A Doctor at War

by Matthew Hall

  The light faded early, and the train proceeded along the coast in darkness past the twinkling lights of Vipuri, a Finnish port which had been ceded to the Russians at the conclusion of the war. Just outside the town the train drew up and all passengers were transferred to a waiting Russian train. As Herford crossed the platform he saw his first Russians – soldiers tramping up and down in thick sheepskin coats and heavy boots, bracing themselves against the freezing night.

  Compared with the Finnish train carriages, the Russian ones were comfortably warm, and the customs officials, far from being ogres, were neatly dressed and treated the passengers politely. Herford communicated as best he could with sign language, and produced his papers and opened his luggage for inspection. Against the Embassy’s advice he had brought a camera, field glasses and a number of photographs, but none of these seemed to attract their interest. They made a cursory search of his possessions and then examined every square inch of the carriage, including the straps on the cushions. They were either concerned about hidden bombs or were operating on the assumption that any intelligent smuggler or enemy agent would take care to hide any incriminating evidence carefully and somewhere where he could disassociate himself from it. Herford was understandably pleased that as the only Englishman aboard the train he had not been the object of their scrutiny.

  The train rumbled into Leningrad station at 1am. Waiting on the platform was the representative of Intourist, the official travel agency. Any foreign visitors had either to be on an organized Intourist tour, or accompanied by an official guide. The man spoke English and was cheerful and courteous, insisting that Herford should not carry his own bags. He called over two of the burly station porters and led the way to a taxi.

  The taxi sped through the deserted streets, over the Neva Bridge and past the Hermitage to a large hotel opposite St Isaac’s Cathedral. The hotel, like most of central Leningrad, was of grandiose 19th-century proportions. The main lobby was ornamented with faded guilt fittings, and the aged furniture was upholstered in red velvet. A display cabinet contained a collection of shoddy over-priced china and fancy goods. The whole effect was of decayed opulence, as if for the last 25 years time had stood still.

  The guide was busily arranging breakfast and a taxi to the station in the morning when Herford told him he had not booked a room, as it cost £4 and he was only to be there a few hours. The guide apologized profusely, and said that in that case he would have to pay for the taxis, porters and breakfast. It would cost around 80 roubles. Herford carried out a quick mental calculation – he had a letter of credit for £100, an English £10 note and a few dollars. The Russians were notorious for ruthlessly extracting foreign currency at very unfavourable rates of exchange, and the few dollars he had would fall far short of what he needed to pay his bills in Leningrad and Odessa, his next port of call. The receptionist offered to cash a letter of credit or traveller’s cheques for roubles, but there would be no way of changing roubles back into hard currency.

  Remembering a story he had been told by an acquaintance in Helsinki, he asked the receptionist if there were any second-hand goods or pawn shops in the area. ‘Of course not!’ she replied, astonished at the question, and added, ‘You wouldn’t expect to find such places in London or Paris.’ Herford assured her that both cities were full of them, but she clearly did not believe him, and reacted as if he had uttered a vile slur against her country. The story had been told to him by an accountant from the British firm Price Waterhouse in Helsinki, and concerned a colleague who had been flying to Cairo from Stockholm via Moscow. But when he arrived in Moscow he was told that there would be no onward train for a week. He had been expecting a non-stop journey and had very little money with him. All he could do was to go to the British Embassy and ask advice. To his surprise one of the officials asked him if he had a spare suit he would be willing to part with. Intrigued, he replied that he had. The official asked him to bring it along the next morning. When he arrived the following day with his suit, the official handed him 5,000 roubles, and the accountant spent the rest of the week dining on champagne and caviar.

  Wondering if he could pull off a similar feat, Herford dozed fitfully in an armchair until 6am, when he took a swift breakfast, then slipped unnoticed from the hotel. As he needed only a few hundred roubles, he ventured out into the snowy streets with his best woollen scarf and several pairs of socks hoping to find a customer. Even at this time in the morning, the still-dark streets were filling with people, and queues were beginning to form outside shops, and even next to some very meagre handcarts standing by the kerb. Herford went into one of the shops and saw that it was moderately well stocked with groceries including German sausages, cheese and vegetables. Each item was individually priced, and probably far too expensive for the average citizen. Using sign language, he pointed to the cheese trying to communicate that he wished to buy some, but the shopkeeper seemed to be asking him to produce a card of some sort. Evidently there was a system of rationing in operation, and Herford left empty handed.

  By the time daylight arrived his wandering led him to what appeared to be one of the main shopping areas of the city. The buildings were tall and elegant, and the shop fronts impressive and ornate, but on close examination there was little behind the facades, and no window displays. The few goods for sale were scanty and cheap. The only exceptions were a few much smaller shops which seemed to be trading in second-hand clothes. Time was passing quickly, and Herford had to make some rapid progress if he was to raise enough money to pay the hotel expenses.

