My Ties to Bridge of Spies

Gilda and I have seen lots of movies over the past three weeks, the best of which, in my opinion, we saw Saturday night. Bridge of Spies tells the mostly-true-to-life story behind the exchange of prisoners among the Soviet Union, East Germany and the United States. 

In return for sending convicted Soviet spy Rudolf Abel back to Russia, America received U-2 pilot Francis Gary Powers (shot down during an aerial spy mission over Soviet territory) and student Frederic L. Pryor (charged with espionage in East Berlin). To scrub fact from fiction, here’s a link: http://www.historyvshollywood.com/reelfaces/bridge-of-spies/

(Of the 11 movies we’ve seen, in descending order, my top flicks:

Bridge of Spies

Spotlight

Brooklyn

The Martian

The Revenant

The Big Short

Joy

Creed

Carol

Star Wars: The Force Awakens

Mad Max: Fury Road) 

How could I not like Bridge of Spies? From the History vs. Hollywood Web site I was reminded that the prisoner exchange transpired on February 10, 1962, the same day as my bar mitzvah.

Even without that coincidence I identified with Bridge of Spies. During one of my trips to Dusseldorf for EuroShop, a once-every-three-years massive trade exposition, I made a side trip to Berlin. I traveled on February 16, 1990, just three days before the section of the Berlin Wall near the Brandenburg Gate was to be torn down.

I walked many of the same streets the Tom Hanks character followed in the movie, entering East Berlin through Checkpoint Charlie, then down FriederichStrasse, a main avenue. It was a rainy, sometimes snowy, day. Chilly down to the bones. I had the sniffles, just like Hanks had in the movie.

With their political order tumbling around them, East German border guards were as friendly as a Wal-Mart greeter. And why shouldn’t they have acted kindly? No longer armed, their main job function was to let German nationals pass through while smiling pleasantly at foreigners and directing them to exit where they entered East Berlin. It seemed to be a petty rule, but no more inconvenient than being told in an American department store that gift wrapping could be obtained only in the basement or some other out of the way location.

Along FriederichStrasse I encountered a wide range of visual stimuli. Just as an East German movie character complained that the Russians hindered reconstruction efforts after World War II, I observed many buildings in various states of bombed-out disrepair a full 45 years after the war ended. Intact buildings were generally drab apartment house blocks that made our inner city projects seem stately. 

The disparity between the two sides of Berlin was evident from two cars parked next to each other, one a boxy, eight-foot Russian-made Lada, the other a sleek, four-door Mercedes. Both cars were in front of the Grand Hotel, one of the more impressive hotels I had seen in any major city of the world. In the main lobby burnished wood, marble, chrome, plush carpeting and a majestic central stairway transported any visitor from the gray and gloom of a failed utopian vision to a world of privilege and pomp. The Grand Hotel was not for every, or maybe any, casual comrade. Room rates back in 1990 ran over $200 a night.

Before I left Berlin I chipped away at the Wall. I had stopped at a Woolworth store in West Berlin to buy a small chisel and standard-sized hammer. I soon discovered how pitiful my purchases were to the task at hand. The reinforced concrete gave no quarter. You couldn’t even classify as pebbles the pieces I managed to dislodge.

Standing next to me was a man with a huge sledgehammer and 30-inch chisel. He was breaking off softball-size or larger chunks. He took pity on me and offered me his tools. As I remember it today, my new efforts were hardly more rewarding. He took pity on me once more, and gave the Wall a few choice whacks for me. I left Berlin with a bagful of souvenirs, most of which I gave away to family, friends and colleagues at work. I kept the two largest pieces, one to display in our living room, the other to be mounted on a plaque and hung in my office. It, too, is now in our living room. 

One more tie-in to Bridge of Spies—during a trip to Russia five years ago, Gilda and I saw wreckage of the U-2 spy plane in Moscow’s Central Armed Forces Museum. 

