There was a party atmosphere on board the packed
ferry; even though it was barely 9 in the morning small groups of men and women
sipped from cans of weak beer as their raucous offspring ran amok between
decks. Some of the older passengers quickly retired to the on-board restaurant,
whilst others sidled up to some of the ship’s numerous game machines emblazoned
with names like ‘Gold Rush’ and ‘Treasure Island’. The dollar signs flashed in
staccato yellow.
I decided to give the Bacchanalian delights a miss and instead headed out on
deck. The sea air was bracing, rippling the waters of the Gulf of Finland as an
unseasonably warm April sun glinted and gleamed on the waves. I took a deep
breath and looked back towards a receding Helsinki, the city floating on the
horizon like some half-forgotten dream.
Soon the soaring spires of medieval Tallinn slid into view, and the ship glided
effortlessly into a swish modern dock. Before long we disembarked into glorious
sunshine, and I strolled effortlessly through customs; no border guards, no
checks. The majority of the ship's passengers – day-tripping Finns - had no
need to hide their beverages.
When I was born back in the winter of 1982 such a scene would have been
impossible. Tallinn – today the capital of an independent Estonia – was just
another city in the Soviet Union, all but closed to curious foreigners. Leonid
Brezhnev was not long in his grave and the short rule of Yuri Andropov had just
commenced. The Era of Stagnation was at its zenith.
Things now, of course, are very, very different. Estonia is an enthusiastic
member of the EU and NATO, having joined with its Baltic sisters Latvia and
Lithuania in 2004 - the first (and thus far only) part of the former USSR to do
so. Indeed, Estonia went one further by adopting the Euro seven years later,
right at the height of the European Debt Crisis. Estonia has firmly thrown its
lot in with the West.
My arrival in Tallinn heralded the start of a two week stint in the country. I
was here partly because Estonia was effectively a blank to me; this was, after
all, a relatively unknown country tucked away in the north-east corner of
Europe and I knew very little about it.
But my curiosity ran deeper than that. I wanted to find out how the country had
changed since independence 20 years previously and whether there was any
evidence that this had once been Soviet soil – would there be monuments and
statues and buildings left over from the previous regime? Or would these all
have been destroyed in an unrelenting and systematic act of political
rejection, as had happened elsewhere?
The Old Town was lovely, a warren of medieval streets and alleyways that
seemed little altered from the days when this was an important Hanseatic port.
Then known as Reval, the town earned its fortune from the web of trade routes
that crisscrossed the Baltic Sea.
And yet it was never intended to be an Estonian city; founded by Danish King
Valdemar II in 1219 its heyday was under the Germanic Livonian Order.
Post-reformation weakness led to Swedish domination before incorporation into
the Russian Empire in 1710 by the all-conquering Peter the Great. For almost
the entirety of this period Estonians constituted a minority of the city’s
population but were denied full citizenship rights. German would remain the language
of social advancement right up until the First World War.
Things only really changed with industrialisation. The arrival of the railway
in 1870 and the modernisation of the economy attracted more and more workers
from the countryside, and by the dawn of the 20th century Estonians formed a
majority, making the city the focus of Estonian nationalism. It would be here
that the movement for independence would be most successfully galvanised by the
chaos of the Russian Revolution, and in 1918 Tallinn became capital of an
independent Estonia for the first time.
Soon I found the place that I was looking for, on one of Tallinn's most
touristy streets - an Indian restaurant, complete with street side tables,
chairs and parasols. It wasn’t long after midday but already the place was
doing a brisk lunchtime trade; the distinctive smell of hot spices wafted over
me as I open the door. Some customers were eating cross-legged in special
booths by the windows.
One of the waitresses spotted me. "Ah, you must be Elo's couchsurfing
friend!" she beamed. I asked how she guessed, winking as we both
acknowledged the rather incongruous bag on my shoulder. "She's in the
back. Just grab a seat and I'll go find her".
After a couple of minutes Elo appeared. "Hello! Welcome to Estonia! It's
good to see you!" she said, giving me a warm hug as I stood up to greet
her. It was the first time we'd met and yet I already felt that we were good
friends, and she looked as lovely as her picture. Green-blue eyes, warm smile,
dark blonde hair and a horrendously unflattering uniform. Welcome to Estonia
indeed, I thought.