  He cast his eye along the passers-by. They were heavily wrapped in sheepskins or thick woollen overcoats and their heads covered with the traditional fur hats, the only headgear capable of keeping out the biting chill. In cold weather, the Russians have a way of walking purposefully along, their eyes glued to the ground in front of them and their faces set in a sullen frown. It was with some difficulty that Herford tried to pick out someone who looked as if they might be able to answer him in French or German. He began by innocently asking the way, but had little luck, not appreciating that even if he was being understood, it was simply not safe for a Russian to be seen speaking to a foreigner, and especially not about black-marketeering, or ‘speculation’ (the derisory term applied to all forms of capitalist activity).

  After drawing several blanks, a frail old lady finally stopped and replied in excellent French. She was happy to chat for a minute or two, and said that she had been in London many years ago for a short time, and had a sister there who was a teacher of languages. Herford eventually asked her if she knew anyone who would be interested in buying a suit. Her eyes lit up. ‘Is it as good as that one?’ she asked, and took off her glove to feel the material, stroking it reverently. He assured her it was. She said that she had a friend who would be interested and asked where he had the suit. He arranged for her to come to his hotel in a short while, and she scurried off to find her friend.

  Only after parting did it occur to him that the friend would probably be very reluctant to come to an official hotel to transact illegal business. He couldn’t afford to entrust the situation to chance, so he decided to try his luck in the second-hand shops. Naturally the shopkeepers were very suspicious of the foreigner, and refused to buy, perhaps suspecting a trick by the secret police. But one of the proprietors did speak a little German, and gave Herford an address where he said he might be more successful.

  He tried a third shop and was again unsuccessful. As he was coming out he was accosted by a small, scruffy man who spoke some very slangy German. He had seen him attempt to sell the scarf and socks and said he could help him find a buyer. Herford followed him into another clothes shop where a huddle of people had accumulated. The man spoke to the manager and nodded in Herford’s direction, but the manager shook his head. Fear of trickery by the secret police was so ingrained that the risk was simply too great to take. But the conversation had been overheard by a number of customers, who followed him out onto the pavement. Herford suddenly
found himself surrounded by eager faces. A hefty sailor forced his way to the front and asked how much he wanted. Herford asked the scruffy little man – who was now firmly established as his interpreter – how much he should charge. He replied, 500 roubles for the scarf and 300 for the socks. Herford told the sailor he could have the scarf and a pair of socks for 300. The sailor handed over the money and with no attempt to bargain went away very happy.

  As the small crowd disappeared back into the shop, the interpreter became disgruntled that Herford had sold for so little. Herford replied that should any questions be asked, it would reflect better on him if he sold at a low price; that way he could not be accused of cynical exploitation. Besides which, he still had several pairs of socks to sell, and decided to visit the address the shop manager had given him. He tipped the Russian 50 roubles and got some detailed directions from him. There was no argument over this small gratuity; the man took the money and left. The walk to the address took about ten minutes, and Herford found himself entering a scruffier residential area. He showed the scribbled address to a passer-by who pointed to an enormous 18th-century tenement surrounding a large stone courtyard. He walked up three flights of flagstone steps and into a run-down and desolate hallway off which were the numbered front doors to the flats.

  He knocked on one of the doors, which was opened by a poorly dressed, unwashed woman who looked distinctively apprehensive. He showed her the address, and she pointed across the hallway to another apartment and quickly closed her door. He crossed the hall and knocked again. After a considerable interval he heard some slow shuffling steps, and another dishevelled woman in a threadbare dress answered and peered out at him from the gloom beyond. He strained to see into the darkened interior, but could make nothing out. The air was heavy, and gave the impression of dirt and staleness. The woman stared at him with suspicious eyes. Herford felt uneasy; he didn’t like the look of the place and beat a hasty retreat. As he turned, he saw the door across the hallway was slightly ajar, and the first woman was staring out at him. As soon as their eyes met she slammed it shut. Visitors were evidently not welcome.

  Safe in the knowledge that he now had enough money to pay his way, and had an hour or two before the taxi would take him to the station, Herford wandered along the streets observing the people and buildings. Western visitors were a rarity, and he seized the chance to drink in his surroundings. Behind the impressive facades the general poverty was self-evident. There was little traffic, much of it horse-drawn with a few ancient-looking cars. The bulk of the population had always endured hardship, and for the most part were pacified by what Stalin told them – that in the West poverty was far worse, and that capitalism was starving the workers to death.

  Herford’s eye was caught by a watch-repair shop in graceful premises that looked as if it had once been a fashionable jewellery business. Now its display cases were dusty and bare. The only items in the window were a few old clocks that could have come out of an East End jumble sale. As he carried on along the pavement he must have glanced at his wristwatch, for a man suddenly appeared at his side and in a garbled mix of Russian and German tried to offer several thousand roubles for it. He was very disappointed when Herford refused, and tramped away crestfallen.

  One of the chief contrasts with Western cities was the complete absence of advertising hoardings, except for large propaganda posters proclaiming the glory of the government and the achievements of Soviet soldiers and workers. There were also many posters which seemed to be encouraging people to learn to ski – perhaps in response to the severe losses sustained in the Finnish war. Parties of school children and naval cadets marched past carrying skis over their shoulders. They looked surprisingly fit and well fed considering the lack of supplies in the shops.