Riches Beyond Belief

I’ve seen the crown jewels of England. I’ve walked Windsor Castle, Versailles and its Austrian knockoff, Schoenbrunn, in Vienna. Vast as their riches were, none of those palaces and their treasures could compare with the opulence and extravagance of the tsars (perhaps only the riches of the Vatican could be its equal or superior). The Armoury Tour of the Kremlin—don’t be fooled by the name, it’s really not a military museum—is a must-see of Faberge eggs, silver and gold icon covers, diamond jewelry, silver and gold plates, crowns and thrones, gowns, official wardrobes and massive horse-drawn carriages. And since it is an Armoury, there’s a small amount of ceremonial rifles, swords and suits of armor.

It’s a wonder any of this ostentatious wealth survived the Revolution. Indeed, some Bolsheviks in the 1920s wanted to sell it off to pay for needed foodstuffs and manufacturing equipment. But the voices of historical tradition prevailed. The legacy of the tsars was saved. Only by seeing the Armoury, and the Romanov palaces in St. Petersburg, can you fully understand how the royals raped their people to live a life of luxury and distance from the masses.

In modern times we gape at the shooting fountains of the Bellagio Hotel in Las Vegas. Modern technology, ha! Peterhof Grand Palace outside St. Petersburg, built by Peter the Great in 1715, has its own shooting fountains which erupt every day to music at 11 am. Like Schoenbrunn, its building was patterned after Versailles. Surrounding it are extensive grounds with fountains that lead to the shores of the Baltic Sea.

As impressive as Peterhof Palace is, one needs to keep in mind that the Nazis completely gutted it. Only a charred shell remained after WWII. In painstaking detail the Russians reconstructed the palace. Indeed, the center of St. Petersburg as well was rebuilt to resemble its pre-war façade. The Soviet Union might have projected a monolithic mien to the outside world, but to its people it preserved history and heritage.

Any European country boasts magnificent churches. Russia is no exception. Russian churches are generally smaller, but what they lack in size they make up for in décor. Naturally, onion domes topped by golden crosses attract immediate attention. Inside, they are adorned by icons and frescoes from floor to ceiling. Many, many churches were destroyed by the Communists (and their priests and nuns executed). But many were retained, not always as working churches. Now, under its current government, Russia has been restoring them and building new churches (and many are joining the priesthood. Regular priests may marry. Only those who choose to join the church hierarchy take vows of celibacy).

Anyone fascinated by cemeteries must travel to Moscow to view the New Cemetery adjacent to Novodevitchy Convent (New Maiden Nunnery—Russian royalty really took the “get thee to a nunnery” dictum to heart. Any time they wanted to rid themselves of a wife, sister, daughter or mother, they simply banished the lady to the nunnery). The cemetery dates back to the 17th century but its New portion opened in 1898 as the resting ground of Russia’s most celebrated composers, directors, writers, poets, generals, businessmen, scientists, and now, with the fall of the Soviet Union, its leaders who no longer get buried near Lenin’s Tomb in Red Square.

What makes the New Cemetery unique is its gravesite monuments are not simply slabs of marble or granite. Rather, they are works of art, life-size or larger statues of the deceased, in striking poses. The head of the circus, a clown by trade, is memorialized on a park bench. The head of telecommunications is depicted making a phone call. Everywhere you turn the dead appear larger than in life. A strikingly beautiful sculpture of a young woman stands beside Raisa Gorbachev’s grave. It’s the way husband Mikhail remembers her.

From Russia With Love

Russians are a pretty romantic lot.

The most common wedding day is Friday, no doubt to permit maximum revelry without the anxiety of having to go to work the next two days.

Before marrying, many Russian couples buy a padlock on which they etch their names. They attach the lock to public sites, such as the metal “trees” placed across a bridge spanning the Muscovy River in Moscow for just such a purpose. They pick elaborate locks, not your standard Master Lock. Though intended to signify eternal bonds, the locks have no magical power to sustain a relationship—50% of all Russian marriages end in divorce.

