ST PETERSBURG

 

The airport was at some distance from the city. And after touchdown, the weather that greeted the trippers on the tarmac was wet, grey and chilly - very British in fact; and very British some of my compatriots looked, too, with their hitherto undisclosed plastic macs and fold-up umbrellas! But the holiday experience was about to surprise everyone. Neither we nor the world at large was yet aware of the imminent changes to the city’s status; the airport duty-free shop was more sensational than anything anyone had seen since arrival in Moscow; and there was an English-language advertisement on display inviting travellers to sample the Indian restaurant.

 

The first thing everyone did was to descend on the duty-free shop with a view to some basic luxuries such as bottled water without an unpleasant taste, or a bag of toffees. Personally, I went a little further than the welcome luxury of two fruit-and-nut bars by investing in cigars and vodka as well; but at several times its street value, I steered clear of the caviar.

 

Finally, before quitting the airport, the fried chicken lunch in the spacious dining area was well above average - although to place it on a par with Odessa’s Retro restaurant would have been an overstatement. On the other hand, after comparing it with what our new hosts were about to serve us with, it was truly exceptional.

 

AN UNEXPECTED PREVIEW

​

The local guide who joined us on the coach for the trip from the airport into town was at first difficult to understand due to her strong accent. She was a kindly woman - somewhat forlorn perhaps, and a little over-made-up. Nevertheless, she earned everyone’s sympathy and admiration for the highly detailed account she gave us of the city’s past history and current conditions. We were also grateful for her thoroughness, bearing in mind that she found it hard to keep going at so great a length in English. Despite which, such was her grasp of facts and figures that, using a pocket recorder, I decided to preserve an account of what she had to tell us during the long drive into the city which culminated later on at the Hotel Moskva.

 

Siege of Leningrad

 

The German Siege of Leningrad, we were told, lasted nine hundred days in all - during which time there was widespread destruction of property due to the shelling which also accounted for seventeen thousand deaths. This total was outstripped, however, by the effects of starvation at a time when the daily bread ration could be as little as a few grammes a day. Deaths from this cause alone exceeded the effects of the shelling and amounted to over six hundred and fifty thousand men, women and children.

 

By leaping directly from the foregoing into a critical account of current conditions, our guide made it clear that the people’s endurance had so far received scant recompense. Among other things, she cited the crash building programme to rehouse everybody in one-room flats. These, she declared, had become the norm for the entire population - meaning that, in practice, there were several families, each occupying single rooms, on every floor of the municipal blocks with only one kitchen and bathroom per storey between them! Such was the state of affairs that, despite a plan to provide a separate flat for each family by the year 2005, the divorce rate in the city was one in two. Furthermore, births were dropping sharply because (in our guide’s view) people were simply unwilling to procreate under such circumstances. It was a ferocious indictment; and for relatively well-off westerners in 1991, it was difficult to believe.

 

* * *

 

We were already well acquainted with the fact that food was rationed throughout the country. For example, I’d observed long bread queues in Kiev and had noted that, however long it took to acquire, each person emerged from the shop with nothing more than a single loaf. Our guide now told us that the monthly allocation of meat was one and a half kilos - which boiled down to about fifty grammes a day. I can no longer recall whether this figure was per person or per family; but whatever the truth of the matter, for those of us who can get through, say, two sausages and two rashers of bacon for breakfast - not to mention the bread, marmalade and coffee - the information was very hard indeed to assimilate.

 

Something in the Air

 

In the midst of this depressing account of past and present hardships, our guide was suddenly alerted to the fact that the driver wanted a word with her; and after a short, visibly animated conversation, we all realised there was something in the air. She then resumed her introductory talk with a much brighter expression on her face. And there was a very good reason for it: namely, that while the driver was listening to the radio, he’d heard the amazing news that, by official decree, the city’s name had been changed; with the result that now, after a virtual lifetime, Leningrad was once again to be known as St Petersburg.

