My senses sharpened when we finally arrived in Leningrad. Nearing the center of the city, we saw few cars on the streets. The cars were mostly small, and some veered around in odd ways. Buses were numerous, mostly unwashed, and often with multiple dents.

Our tour included rooms in what had been described as one of the city’s best tourist hotels. Its large front windows were grimy. Its lobby had little charm. Martti and I shared a double room. Assuming it came with listening devices, we made little comments to our supposed KGB listeners.

We had dinner in the hotel’s spacious restaurant that night. A large staff of waiters scurried about taking orders and delivering dinners. But other doings were afoot. Waiters would stop at a table, lift a plate to retrieve something underneath, hustle away, and return moments later to place something else under the same plate. Western currency was being traded for black market rubles openly. Bribes likely had been made to keep the authorities at bay.

After some hesitation, after all this was Russia, Martti nervously placed some markkas under his plate and nodded to a passing waiter. His markkas promptly were replaced with rubles at something like three times the official exchange rate.

Leningrad became a blur of elaborate buildings, pedestrian-filled streets, very few restaurants (we ate only one dinner outside the hotel), the majesty and enormity of the Hermitage Museum, pure awe while standing near the remains of Dostoevsky and Tchaikovsky, and Sunday evening subway rides to and from a fabulous ballet performance (our tickets amazingly inexpensive).

On Monday morning Martti and I boarded our return bus and watched our fellow passengers, bedraggled to a man, come in. Their morning greetings, Hyvää huomenta, were typically lyrical, but grunted painfully and with scratched voices.  As our bus left the city, conversations commenced, softly at first but growing louder as details of the days, or rather the nights, came to light. Martti translated some of the more salacious details for me. A good time had been had by all!

We again stopped in a number of towns to be checked by military types and have the slanted mirror rolled around our bus to make sure no citizen was slipping about unlawfully. Then we stopped at the border for the now familiar routine. The same sturdy guard I’d dealt with earlier was on duty. He again hand checked my pockets and found a ruble bill I had missed. “A souvenir, huh?” he said, giving it to me and patting my shoulder. We crossed the Finnish side in a breeze and returned to Kuopio.

In 1948, E.B. White wrote in The New Yorker, “Socialism holds itself responsible to the people for the use and management of resources, and in so doing is likely to end up (as it has in Russia) by managing everything, including the citizen’s private life, his thoughts, his arts, and his science.” Decades later I saw firsthand the accuracy of his words.

A letter in yesterday’s Wall Street Journal (30 Oct 2020) describes Hungary in the 1950s. “The Communist government claimed 100% employment. Everyone had a job, regardless of qualification, received a paycheck, and survived.  Ultimately the government ran out of money, the system collapsed, the unemployment rate soared, and we all know the rest of the story.”

While I was in Kuopio during the late 1980s, a professor friend of mine suggested we sign up for a long weekend bus tour to Leningrad, as the city then was known. I agreed immediately for I had never been to Russia.

Martti and I sketched an itinerary that included a visit to the Hermitage Museum, a ballet performance, and other options, all of which sounded great to me. Beyond that, I knew a number of my favorite Russians were buried in that city, and I was eager to visit their grave sites, especially those of Dostoevsky and Tchaikovsky.

When we arrived at the bus station, I was surprised to find that most of our fellow passengers were men ranging from perhaps 17 to 40 years of age. The Finnish male crowd puzzled me. They didn’t strike me as a group yearning for culture. Martti, hearing their conversations, explained their goals. Those guys were heading to Leningrad for two reasons: cheap vodka and cheap women.

The southeasterly bus trip was relatively short, less that 250 miles one way, which is about the same distance that Helsinki, the Finnish capital, lies southwest of Kuopio. When we approached the Russian border, Martti prepared  me for what lay ahead as we filled out the required entry forms.

The Russian border guards would be strict, he said. We passengers would be forced to get out while the guards searched the bus. I looked around. There were lots of neat hiding places. Each seat had a little flap of cloth on the headrest. I thought how easy it would be to stow a few Western bills, say U.S. dollars or Finnish markkas, under them and outsmart the Russian Bear. Ditto with the roll-down map above the driver’s head, I thought rather smugly.

Armed guards stood alert as our bus slowed for the border. After quick clearance from the Finnish side, we crossed over the line, the bus stopped, and we all got out. While we were waiting to show our passports and be processed, I watched two guards climb into the bus. One moved to the back, another stayed in front. They began moving slowly toward each other, stopping at each row, looking under the seats, pulling up the little cloth headrests, taking their time. And yes, they even unrolled the map above the driver’s seat.

Another Russian showed up with a low pushcart upon which a large slanted mirror was attached. He rolled it slowly around the base of the bus, the mirror providing him a clear view underneath it. No one could slip into the country by hiding there.

In line for my clearance, I had emptied my pockets as instructed. The stocky guard grinned when he saw my U.S. passport. “Why you come with Finnish group?” he asked. I explained. He bantered a bit, proud of his English, and then without warning stuck his hand deep into one of my front pockets. He then hand checked every one. Welcome to the USSR. Da!

After we all finally were vetted, we boarded our bus and drove on. No passenger entered or left the bus on our final leg, but we were stopped in various towns where a military type came in to check our passports. And at every stop a little cart with mirror atop was pushed slowly around the bus. Martti explained that Russian citizens needed to get permission to travel between towns. Big Brother was making sure none of them sneaked about. That’s enough for this post. I’ll finish this story later.