View from my Hotel Minsk room window of parade participants lining up early on Gorky Street to funnel down into Red Square 1 May 1988.
February 2021
WIND OF CHANGE
Although I didn’t always realise the significance of what was happening around me, I am grateful that I was able to witness at first hand the breakup (or breakdown) of the USSR. In the ten years period from 1985, when I worked as a sales engineer amongst others on major equipment installation projects in Kishinev and Moscow, I experienced the metamorphosis of the country from communist ideal to failed free market dream.
My first flight into Moscow was, as would be expected, unforgettable. Our Aeroflot aircraft – on which curiously smokers were seated on the left and non-smokers on the right – seemed to be on its gradual approach descent for nigh on an hour; I was later told that this was a deliberate fuel saving policy with the airline. However, nothing prepares you for that initial experience of passport control.
Incoming passengers were guided down a flight of stairs into a wide Arrivals Hall with queue lines painted on the floor, each line leading to one of the several booths at the far end of the room. Half of the booths, reminiscent of football stadium turnstiles, were signed “For Citizens of the USSR”, the others “For International Travellers”. After a period of slow advance of our queue, made longer by anticipation of what was to come, the booth light went on calling me forward.
Now trapped inside the narrow gap between gates, I turned to face the officers in green uniforms sitting behind the high counter. “Passport!” was the only test of my Luffenham training. In fact, it was the only word spoken to me. I handed over my passport with landing card and waited. Lots of looking down and looking back at me followed, interspersed with the clicking of a keyboard. After what seemed an age, the officer grunted, handed over my passport and landing card, the gate opened, and I was free to walk into the Baggage Retrieval area. I had made it and not been arrested!
I was to go through this procedure at least a hundred times after this. (I know this because when applying for a visa, it was originally necessary to state “Number of previous visits to the USSR”. I had already exceeded seventy when this question was removed from applications). At times I even got into brief conversations with officers. They weren’t all as morose as those first encountered.
The highway from Sheremetevo Airport to the centre of Moscow was the widest I had ever seen. This stretch was then decorated with huge communist propaganda posters and flags. Anyone taking this route now will note how these have been replaced with illuminated advertising boards which would do Las Vegas proud.
I cannot leave the subject of the airport without mentioning an occurrence I witnessed there, this time on departure. The process on the way back was to first have your baggage x-rayed, examined, and flight ticket stamped, before going through to the check-in desks beyond. On this particular day in 1988, a flight to Ho Chi Minh City in Vietnam was also being prepared on our departures wing. I found myself directly behind a young female – possibly a student or immigrant worker – who was being thoroughly checked out. I knew from previous experience that the officers gave such foreigners a hard time. (It’s a sad thing to report, but I came across open racism often in my times in major Russian cities). This time, the customs officer struck it lucky. He found a small packet of cigarettes she was carrying, opened it and took out a few US Dollar notes hidden inside. The officer did no more than take the money, rip up her flight ticket, thrust her case back at her and gesture for her to leave. She walked slowly back into the airport in a flood of tears. At which point, the officer called me forward and, with utmost politeness, stamped my ticket without opening my case for examination. To this day, I wonder how that young lady fared.
My first, and lasting, impression of next stop Kishinev was that I had immediately stepped back thirty years. Everything was utilitarian; nothing was appealing. Buildings were solid and drab, the only ornamentation appeared to be the ubiquitous communist propaganda displays. Shops were titled “Meat”, “Milk”, and the like, with no private enterprise outlets. The carpet factory, which I was to visit regularly for the next four years, was equally sombre. The only striking items in attendance were the Belgian, Japanese and British production machines being installed there under a multi-million state sponsored investment programme.
When I first arrived in Moldova, our small team of installation engineers had already been active at the ‘Floare’ carpet factory for a couple of months. They were quick to advise me of the many shortcomings and the few advantages of working there. Their main complaint was that, although local workforce assistance was guaranteed in our contract, it was intermittently and half-heartedly applied. They also had a serious complaint of one senior electrician who appeared to be constantly drunk. They did, however, recognise that a few were industrious and keen to learn.
