingrad raged from August 1942 till February 1943. Hill 102 rose up behind the city and its height gave it a commanding position over not only the city, but also the river and many of the access points on the other side. Thus, he who commanded the hill, in a sense, commanded the city. It was on this little hill that literally thousands of Russian and German troops died as the tide of the battle ebbed and flowed across its slopes.

  During the bloody battle for Stalingrad, the hill was to change hands several times. By the end of 1942, the Germans still managed to cling to its slopes. With appalling loss of life, the Soviets held their own positions on the slopes of the hill as the 284th Rifle Division defended the key stronghold. The Russians held out until the end of January 1943, when the Soviet winter offensive relieved them, trapping and destroying the German forces inside Stalingrad. With the final defeat of the German army at Stalingrad, Hitler’s dream of the conquest of Europe died and the tide of the war in Europe turned.

  Today, Mamayev Kurgan is dominated by a memorial complex commemorating the battle, the bravery and determination of the Soviet forces and their ultimate victory. On the hill’s highest point, a statue was built, so tall that it dominates the skyline and is known as The Motherland Calls statue. As our ship neared the city of Volgograd, the 82-metre tall Mother Russia, her flimsy looking concrete garments appearing to fly in the wind and her raised right hand holding a mighty sword, stood proud signifying victory to all. It was an unforgettable and awe-inspiring sight.

  Our ship docked for the day at Volgograd and Elena asked if she could be our guide. We gratefully accepted.

  Most of the original city was destroyed, so what we saw are post-war buildings in surprising good repair. Until now, the little of Russia we have seen has had a decidedly down-at-heel look. Apparently, after the war, Stalin set out to build a new city over the ruins of the old to repay what was left of the population for the destruction of their city. So a new city stands on the site of the old. Broad tree-lined streets, elegant city offices with large windows and plaster façades are interspersed with small well-tended parks and, of course, on the outskirts of the city, the usual multi-storey concrete monstrosities to house the influx of Russians returning to what was left of their homes and their livelihoods. Today, Volgograd, though a relatively small city, has a miniature but fast metro system. No expense has been spared to try to give back to this brave city some of what it lost in those dreadful years of war.

  It was a delightful place to wander through. Even the food market had a smart new building with wide walkways and high glass panelled walls. In the market, Elena bought a bunch of flowers. We then took the metro a couple of stops to the base of Mamayev Kurgan and walked the well-trod path up to the memorial. Near the top the grassy slope gives way to wide stone steps flanked by walls of concrete with figures of solders fighting for their lives carved in grotesque bas relief. Hidden in the walls are speakers so the walls appear to reverberate with the sounds of battle. Gun shots, yelling, cries of pain and fear and explosions made the walls come alive. The noise of battle and the dominating statuary flanking the stairways conspire to give the place a sense of dread and foreboding. There was never a doubt we were entering a place where horror abounded.

  At the top of the last hill, we entered the shrine itself. A huge circular structure tucked under the lip of the hill. There peace reigns. We stood together trying to take in the sudden change from harsh daylight and intimidating and disturbing symbolism, to the soft light and peace of the quiet space before us. In the centre of the room, a huge sculptured hand protruded from the mosaic floor. It held a burning torch aloft that lit the room with a soft steady light. Four uniformed guards stood smartly to attention, guarding the everlasting flame. Elena told me that the guards were changed regularly and with much ceremony so the flame would always be watched over.

  Elena passed half of her bunch of flowers to me and we both knelt in front of the flame, she to remember her grandfather who had never returned from the battle for Stalingrad and whose body was never found, and me to pay homage to all those who had died here, be they Russian, German, soldier, civilian, man, woman or child. As we lay down our offerings of flowers, I felt a deep sense of connection with Elena. We were ages apart, of different backgrounds and had been brought up in different countries with a vastly different way of life. Yet here we were, united in our horror of killing, appalled at the tragedy that is war, and in our own way, we mourned the terrible desecration of life.

