Stephan Orth - Behind Putin's Curtain - Friendships and Misadventures Inside Russia [aka Couchsurfing in Russia]

The museum displays weapons, uniforms, newspaper cuttings, bravery medals, and endless rows of black-and-white portraits of war heroes. A monotone voice from the audio guide explains the exhibits and relics. Particularly interesting is a “lithographic stone, which was prepared in advance by Hitler’s soldiers,” as the voice informs me. This was the printing plate for pamphlets only in Russian. The title on it reads: “STALINGRAD HAS FALLEN.” Proof of the degree of optimism of the German army, which was used to victory, upon arriving on the Volga. Hitler expected Stalingrad to fall within eight days; nobody in Germany thought that it might take months or that overwintering would be necessary.

The printing plate identifies Moscow as the “head” of the Soviet Union and Stalingrad as its “heart.” The accompanying illustration shows a huge knife marking the location of the city on a map. Beneath a swastika banner, a victory that never took place is described: “The Russian government recently boasted that this city with 448,000 inhabitants and with the most important communication facilities in the country would never fall into German hands. Now the supply lines along the Volga, Europe’s longest river, have been stopped.”

But, as we know, history took a different turn. The printing plate was never used. In the end Stalingrad cost the lives of 500,000 Russians and 150,000 Germans. “That’s the most awesome museum I’ve ever seen,” says David at the exit, with a gleam in his eye.

In the evening it’s fish and beer again with Sergei and Krisia; later, vodka and cognac due to a surprise visit by two of their friends from Chelyabinsk.

For certain nationalities, you can pinpoint activities or situations where they seem to be totally at ease and in their natural element. In tune with their world, free from all insecurity, distraction, or routine lethargy. Cubans are like this when they dance, or the Chinese when they’re at a fully laden table. For Russians, it’s when they have schnapps glasses in their hands and are about to propose a toast. At least on this evening, it is unmistakable.

Sergei teaches me a few Russian songs on the guitar; we sing and drink and eat and sing and drink.

“These are pretty much the nicest people I’ve ever met,” says David.

I TAKE A DIRECTflight from the former conflict zone of Volgograd to today’s conflict zone: the Crimean Peninsula. It’s a hard landing, but the passengers still clap. My cell phone immediately finds a Russian network; it’s called WIN, which sounds portentous. I deliberated a long time about whether to include this stop on my itinerary, because my entry from Russia is considered an illegal border crossing by the Ukrainians. And aren’t all tourists using this route implying that they recognize the new rulers from Moscow, that they in some way condone the annexation? I don’t like either option, but in the end my curiosity wins.

If there is such a thing as travel karma, then shortly after leaving Simferopol International Airport I am punished. Late in the evening, heading across a dark parking lot to a bus stop, I am addressed by a man. He has a female passenger in his cab already, he says. He offers me a ride, saying that I could share the price of the trip with her. I tell him the address and he nods.

The cab driver is middle-aged, has brown skin, and wears a hoodie, pants, and sneakers in various hues of gray. His cab, a gas-powered Chinese Geely CK, seems okay, but there is no cab sign. I get in the back; the front seat is occupied by the woman, who looks around thirty. Mistake number one: taking an unmarked taxi in which—mistake number two: there are other passengers. There are occasional warnings about this in guidebooks on Russia. Mistake number three: Alex—the name of the young man who gets in next to me. Didn’t the driver say there was only one passenger traveling with us?

Alex is an athletic-looking young guy in a pink T-shirt and Adidas shoes who smells of cigarettes and beer and, immediately after greeting me, launches into a detailed monologue about the breasts and butts of Crimean women. The visual support for his third-class-English locker-room drivel is provided by his lewd groping of the air. Thank God I don’t have far to go , I think.

After fifteen minutes, however, the map on my smartphone tells me that we’re a couple miles beyond my destination. I assume the woman is being dropped off at home first. But as we take the overland road out of the city and the driver puts his foot on the gas, I begin to feel uneasy. I tell him my destination again. “Simferopol? Not Sevastopol?” asks Alex. “Are you sure?” I am. Was there a misunderstanding? The driver makes no effort to turn around; in fact, he even accelerates a bit. Anger improves language skills and I shout to the man in the front: “ Ya skazal Simferopol, nyet Sevastopol!”

But my Russian is not good enough to understand his answer. Unfortunately Alex the air-groping breast fiend is the only one who speaks a bit of English, so I will have to make use of him as an interpreter. The driver explains that he is now too far outside Simferopol, so he doesn’t want to turn back now. However, as he lives in Simferopol, he will drive to the next destination and drop me off later. “How long will it take?” I demand. “A hundred miles there and back, two hours,” Alex translates the answer. It’s already nearly midnight.

I feel even more uneasy. Are Alex and the driver in on something together? Do they plan to mug me and leave me in the gutter? What exactly was the reason for the German Foreign Office advising against visits to Crimea? My cell phone battery is already very low, so I don’t read up on the reasons; maybe I’ll need the map app later.

We stop to refuel at a gas station belonging to the local company in Bakhchysarai, TES; their logo is a white elephant against a purple background who is grinning like he’s high from sniffing too much gasoline. When traveling, I sometimes imagine that shortly before I arrive somewhere a small armada of stage designers have prepared the scene for my arrival. This time, I would have to take them to task: the image of the elephant really does not match the seriousness of the situation.

We get out and I call my host in Simferopol to explain the situation and ask him whether I should leave and take a cab back from here. He says that at this time of night it’s tricky finding cabs. I pass my cell phone to the driver so he can relay his planned route. After that, my host says he doesn’t think the man sounds like a crook. So I get back into the car. The driver, totally placid, washes all the windows; Alex smokes. I seem to be the only one interested in reaching my destination in the near future.

At 12:22 AM I spot the first Putin poster at the side of the road; at 12:30 AM, the first machine gun. It’s in the hands of a man with a face mask standing next to a police car and its occupants.

“How are you feeling?” asks Alex, his hand brushing my shoulder while he looks at me probingly. “Not so good?” His sudden empathy seems horrifyingly implausible. In terms of acting, the way he rearranges his facial muscles from empathy to compassionate indignation is even less successful. “ Such a silly situation, yes!” For a moment the image of the roadside ditch looms again. His following attempts at small talk (trying to calm down the victim?) don’t improve things.

“Where do you come from?”

“Hamburg.”

“Nice. Lots of water. Like Saint Petersburg.”

Five minutes later: “Do you like the music?” He nods towards the car radio, which is playing an anthem from the Italo-slush bard Eros Ramazzotti.