 

This was sensational news! Everyone on board clapped enthusiastically whilst some of them gasped... and our guide looked radiant. She also looked more relaxed: it was as if, at last, she’d got used to us. And so, by way of celebration, she had what I suspect was a ready-made joke to tell about the chronic conditions in her native country. It concerned the allegation that even if one had the money for a private car, it would take ten years to get it. Here is the gist of the joke.

 

A young man acquired sufficient funds to buy a car and went along to the appropriate state office to place his order. The official offered him a form which took a long time to complete - after which the young man handed it back to be checked. This again took some time to accomplish, given the endless uncertainties; and there was further prolonged to’ing and fro’ing between various drawers and files.

The clerk was a by no means insensitive person; and it was without any sort of rancour (he was unable to afford a car himself) that he explained to the intending purchaser that he would have to wait ten years.

‘Will delivery be in the morning or the afternoon?’ asked the young man.

‘What the hell does it matter’ answered the clerk ‘when we’re talking about the year 2001?’

‘It’s essential I take delivery in the morning’ came the reply. ‘I have a plumber booked for the same day in the afternoon!’

 

HOTEL MOSKVA

 

As we approached the end of our drive from the airport to the Hotel Moskva - and having so far listened with interest to the points our guide felt we should know - one of my fellow travellers mentioned that, according to her Intourist leaflet, the hotel was sited on the corner of Alexander Nevsky Ploshchad; and since she’d often noticed this name in the course of our tour, she thought it might be interesting to understand the background.

 

Our guide was more than willing to oblige, and explained that, in Russia, Alexander Nevsky was a very big name. Born in the year 1220, he was Prince of Novgorod from 1236 - his critical claim to fame being that, in 1240, he defeated the Swedes on the banks of the River Neva (which happens to cut through St Petersburg). He died in 1263, and left an undying name behind him. He was subsequently canonised by the church and, as our guide went on to inform us, he was still revered as a saint by believers and by non-believers (even by the communists) as a national hero.

 

* * *

 

Having left the coach, and excited by the news we’d just heard on board, we began to take an interest in our latest hotel; and to begin with, the signs looked promising. The entrance lobby had an excellent hard currency shop (assuming visitors were prepared to pay high prices for the familiar-looking foreign goods or the better-than-usual Russian crafts). In addition to this, the entire area was more spacious and contained many more facilities than we’d encountered previously.

 

Enough has been said already about hotels in the course of this story; although it remained a matter of concern for all of us as we gradually built up a picture of the latest example. To be fair, the building and the shops passed muster; and the dining room décor also stood up to critical inspection. On the other hand, the food was probably the most unpalatable and the coldest of the entire trip. On top of this, the fact that the waiters were selling tins of caviar privately at twice the street value was the first sign of a downward spiral. It was painfully obvious, for example, that they were more concerned about their under-the-counter sales than they were about serving the food - so much so that, on the very first evening, several of us got up and helped ourselves from the unattended trolleys.

 

Despite all this, with the country in the state it was, I felt that some of my British companions from conspicuously ordinary backgrounds might have suppressed their anger which caused mature staff to blush without any attempt at retaliation. As waiters, they were almost certainly underpaid and well aware that their performance was a shambles. I therefore felt that instead of being treated like nonentities, they could perhaps have been nudged into modest reductions in the price of the caviar.

 

* * *

 

Lastly, on the subject of hotels, I have to be truthful: for there was yet more bad news for anyone hoping for an improvement on past experience. The bedrooms, viewed purely as functional spaces with a wardrobe, a chest of drawers and a bed, were passable; and the absence of cockroaches was a bonus. On the other hand, I remember that the bath water, after running it for five minutes in an attempt to clear it, was such a deep chocolate brown that the bottom of the bath and the plug hole vanished almost immediately after turning the tap on! So having braved a similar situation in Kishinyev, I was now face to face with something even worse on the last lap of the tour.

