Autobiographical

By the end of January 1991 I was getting accustomed to the cold, the odd fall in the ice, the daily change at work from boots to the normal shoes kept under my desk, washing clothes in the bath with soap, dealing with the beady eyes and endless scuttling in the flat and embarking on trips to the local Rizhsky market located near Rizhsky railway station, one stop from my local Alexeyevskaya. The markets had emerged after the adoption of the Soviet Law on Cooperatives promoted by Mikhail Gorbachev in 1987.

Their appearance had been a godsend for the general public, offering access to fresh meat, vegetables and fruit and other products, whilst enabling the authorities to test out reforms on a limited scale. The food markets would inevitably trigger the appearance of retail analogues nearby where the products on display varied from Western clothes and shoes to electronics (radios, cassette players, computers)  and western rock and pop bands on cassette tapes.  All these products would be imported by so-called chelnoki, the word literally meaning shuttles and in this case shuttle traders. This was the nickname assigned to those individuals who would manage somehow, clearly through bribes of some sort, to exit the Soviet Union to buy goods and then re-enter a few days later with the various products that would be sold at a significant profit. 

I must say I wondered at the time about the ease with which they were able to leave, especially when I was prohibited from doing so, with my one-entry visa. That became a concern on 30 January when I received an unexpected phone call from my mum. She told me that my eldest brother John had died at the tender age of 40. 

I always remember John as a gentle soul who was unlucky in both love and the choice of career and who only reconciled with my dad on his death bed. John had in later years blamed my dad for the school in Portsmouth, forgetting that he had instigated the move.  I had become close to him ever since the age of 15 when I had taken several buses to get to his house in Surrey and prevent him from committing suicide, bringing him back to my parent’s place in Ealing. I was to go there on a similar mission when 20. Owing to the age difference, my earliest memories date back to his ill-fated first wedding. However, I have learned more about him since then from my beloved sister Helen as they were much closer age-wise. She remembers him fondly as a great elder brother. And he was lucky to have her around.

When he was twelve, John told my dad that he was interested in becoming a priest. My dad took him at face value and paid for his education at a boarding school in Southsea, Portsmouth, St John’s College, which closed in 2022 owing to a sharp fall in enrolments. The all-boys school had been founded by the De La Salle Brothers and promoted the Catholic faith. However, in the end John decided against following that path. Academically, he was good in English and excellent at mathematics. He was also acknowledged there as a great actor. My dad went to see a performance and couldn’t believe how good he was on stage. As soon as he turned 18, John returned to London, started working as a stockbroker and was successful. However, the atmosphere in the capital those days was tainted by what appeared to be mandatory alcoholic lunches where ideas were shared. John continued for a time to appear in a number of plays at a local amateur dramatics club, lived then in Hampstead with the flat Dad created for him at the house and had a lovely schoolteacher girlfriend. 

However, one day he was coming home and on the middle of the zebra crossing when he was knocked down by a car which sped off without stopping. Luckily a kind passer-by contacted the ambulance services, and he recuperated almost fully. While in hospital, he met a nurse and ended up marrying her. They had two children whom my parents rarely saw, which meant that we lost sight of John as well. I recall seeing them once when I was 14. As I say, I was to see more of him luckily in the time to come. 

Suffice to say that later in the marriage his wife asked for a divorce and then moved in with a neighbour. John was heartbroken, but soldiered on. Eventually he met another lady and had two children with her. The children have issues, but are lovely. 

However, in January 1991 John was fired by a Japanese stockbroker that he had recently joined due to staffing cutbacks based on the LIFO principle (Last In, First Out). He came home the worse for wear at his property located near my parent’s place in Richmond, only find a note from his second partner, demanding that he leave. 

Unfortunately, she didn’t bother to tell our parents what she had done, something that was unforgiveable and something I said to her at a later date. John swallowed some pills, regretted it, but then collapsed. He ended up in hospital for a few days where he made up with dad. This event would inevitably have an indelible impact on the other children, but more so on my parents, and especially my father. John had life insurance, which covered the mortgages on both houses. But that was no compensation to us for the loss of someone so dear.

And so I turned up at work on 31 January, shaken and desperate to head home and see the family. I told Sergey and he promised to do his utmost to resolve the problem. However, he got back to me with the grim news that Soviet management at the top of APN refused to give me an exit visa to attend the funeral and support the family back home. I had only just arrived, had cost the agency money and management determined that there was no certainty that I would come back. All my attempts to reverse the decision, indicate that I would cover any expenses and would definitely return were to no avail. And this is one thing that I will never forgive that quasi-communist regime for taking away from me: a total lack of compassion and indifference, and a real chance to say goodbye to my brother. Whenever left-wingers in the UK back then cited the USSR as socialism with a human face (and some even do so today), I just laughed at their ignorance. Unfortunately, this is when the drinking took over. However, not as badly as it could, owing to the lack of alcohol in the shops and limited access to the journalist bar at APN. I just felt numb. 

I often think of John and remember the good times, going for a pint and playing pool, walking in parks, chatting, smiling, laughing and hugging. He would often wax lyrical about all his kids, all the more so the elder two whom he was prevented by his ex from seeing or contacting. John was really special. I just wish that he had lived longer and that I had had more time to spend with him. And that I had been with my other brother Adrian and sister Helen and beside my parents at a time where I might have been able to lend a helping hand. 

However, it was not to be. I had now seen for myself the cold, unyielding and faceless facet of the USSR and realised yet again that it was doomed in no so small part for that reason.