The Testimony    (15 page)

It was in Tashkent that we began our visits to a great number of museums: of fine arts, local crafts and industry, history, archaeology and science. Even I, who usually find such places interesting, thought there was rather too much of a good thing—and it was not the sort of tour where you could skip a part of the program and go walkabout on your own. We had to stay with the group, and were advised not to take photographs at the airport or near military installations, bridges, factories and institutes of science. One of our group took a photo of his wife against our Aeroflot jet, and was reprimanded by the airport guard, who confiscated his film and gave him another copy of a list of ‘don’ts’. Present-day Russia is more relaxed about such things.

Sections of the Silk Road that ran along the Taklamakan Desert were buried under its shifting sands. Thriving towns, monasteries and trading centres, holding great treasures of art, illuminated manuscripts and artefacts, disappeared from view and memory for many centuries. In the 1890s explorers and archaeologists from Europe discovered and excavated these treasures, which are now scattered in many museums and private collections on other continents. There were a few on display in one of the museums in Tashkent, but it seemed to me I had seen better examples of Persian illuminated manuscripts in the British Museum in London.

I had spent a lot of time in the British Museum, and it was a bit like an extensive trip around the world. British explorers and colonial administrators acquired or requisitioned the best examples of art, craftsmanship and religious icons from many countries. The ethics of such practices were deplorable, but the convenience of viewing and comparing them in the one place was great.

And then—Samarkand at last! The two-and-a-half days we spent there were not nearly enough for this fabulous place. Its monuments illustrate the glory and drama of the ancient Muslem world and the skill of its architects. Old Samarkand was developed in the fourteenth century as the capital of Tamarlane’s empire. (Tamarlane, as he was known popularly, was originally called Timur the Lame, because of his deformed leg.) His role model was Genghis Khan, and his ambition was to conquer the world. His cruelties became legendary. The favourite of his many wives was a Chinese princess who was part of the bounty brought home from one of his conquests. She was a gifted architect as well as a radiant beauty, and it is said that some of Samarkand’s striking buildings were designed by her. Much restoration work was being done, involving chemical analysis to replicate and match existing colours—mostly turquoise and cobalt blue—in the tiles and mosaics.

Another fourteenth-century figure associated with the city was Ulugh Beg, the famous astronomer, mathematician and philosopher. We visited his observatory where, using just one large sextant, he estimated the length of the celestial year with amazing precision, erring by only fifty-eight seconds. His other research enriched science in both the East and the West, but by allowing female students in to his university he violated the
sharia
law and was decapitated by fanatical opponents.

Registan is the centre of Samarkand. It is a square fringed on three sides by
madrassahs,
large educational centres for men that are a kind of specialised university. In mediaeval times these were great centres of scholarship in mathematics, theology, philosophy, astronomy, science and medicine.

It seemed to me that in Registan the worst and the best of human endeavours took place. Here the severed heads of kings conquered during Tamarlane’s constant, widespread, murderous raids were routinely displayed, impaled on spears. But it was also a place for the pursuit of knowledge and excellence. According to Nina, when Uzbekistan joined the Soviet Union, women burned a large pile of
burqas
and
yashmaks
in Registan in an act symbolic of their liberation.

Gur-Emir is the mausoleum in which Tamarlane and members of his family are buried. It is a majestic place capped with a fluted dome covered in blue and green tiles. This dome is regarded as an architectural masterpiece. Tamarlane’s grave is covered by a single, very large slab of jade some five centimetres thick and with only a couple of veins of impurities. It is too thick to be translucent, but has that warm jade-green glow. The slab was a souvenir from one of his sprees. Sharon observed that a whole jewellery shop specialising in jade could be filled with rings, brooches, pendants and bracelets made from it; yet here it lay, as it were, wasted.

