He was probably Russia's most famous Tsar, the Tsar who first opened Russia up to the West, although we are talking in relative terms here, before his reign during the late 17th/early 18th Century, Russia was about as well known in the West as chicken curry. His great achievements were the establishment of Russia's navy and the rise to prominence of St. Petersburg, always the most Western of Russian cities. The reason for bringing him into this article is because he had a small house built for him in Tallinn, which I decided to visit. For a Tsar, the house is amazingly modest, simply a living room, bedroom and, upstairs peculiarly enough, a very small dining room with just enough room for one wooden table. The bedroom held the most fascination, the whole thing kitted out with replicas of the Tsar's furniture, hence a very low four poster bed, sagging alarmingly in the middle and a sort of little cupboard. There were also a few plaster busts of Peter and Catherine the Great. He looked like a big bloke with a big bulbous nose and flowing locks. While I was making my quick inspection and wondering where His Imperial Majesty took a dump, the little ticket man in the entrance hall was pacing the room. He rose from behind his table to reveal a pair of baggy pantaloons and a tricorn hat (think Napoleon) which he plonked on his head with a kind of weary realisation that he would be the butt of every school child's laughter as soon as they came through the door. Suppressing a furtive snigger, I left him to his fancy dress and strolled on through Kadriorg. Little man-made waterfalls, peeped through the trees, here and there would be sculptures of famous Estonians like Jan Koort, he was famous to the Estonians anyway. He appeared to have been wearing an astronaut suit when he posed for the statue. Unless he was the Michelin man perhaps. There were also little stone memorials to soldiers of the Red Army, mossy slabs of stone, hidden away in obscure corners. Not the most popular people in Estonia, it has to be said, but to the credit of the Estonians some respect had been shown to their memory.
Further up the road were the Song Grounds. Let me explain a little about the significance of song to the Estonians. The Estonians, along with their Baltic neighbours, held regular Song Festivals, a showcase and celebration of Estonian folklore and culture, and a symbol of their nationhood. We are not talking about a Eurovision type thing, or the Reading Festival. This is an almost spiritual occasion, full of national significance. I had listened to the sort of music sung by vast choirs, all clad in national dress, and it sounded very haunting, almost religious, and not the sort of thing you could unwind to at the end of a hard day at the office. The modern Estonian drive for independence is commonly thought to have started from the 1988 Song Festival where 100,000 people packed into the Song Grounds night after night. Later that summer rallies were held which attracted 300,000 people. Now this sounds a lot, but step back, take a deep breath and contemplate the following: 300,000 represents over 20 per cent of the Estonian population. That is the equivalent of 12 million UK citizens attending one rally in one location, in the unlikely event that a location could be found to accommodate such a gathering. What a staggering thought, and one which reinforces the meaning of independence and freedom to these people. After digesting these figures, I expected more from the Song Grounds, but it all looked oddly insignificant, just one stand and a long grassy bank. A lone German was trying to sing and produce an echo from high up in the stand. To imagine a crowd of over a quarter of a million in what looked like a provincial skateboard park was beyond my comprehension.
Walking along the main road towards the Estonian History Museum at the Maarjamäe Palace, a car stopped abruptly at the side of the road, causing the cars behind to swerve and narrowly avoid a pile-up. The occupant addressed me in Russian, I think he was asking directions. Not much road etiquette round here thought I. The Maarjamäe Palace was a 19th Century construct, a mixture of mock-medieval and 20th Century sanatorium. Originally it was occupied by a Russian nobleman, and after a chequered life was awarded the History Museum in 1975. Before I launch into a history of Estonia between the wars, a few observations. Looking round an Eastern European museum can be a trying experience. Not only are English guides and labels thin on the ground but you tend to be followed as you walk round. There is generally an old woman in slippers and wearing a long dark green coat like an old greengrocer, who makes sure you have seen everything and then opens the next door, turns the light on, and then another woman appears who repeats the whole operation. So, it can be a bit irritating.