 

THE CITY

 

It would be over-ambitious and ultimately futile to attempt an exhaustive description of St Petersburg within the limits of a journey from one end of Russia to the other - a journey, moreover, compressed into a mere fourteen days. The inevitable result being that the time spent in each location was always too short - and nowhere more so than in St Petersburg. Consider the following comparison. To arrive in London, to visit the Tower and stroll along Oxford Street, to board a tourist bus for a quick look at St Paul’s and the Houses of Parliament from the outside - plus two hours at Tate Britain and a half-day trip to Windsor - all of this would be quite an achievement crammed into little more than a long weekend. And even if it were possible, it would be about as unrepresentative of the quality and quantity of the British capital’s attractions as was my short-lived encounter with the variety and splendour of Russia’s second city. I can safely say, however, that any readers thinking of visiting Russia nowadays would be spending their money to good effect if they decided to concentrate, say, on a week in St Petersburg.

 

* * *

 

As the foregoing introduction implies, I was very impressed with what little I managed to fit in whilst exploring St Petersburg; and although volumes have been written already about what is an internationally acknowledged artistic and architectural gem, I do feel it’s important emphasise the vastness of the open spaces within its confines. Tsar Peter the Great who founded the city as a bastion against the Swedes, naturally had the necessary power and resources. He was greatly assisted, however, by the considerable width of the River Neva (and its many branches) as it made its way to the Baltic at the northern extreme of the city. Moreover, during several centuries of development, broad canals linking the various divisions of this impressive waterway have been added and have led to the description of St Petersburg as the Venice of the North.

 

The river therefore furnishes the grandest of vistas as a backdrop to St Petersburg’s many architectural features. The view upstream across the Bolshaya Neva to the Peter & Paul Fortress is especially emotive if viewed from Dvortsovy Most. Indeed, when I first caught sight of it, a grey drizzle was softening the strip of yellow sunlight torn out of a cloud and setting fire to the gilded weather vane at the apex of the building. The Hermitage Museum & Art Gallery is likewise enhanced when viewed from across the river; although, at the time of our visit, it looked a little shabby but still imposing in its external mantle of mid green and white. And Dvortsovaya Ploshchad, the open square behind it, is more than big enough to engulf Trafalgar Square several times over.

 

The Hermitage

 

I visited The Hermitage art museum on my own. Unfortunately, however, closing time was imminent; and in consequence, I was unable to linger as long as I would have liked in a venue whose displays, as I later found out, included collections first introduced by Catherine the Great. Despite the limited time, I was nevertheless lucky enough to catch a temporary exhibition of Greek and Balkan icons; and I followed this up with a brief look at the museum’s selection of impressionist and post-impressionist paintings. Among those on show, I was particularly struck by Van Gogh’s 1899 close-up of a bush in full bloom that was miraculously transformed from its native light-saturated ordinariness into an enchanting amalgam of greens and yellows pulsating with energy. It was as memorable for its quiet beauty as it was for the unembroidered nature of its title which, bereft of all frills, was simply ‘Lilacs’.

 

That painting remains a poignant memory compared to which, for me, the grand galleries and elegant staircases have faded somewhat with the passage of time. And lastly, just one more, minor footnote is worth mentioning to the following effect: namely, that I’d never before realised that The Hermitage and The Winter Palace were part and parcel of the same complex of buildings. And so, as my brief visit ended, I not only felt uplifted - but also better informed.

 

Petropavlovskaya

 

For many of us, one of the most interesting events during our stay in St Petersburg was an organised trip to the Peter & Paul Fortress - known in Russian as Petropavlovskaya. According to the guide, it was originally built as a defence against the Swedes; and as we soon discovered after arrival, it incorporated a magnificent cathedral containing the tombs of several Tsars. Most spectacular among these was the polished sarcophagus of Alexander II which took seventeen years to carve from a single slab of Altai jasper weighing five tons. Further to which, his wife followed suit, but broke her hsband’s record with a sarcophagus carved from a piece of Urals rhondonite weighing even more at well over six tons!

 

Our guide also pointed out a more recent historical contribution made by the Peter & Paul Fortress: for it was from there, in 1917, that a message was sent to the battleship Aurora moored in the Neva, ordering it to fire on the Winter Palace where the provisional government was holed up. The sympathetic crew mutinied, murdered the commanding officer who tried to stop them, and formed an on-board revolutionary committee. Shortly after this, an appeal from Lenin ‘to the citizens of Russia’ was transmitted by radio from the ship; and at about 21.40 on the twenty-fifth of October 1917, a crew member, gunner Yevgeny Ognev, fired the single shot which, according to reports, was the final signal for the storming of the Winter Palace.