After a few days in situ, I started to get to know the local workforce a little better when speaking to them in Russian. As our mutual trust improved, they began to open up one-to-one with me. In a nutshell, their attitude of “Why should we put ourselves out? Our jobs are secure and we don’t get rewarded for extra effort” became all too obvious.
Irrespective of the fact that we knew that our telephone calls were being recorded, along with our resident lead installation engineer, I phoned head office in UK and we openly related our problems to the company managing director. We were given his permission to take any actions we considered necessary. It was clear that I had gone straight into a clash of cultures on my first assignment, but that’s why I had been recruited by the firm, to deal with such situations.
Fortunately, this was the peak of problems we encountered. Thanks to things like Swarfega, tool kits and division of effort, we were able to first reach a working, then a flourishing, cooperation arrangement.
I noted that our fellow workers, who were soon seen to be good mechanics, liked to share the Swarfega we used to clean our hands at the end of the day. By arranging for an extra shipment of the product, we were able to offer them an alternative to the abundantly available white blocks of the factory’s chemical soap, which not only eventually cleaned your hands but also turned them red. Now and again a Swarfega bottle would go missing from our stock, but as long as they didn’t overdo it, we pretended not to notice.
I also knew that we had no intention of taking the contract tool kits back at the end of the project. When I had their trust, I told them that these kits would eventually become their property. This ensured that petty pilfering stopped immediately, whilst a newfound respect for the use of these quality tools was engendered. We even turned a blind eye when some kit items would disappear over the weekend, a traditional time for working on dachas. As long as they were returned on Monday morning, no comment was made.
The major bugbear in adherence to our installation timetable was the recurring fact that we lost our local assistance for up to a week at the end of each month. This was when we knew that we were working in a socialist country: “PLAN” always came first. The factory would have a quota for production output, according to a preordained plan, which had to be met at all costs.
The installation team came to me with a proposal. What if we joined them in the chaos that was month-end? At those times, without local help, we were limited in what we could do anyway, so why not accept the fact and request reciprocity in their assistance? This was put to the factory management, who surprisingly accepted the proposal. In this way, our monthly reduction of support was formally minimised.
In the event, I was only involved in one of these “PLAN” days. What an eye-opener it was. A fleet of opened trucks was assembled in the despatch area, gradually being filled with rolls of carpet. At the beginning it was very ordered, by the end just about anything was shoved on board. First rejected, faulty items were found and loaded. Then unfinished rugs were taken straight from the weaving machines and thrown onto the trucks. Anything that vaguely resembled a carpet was selected for inclusion. I don’t recall seeing anyone counting the contents by the end. The final truck was loaded shortly before midnight, the cry went up
“План выполнен!” [“The plan is completed!”] and the assembled workforce dispersed for a drinks session which lasted well into the night, followed by a day’s holiday.
The instance that cemented our mutual operations came when a crane driver dropped a shipping box containing machine parts, damaging its contents. Upon inspection, the major casualties were the sheet metal covers for one machine. These had been manufactured to order in our ‘Tin Shop' back in UK. I checked: it would take at least a month to have replacements made and shipped to Moldova. We would also have to make a claim against insurance, thereby bringing the occurrence to the attention of the Textile Ministry in Moscow.
When this happened, I was back in Huddersfield. The following day I received a direct call in my office from the General Director of the ‘Floare’ Carpet Company. Such calls to minions – especially one he had only met once – just did not happen under the Soviet system; this had to be serious. As soon as he started to talk to me, it was obvious that the one thing he did not want was to have the Ministry involved. He had a proposal. He believed that his engineers could make good the damage. Could they have a go? If so, could I arrange that drawings and suitable paint be flown out to the factory?
I did as he asked, although finding an airline willing to transport cans of paint was not as easy as first envisaged. Within a few days I received confirmation of receipt in Kishinev. Sensing the importance of the incident, I made arrangements to fly out early on my next visit. When I arrived at the factory, I was taken straight to the maintenance section where the metal covers were displayed, restored to their original immaculate condition.
