December 2019

December 2019

On Letters Page - Message to the Editor, George Bason

Hi George,

Although marking a sad occasion, it was a pleasure for me to meet up with my fellow linguists at the funeral of Brian Siberry last week. Encouraged by Alan Robson, I decided to follow my initial reaction to attend, as Leeds is relatively close to my Huddersfield home. I received great help from my local welfare team, who provided a carer for my wife at short notice, allowing me to make the trip.

On arrival I immediately spotted Alan Robson – who I swear has not changed at all in the forty years since we last crossed paths – and introduced myself. After a double take, he said “Leo!”. Alan wasn’t the only one who called me this during my stay at the funeral, especially as I had to show a photograph of Course 7L2 so that they could recognise me from that time. I never realised how much I had changed in the intervening period.

I gave up using this name after I left the RAF, mainly due to another player in a subsequent rugby team being called “Leo”. I reverted to my Christian name and, excepting the odd childhood friend I encounter, am seldom addressed by the nickname nowadays.

This set me thinking about names. One characteristic I remember of my times of working with Russian speakers was how senior managerial or older persons would be addressed by their name and patronymic as a sign of respect. My fellow directors in Tashkent were always spoken to as “Shukhrat Alimovich” or “Irina Dmitrevna” in this manner. How did they cope with showing respect to me, a foreigner? Simple. They called me “Mr Brian”. It wasn’t until it was pointed out to me that I realised how often I was addressed in this way, even by my closest associates. I picked up on this and started to use names and patronymics in return, a much appreciated gesture.

This reminded me of one of the first Russian lessons received at Luffenham from Mr Humphreys. He explained the form and use of patronymics by asking us students what was our name and that of our fathers. When he came to me, he asked these questions and received a response he certainly would not have expected. As a naïve young airman who only wanted to please and not tell lies, I answered truthfully “I don’t have a father”. He blustered something like “That make you Brian Brianovich” and moved on quickly to the next point. I wonder if he rethought his approach to teaching this topic to future courses?

To complete the picture, thanks to Ancestry and DNA, I found out the name of my father at the age of 70. Now I could give an acceptable answer to Mr Humphries’ question.

Best Regards,

Brian Leonard

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BAHX IN THE U.S.S.R.

I faced my first visit to the Soviet Union in 1985 with mixed feelings of trepidation and excitement.

I had purposely chosen the path of utilising the language skills taught me by the RAF. Could this connection also be my undoing? Would I be recognised for my military past on arrival and turned straight around? A ridiculous thought in retrospect, but the country was still something of a closed book at the time.

Nevertheless, I tackled this pioneering journey buoyed by a maxim learned from my time at Gatow.

Once, over a pint, an RAF policeman rugby teammate told me how he had tried to find out about the camp from others before his departure. He had asked around but couldn’t find anyone with personal experience of Berlin to advise him whether it would be a good or bad posting. Then one SNCO made the encouraging comment to him: “Did you enjoy your last posting? If yes, then you’ll enjoy your next one”. In other words, it’s not so much what you find, it’s more the attitude you bring with you. I found this wisdom very apt at the time. And I recalled it often when starting my life of travelling on business.

My first journey was made alone. London to Moscow, an overnight stop there, and then on to Kishinev in Moldova. Judged from over thirty years later, I am sure that I was deliberately left to my own devices on this outward trip as a practical test of my professed language abilities. As it turned out, just about everyone addressed me in English until I arrived in Kishinev.

Having gone through the daunting passport control booth at Moscow Sheremetevo airport for the first of many times, I picked up my luggage and went outside to find my transport. Only at the third attempt did I realise that the gentleman calling “Meester Ley O Nard” was looking for me. Lesson No. 1 learned: pronounce my surname the European way – it’s easier to communicate.

Sheremetevo is located to the north of the city, as thankfully was the hotel to which I was heading. The first monument noted en route towards the centre was the huge anti-tank memorial at Khimki. This marked the nearest point to Moscow to which the German army had advanced during World War 2. It’s ironic that Khimki is probably now equally as well known as the location of the first IKEA store established in Russia.