 

Nevsky Prospekt

 

No one is likely to visit St Petersburg without taking a turn along the principal shopping boulevard, Nevsky Prospekt, which is over three kilometres in length from the Admiralty at one end to the Moskva Railway Station at the opposite extreme. A further, less interesting kilometre of Nevsky Prospekt then passes close to an important monastery, to be mentioned again later, which has survived a great deal of past tribulation and which, without our knowing it, was in the news at the time of our tour.

 

For eager tourists like me and the rest of the group, Nevsky Prospekt failed to provide much more in the way of shopping opportunities than the other places we’d so far visited. On the other hand, for those who were really determined, this wasn’t quite true. Unfortunately, however, and still on the negative side, the main and  absolutely vast department store was reminiscent of the covered market in London’s Brixton - although, by contrast with the latter, it stocked almost nothing with a genuinely practical use. With the result that the chief image I took away with me was that of a long line of women selling single pairs of second-hand shoes in the hopes of making a small profit.

 

On the positive side, however, Nevsky Prospekt was also home to several presentable bookshops. Some of these included art departments where souvenirs and gifts were of a much higher standard than we’d found elsewhere - and the prices were infinitesimal compared with the hard currency shops. For example, I obtained three beautifully crafted and painted Russian Easter eggs for just over two pounds each and a charming set of miniature oil paintings selling at roughly the same price.

 

* * *

 

Generally speaking, the best bargains in Russia were in St Petersburg, and the best bargains in St Petersburg were on the streets. I therefore found myself considering some exquisitely painted lacquer boxes for between twenty-four and forty-two pounds on wayside stalls compared with similar items at up to three hundred pounds in the hard currency shops. I also obtained two small bottles of authentic Russian vodka that would have cost unbelievably more in London’s West End. And finally, Russian dolls - each of the series fitting inside the next largest - were at their very best in St Petersburg in terms of their traditional decorative motifs and sensitively selected colours.

 

In the end, therefore, I found Nevsky Prospekt both interesting and very much alive - even in the rain. And although I had so little time, the network of canals, each cutting through the tangle of streets, provided intriguing and elegant architectural enticements to areas well off the beaten track. Particularly grand was the ornate and colourful church mysteriously dedicated to ‘The Saviour on (the Field of) Spilled Blood’. Unfortunately, despite trying, I’ve never managed to confirm the true form or significance of this title; for example, could it possibly be a reference to - Golgotha? Equally intriguing but less perplexing was the discovery that the church had been extended in such a way as to incorporate within its walls the exact spot where Tsar Alexander II alighted from his coach and was assassinated on the thirteenth of March 1881.

 

Also of interest, back on Nevsky Prospekt, was the Cathedral of Our Lady of Kazan whose name refers to one of the Orthodox Church’s most venerated icons which, by tradition, is housed in the Monastery of the Mother of God in the city of Kazan - a city that lies far away beside the Volga to the east of Nizhni Novgorod.

 

St Isaak’s Cathedral

 

Looking back at our stay in St Petersburg, I now realise I spent far more time than my fellow tourists exploring on my own - partly because their interests and mine tended to differ and partly because I was travelling unaccompanied and therefore able to break free from the encumbrance of conflicting preferences. But that certainly didn’t mean I missed any of the organised tours; and prominent among these was a visit to St Isaak’s cathedral in Isaakiyevskaya Ploshchad.

 

At that time, although about to reopen as a church, it was still being officially described as a ‘history museum’. And it was soon more than clear that our guide was very proud of it as a structure. According to his somewhat ardent testimony, it was the biggest cathedral in the world after St Peters in Rome, London’s St Paul’s and St Mark’s, Venice. The mighty dome, he added, had recently been regilded after having been painted grey during the Leningrad siege in order to reduce the temptation of the Germans (then just outside the city) to use it for target practice.