My resident colleague told me that two of the factory’s maintenance engineers had completed the task. Both had previously been vehicle panel beaters – an almost forgotten art in UK – who had taken great pride in working nonstop, slowly but surely removing all signs of damage. Before we finally assembled the machine, we asked both to sign the inside of the panels as a record of their work for posterity. All were delighted with this gesture, so much so that the pair joined our assembly team shortly thereafter, increasing our work potential considerably. At the same time the alcoholic electrician was quietly diverted to other tasks within the factory, well away from us.
I went to see the General Director at his request. Whilst waiting in his outer office, I made small talk with his secretary, pointing out a large blue-and-white Gzhel Porcelain bowl on display in a cabinet. I told her that I had bought similar Gzhel items in Moscow and that my wife liked their design. When I left after the meeting, at which I was thanked for my cooperation, I was presented with the bowl by the Director. It now stands on display in our living room, a lasting reminder that it doesn’t pay to admire something belonging to a Russian. Custom dictates that they will offer it to you.
During the Kishinev project, I came across a couple of interesting foreign experts working at the factory. The first was a Japanese installation engineer who spoke neither Russian nor English. As part of his company’s supply contract, he had been promised the services of a Japanese interpreter. The only problem was, there wasn’t one in Moldova and the nearest one from Ukraine was held up on a job there. Our team had taken pity on him, including him in out of work activities. I was introduced to him and tried to find a common tongue. I asked him if he spoke German, to which he answered surprisingly “Ein Bisschen”. It transpired that his last major installation contract had been at a factory in East Germany, where he had learned enough to get by, particularly technical terms. To cut a long story short, I found myself the following day as the Englishman translating from German to Russian for a Japanese engineer in Moldova. One of the joys of international business. Thereafter, one of our team – a former soldier who had been stationed in West Germany – used his pig German to successfully communicate with our Japanese colleague.
The other visitor I met was a septuagenarian professor from the USA, who had been invited to the factory to advise on improvements to their yarn preparation procedures. One day, leaving the hotel, he asked the driver the Russian for “Let’s go!” He received the reply “Поехали!” [“Poekhali!”]. (Incidentally, this was the word uttered by Yuri Gagarin when he first blasted off into space). The following morning the professor came out and told the driver “Let’s Poekhali!”.
I have retold this story from St Petersburg to Almaty, initiating numerous repetitions of the “Let’s Poekhali” phrase throughout the Russian-speaking world.
Once I had got used to project working in the Soviet Union, in 1987 I was to start again, this time from zero, on an even larger installation at Lyubertsy Carpets in the Moscow District. As the factory was within 40 minutes’ drive of the centre of Moscow, the installation party was put up in the Minsk Hotel on Gorky Street (now ‘Tverskaya’), within walking distance of Red Square. It was certainly a different world to the one we had got to know in Kishinev.
Within a day of our advance fitting party’s arrival at Lyubertsy, I received an urgent phone call from the lead installation engineer. The production line we were to construct wouldn’t fit in the building. Taking advantage of my newly obtained multi-entry visa, I caught the first available flight to Moscow.
The reason for this error: inflexibility in the administration of proposals – even for a multi-million pounds venture like this – by Soviet authorities. It was a standing policy that visits to recipient factories prior to acceptance of bids were banned. Offers had to be submitted according to supplied drawings and production details, although the location of the target factory was divulged. In every other part of the world, proposals were normally submitted after site visits. Soviet authorities’ enduring treatment of all assets of production as state secrets did not allow this form of preparation.
Our findings: the building was one metre shorter than reported in the supplied contract documentation.
By the time of my arrival, however, my experienced work colleague had already seen ways to shorten our production line without change to its contents and functionality. He supplied me with sketches, which were later confirmed by our design team, and our machine line layout drawing was amended accordingly.
This error worked to our advantage. We were able to display our flexibility of approach immediately to the directors of the factory. The most important person in the command chain – the Chief Engineer – was on our side from the start, privately cursing the stupidity of the industry team who had collated the information for the bid documents. The factory had sent a production manager representative to Huddersfield to oversee the erection and testing of their machines in our factory, prior to packing for despatch. He had brought back good reports. The initially sceptical Chief Engineer – who would be ultimately responsible for the takeover of this expensive production line – was already more inclined to trust his view and, correspondingly, was warming to us. In the ‘rule by committee’ world of Soviet business, personal relationships were extremely important. At some point, he or she would have to defend our contributions, so it paid to keep on their good side. It was also useful, though not essential, that you liked them. And, luckily, I enjoyed the company of just about all the factory representatives with whom I had to deal.