The further we travelled, the more impressed I was with the width of the main roads in and out of the city. Six unmarked lanes in each direction, if I remember correctly. (Allegedly Stalin had decreed that all the main highways throughout the city must be wide enough to allow for the full turning circle of a battle tank). And overtaking on either side was not only allowed, it appeared to be encouraged. I never hired a car at any of the Eastern European locations in which I worked; this first taste was enough to put me off for life.

After forty minutes we arrived at the location that the Intourist travel agency had booked for me – the Cosmos Hotel.

The Cosmos was built for visitors to the Olympic Games in 1980 and, with 1,777 rooms, is still the largest hotel in Russia. Until the late 80s it was just about the only hotel available to foreigners in the city.

Even on my first one-night stay I encountered one of the peculiarities of this edifice: there are two sets of lifts – to the left and right behind reception – one serving floors 1 to 13; the second serving floors 14 to 25. For the first of many times, I selected the wrong lifts. I wanted to get out at level 12, but the lift went sailing past. The floor buttons were there, only they weren’t active. When I returned there several years later, this weakness had been corrected, but that didn’t stop newcomers selecting the wrong lift set. Even now, they’re probably still turning right instead of left.

On the numerous occasions that I was to return to the Cosmos over the following years, I experienced how these lifts had a life of their own. A blockbuster could have been written about the happenings there.

I once had to console a pair of elderly Italian tourists who, courtesy of the dual lift system, were becoming increasingly vexed that they could not reach their hotel floor. I took them back down to the reception floor, over to the other lift, and then escorted them to the correct level. Copious “Mille Grazie” followed. When I mentioned this to my work colleagues, who were permanently based at the hotel whilst working on a nearby installation, they assured me that this was not unusual. They carried out similar Good Samaritan acts on a weekly basis.

In 1988 the Atlanta Hawks professional basketball team came from the USA to play against a Soviet Union select team in three matches, the final one taking place in Moscow. This was in the runup to the Seoul Olympics. The team stayed in the Cosmos. One day returning from the city, I squeezed through closing lift doors to find a huge guy in a tracksuit standing there. I said “Hi”. He answered “6 feet 10 inches”. I said something like “Really?” and remained silent until I got out at my floor. Exiting the lift, I thought “That was a strange conversation”. Which is probably exactly what he was thinking.

I was reminded of this interaction a few months later when I read a report about the result of the Olympic Games basketball tournament, won by the Soviet Union team. The USA team only got a bronze medal. The American article suggested that the Atlanta Hawks were partly to blame, as they had taken the communist dollar in agreeing to these warmup games, thereby providing the very best competition for the U.S.S.R. team in the critical final preparation period. One noticeable aftermath of this: the USA put together the so-called “Dream Team” for the 1992 Olympics.

On another occasion, when my room was on one of the higher floors, I decided to go for a drink in the bar – hard currency only – on the 25th floor. When the lift arrived, the doors opened to reveal three North Korean highly bemedalled officers in military uniforms. They silently looked me up and down. We all know the saying “If looks could kill”; this time it was highly appropriate.

I compared this situation subconsciously to the lift scene with Peter Sellers in the Pink Panther film. This made me smile and, consequently, their stare became even more intense. When I got out at the top floor, my fellow travellers stayed in the lift. The doors closed and they were gone.

Having got a drink, I mentioned what had just happened to another guest at the hotel. He said “Oh, yes, the North Koreans. We know them.” He went on to explain that the group – seemingly always a trio – would never get into an occupied lift. Neither would they exit a lift when there was still someone in the cabin. It appeared that they did not want to let it be known which floor they were staying on and would ride up and down until the lift was unoccupied at their level. Knowing what we know now about North Korea, perhaps what I experienced was just an early outward manifestation of the neurosis of the nation.

One major advantage of the Cosmos is its location, adjacent a station of the Moscow Metropolitan Underground System (“Metro”). On my first extended stopover in Moscow, I was advised to travel to and from meetings using the Metro; it was quicker, safer and cheaper. I soon realised the good sense of this guidance.