Russians are fiercely proud. A guide from Yaroslav said a woman of that town, Anne, daughter of Yaroslav I of Kiev, was married off to Henry I of France in 1051. Among her other accomplishments, according to the guide, was her introduction of the fork and regular bathing to the court of France. Russians, not the French, were the sophisticates of yesteryear, and of today, she implied.

Though commonly associated with Russia, nesting dolls, matruskas, are not native to the country. They came to Russia from Japan at the end of the 19th century.

Along with matruskas, one of the most common souvenirs is a music box of an onion-domed church. It took a while but I finally found one that didn’t play Lara’s Theme. What did the music box makers do before Doctor Zhivago?

Onion domes on churches are painted gold, green or blue depending on the aesthetics desired by the architect and congregation and the latter’s treasury. Being round they aid in the run-off of snow and rain.

Russian ice cream, at least the flavors served on the Viking Cruise line, must be lactose free. How else to explain that not once during the trip did I suffer from my usual ailment after enjoying two scoops. And enjoy I did. Ice cream was served every lunch and dinner. I’m afraid to think what my blood sugar level is after such gluttony. For the record, for those who care, I didn’t gain, or lose, any weight in Russia.

Russian computer hackers were hard at work during our trip. Several fellow travelers had their emails compromised with messages to friends and family seeking emergency funds to save them from misfortune. Hopefully, none of you received an SOS email from me. No doubt, if you had, you would have gladly opened up your wallets to speed my return back to the Good Ol’ USA.

It was kinda weird to see one of the films featured on the closed circuit on-board TV was the James Bond flick From Russia With Love. Asked how she felt seeing 007 and other American agents always triumph over evil, inept Russian spies, one guide replied, “Did you ever see how U.S. spies were portrayed in Russian movies?”

Growing up in the 1950s, I was drilled in school to hide under my wooden desk in case of an atomic bomb attack. Russian children were instructed to hide under white sheets.

Our river cruise managed to avoid any prolonged heat wave, acrid smoggy air from peat bog fires around Moscow or rain. We left St. Petersburg before a wind storm and electrical blackout hit the city and enjoyed normal Moscow temperatures in the 60s and 70s, a far cry from the 100-plus days Muscovites suffered through for almost a full month. I did have one weather-related regret—I would have liked the ability to be transported for one day into next January so we could have experienced a Russian winter. One day, maybe just one hour, would have been sufficient.

By the way, minus 40 degrees Celsius is equal to minus 40 degrees Fahrenheit, not an uncommon occurrence during a Russian winter.

The 90s-100 degree days taxed the country’s limited air conditioning capacity (fortunately for us, our ship’s a/c worked efficiently). It was especially challenging for the museums where high temperatures and humidity left us wondering how the treasures of the Hermitage and other venues could be properly maintained.

I always thought Siberia encompassed the land mass east of the Ural Mountains all the way to the Pacific. Not so. Siberia does start at the Urals, but the eastern coastal area is known simply as the Far Eastern region. By train, the Trans-Siberian railroad from St. Petersburg to Vladivostok traverses 5,753 miles. The trip takes eight days.

Speaking of rail lines, the Moscow subway, known as the Metro, is clean and boasts some beautiful marble-lined stations, adorned with patriotic statues sculptured during Stalin’s reign. But trains are not air conditioned and are no less noisy than their New York counterparts. They are cheaper, however. Each one-way ride costs 26 rubles. You can ride all day for about 85 cents.

Final tidbit of the day—Moscow’s Red Square was named long before the Russian Revolution. Red, in Russian, means beautiful. I wouldn’t call Red Square beautiful. I prefer Krakow’s central square, or Prague’s. But Red Square is definitely impressive.

The Double-Headed Eagle Has Landed

Perhaps you’ve noticed your faithful correspondent has been absent from your inbox lately. Well, the secret can now be told—even retirees go on vacation. Gilda and I just returned from two weeks in Russia, sailing on a river cruise from St. Petersburg to Moscow.