  The Volga ran smoothly on. A sluggish river now, growing ever slower as it meandered its way down towards its gaping mouth on the Caspian Sea. The days were hot, the evenings cool, the geography becoming even flatter and dryer with stubby trees that had bent to the forces of the winter winds. We were in the semi-desert of the Caspian lowlands. Our ship was to stay in Astrakhan for only one day, then turn and head back up river dropping passengers off at their home ports. For most passengers the trip was only halfway, for us it was ending.

  Lindsay and I stood and watched the landscape unfolding as we headed to our destination. First, as we crept ever close to the distant city on the skyline, small houses became more substantial and the sandy patches between villages became cultivated fields. Soon the smattering of small mainly timber houses increased in density and became a solid line of habitation surrounded by vegetable gardens and flanked with tree-lined streets. On the river banks, small jetties appeared lined with small fishing and pleasure boats. Mid-morning had us heading into the port at Astrakhan. Finally we were there, our large old ship gently bumping up against the long timber wharf where children jumped and swam and people sat with fishing lines or just sat to watch the spectacle of our arrival.

  The small city of Astrakhan sits at the start of the huge Volga delta system that ultimately flows into the Caspian Sea. The city, many, many years ago was a major port and fishing town. Slowly, over time, the delta has been silting up, the sand clogging the waterways and pushing fingers of sand out into the salty waters of the Caspian Sea. Astrakhan now sits marooned many miles inland surrounded by sandy plains and the delta waterways.

  Not far to the left of the wharf was a tall shabby looking oblong building with an occasional air-con unit obstructing an upper window. Unmistakably a hotel, and of course it was — the Hotel Lotus. The rates seemed surprisingly expensive so this time we opted for a room at the back of the hotel (much cheaper than the front overlooking the water). We parked our bags in our rather musty room with the usual twin beds with chenille bedspreads and peeling veneer furniture, and headed back to the ship to collect Elena. By now it was almost lunch time and we knew the ship departed at six that evening. We wanted to spend as much time with Elena as possible for who knows if, or when, we would see her again.

  We walked up to town together, past a neglected small man-made lake, where a happy looking bride in a puffy white gown and embarrassed looking groom were being photographed feeding the swans. As we got to know Astrakhan better, we were to find that this was known as Swan Lake, a favourite place for wedding photos, courting couples and babushkas with their grandchildren feeding the ducks and swans with bags of stale bread. Then through the dusty rose gardens to the Kremlin wall
s. Astrakhan’s Kremlin was built on a rise to command a view of the river in an otherwise relatively flat landscape. It was constructed between the 1580s and 1620s and was probably built from bricks pillaged from the site of Sarai Berke, a Mongol city believed to have been about 120 kilometres north of Astrakhan. The Kremlin’s two impressive cathedrals were consecrated in 1700 and 1710 respectively. They retain many traditional features of Russian church architecture with their exquisitely decorated domes. We would get to know the Kremlin well over the next two weeks and found its churches, towers (particularly its highest tower, the Red Gate) and gardens a never-ending source of interest.

  Astrakhan’s city centre spreads itself rather haphazardly over a few gently undulating kilometres, then dissipates into sprawling suburbia that stretched as far as the eye can see. This was a port city, famous for its fishing before the sand claimed dominance over the slow-moving river and its many small tributaries. Unlike both Saratov and Volgograd there is no perceptible ‘main drag’ in the city centre. It took us a few days to get the layout of the place, and on many occasions, we had to use the walls and towers of the Kremlin to guide us home to our hotel.

  Our immediate need was money, as our supply from Saratov was running low. Looking for ATMs was an interesting exercise. With only a small map from our guide book, navigating around the sprawl of intersecting roads that made up the city centre was difficult. The job of remembering where we had found ATMs, and more importantly, if they held precious roubles, was to keep us on our toes during the rest of our stay.