Return to Russia

by Sonia Parsons (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

I didn't expect to find Russia

It had been just 10 years since I was last in Russia, but it could have been 100. The difference was unfathomable. On a school trip in the 80’s, I had been stunned by the bleak monochromatic welcome. It had turned a cocky group of teenagers into homesick little girls and boys. It was utterly alien, from the sour milk breakfast to the unending expanse of grey – grey apartment blocks, grey skies, grey faces. Bolshoi ballet, Red Square, children dancing in traditional costume, a train ride to Leningrad, the Hermitage, Winter Palace….these pictures that should have been delightful were all colourless, tarnished with an air of anxiety and repression. What did I tell my parents? That there were no adverts. No colours. No enticements. That there were no real shops, just occasional unmarked buildings selling essentials. That we saw a crowd of women, in layers of rough cloth and fur hats, elbowing their neighbours in a fight to reach a bread counter where they would purchase a ticket before scrambling to the collection point. That we had money in our pockets, carefully counted by immigration officers when we arrived, but nowhere to use it, apart from an ancient bookshop that sold maps and CCCP badges, which we snapped up as ‘will have to do’ gifts. That even ice cream, which we craved after 3 days of blandness, was grey and gritty. And yet the value of this journey was unquestionable. There were moments of joy, like the spontaneous snowball fight with fur-cocooned five-year olds who were ruthless and excitedly grabbed all our sweets. We returned with notebooks jammed with facts, brains stretching to absorb the culture we had been touched by. We had overlaid the history of communist ideology in our study books with our own observations. We had seen collectivism and equality, but no power to the people. My return to Moscow in the late 90’s was like a head-on collision. The power of the place was thundering – it had completely changed shape but its impact was immense. Someone had re-released this old black and white classic in technicolour. It was blinding. I was overcome by the polarity. As if kids had held a wild party in my grandmother’s house; where before there were washed out walls and broken linoleum floors, now the walkways were shouting about excursions, advertisements, shops selling actual things you might actually want to buy. I was unable to find anything familiar from my last visit. This time I was representing a school which necessitated a courtesy visit to a wealthy parent. He was mafia-slick, smooth and over-polite. He gifted use of a car, with a cap-clad driver and stern but beautiful interpreter in the back. “ Tell them where you want to visit. They will take you” he said. I was in a 007 movie and I didn’t have my script. I had never felt so naïve. I tried to look the part, settling into the plush leather seat like I belonged, but there was a seedy air about this; a code that I was not party to. I was at a secret party and no-one had told me the password. I made my excuses and returned to Red Square, walking slowly, absorbing the new Russia. Where there had been only shuffling ghostly shapes hidden beneath woollen layers, now there were fashionistas and sharp businessmen, striding with purpose and flashing with bling. The averaged-out crowd of the past had been exploded, creating vastly polarised extremes. And here I saw a wrinkled huddle of cloth at the lowest end of that divide. She was ancient and bowed, sitting on the steps of a church, her tiny cupped hand extended. I placed a large note there. There was a moment of stillness. Her head raised slowly and she looked at the gift. More stillness. I gently closed her fingers around the note. She looked at me. Her eyes were liquid and cloudy. She clasped my hand and closed her eyes, nodding. That gesture was what gave me warmth in this frozen country. She understood the code. She had given me the password.