Discovery Channel has its Shark Week. Consider this your Russian Week. I won’t pontificate, not too much, I hope, on deep Russian themes. Rather, for the next several days I’ll provide some pointed observations and tidbits of information you might not have known about Russia:

Russia’s summer has been extraordinary, afflicted by intense heat and peat bog fires around Moscow that shrouded the capital in smog, making breathing for three hours outdoors the equivalent of smoking two packs of cigarettes. Instead of normal temperatures in the 60s and 70s, during the weeks leading up to our trip St. Petersburg and Moscow experienced high 90s and even 100-plus days. We packed accordingly and even managed to bring with us a little Lady Luck, for the weather was just short of perfect for our fortnight in Mother Russia.

The symbol of the Russian empire was the two-headed eagle, facing east and west. Ever the cynics, Russians claimed it symbolized the country did not know which way to turn.

History, according to our guides, is the hardest subject to master in schools because textbooks are rewritten every two years. Russian history has an “unpredictable past,” said our guides. Reminded me of the Texas Board of Education and its respect for accepted knowledge.

Given a choice between order or democracy, between stability or freedom, the Russian people favor order and stability. Democracy is not a good word, a guide said, because “every time we have a weak ruler we have problems.” Putin is well regarded because he is decisive. Gorbachev is reviled because he presided over economic disaster. Yeltsin was considered a buffoon.

Despite the Soviet Union’s anti-religion manifesto, the Russian Orthodox Church has experienced a revival. About 65% of the population, it is estimated, affiliates with the Russian Orthodox Church, though they are not traditionally observant. That would require them to both fast and abstain from sex for more than 200 days a year. Attendance at services is on the rise (pun intended, as there are no seats in the churches. Congregants stand for the two to three hour services in buildings that usually do not have heat, though the Church of the Assumption in the heart of the Kremlin had hot water pipes installed under its cast iron flooring in the 18th century, a form of central heating gaining wider acceptance in the 21st century. By the way, a kremlin refers to any fortress built to protect a population center. Moscow’s Kremlin houses offices of the government and numerous churches where the Tsars were crowned, married, had their children baptized, and were eulogized).

Not so well known is that Stalin reversed his attitude toward the church after WWII, known in Russia as the Second Great Patriotic War (the first was the one against Napolean). Though Hitler promised religious freedom if it would support his attack, the church lined up behind Stalin and the Russian defense of the motherland. After the war Stalin eased up on restrictions and allowed more churches to open and operate.

Russian churches often have superb acoustics and boast exceptional male choirs, usually a quartet whose voices are transformed into resounding multi-layered harmonization. As I write this I’m listening to a CD of the White Lake Vocal Ensemble. Sung in Slavonic, an old, mostly lost language, the hymns are deeply spiritual.

After experimenting with a progressive income tax system, Russia has adopted a flat 13% tax rate on all income. Anyone who owes taxes, or excessive fines, for say, parking violations, cannot leave the country before paying off their debt.

Speaking of parking violations, before perestroika (which means reconstruction), there were about 200,000 cars in Moscow. Today there are close to four million. Understandably, traffic jams abound and there is not enough parking. Moscow installed parking meters, but the public rebelled, vandalizing many of them, forcing their removal. Cars are parked on sidewalks and other illegal places. Police tow trucks are called “black angels.” To relieve some of the parking space deficit, Russia is building vertical garages. Often they are co-op initiatives. People contribute to a building fund for a reserved spot and pay a monthly fee as well. The price of regular gas was around 26 rubles for one litre, equal to around $3.27 for one gallon.

To widen some of the roads in Moscow, buildings were elevated and moved backward several meters. Friday is the busiest traffic day as city dwellers drive to their suburban dachas. Most people have dachas. Under the Soviet Union land was distributed free of charge to all workers thereby inadvertently contributing to the peat bog fires that plagued Russia this summer and in years past. To have enough land to distribute, swampy peat bogs were drained. But without the dampness, peat bogs spontaneously combust in intense heat. It would be political suicide to try to wrest the dachas and land back from the populace to reflood the bogs. So Russia is living proof that no well-intentioned deed goes unpunished.