At the time of the erection team’s arrival, the many wooden cases which contained the machine parts had been deposited outside in the open. We brought them inside in accordance with the box numbers painted on the side to suit the erection sequence. When the cases had first been stacked, it was already winter. A pack of wild dogs had then made their home at its centre. Our team watched on in amusement as their shelter was gradually removed from around the dogs. By the time the last case was brought in for unpacking, it was already early summer, at which point the pack simply dispersed to find another place of safety. In the meantime, they had provided round-the-clock, unpaid security for our goods, for which they had been rewarded with regular titbits from the factory’s canteen.
I recall that, on my second visit, I was asked what we wanted to do with our empty wooden shipping cases. I informed them that, as the cost of packaging was included in the contract price being paid, these were the property of the factory, to dispose of as they wished. The reaction to this news was unreal.
Whereas previously we had some difficulty in gathering assistance to open our cases, we were suddenly inundated with offers of help in unpacking. The wood of the cases was obviously an important commodity. Once they were emptied, the wooden cases were carefully taken apart and quickly spirited away. Overnight, as the Russian-speaking representative of the supply company, I was popular. Passers-by at the factory would stop me to ask when we would next open the cases. In some instances, they went as far as to ask when we would be breaking down individual large boxes.
On my next visit, the reason for their interest became obvious. One advantage of employment at the carpet factory was that accommodation came with the job. To enter the factory from the main road, we had to walk through a large estate of three-storey blocks which housed the workers. My colleague pointed to the balconies of the estate; many were now enclosed in recently installed wooden frames. Indeed, one of our team insisted that he had seen our company name written large on one of the new balcony structures.
I remember thinking how ironic it was that this desirable raw material was of Siberian origin. I knew this because our local shipping company in Huddersfield, who built the transit cases to suit each load, had once asked my assistance in translating some documentation they had received in a load from their Finnish timber supplier. This wood had come a long way around to arrive back home.
To finalise the packing case saga, I once made a weekend visit to the dacha of the production manager. Located some 40 minutes away by electric train in open countryside, the Lyubertsy Carpet Factory had obtained a large stretch of land on which its workers could build their personal cottages from scratch. This was a genuine team effort, where individual contribution times were recorded for the allocation of corresponding levels of group assistance. This is where the majority of the wood from our shipping cases found its eventual application. I also noted a couple of buildings painted in a British Racing Green colour, the very same tint of the machines we delivered. The tins of touch-up paint we had supplied with the order had obviously found a more pressing need here.
Another example of communal action was experienced when the production manager’s brother-in-law rang up to say that, as a long-distance refrigerated lorry driver, he was bringing up a spare whole sturgeon from his home in Astrakhan on the Caspian Sea. By the time he arrived with his load a few days later, the huge fish had already been sold in batches to the factory workforce. I too benefitted from his supply. I was given a small bucket of Sevruga caviar to take home with me. I wonder has anyone else ever tried to dispose of this “fancy food” to a Doubting Thomas group of Yorkshire folk? I eventually gave the majority to the chef at a local restaurant, who promised to make a donation to charity in exchange. I never checked if he did; I was just glad to get rid of this overrated fish roe.
Around 1987 I was already seeing changes happening in Moscow. Mikhail Gorbachev is quoted as saying that the breakup of the Soviet Union started with the Chernobyl disaster of April 1986, but the reasons were much more deep-rooted than that. His ‘glasnost’ and ‘perestroika’ actions were introduced to counter the fundamental malaise of the Soviet system with its bankrupting military budget.
It was the little things that were first apparent. To cut costs, the factory stopped sending out the contract-specified transport to our hotel to ferry us back and forth daily. Instead, we made our way to the southern 1905 Street station by underground, from where a bus was still operating to take all workers to the factory. Then the quality of the bus transport was reduced generally, as the city could not pay for spare parts for the modern versions made in Lithuania. Sixties era diesel coaches were brought back into service, operating a reduced timetable. At least the Metro underground continued, although the famed regularity of trains also gradually diminished.