 

Once inside, we discovered an interior aglow with coloured marbles which, for me at least, greatly outshone what I still regard as the heaviness - even dullness - of St Paul’s in London. The elaborate iconostasis (a screen, characteristic of Orthodox churches) separated the sanctuary from the nave; and with its doors slightly ajar, we were able to see a vast, stained glass window depicting Christ at the far end.

 

Our guide, still very much enthused, then smuggled us surreptitiously through the doors and into what, at least in theory, was ‘sacred space’. For unfamiliar visitors like us, of course, it seemed a somewhat presumptuous gesture; on the other hand, it provided us with a glimpse of what it must once have been like to be present at the heart of the liturgy - an experience from which, even today, congregations are excluded while the priests, in a very real sense, re-enact the Last Supper in splendid isolation.

 

Before accompanying us back to the hotel, our guide had one final, somewhat obscure news item in store for us: namely, the proposition that St Isaak’s was the only cathedral in Russia with a pulpit - a feature attributable to the fact that the architect had originally come from Italy where all the churches have a pulpit - as they do just as commonly in England and everywhere else in western Christendom.

I couldn’t help feeling, however, that in all probability, one or two of my fellow travellers had never seen the inside of a church before they landed in Russia where, unlike churches in the West, sermons are preached standing at ground level on the sanctuary steps rather than from a specially built structure.

 

THE ALEXANDER NEVSKY LAVRA

 

Although hidden from direct view, the Alexander Nevsky Lavra was situated opposite the Moskva Hotel where we were staying - a circumstance that would shortly contribute much drama in the eyes of a group of unsuspecting tourists such as ourselves. Looking back, it was also a remarkable coincidence that what happened took place so soon after the change of name from Leningrad to St Petersburg. And stranger still was the fact that, had it not been for my interest in the Russian Orthodox church, none of us would have stumbled on an event which, to say the least, was dramatic both in its own right and in terms of the particular date and timing of its occurrence.

 

* * *

 

During our first evening at Hotel Moskva, most of us assembled for dinner in the street-level dining room where the windows looked out across the main thoroughfare and provided a view of the buildings opposite - buildings that incorporated a stone archway leading directly to the monastery and its cathedral church which, without walking through the arch and along a winding footpath, was completely hidden. It goes without saying, of course, that having arrived at the hotel only recently, plus the time spent on the city tour, none of us had so far found an opportunity for exploring the local environment.

 

By this point in our visit to Russia, I’d become part of a small number of people who, as time wore on, had fallen into the habit of gathering as a group for meals. I’ve now forgotten who most of them were. However, I do recall two middle-aged couples with whom I got on particularly well: firstly, David and Ruth from Fortis Green in North London; and secondly, Desmond and his wife Joyce from Lyndhurst in Hampshire. Lyndhurst along with the nearby village of Bartley were Where my mother was born and bred - a factor, no doubt, that played its part in promoting a cordial relationship.

 

My seat at table meant that, during the conversation, I was able to look through the windows at the still undiscovered world beyond. My scrutiny was superficial, however, and my main focus was on what people were talking about; but I clearly remember noticing it was busier on the far side of the road than on the near side - although, at first, this didn’t seem significant. All the same, after we’d finished our rather unremarkable evening meal, I left the others to their own devices; and being increasingly curious about our new location, I decided to take a stroll. And once outside, of course, it was much easier to appreciate that the activity on the far side of the road was due to the large number of people to’ing-and-fro’ing through the archway for some special reason which, as things stood, was far from obvious.

 

Driven by natural curiosity about a circumstance that lacked an explanation, I therefore crossed the road to see for myself what was afoot - although, to begin with, I was reluctant to abandon the bright lights of the public highway en route to a questionable journey’s end. I pressed on, however; and having followed the crowd and turned a corner, I was eventually relieved to discover we were approaching what I soon found out was a cathedral - a cathedral, moreover, of unique importance both to the country in general and to a significant number of its people.