Nina assembled us all around this grave to tell us a remarkable story. She said that Samarkand lay on the edge of a seismic area and was prone to occasional earth tremors. One such tremor in 1941 split open one of the graves here. It was marked as the grave of one of Tamarlane’s wives, yet it revealed the skeleton of a toddler. This reduced the credibility of the other graves, including the main tourist-attracting ones of Tamarlane and Ulugh Beg. A team of professors of history, human anatomy and archaeology then opened the graves to authenticate the skeletons. Ulugh Beg was easily identified by his severed head, and Tamarlane by his deformed leg. They noticed an inscription etched on the underside of the jade slab. Translated, it read (and here Nina spoke in hushed, dramatic tones): ‘He who violates this grave will be punished by a man more cruel than I was.’ She paused, then said, ‘A fortnight later Hitler invaded Russia in his Operation Barbarossa.’ Nina related this story quite seriously. Did she really think these events were linked through cause and effect?

Other fantastic stories were told here and, in the strange atmosphere of this place, they did not sound as preposterous as they were. After the mausoleum, the Museum of the History and Culture of Arts was an anticlimax.

In Dunshanbe, the capital of Tajikistan, we visited a tea house and two museums. There was an impressive monument to Avicenna (Ibn Sina, who was born in 980 and died in 1037), the ‘Father of Medicine’. His
Five
Canons of Medicine
(a million-word encyclopaedia of medical knowledge) was only one of many works by this famous polymath.

On the brief flight to Yerevan, the capital of Armenia, I read our pamphlet on this country. Amidst the information was this statement: ‘Armenia has long been famous for its theatrical art. Notably, children are often named after Shakespearean characters here.’

‘Oh yeah? Pull the other one!’ said Sharon. It seemed so unlikely in a part of the world with names, languages and cultures so very different from ours. I told her how I could check if it was true: I would go to (the inevitable) Lenin Square and yell, ‘Hamlet! Romeo! Ophelia! Polonius! Juliet! Othello!’ and see how many kids came running. She thought it was a good idea, and asked if she could come with me.

Our hotel in Yerevan had a five-star facade and a one-star interior. In the foyer Nina introduced us to the local guide. His name was Harry! ‘
Henry IV
to VIII,’ Sharon whispered into my ear. A while later I was unpacking my suitcase in my dingy room when the phone rang and a female voice asked, ‘Antonio?’ Even I knew this was from
The Merchant of Venice,
and wondered if she was Portia, but I just said no and hung up. At dinner I told Sharon about Antonio, adding that, having come across two Shakespearean names within twenty minutes of our arrival, I was inclined to forgo my research in Lenin Square. The blurb must have been ‘fair dinkum’.

Harry was in his mid-thirties, pleasant and spoke good English. He took us to the Monument to the Victims of the Genocide of 1915, which stands in a large park. It consists of twelve high pylons slanted towards a circle, which surrounds the eternal flame burning at ground level. There is a forty-metre-high obelisk and a basalt wall with bas-reliefs depicting that horrific tragedy. A posy of fresh flowers lay near the flame.

The complex is magnificent. It is simple, beautiful and very expressive.

Harry was born more than thirty years after the Turkish onslaught in 1915, but was visibly affected as he described the frenzied slaughter of one-and-a-half million Western Armenians. He said this event was still within living memory, and that most families had lost loved ones. While we were there visitors placed several bouquets of flowers near the flame. One of our group remarked that this must have been a Koranic
jihad
: a holy war against a Christian neighbour.

Harry said there was another dangerous difference between Turks and Armenians: the work ethic. Armenians were hard-working and entrepreneurial. They had developed high standards in manufacture and trade, and were therefore prosperous. Envy and greed were strong motives in this genocide.

A tour through Yerevan and several of its museums revealed a strikingly beautiful city with ancient, classical and modern buildings, all in well-designed settings and obviously the object of great pride. Lenin Square had ‘singing’ fountains, and was surrounded by several administrative buildings of fine design. There was a bustle in the streets, which were full of people from dawn until late at night. No siestas here! After the leisurely pace of life among the Uzbeks and Tajiks, Armenians seemed hyperactive.

The third and last day was spent on a trip to Echmiadzin, a town boasting one of the oldest Christian churches in the Soviet Union, a fourth-century cathedral and a museum. The twenty-kilometre bus ride took us through beautiful countryside filled with vineyards and flowers.

