Sibir Read Free Page A

late at a performance, in the Soviet Union such an action constitutes the worst kind of gaffe. Laura was in a state bordering on panic as she whipped us into the inner corridor, waving our tickets like flags in front of every usher she saw, and running us along like driven sheep in the direction they indicated. Nobody looked closely at the tickets.
    At one minute past the hour we scurried into a huge room from which a single set of double doors led toward a glare of lights. The backs of a group of people almost filled the wide doorway. We dashed up behind them,followed them through … and found ourselves on the stage of an immense auditorium in company with about fifty soberly dressed, distinguished-looking men and women.
    Five tiers of chairs had been arranged on the stage behind a long, baize-covered table bristling with microphones. The chairs were filling fast. By the time we reached them (carried along by sheer momentum) there were only a few still unoccupied – directly behind the long table and close beside a sort of podium or lectern. At this point I hesitated, contemplating flight, but Claire nudged me cruelly. “Sit down for heaven’s sake! The whole place is staring at you!”
    It was true enough. Fifty solemn faces on the platform were turned our way with expressions of polite incredulity. Beyond the footlights we could see a wash of faces whose owners also seemed much interested in the spectacle of three brightly attired ladies – one of whom sported a large red beard – milling about in a confused way at front stage right.
    We sat down and tried to disappear. It was difficult. Spotlights were trained onstage to provide illumination for several television and motion picture cameras. Still photographers added their own illumination, producing a recurring flicker of flashbulbs.
    A robust, black-suited gentleman on our left, who turned out to be a high ranking member of the Politburo, got to his feet and announced that the evening’s entertainment was to be in honour of the famous Ukrainian poet, Ivan Franko, who, though dead these many years, was loved and honoured throughout the Soviet Union. Many famous guests, the chairman told us, were present on stage this night to do Franko honour. He proceeded to name the guests and each stood up and made a little bow. They included the cream of the Moscow literary élite, not to mention a score of major political figures. The audience, many members of which had equipped themselves with opera glasses (these can be rented in anytheatre in Moscow) closely examined each famous figure. Having made all the introductions on his list, the chairman seemed to realize that something had been left out. He cast a perplexed glance at us and the opera glasses all swung our way – but inspiration failed the chairman. He shook his head in a baffled manner and turned back to the program.
    Speakers and singers and reciters of poetry now came forward one by one to the podium. Since I sat on the outside chair beside the podium I was not screened by the table, and the T.V. cameras had an unobstructed view of me. Claire drew my attention to this fact with a murderous, “Cross your legs!
And keep them crossed!
”
    Some of the speakers spoke in Russian, and Laura, slowly recovering from acute paralysis, gamely translated for us. However, many more spoke in Ukrainian and this was outside Laura’s provenance. Finally she turned to a dignified lady sitting on her left and politely asked if the stranger would mind translating from Ukrainian. The lady seemed startled but before she could reply she herself was called on for a speech … after all, she
was
the Minister of Culture for the Ukrainian Soviet Socialist Republic.
    Since there was nothing much else to do except consider what fate I would visit on Sasha when I caught him, I began to ponder the implications of this celebration. For centuries Ukrainians and Russians have lived uneasily as neighbours, and often there has been violence