Главная страница «Первого сентября»Главная страница журнала «Английский язык»Содержание №35/2001

DISCOVERING THE PAST

THE COLOUR OF THE IRON CURTAIN

The word combination “The Iron Curtain” referring to the Soviet Union, was widely used by Westen media and politicians and later it penetrated into minds of people of all walks of life.
This epithet was not a new one. German Chancellor Bismarck had a nickname “The Iron Chancellor”, later British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher was called “The Iron Lady” and it was known she liked that title.
A great many people in Europe sincerely believed that everyone living behind “The Iron Curtain” was anxious to defect to the West as soon as there was possibility to cross the borders of the Soviet Union.
We, seamen of Russian ships, always stirred curiosity among the inhabitants of our ports of calls, who wondered why none of us wanted to ask for political asylum.
I recollect how a police car regularly patrolled the berth in the Stockholm port while our ship was moored there. When a group of sailors went ashore the police car would stop for a while as if inviting the crew members to get in. Later we learned from a Swedish ship’s chandler, that police had instructions to render assistance to anyone intending to defect and asking for a lift to a foreign embassy.
When we called at Copenhagen many Danes used to come to the Langelinie – a two km passenger berth in the port – especially to have a look at a Russian ship. Some of them asked permission to come on board and talk to the seamen. Sometimes they inquired why Russian seamen never wished to remain in their benevolent country.
Our regular passengers were English. Those who travelled to the shores of the Soviet Union were considered by their relatives and friends as extraordinarily brave individuals.
Tom Ford, a bachelor in his late thirties and carpenter from Gravesend (Kent), was nervous when we set sail for Leningrad. For him it was a trip to “The Iron Curtain”. His friends tried to dissuade him from the voyage:
“They can detain you in Russia, put you behind bars, or send you to Siberia.” Being an inquisitive person he did not give in, though at heart he was not quite sure whether everything would be alright with him. To be on the safe side he had sold all his carpenter tools beforehand at a very low price.
During two weeks Tom visited Leningrad, Moscow, Kiev, and Volgograd, and took a great many pictures including of Red square. Nobody ever stopped or followed him. Russians were friendly, though not many of them could speak good English.
In a fortnight Tom again appeared on board our ship. He looked happy and at the same time a little bit distressed, grieving for having sold his tools so cheap.
– Now I need to buy new instruments for my trade and it will cost me a lot of money, – he sighed.
For some tourists “The Iron Curtain” existed in reality. Once when we were approaching Leningrad, and going along the sea canal of the port, we saw two grey-haired ladies standing on boatdeck holding photocameras in their hands and ready at any moment to take a snapshot.
– When shall we pass “The Iron Curtain” and is it allowed to take pictures? – they inquired simple-mindedly. Questions invent answers. I did my best to keep a poker face and heard myself saying: – Well, we already passed it when the ship entered Russian territorial waters. It was four hours ago, – I decided to pull their legs.
– What a pity! And, by the way, what is the colour of “The Iron Curtain? – asked the luckless photographers.
– You can see it for yourself and take pictures on our way back. Don’t miss your chance next time! – I continued jesting with the ladies.
Certainly during their first sightseeing tour of the city an Intourist guide would shatter “The Iron Curtain” myth and I hoped the Englishwomen would forgive my joke.
There are some events branded on my memory. Two years later I recalled that conversation about the colour of “The Iron Curtain”. Now I could answer their question about its colour for it, happened that I once saw “The Iron Curtain” in reality.
We were cruising in the West Indies with British tourists on Christmas holidays. The weather was marvellous; the Caribbean sea was mirror calm. The ship called at the exotic islands of Antigua, Guadeloupe, Martinique, Saint Lucia, Saint Vincent, and Barbados. The authorities of those tiny pieces of land were friendly and hospitable. Formalities for the vessel’s clearance took at the most twenty minutes. Immigrations normally looked quickly through the passenger and crew lists and let everyone go ashore, wishing us all to have a good time.
As the saying goes: “So many countries, so many customs; and there is a first time for everything”.
The ship took course for the Trinidad harbour. Two black immigration officers came on board at our arrival and as usual asked for the passenger and crew lists.
– English tourists may go ashore, – said the senior of them, a solidly-built man with short curly black hair.
– And what about the crew? – I asked.
– The seamen will not get permission to go ashore – the official calmly replied.
– Why?!
The officer opened his brown briefcase and produced a paper which read: “Being the citizens of an Iron Curtain country, the crew is not allowed to go ashore in Trinidad.”
I thought he was pulling the wool over my eyes. My talk with the two English ladies flashed through my mind. It serves me right for my joke with them. But the immigration officer was in earnest. Two policemen were already standing at the berth guarding the gangway and the other immigration officer joined them.
– Listen, please! If you sincerely believe in the existence of “The Iron Curtain” then it is situated five thousand sea miles from here.
I explained to him that we hadn’t had any troubles and problems in six West Indian islands. What was wrong with Trinidad, a former British colony?
The official was collecting his thoughts.
– Well, I’ll go to my boss and give you the answer, – he said.
One hour passed, then another one. We were waiting impatiently for some final decision.
At last the big man arrived. He showed us an officially-stamped paper of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs of Trinidad. The text of the document repeated the old one and its final sentence read: “The crew being from the Iron Curtain is not allowed to step on the land of Trinidad and Tobago”.
The immigration officer took out of his pocket a piece of dark blue chalk and drew a thick, straight line dividing the deck from the gangway.
– This is your territory; and that is our free Trinidad, – he said. Now I knew the colour of “The Iron Curtain”. Dark blue.

By Evgeny Kunitsyn