 

The Heart of Russian Culture

 

Now that I could see where I was going, I gradually became aware of a choir singing within the confines of what sounded like a vast empty space; and yet, despite the consequent hollowness, it was clearly characteristic of Russian church music which is exclusively choral and yet endowed with the richness associated with an instrumental accompaniment. This effect, however, is achieved solely by the harmonious combination and varying pitch of the singers’ voices. And so, with rising enthusiasm, and given my special interest, I found myself gathering pace as I approached the door - although there was no need to have hurried, for I was about to witness a highly charged ceremony which, as I eventually discovered, was still far from its conclusion.

 

Unlike some parts of the world where, as a foreigner, one is immediately noticed, in St Petersburg... in the cathedral of St Alexander Nevsky... it was easy to melt into the crowd and absorb the spectacle - and spectacle really was the right word. There was the sheer volume of space - although any hint of emptiness was countered by the number of people present. Furthermore, there was the additional sense of movement running alongside the service because, apart from the old or infirm, Russian congregations habitually stand without necessarily standing still. And this enables anyone who so wishes to visit the many icons whilst, at the same time, keeping abreast of the liturgy.

 

To begin with, of course, I was gripped by the many competing points of interest. For example, some of the paintings and icons were among the most evocative and visually opulent of the entire tour; and votive lamps were burning everywhere - their flames glimmering through the red, blue and green glass vessels containing them. Moreover, as if this wasn’t enough, there was also the sharp, sweet-smelling tang of incense adrift in the air - in addition to which there were two choirs rather than one - the first standing on the sanctuary steps and the second on the balcony above the cathedral’s main entrance.

 

* * *

 

These were my first, random impressions - memorable impressions, too, that formed a vivid backdrop to what was clearly a celebration of some sort - although, as I looked and listened, the precise nature of the event remained a mystery. Mystery or no mystery, however, for the first time since leaving London, I felt I was as close as I was ever likely to get to the heart of Russian culture. It was an indefinable but very particular sort of feeling.

 

It was also a perception for which there was much supporting evidence. Starting with the sheer scale of the building, every detail was magnificent. And whilst I stood there fully engrossed, a group of several priests (surrounded on three sides by the congregation) gathered in the nave where they chanted a series of solemn invocations that featured the deep baritone, quintessentially Russian voices which, until then, I’d only heard as recordings. There were many other details all-too-easy to miss: for example, the two acolytes (still obviously in their teens) dressed in cloth-of-gold dalmatics as they stood resolutely at the sanctuary doors. I also spotted two nuns - which caught me off guard since they were the first I’d encountered since arriving in a country that was full of surprises as it began to emerge from a troubled and repressive past.

 

It was only by chance, of course, that I’d stumbled on this unique ceremony; and I’d also arrived early enough to absorb the ambience in full. In retrospect, I’m particularly glad not to have missed the concluding moment - the climax, one might say - when the sanctuary doors slowly opened, thereby exposing to view the softly lit interior from which the Metropolitan, in blue and white vestments, advanced to the head of the steps to preach. Clearly a very old man who’d seen things that luckily, coming from abroad, we’d never had the misfortune to witness ourselves, he nevertheless spoke at length in a mellifluous, reassuring manner - something I strongly felt although I couldn’t understand a word of it. And finally, to mark the conclusion of a very long service, he headed a procession out of the building followed by the congregation whom he briefly addressed before they dispersed and made for home. As to what it was all about, however, I was still very much in the dark.

 

* * *

 

On the following morning during breakfast, my usual mealtime companions were greatly intrigued when I described my experiences of the previous day - and none more so than Ruth, David, Desmond and Joyce who were eager to visit the cathedral, and asked if I’d care to accompany them. I was more than happy to do so, of course: their curiosity was quite natural - as was my own desire to take another look at the scene of the spectacle I’d described.

 

And so it was that, a little over an hour later, all five of us reached the cathedral and found ourselves on exactly the same spot at the back where I’d been standing less than twenty-four hours previously. The smell of incense still lingered in the air. And for me in particular, in the absence of the former crowds, the building seemed even larger than before - and emptier, too - notwithstanding which, the lamps were still burning; and a few devout believers were loitering in dark corners, lighting candles and murmuring prayers.

