Marvin Kalb: The Year I Was Peter the Great: 1956 - Khrushchev, Stalin's Ghost, and a Young American in Russia

“Do not worry,” he assured me. “You have my word.”

“What time tomorrow?” I asked.

“Five in the afternoon,” he said. “No doubt about it.”

His assurance left me more anxious than ever, but I had no alternative. He was doing me a favor. He knew it; I knew it. “See you tomorrow at five,” I said, emphasizing the word “tomorrow.” He again smiled. We agreed on the documents to be microfilmed and shook hands once more, and I returned to the Astoria, where, much to my surprise, I spotted Sasha pacing near the taxi line to the right of the main entrance.

“Come with me,” Sasha said, putting his right hand under my left arm. “I want to show you what Leningrad is really like.”

I had not expected to see Sasha until the following day—that is, if he called me at all, which I considered far from certain. “Were you waiting for me long, Sasha? I am so happy to see you.”

“No, only a few minutes,” he lied poorly.

“But where are we going?”

“I’ll show you soon enough.”

We walked briskly to a bus stop on the Nevsky Prospekt and boarded a waiting bus. After a few minutes, as I stared out the window, I had a feeling that we had just been transported in time and place, suddenly finding ourselves in another city. The streets were narrower, and dirtier, and the people were dressed in shabby clothes, looking nothing like the comparatively well-dressed members of the nomenklatura strolling along the Nevsky. I spotted a street sign—Prospekt Gaza, named for a Bolshevik worker at a nearby factory.

Sasha pointed out the window. “Further down this road are the Putilov Works. You remember, they played a very prominent role in the revolution.” I did remember, of course, but Sasha continued anyway. “It’s very important, this factory, because in 1917, Stalin spoke there twice.” It was his sort of political humor.

We never did get to the Putilov Works. To my left, as we entered the vast Narva Square, I saw the historic Narva Triumphal Arch, constructed in 1814 to commemorate Russia’s historic victory over Napoleon, and I wanted to get off the bus and see it more closely. Sasha was delighted to oblige. “In the old days, before the revolution, I’m told, the gate was in a park filled with trees, and it was very beautiful. But now, as you can see, it is surrounded by apartment houses, and it is not pretty at all.” Maybe not pretty, I agreed, but it was impressive and powerful, a reminder of a great moment in Russian history. I had read somewhere that during the Nazi siege the huge columns blocked German tanks from entering the center of the city.

We walked through the vast square, stopping every now and then to look more closely at an interesting frieze or cornice, and then we entered dark narrow streets, crowded with early-evening shoppers, the women wearing heavy woolen scarves over their heads and shoulders and the men wearing fur hats with ear flaps left defiantly open. Each person seemed to be carrying a loaf of bread, essential for their dinner. They moved past old, small houses with cracked walls and broken windows. Children played on the ice, sliding down small inclines on the seat of their pants. They were having a good time.

“You were spending too much time on the Nevsky,” said Sasha, breaking into my bleak urban reverie. “This is the real Leningrad, and these are the people who made the revolution. They represent the true proletariat. The revolution was made in their name. Now look at them. Look how they live, how they dress.” Anger and disappointment swept over his face, emotions so out of character with his generally mild, ascetic appearance.

“How would you like to have a beer?” he asked. “It’s not Ballantine, but it’ll have to do.” He smiled when he said “Ballantine.” “I know lots of trade names, like Chevrolet, Chrysler—is Fritz Kreisler really the manager of the Chrysler automobile company?—and Coca-Cola—have you ever really drunk Coca-Cola?” A beer seemed like a good idea.

We entered a pivnoy zal , a beer hall. It was small and smoky, filled with round tables but no chairs. I attracted immediate attention, standing at least a head or more taller than most of the clientele, and I was wearing a tweed overcoat, Western in design. The men there all wore dark coats, and many were drunk. Their favorite drink, it seemed, was vodka with beer chasers. They cursed in loud voices and seemed to take an instant dislike to me.

Sasha ordered two beers and we brought them to a table. A few feet away, around another table, four very drunk Russians stared resentfully at me and Sasha. One snarled, raising his fist, as though ready to fight. “Why would a stilyag come here? Why, I ask? To show off, that’s why. To show off.” He took a menacing step toward me. Sasha held up his hand, urging everyone to stay calm, but his effort failed.

Now not one but two men staggered toward us. “I hate stilyagi ,” one of them hissed. He obviously thought we were rich Russians. “I hate you well-dressed stilyagi ,” he bellowed. “I hate you and your Western clothing.” He turned toward his friend, and shouted, “I wouldn’t give two kopecks for his coat, or his hat or his suit. I hate him. And, you know, he does not really look like a Russian. He looks like one of those Germans I used to see during the war, and I hate Germans, I hate Germans, and I hate stilyagi .”

The atmosphere chilled. Everyone expected a fight to break out at any moment. The drunks formed a circle around us. I made a quick decision. I would speak in English and praise Leningrad. If I had spoken in Russian, they would have assumed I was a Soviet citizen, though perhaps not from Leningrad, maybe from the Baltic area or Moscow. “I love Leningrad,” I said, with as much of a smile as I could manage, “and I admire the Russian people.” A question clouded many faces. “Maybe he is a foreigner,” I heard one Russian say.

“No,” the loudest of the loud drunks exclaimed, before anyone else could speak. “He’s a stilyag , a rich stilyag . They come here and boast about how rich they are. I know his type. They’re all over here these days.”

His friend, equally drunk but suddenly more cautious, asked me if I was a foreigner. I pretended I did not understand him. I repeated what I had said earlier—that I “loved” Leningrad and “admired” the Russian people. The loud drunk lunged toward me, but his more cautious friend intervened, grabbed him by the collar, and threw him to the floor.

“Stop it,” he cried, shaking his head. “He may really be a foreigner.”

The loud drunk got up from the floor and again staggered toward me, but this time he did not look as though he wanted to fight. He turned to his friends and roared, “I shall ask him.” Sasha quickly stepped between us.

“Sasha,” I shouted in English, “let him come. It’ll be okay.” Reluctantly Sasha pulled back but stayed close to me.

The drunk asked, “Are you a Russian?”

I looked at him, and in English answered, “I do not understand you.”

The words in a foreign tongue seemed to strike him like a thunderbolt. He reeled back against his friend, who was standing directly behind him.

“Maybe he is a foreigner,” he said, a question mark in his voice.

The drunk then retreated to his table, looking like a person who had just suffered a stunning humiliation. He belted back a vodka, and then another, and then he retraced his steps and apologized to me. “I did not know that you were a foreigner,” he said. “I did not know.” I shook my head, again explaining in English that I did not understand him. He again apologized and returned to his friends. There would be no fight between the worker and the “rich stilyag .” Relieved, Sasha and I finished our beers and left.