The one image that sums up the Metro for me is the memory of the digital clock over the departure tunnel at most stations. The moment a train leaves, it starts to tick up from 0.00 until the next one arrives. I recall, at one busy period, a space of 46 seconds between departure of the first and arrival of the second; a minute gap between trains seemed to be the norm at busy periods. But don’t think that this allows you to wait for an empty carriage during rush hours; it will never happen. The Metro is jam packed mornings and evenings, a severe test of personal hygiene.

Muscovites are quite rightly proud of their clean and efficient Metro stations. In particular, the “Komsomolskaya” is recognised as an outstanding work of art internally, but there are many such examples at the central exchange stations. If you ever visit the city, an organised tour of the underground network is highly recommended. It’s an unforgettable experience.

Even the seemingly endless escalators down to the deep-level platforms are wonders in their own right. Whilst you’re descending, you might take time to reflect that it was Stalin’s forced labour that built the majority of this system, working under horrendous, dangerous conditions.

The cost of travel was also a marvel. Payment was taken only on entry to the system, thereafter travellers were free to use the full network at no extra cost. They only had to pay again should they have exited a station on the way and then wished to re-enter the underground. Consequently, people spent whole days on the underground in winter to keep warm. The police would only move them on should they stay too long in one place.

The system that was in place in the 80s used metal tokens – purchased at booths at each station entrance – to actuate the entry mechanism. The tokens cost literally kopecks at the beginning. Interestingly, after the market crash of 1998 and the effect of consequential inflation, it was noted by the authorities that the supply of metal tokens was rapidly diminishing. Investigation showed that the metal content of the pieces was worth more than the cost of the tokens; organised gangs were bulk buying them to melt down for profit.

The authorities quickly brought in replacement plastic tokens, followed later by multi-journey tickets which automatically stamped the time and date when punched into new barrier devices. Since 2013 a “Troika” card has been introduced (similar to London’s Oyster Card) with time restrictions, but the unit cost of a journey is still 50p or less.

The underground network is still expanding. As the centre of Moscow at peak periods is just one large car park – especially on Friday evenings when many a flight has been missed due to the inability to extricate vehicles out of jams towards the airports – the Metro remains the transport means of choice for the majority.

The most useful thing to have in your pocket is a map of the underground. Companies to be visited in the city invariably include the name of the nearest Metro station and connecting bus route in their published address details.

Back at the beginning of my times in Soviet Moscow I was working alongside a group of engineers from our UK company on an installation project. They stayed for weeks on end, rapidly assimilating local customs. This included using the Metro regularly.

Opposite the front of the Cosmos hotel stands a huge exhibition ground. In Soviet times this was called the “The Exhibition of the Achievements of the National Economy”. In Russian its title was “Выставка достижений народного хозяйства”, abbreviated to “ВДНХ” (VDNKh). This abbreviation is still the name used by the Metro station next to the Cosmos.

On my first journey out on the underground with my workmates, I was trying to get to grips with the different colours of lines and the required changeover stations. But they forged ahead confidently, even though all maps and instructions were printed only in Cyrillic. We got to the right line first time. When I asked them how they knew this (none spoke or read Russian), they answered “Easy. Just follow the orange line northwards to BAHX”. They pronounced the last word “Barks”.

“ВДНХ”=”BAHX”=”Barks”. Simples!

I was later to master the Moscow underground to the point where I could navigate myself easily around the city. To me it was much simpler to follow than the London Underground map. My piece de resistance with first-time visitors was to take them, using the Metro, to the station next to the GUM store. Out of the many available exits to street level there was just one that brought you out next to the store’s main entrance. But this was not my goal. A few steps around the building and I was able to announce “Gentlemen (or Ladies & Gentlemen): Red Square!” This was the only way to get right up the landmark without divulging its proximity. Pretentious, I know, but I really did enjoy stage-managing the moment.

Like going to an unfamiliar station on posting, my travel to the Soviet Union certainly required a positive mental attitude. Heaven knows, you could find plenty to be negative about if you wanted. Nonetheless, once you realised the basic rule that are good people everywhere, it’s just how you approach them, you can start to enjoy your situation. Just as I am pleased now to have contact with ex-RAF colleagues, I am delighted to still have some links with friends first met then back in the U.S.S.R.

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