  The Odessa train left at midday, so Herford returned to the hotel at 10.30, the time at which he had arranged to meet the prospective customer for his suit. As he had expected, no one arrived. When he went to the desk to pay his bill, the receptionist failed to conceal her surprise at his producing roubles instead of dollars. The guide returned to escort him to the station, presuming that his charge had not left the confines of the hotel. Fortunately the outing had passed without attracting any interest from the army of secret police which infested the city.

  The station was a heavy mass of drab humanity, whose unwashed smell immediately assaulted the delicate British nose. These weary travellers had apparently been waiting many hours to board a train which had not yet left the station. They clung improbably to every spare inch of the outside of the carriages, but could not possibly have hoped to survive the cold once the train got under way! Herford was greatly relieved to find that they were not trying to board the Odessa train.

  There were two classes of travel on Russian trains: hard and soft. Hard meant unreserved wooden benches and a bumpy ride. Herford was booked into the soft class, and had a sleeping bunk in the carriages reserved for officials. Many of the other passengers appeared to be army officers, and in contrast to the chaos in the rest of the station the platform was clear and orderly. Each carriage was presided over by a railway guide who showed the passenger to their compartment. There were four berths in each, but the bunk above Herford’s had a broken strap, and so he had a whole side to himself.

  He said goodbye to his guide who hurried away without taking a tip. The train groaned ominously then pulled off with a violent jerk; passengers soon learned to brace themselves against this attempted fracture of the couplings which occurred after every stop. The berth was neat and comfortable. There was a thick feather mattress, an eiderdown and a pillow, all in clean white covers. Herford’s two travelling companions for the next 48 hours were a frail woman in her seventies and a younger man who was evidently her son. She was clearly not in good health. Their clothes were clean and tidy, but almost threadbare, and their luggage was squeezed into a rickety old hamper and a large washing basket. The man’s more valuable personal possessions were tied up in a red bandanna handkerchief of the kind workmen used to carry their sandwiches. But despite their outward appearance of poverty, they seemed very kindly and refined people.

  When the train was underway Herford broke the ice by getting out his primus stove and brewing up some tea, and was pleased to discover that the man spoke enough German for them to carry on a halting conversation. At first they merely exchanged pleasantries and small talk, and as they headed south the man pointed out one of the former palaces of the Czars which stands not far from Leningrad, a magnificent colonnaded building which rose imposingly out of the bare winter landscape.

  The first day passed without the Russian and his mother engaging in anything other than cautious polite conversation, over cups of tea brewed on the primus, and when the man spoke, Herford noticed that it was in hushed tones and only when the compartment door was closed. The man did not tell Herford his name, but was not so reticent when it came to expressing an interest in his tinned provisions and his supply of bread, butter and cheese, all of which were apparently in very short supply in Russia, and which he was only too happy to share.

  During the brief hours of daylight Herford spent much time watching the landscape race by, and noticed many Russian soldiers in the fields learning the skills of cross-country skiing. Later that year, when the Germans invaded Russia, the Russians employed ski-borne troops and made ingenious use of machine guns and anti-tank guns mounted on sleighs, some of them powered and driven by aeroplane propellers. The Germans would find themselves at the same disadvantage as the Russians ambushed in the Finnish forests.

  On the second day Herford woke early and was washed and shaved before most of the other passengers had stirred. He shared another cup of tea with his companions, and much to his pleasure found that he had begun to win their trust. He gleaned that the man was an engineer who specialized in mining problems. He did not discuss the details of his work, but was obviously a technical expert who had been of considerable use to the government and who had now reached a highly responsible po
sition. He said that his duties took him all over Russia – from Vladivostok to Moscow, to Odessa and to Baku on the Caspian Sea. Herford told them of his adventures in Leningrad, and to his surprise the man asked if he still wanted to sell the suit. Herford said he could spare it, and sold it for the bargain price of 600 roubles.

  The subject which fascinated the Russians most was the comparative conditions in their two countries. The man said candidly that the position across the whole country was bad; essential supplies were short and millions lived in extreme poverty. Moscow was the main commercial centre and was comparatively wealthy. However, Leningrad came a long way behind, next Odessa, and after that conditions deteriorated yet further. In the smaller towns and villages, which housed most of the population, the peasants lived no differently from their grandfathers, without basic services such as electricity and sanitation. They endured conditions far inferior to those of the labourers and workers of Western Europe, and if they fell ill, the chances of receiving proper medical treatment were slender. Rural doctors tended to be extremely ignorant, and in some areas medical qualifications could practically be bought.

  Even for the middle classes, existence was hand to mouth. The average salary was between 8,000 and 10,000 roubles per month, which was barely sufficient to cover essentials – when they were available. As soon as a shop received a supply of a desirable item such as pairs of boots, word would spread through the neighbourhood and a queue soon formed. People would wait in hope for hours, only to be turned away empty handed. Simple items such as Herford’s pencils were considered a rare luxury. It was almost impossible, he said, to get any good pencils in Russia, but they were essential tools for a draughtsman. A few years previously he had succeeded in getting a supply from abroad and had been the subject of great envy among his colleagues.