The occupation came gradually. At the outset of World War II the USSR
demanded that its forced be permitted to establish military bases in the
Baltic, to which those states meekly complied. By the summer of 1940 the Soviet
Union was in a position to occupy the countries outright; fixed elections
produced pro-Soviet governments, who then obediently petitioned Moscow for
formal incorporation into the USSR.
This first period of Soviet rule would last roughly a year, and was
characterised by mass arrests and deportations. Estimates vary but it’s
generally accepted that around 30,000 Estonians, Latvians and Lithuanians were
sent to camps in Siberia and elsewhere.
All this changed when the launch of Operation Barbarossa saw Germany quickly
invade and overrun the Baltics in July 1941. Welcomed initially as liberators
by many local inhabitants, the Nazis successfully rolled back Soviet forces and
set up the Reichskommissariat Ostland, a sort of military-civilian government.
By 1944 the war had swung back in the Soviets’ favour, and the Red Army once
again swept through the Baltics. A curious and bitter three-way fight
developed; German SS legions comprised of local volunteers were formed whilst
opposing communist sympathisers joined the advancing Soviets. Still other
disparate nationalist groups formed a partisan movement known as the Forest
Brothers, fighting a guerrilla campaign that would continue well into the
1950s. Occasionally members of the same family would be pitted against each
other.
At war’s end the Baltics were devastated. Hundreds of thousands of people had
been killed or had fled abroad, national infrastructure was devastated and
society deeply traumatised. Moreover Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania had been
reincorporated back into the USSR – and would remain as such for another 45
years.
I was sipping a hot chocolate in Tallinn’s Coca-Cola Plaza when my
mobile rang. “Sorry I’m late!” blurted a heavily-accented female voice down the
line. “I’m just finding somewhere to park. Give me five minutes”.
And exactly five minutes later Valeria Jakobson burst in. She spotted me
straight away and came over, joining me at the small table without ordering.
Valeria was a social communication researcher at the University of Tartu, and
her blonde hair and Slavic looks betrayed the fact that she was a member of
Estonia’s minority Russian population. She was keen to talk about the status of
the Russian language in Estonia and launched straight into conversation.
“There is a big division between Russians and Estonians in Estonia”, she said.
“We are like two communities, living separate lives”.
“In what way?”
“Well, things are easier now than they were in the 1990s. Then there was a lot
of uncertainty but some of that still remains. We celebrate completely
different events, for example.”
It was an interesting point. I asked her about the city’s Museum of Occupations
– created in 2003 to document the Soviet period – and she pulled a face.
“These museums are politically motivated, everyone knows that they are not a
fair reflection of events. Look” – she stared at me intently – “Russian
speakers do not share the same standards of living as Estonian speakers, they
have lower incomes and cannot hold positions of authority. I know a lorry
driver, he’s perfectly bilingual. He applied for a job and was successful until
they saw his name, a Russian name. Then the offer was taken away. Estonians
always have priority”.
“Why is that?” I asked.
“It’s to do with narratives. In Estonia anything that reminded people of the
Soviet times were rejected. Russians speakers were marginalised.”
‘Alien citizenship’ immediately sprung mind. When Estonia first became
independent it refused to offer full citizenship to people who had emigrated
from elsewhere in the Soviet Union after 1945 or their descendants unless they
could demonstrate a degree of proficiency in Estonian. Those that cannot pass
the test are unable to vote and have to use ‘Alien’ passports, which prevents
visa-free travel within the EU.
It made me wonder whether Russian speakers felt any sense of nostalgia for the
Soviet period.
“Oh yes, absolutely. I have one student who thinks of the Soviet Union as a
happy time, when everyone was smiling. When I asked him why he said he’d seen
it watching old films. It’s a bit like how Estonians hark back to the first
period of independence as some beautiful time when everything was perfect.”
“And what about the Bronze Soldier and Bronze Night?”
Valeria looked a little sad, as if she’s been asked this question before.
