I am always amused in murder mysteries when the cop asks “And where were you on the night of . . . ?” I can hardly remember where I was yesterday.
There is, however, one date that I have never forgotten – August 19th, 1991.
My adventure began two days earlier in Shannon Airport as I watched my solitary suitcase being rolled on board the weekly Aeroflot flight to Moscow where I was attending a major library conference. This was a “no frills airline” before the term was invented. As soon as I found a unoccupied seat the air hostess marched up and down the aisle spraying our feet with foul-smelling disinfectant. Welcome to the Soviet Union. Returning from the bathroom at one point I found my seat occupied by a cockroach. A sign of things to come, had I but known.
Moscow airport was a nightmare of harassed passengers trying to find luggage. Eventually I found mine and a taxi which took off at breakneck speed screeching round every corner on two wheels. Without ceremony I was off- loaded (taxi fare in dollars only). I was staying at the Rossiya Hotel – assured by the conference organisers that this was where most of the delegates were being housed. Nothing could have prepared me for this ugly monstrosity of a building. I went in search of Reception where one normally finds it – inside the front door. Alas, no reception, no happy guests sitting around chatting and drinking – just a long queue at a curtained window. Had I arrived? Well no, this was where they exchanged currency for vast quantities of roubles – never counted but measured by the thumb size. I set off again and walked and walked and eventually came to a space like a large railway station concourse with more queues. As I was being checked in the grumpy receptionist commented “You took your time getting here, you flight arrived three hours ago”. I made my way to my bedroom through long dark corridors where stony-faced babushkas sat making notes of our comings and goings.
Utterly exhausted. I collapsed on the bed only to hear a voice announce “Dear Guest” – and some announcement I completely missed. The windows were grimy and covered in dusty lace curtains. There were 3,000 bedrooms and no phones in the room – what chance had I of connecting with any of my fellow delegates? The following morning I opened my eyes and there at eye-level along some dark veneered panelling was a cockroach – one of a small colony sharing my space. After that the morning ritual became leaning out of bed, emptying my shoes of cockroaches and then dancing a furious extermination dance while singing La Cucaracha.
The IFLA (The International Federation of Library Associations) conference – is a major international event with an attendance of between 3,000 to 4,000 delegates. The conference would open on Monday with a ballet performance and reception hosted by the Minister for Education. Monday morning, August 19th I wandered around Red Square and past the Kremlin. There were a lot of tanks and soldiers, but this was Moscow, maybe that’s what they always did on a Monday morning.
Unperturbed I made my way to the opening address and performance: The Minister spoke with simultaneous translations: “I urge you to stay calm and please don’t panic,” he announced. Turning to the delegate next to me I asked “Why should I panic?” It was then I learned that there had been a coup against Gorbachev who was being held under house arrest in his dacha in the Crimea and hence the presence of tanks and soldiers on the streets. I’m not sure if many of us remember the performance that evening as nerves had been shattered by the news – no coup in Russia had ever failed.
I awoke the following morning to cold, grey, rainy skies and boarded the bus to take us to the conference centre some 10 minutes away – a drive which took two hours. This involved driving past the the White House – another brutal building housing the parliament where Boris Yeltsin and a group of other self-styled “democrats” had barricaded themselves in protest. Hundreds of people milled around streets littered with burnt-out buses, iron rods, bed frames and bizarre objects that together formed flimsy barricades that would have done nothing to stop a tank. The whole experience was surreal – the only available TV channel showed Swan Lake over and over again. Rumours abounded – and nerves were frayed. A colleague from Estonia said to me “At least you come from a real country – I have no status here”. Estonia had declared independence during the coup.
That night we could hear shots and later learned of the demonstrators who had been run over by a tank. We queued for hours fruitlessly trying to make phone contact with home to reassure our loved ones that we were fine. I presented my paper and tried to behave as if everything was alright. Many delegates travelling on foreign airlines changed their flights and returned home and the group shrank. I was the only Irish delegate. On Wednesday afternoon word came “It’s over!” The coup leaders had fled the Kremlin.
After three grey days the clouds broke up and a bright sun shone on what felt like a liberated city. In the centre of Moscow people stood around laughing and swapping stories.
That evening there was a reception for the delegates in the Kremlin.
The place was dazzling – white-gloved waiters stood by with trays of champagne in sparkling blue crystal. Joining a group of friends one noted I was not holding a glass. Leaving the group he made his way to one of the waiters. Now Henry is a very tall American with gentle but large hands. He laid one of these hands on the waiter’s shoulder – and such was the state of the man’s nerves that he dropped the tray to ear-splitting sounds of shattering crystal. Later in the evening Henry suggested we start a conga, so I followed him and we danced around the reception room and up across the stage to the bemusement of the little orchestra. From there I looked down and saw the unforgettable sight of 3,000 librarians following us in our joyful conga in the Kremlin.