 

For want of a better way of putting it, there was still an almost tangible sense of other-worldliness about the place; and this, for my companions, produced an awestruck silence until Ruth, with a slight tremor in her voice, expressed her support and concern for a church which, as everyone knew, had come close to extinction as a result of the communist government’s campaign against religion. And with that in mind, there was a general feeling of disappointment that now, at a time of greater freedom, they’d missed the celebration at which, by sheer chance, I’d had the good fortune to be present.

​

A Violent Interlude

 

After leaving the church, these reflections seemed to follow us like a cloud; and we paused just outside to gaze rather helplessly at the notice board. I think my companions were hoping there might be some sort of follow-up event - an event enabling them to gain an impression, however imperfect, of what I’d described over breakfast. All too obviously, however, none of us would have been able to understand the language even if we’d managed to master the alphabet - although the date in Roman numerals confirmed that it was 31 August 1991 and that, sadly, with the end of our holiday fast approaching, there was no time left.

 

Earlier on, I described Russia as a country full of surprises. And whilst we stood there chattering amongst ourselves, this casual aside was borne out when we were interrupted by the obviously English voice of a young man behind us who wondered if he could be of any assistance. It was an offer I took advantage of by mentioning the service I’d so recently attended. But before I had time to elaborate, everyone somewhat predictably chipped in and enquired whether he could shed any light on what had clearly been a major event.

 

He was quick to respond; and to begin with, from his detailed answer, we learned that he was attached to the monastery and was considering holy orders. From which standpoint, as things turned out, he was able to go well beyond the bare fact that the previous day, August 30, had been the feast of St Alexander Nevsky to whom the monastery and its cathedral were dedicated and where, until the Revolution, the saint’s relics had been kept. We were all well aware, of course, that the history of the Russian Revolution had been bloody; nevertheless, to put it mildly, we didn’t know what to expect and were therefore taken aback when he described the following tragedy that occurred, more or less literally, on the ground beneath our feet.

* * *

 

By the time disaster struck, he told us, religious institutions had been all but outlawed and, from one end of Russia to the other, church members (especially the clergy) were declared enemies of the people. As a result of this, in 1919, a squad of revolutionary zealots invaded the monastery, herding the monks outside and into their own cemetery where they were immediately shot. Not only that, he added, but priests still at the altar were also murdered and their bodies unceremoniously disposed of.

 

But this was not the end of the story: for in addition to sheer brutality, there was a second, more calculating motive behind these events: the object being to stamp out the popular association between religion and a national hero like Alexander Nevsky who also happened to be a canonised saint of the Orthodox Church. Consequently, in order to further this aim, the authorities had the silver sarcophagus containing the saint’s relics taken from the cathedral. After which, as a work of art, it was exhibited in The Hermitage, whereas the bodily remains were consigned to St Petersburg’s ‘Anti-Religion Museum’. And this, as our informant went on to tell us, was how things stood throughout the many intervening years until, in 1989, the Russian Government (by then more liberal) sanctioned the restoration of the relics to the Monastery - a concession, however, that so far hadn’t been extended to the sarcophagus.

 

We were very grateful to our informant whom we never expected to meet and whose name we never knew. And for a while after he returned to the church and disappeared inside, our conversation was perfunctory and hushed. On our way back to the hotel, however, we all agreed that the celebration I’d witnessed was something more than the feast day of St Alexander Nevsky, the national hero who accounted for so many of the country’s street names; it was also pointer to the fact that, in 1989, his relics had been returned to their former resting place. And, with luck (or so we hoped), it marked the prospect of a better future for the country at large.

 

Once we were back inside the hotel, although it was difficult to close our minds to what we’d seen and heard that morning, the appearance of a new set of guests reminded us of the fact that, regrettably, the next day’s excursion would be the last before our final departure for home. And in a curious way, given the many inspirational events so far met with during our travels, the return flight to Heathrow seemed much less attractive than it did when viewed from the vantage point of cold meals, cold baths and cockroaches.

​