“Any affinity with the Bronze Soldier is not a wish for the Soviet Union to be
recreated, even thought a lot of people think this is the case. For us it’s
about Russian dissatisfaction with our role in present day Estonia. We know the
USSR will not return but we want to be full citizens.”
Bronze Night was an event that shocked Estonia and brought the issue of
Russian speakers to the attention of the world’s press. In April 2007 the
Estonian government declared that it would remove a controversial statue from
the centre of Tallinn. This statue – the ‘Bronze Soldier’ – is a Soviet World
War II memorial and for many Estonians it symbolised the occupation and
repression of the Soviet years. For Estonia’s Russian speakers, however, it
represented not only the defeat of fascism in the apocalyptic Great Patriotic
War but also symbolised their right to participation in Estonian society.
When rumours started that the statue was facing imminent removal it sparked off
two nights of violent rioting resulting in one death, dozens of shops looted
and hundreds of arrests. A panicky government ordered the statue be taken down
immediately, placing it in temporary storage before transporting it to the
Military Cemetery several kilometres from the centre of town where it now
stands.
It was only a short distance to the cemetery and Valeriadrove like the wind,
covering the distance in only a few minutes. It was early evening, and there
was no-one else around in the fading light. From the entrance a wide path led
past rows of well-maintained graves straight to the statue. It dominated the
area; a weary soldier, head bowed, stood solemnly between plaques inscribed in
Russian and Estonian. Flowers and candles lay at the soldier’s feet, and
although the monument was in the typically heroic style of the Soviet period it
conveyed a certain sombreness.
I mentioned this lack of triumphalism to Valeria and she agreed
enthusiastically.
“This monument is a monument to everyone, not just Russians” she said. “See,
even the soldier looks Estonian.”
It was less than a fortnight to Victory Day, and I asked Valeria if she would
be attending.
“Yes, of course. I come every year. It’s important to me - as a Russian - to
go.”
“So will many Estonians be attending?”
“No, none. We celebrate separate events”.
We continued to stare silently at the bowed statue for a few more minutes
before heading back to the car. It was a poignant introduction to this divided
land.
The next morning I trudged from the apartment into town, the roads
clogged with rush-hour traffic. The northern air was cool, crisp and refreshing
– Tallinn is on a similar latitude to Scotland’s Orkney islands – and I almost
felt like whistling. The dull ache at the back of my head couldn’t dampen my
spirits.
Ah, last night. Elo and I had gone into town and visited a few of Tallinn’s
bars. Some were new, some were old, some catered almost exclusively to the
burgeoning trade in stag parties – apparently this constituted the stereotypical
view of British tourists, so I was told – and some of those reserved for
locals. We ended up in one of the latter, a small venue that felt like it had
been built in what had once been someone’s house. The speciality was a strange
mixture of vodka and coffee, served as a warm shot. It turned out they went
down rather too well.
I was heading towards the Museum of Occupations, on the corner of Toompea and
Kaarli puiestee. Located just outside the walls of the old town, I found it
down a leafy street not far from the hill that once formed the political heart
of medieval Tallinn.
It was a modern building. A concrete-and-glass structure had been slightly
raised at ground level, providing an opening into a small courtyard filled with
birch trees. A solid-looking metal door – inscribed OKUPATSIOONIDE MUUSEUM in
capital letters - marked the entrance to the museum proper.
There were only a couple of other visitors. I bought my ticket at a little
desk, where the smiling attendant told me about the museum. “Please, do ask
questions if you need answer”, she said sweetly.
Inside were exhibits relating to both the Nazi and Soviet periods. A pair of
stylised trains dominated the main room, adorned with a swastika and hammer and
sickle respectively, and all around the edge of the museum were suitcases. Each
represented the numerous Estonians deported before, during and after World War
II.
There were also plenty of paraphernalia from those times – propaganda posters,
military uniforms, surveillance equipment and so on. There was the tiny cell
with barely enough room to stand that individuals would sometimes be kept in
for hours or days at a time; now a section of wall with an almost invisible
spy-hole used for monitoring suspects. In the basement was an assortment of
Soviet statuary, including a huge marble Lenin head slowly gathering dust.