Tbilisi, the capital of Georgia, retains a sixth-century cathedral and examples of ancient architecture. A small park on top of a mountain, accessed by funicular railway, was named after Stalin. While there was a Lenin Square and statues of Lenin in every place we saw on our crowded tour, this was the only time we came upon Stalin’s name. He was born here, but in 1987 his memory was not cherished in the Soviet Union.

In the bus on our way to the second museum in a long and hot day, Sharon asked in a whisper if I badly wanted to see this history museum. ‘Not really,’ I replied. As we were entering the foyer Sharon slumped to the floor. Nina, alarmed, wanted to call an ambulance, but George told her Sharon often fainted when she was tired and would soon be okay. He and I fanned Sharon with our leaflets about Georgia and after some time she gave a stellar performance of a person slowly emerging from a deep coma. I offered to get a glass of water and stay with Sharon and George. Nina was very grateful and went on with her tour-guiding. The three of us sat on the steps outside, admiring the view of the city and the river below us, and above us the impressive statue of Mother Georgia, a stately lady. With a chalice in one hand and a large sword in the other she shows a caring nature as well as a readiness to defend her people.

In Moscow we went to the Kremlin and its Armoury Chamber, which had been the treasure house of the tsars. Beside examples of splendid craftsmanship in metals and textiles, there are many items that I found ostentatious and ugly, such as the dress harness worn by Catherine II’s horse. It was made of gold, and on the forehead decoration alone it had a large topaz surrounded by 999 diamonds. There were gowns that were too heavy to wear due to the weight of the thousands of pearls embroidered on them, and thrones covered in thirteen kilograms of gold and decorated with rubies, turquoise and diamonds.

Thousands of such exhibits were housed in this very large building. These excesses reflected excessive power, but their aim to impress was lost on me. They represent a time when the majority of Russians lived in extreme poverty, suffering from hunger and the brutalities of slave labour. I have a copy of the illustrated guidebook to this museum, and I think it shows the reason for the Russian Revolution.

In Red Square long queues of people waited to walk past Lenin’s embalmed body in the special mausoleum.

I did not find Moscow an attractive city, but Leningrad bowled me over. I had such romantic notions about that city. During the war it was a beacon of hope for us in Poland because, even after a three-and-a-half-year siege, it did not fall to the Germans. Also because Sascha’s army unit, which rescued me, came from Leningrad, and they talked and sang about it with pride and love. When I saw the city I understood why: it is magnificent; the Venice of the north and more, and it exceeded my expectations.

Nina said it was her favourite city. I badly needed a couple of months to walk along the river and the wide boulevards, to revisit the magnificent cathedrals and simply to be there. To have only half a day to see the vast collection of art in the Hermitage was truly frustrating.

In city squares, on riverbanks and in parks were shrines of remembrance to the fallen defenders of the city—over 900,000 of them—during the prolonged siege of the city by the German army in World War II. People held meetings at these shrines and just-married couples brought flowers, a gesture of gratitude for the freedom they could enjoy. After forty-five years that siege was still vivid in the collective memory.

Souvenir shops, cafes and restaurants were full of German tourists—busloads of them came through northern Poland, bringing wads of ‘greenbacks’, the United States currency being much needed in the brittle local economy. The Germans seemed oblivious to the resentment of the local people, and enjoyed themselves noisily. On two occasions I overheard waiters and kiosk staff mumbling words that, translated politely, wished a pox and worse on the filthy-rich murderers.

Billed as a highlight of this last leg of the tour were our visits to several palaces of the tsars in various locations in and around Leningrad. The eye of this beholder did not find beauty in the baroque, over-decorated opulence. When we compared our impressions at mealtimes there was general admiration for the grandeur and splendour of the palaces. Why is it that I find beauty, elegance and dignity only in the simple and understated?

We had our farewell dinner in a pleasant restaurant where a small band played Russian folk tunes. Suddenly I recognised the song about Leningrad that Sasha used to sing. I asked if they would play this tune again, and they were pleased to do so. The violinist came to our table and played it just for us.

Nina asked me if I knew this song. I said that I had a friend who used to sing it.