I started to hear mumblings about pay at the factory. It was even suggested that workers consider taking their earnings in rugs for personal disposal. The shelves in the shops became more and more bare. By the time I took my wife on holiday there in April 1989, the situation had obviously deteriorated greatly. We were taken specially to look at the dairy products shop on the site at Lyubertsy; all that we recall seeing on display there were a couple of unappetising chunks of cheese.
The low stock situation was not confined to the smaller outlets. Even the nation’s pride – the huge GUM State Universal Store situated next to Red Square – was by now home to an overwhelming collection of empty pitches. People could be seen queuing everywhere for shops to open, where they would buy whatever they were allowed to obtain on the principle of “If I don’t need it, there are plenty of others with whom I can exchange the goods or, failing that, to whom I can sell on.” The saddest sight for me was of the babushkas standing silently for hours around the entrances and exits of the Metro stations, holding small items from home they were seeking to sell.
I remember more than once hearing the open complaint “I bet that Party officials are not having to queue for hours. They will have no trouble in obtaining food for their families.” Such a statement, if made only months earlier, would have led to being informed upon and probable arrest. A wind of change was certainly blowing in.
At its worst, workers were not being paid, unless they were willing to accept goods they could barter. As a result, the main highways were dotted with roadside temporary tables on which manufactured goods of all descriptions were available for sale. Even the famed Gzhel Porcelain pieces, whose factories were further down the road past Lyubertsy, were to be found in abundance here.
However, there was one group of outlets which did not suffer from deficits – the “Beriozka” shops. Located in every major hotel, these stores accepted payment in hard currency only, normally US Dollars. Such was the state need for hard currency at this time. (The USSR Rouble was non-convertible). Although aimed at tourists, it was widely known that any Party official with foreign currency could use the Beriozkas. As the pricing of home-produced goods was fixed by state authorities, where prices were indelibly affixed if possible, some absolute bargains could be purchased. I bought a Zenit 1980 Olympic Games issue 35mm SLR camera here – complete with Karl Zeiss of Jena lens – for around $80. Only the introduction of digital upgrades stopped me using this magnificent, admittedly heavy, apparatus relatively recently.
Preparations for the May Day Holiday, Leningrad April 1989.
My wife, son, best friend, and I were on holiday in the Soviet Union during the week prior to the last fully communist-themed May Day Parade of 1989, although obviously we could not know this at the time. Nevertheless, I was disappointed that our visit was overshadowed by the shortages apparent all around. This was not the society I had got to know, although the friendliness of our acquaintances endured, indeed boosted by our presence at this difficult time for them.
I noted that the period up to the dissolution of the Soviet Union at the end of 1991 was marked with subtle but continuous amendments in personal behaviour. It was no longer necessary, for example, to claim rigid adherence to communist ideals; a desire for “democracy” could be voiced without rebuttal. I witnessed a marked increase of interest in all things American, illustrated by the opening of the first McDonalds in Moscow – just down the road from our hotel – at the end of 1990. Even then, the restaurant had two queues: one stretching all the way round the block for locals paying in Roubles and the other instantly available to those settling in hard currency. Some animals were still more equal than others.
In the remaining period up to the end of my first stint in Russia in 1995, I experienced many changes; some good, some bad. The vestiges of communism were just about surviving whilst – in my humble opinion – too much emphasis was placed on enforcing US business models in a country eventually shown to be unsuited to such methods. It seemed for a period that American influence was everywhere in Moscow, as US academics used this huge emerging economy as a remote testing ground for their theories. Inflation was still rampant and the Rouble instable against other currencies. This was to lead to the market crash in 1998, when thoughts of a dominant free market economy were abandoned. I have heard it said that Russia appears to survive best under a benevolent dictator. Putin came to power in 1999. A coincidence?
I think back to a comment which Andrey, my driver and good friend, once made to me in the late 90s. “We keep getting told that we are better off without communism. I used to have my cheap work flat, my children had free nursery care, and our family was able to take a subsidised two weeks’ holiday every year at an activity centre on the Black Sea. We have none of these now. How is this better?” I couldn’t answer him.
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