I wondered from the museum, past the leafy Hirvepark – scene of an anti-Soviet
demonstration in 1987 to mark the anniversary of the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact –
and up to the fine medieval Kiek-in-de-Kök tower. Nearby was Vabaduse Väljak, a
square once used for parades on Soviet holidays but now dominated by the
Freedom Monument, an Estonian cross mounted on a pillar of frosted glass. It
was made to resemble ice, representing freedom’s fragility.
I made my way up to Toompea, the limestone outcrop that stands tall over the
rest of the city. It was a little quieter than the town below, and from the top
it offered splendid views across the Old Town and beyond. The strategic value
of the hill and of Tallinn was readily apparent; wedged between the sea to the
north and Lake Ülemiste to the south, it was in prime position to dominate this
part of the Baltic.
The town too, it seems, was a hotbed of le Carré-style Cold War espionage. I
could see across to the Viru Hotel, where a secret ‘23rd’ floor had been
recreated to depict its former life as a KGB surveillance centre. Complete with
telephones and other bits of machinery, officers would spend their days
intercepting radio signals from Helsinki and passing messages onto Moscow.
Predictably almost the entire hotel was once bugged.
Slightly closer I could see the might spire of St. Olaf’s Church, once the
world’s tallest building and still the highest structure in Tallinn. This too
had once been appropriated by the Soviets, used as a radio and television
jamming station. It’s now a Baptist church and a popular viewing point.
The queue in the train station was moving along at an agonisingly slow
pace. I nervously glanced at my watch; 4 minutes until the train would depart.
Why was it, I thought, that some people take forever to buy tickets and why do
they always insist on doing so when I’m in a hurry? Why?
Finally I got to the booth.
“A ticket to Tartu, please” I blurted.
“Oh, you don’t buy that ticket here. You must get it on the train”.
I dashed outside to where Elo was guarding her bicycle and she almost slapped
her forehead when I told her about the ticket. “I completely forgot!”
We hugged and I said that I would be returning to Tallinn soon. Elo smiled. “I
know. Let me know when you’re back. Have a nice time in Tartu.”
And with that she was gone.
I ran to the train with only seconds to spare. It was busy, and instead of
taking a seat I decided to stand at the end of the carriage so I could enjoy
the views out of the window. It was a lovely sunny day, with azure blue skies
all the way to the horizon.
Tartu is Estonia’s second city and is the country’s intellectual heart, a sort
of Baltic Oxford or Cambridge. The 370-year old university is the most
prestigious seat of learning in the region and something like a fifth of the
population of 100,000 are students, at least during term time. It’s also very
‘Estonian’ – migration from other parts of the Soviet Union was relatively low
and today a smaller proportion of the inhabitants count Russian as their first
language compared to most other urban settlements in Estonia.
The university was also the primary reason for my trip to the city. I’d
arranged to meet some academics and students from the Centre for Baltic
Studies, who had been particularly interested in the project and were keen to
help.
I’d also arranged another couchsurf. I met Margit at the station and as we
walked the short distance to her flat we spoke more about the purpose of my
visit. “You’ve picked a good time to come”, she said. “Right now it’s the
Student Days so there’s a lot of parties going on with the different
fraternities. And it’s also Walpurgis Night, do you have this celebration in
England? There will be fireworks and music, we can go tonight if you like”.
We turned down Kastani street – the name means ‘conkers’ – and shortly arrived
at Margit’s home, a pretty green wooden building divided into a couple of
apartments. We entered the bottom flat where we were met by a large and
extremely friendly orange tomcat. “He’s called Zeppelin”, explained Margit,
giving him a rub on the head.
I dumped my things and we set off for the centre of town. The bright sunshine
had continued into the evening, bathing the streets in a warm evening glow and
inviting an unhurried pace. As we strolled down Vanemuise Margit told me about
her life. The same age as me, she was Tartu born and raised and she seemed
proud of her city. I could see why; first impressions were of a leafy and tidy place
unscarred by unsightly brutalist construction.
We emerged into Raekoja plats, Tartu’s modest central square. The cobbled
surface was thronging with students, some dressed in formal evening wear whilst
others took a much more casual approach. “They’re part of the fraternities”
Margit explained. Most of them were Estonian but I also heard snatches of
German, Lithuanian and Russian.
We grabbed a bite to eat in a café before heading down to the river, the
Emajõgi. It was dark by now and as we pushed our way through the crowds to find
a good spot we could see a large installation lit up on a small footbridge. A
man began to play a steady drumbeat before an unseen woman began chanting in
Estonian – a traditional type of singing that Margit said was known as
regilaul. It was hauntingly beautiful, and the crowds became silent in a mark
of reverential respect.
Singing has a special place in Estonian cultural life and played a key part in
the independence movement. Special outdoor arenas – known as Song Grounds –
would host huge events, where thousands would converge to wave national flags
and sing popular anthems. In September of 1988 a gathering of some quarter of a
million Estonians in Tallinn did just that , leading the Baltic pushed for
independence to be christened the ‘Singing Revolution’.
After the regilaul came drummers with sparks flying from their instruments,
colourful fireworks and the lighting of small flames on little barges in the
river. It was a peculiar mixture of somberness and celebration, of Nordic
tradition, affinity with nature and a palpable sense of national identity.
As we wondered back to Margit’s flat she asked if I had brought anything smart
to wear. “Because I am going to one of the fraternities tonight. It will be
fun, lots of drinking and partying”. I looked down at my jeans and trainers and
shook my head.
Margit got back in at 4 am. I didn’t even stir.
Eneli was already waiting for me when I arrived at Tartu’s Café Pierre,
a trendy establishment in Raekoja plats. She was reading a book on Basque
culture, and as I was about to introduce myself Maarja arrived. Both were
students at the university, and they were interested in talking to me about
their impressions of Estonia’s Soviet history. They were Estonian speakers and
had a typically Nordic look; Eneli with a slight build, Maarja tall and both
blonde. I ordered tea and then we sat and talked in the bright morning
sunshine about their hopes and fears for the future.
“I think there are two kinds of people in Estonia” said Maarja. “There are the
rich, and then there are the poor. I think the gap is perhaps worse now than it
was when our parents were young”.
“So do you think that can lead to some nostalgia for Soviet times?” I asked
“Perhaps. We hear stories from our parents and they’re the most influential
source of our opinions I would say. But with nostalgia there is also sadness,
because yes some things were better but there was also oppression, and this
affected everyone. Estonians, Russians, all of us”.
“True, but there were still divisions between Estonians and Russians in the
Soviet occupation” interrupted Eneli. “There has always been this mutual
suspicion. Russians to us remind us of Soviet times, especially because
Russians do not think of those times as an occupation, and this will always be
the case I think”.
“So could this perhaps cause trouble in the future, perhaps another Bronze
Night?”
“Absolutely, of course. We are always worried that this can happen again.”
Eneli fixed me with her blue eyes. “We are scared of Russia. We are scared that
Russia will come across our border again, just like they did in the war.”
I asked her if Estonia’s membership of the EU and NATO made her feel more
secure.
“Perhaps. There is some collective security. But we are small and because of
our history the west thinks of us as Eastern Europe when in fact we are part of
the north, like Scandinavia.”
When I asked them if they would consider emigrating they shook their heads.
“No, our place is here. Maybe we might work for a year or two abroad but we
will want to return to Estonia” said Maarja.
The day before Margit had suggested we visit her parents, who lived a
mile or two away in another part of town. The short walk had taken us through a
pleasant part of the city, with tidy Tsarist and independence era- wooden
buildings lining the streets. At one point a panorama opened up, and in the
distance the grey monolithic Soviet apartment blocks lined the horizon. “Most
Russians in Tartu live there” said Margit, the descendants of the workers who
came here in times past from all corners of the USSR.
When we reached their home Margit’s mother and father were both out in the
garden, making the most of the morning sunshine. Kersti and Jaan were a
middle-aged couple, Estonian speakers who readily seized on the opportunity of
having a couple of extra pairs of hands by pressing us into service with
promises of homemade fruit juice and snacks as encouragement. So it was that we
found ourselves clearing away dead leaves from the strawberry patch.
It was a decent sized allotment; aside from strawberries the Meiesaars also
grew cabbages, carrots and an assortment of other vegetables. I could see other
gardens nearby were also well-stocked, a testament to the fertile soils in
these parts.
By the time we’d filled up a
bag with the product of our endeavors Kersti had brought out the refreshments,
and we gratefully sat and helped ourselves to warm meat-filled pastries and the
tastiest blackberry juice I could ever remember drinking. Between mouthfuls I
asked my hosts about their lives in Tartu.
Kersti was a friendly woman with glasses and a warm smile. Could she ever have
imagined an independent Estonia back in Soviet times? No, she said, it wasn’t
even entertained as a possibility. She – like so many other Estonians of her
generation – had been a member of the communist party but this wasn’t as much
for ideological reasons as simply doing what was expected of them and what in
many ways was a key to professional advancement.
Jaan nodded throughout but I wasn’t sure how much he understood of what was
being said; he spoke no English and when he did speak Margit was on hand to
translate. Jaan had also been a member of the communist party and was a
refrigeration engineer, working on Soviet ships before independence. His job
saw him travel all over Europe and this made me especially curious.
“What was it like working on the ships?” I asked.
“It was hard work but I enjoyed it. For those times it was well-paid and I
preferred working on the boat to being stuck in a factory somewhere”.
He smiled, his bushy white moustache tracing the outline of his mouth.
“And there was a mixture of people on board the ships, from all over the Soviet
Union. I worked with Russians, with Tartars and Kalmyks too.”
I asked him if there were any restrictions on their movements when they were
docked in a foreign port.
“Yes, we were allowed on shore but we could only go in groups, never on our
own. This was to stop us defecting.”
Had he ever been to the UK?
“Aberdeen!” he beamed. There was no need to translate.
I topped up my glass of juice. Kersti picked up the black-and-white cat that
had been brushing by her feet and gave it a warm hug. Were things better now, I
wondered out loud.
They nodded. “I think overall things are better”, said Kersti. “Before we
couldn’t travel and we were told that the West was a bad place and now I can go
there and see that it isn’t. But” – she paused – “there is probably more
uncertainty. Back then you could always get a job, and there was more security
for people. It’s not like that anymore.”
After we said our goodbyes Margit and I headed into town, both feeling good
about our morning’s work. Down by the river further festivities were
taking place, with students in fancy dress coming lining up to compete in a
wacky boat race. We took our places among the crowd by the river’s edge,
cheering on the home-made boats as they made their way around a circular
course. I particularly liked the Teletubbies and the zombie nuns.
I mentioned her parents’ views on the stability of Soviet life to Margit, and
she nodded. “Yes” she said, “a lot of older people have these opinions.”
“So can there be conflicts between older and younger people when it comes to
the past?”
“Yes, definitely. Very often the older people can be annoyed when they
see youngsters treating the past in a trivial way. Sometimes the students will
have pretend-communist parties where they dress up in uniforms and get really
drunk. They see it as disrespectful I think.”
A cheer went up from the crowd as one of the nuns fell into the water.
I spent the rest of my time in Estonia criss-crossing the country. In
Narva I stared over to Russia across the river that bears the town’s name, with
twin fortresses facing each other down only a stone’s throw apart. On the
beautiful island of Saaremaa I cycled past meadows of flowers and forests of
pine. In Valga I crossed the border into Latvia that had once divided this town
clean in half.
And everywhere I saw traces of the USSR. Apartments, government buildings,
bridges, roads – some crumbling and all with the severity that so often
characterises Soviet construction.
Eventually I returned to Tallinn, and Elo. She had been right; I did come back
to see her, and as we laughed and drank that evening I told her about my
adventures in the rest of the country. “I knew you would like Saaremaa” she smiled. “It’s beautiful!”
And as I waved goodbye from the bus one last time the next day I thought long
and hard about what I had learned during my time in Estonia. I’d found a
country that, on the face of it, seemed self-assured and confident about the
future. And yet by scratching under the surface I could see that the USSR’s
demise had not brought an end to cultural tensions, that the Soviet’s greatest
legacy was not wrought in brick and steel but in the people themselves.
Yes, I thought, I will return again one day. And I smiled.