Anyway, Estonia has been independent before, between the wars from 1918 to 1945. Whilst Hitler and Stalin were plotting how to divide Europe, Estonia was a reasonably stable, prosperous part of the world. The Estonians won their freedom in the 1918-20 War of Independence, after having been part of the Russian Tsarist Empire. A fairly motley looking army with a few make-do-and-mend tanklets were allowed to defeat a Red Army who clearly had little stomach to battle over a tiny country on the periphery of the old Empire, they had more pressing business deeper within Russia. The Estonian forces were marshalled by Konstantin Päts, a significant figure in Estonian history to whom we shall return later. The new Estonian state proved to be relatively prosperous and progressive, but politically unstable and constantly insecure. The country had eleven presidents in just twenty-two years, ten in just fourteen. Education and social security was well developed, though everything seemed to be heavily influenced by the state.
The course of Estonian history changed slightly in 1934 with the rise of independence hero Konstantin Päts to the presidency. By nature, Päts was an aggressive politician, nationalistic with an authoritarian streak. A parliamentary crisis allowed him to exercise ever more power and in 1938 direct presidential rule was imposed as Päts began to portray himself as the saviour of the Estonian people. The pictures on the wall show the transition from dour parliamentarian to an almost Mussolini-like figure, puffing his chest out, attracting the adoration of the masses, glorifying the symbols of the Estonian nationalism. The storm clouds continued to gather over Estonia, and the sky fell in for them with the signing of the Molotov-von Ribbentrop Pact of 1939, an act reviled across the Baltics, which granted domination of Estonia to the Soviets in return for their acquiescence in the Nazi's struggle against the Allies. On a flimsy pretext, the Soviets overran Estonia in June 1940. Attempts were made to mobilise Estonians against their brethren, the Finns, or the 'finnic-vermin' as the Soviets so charmingly described them. Elections took place in which Soviet stooges, unsurprisingly won a sweeping 'victory', and as a consequence the country was admitted to the USSR. Briefly. During this time, thousands of Estonians, including the entire Government and virtually every former President, were deported deep into the Soviet Union. The museum seemed to make much of this.
Interestingly, they made less of the next four years under Nazi domination. At the very least, everything was depicted in a more sympathetic light. Photographs showed young Estonians in SS uniforms, ready to 'fight Bolshevism'. Newspapers were displayed, eulogising the partnership between Nazi Germany and Estonia. In general Estonia suffered less under the Nazis than their Baltic neighbours and the peoples of Eastern Europe. Two factors helped the Estonians during this time. One, they were not a Slavic people, indeed they were all two willing to help in the fight against their Slavic neighbours, the Russians. Neither did Estonia have a greatly significant Jewish population. Only 4000 people were killed at Kloostra, the one concentration camp on Estonian soil. Their ranks bolstered by Red Army defectors, the Estonian SS provided 10000 troops for the Eastern Front, though they were in reality little more than cannon fodder for the Nazi war effort. Still, much was made again of this period, endless photos showed young men in SS uniform, fighting the Russians, side by side with the Nazis. It was all a bit creepy really. The Estonian government, a puppet regime under the directorship of Dr H. Mäe, was showed giving an enthusiastic reception to Hitler and other high ranking officials of the Nazi regime. Anyway, the Nazis left the Estonians to their own devices in 1944, after which a Protection Force was set up to resist the Soviet advance, a fight they conducted with desperate tenacity. The museum went very silent about what happened next. Basically, Estonia was overrun, forgotten by the West and subsumed into the USSR. Partisans amazingly held out till 1950 in the forests, a motley collection of old men in fur coats and adventurers with revolvers known as the Forest Brothers. The reconstruction of a typical Forest Brothers hut made it look terribly exciting and a rather romantic experience. But of course, I knew that I could not be further from the truth.
I left the museum and walked further along the seaside promenade, looking out to sea, beyond the polluted shore. I soon came to a windswept, neglected monument, commemorating the Estonian soldiers who helped the Soviets to victory over the Fascists. On the evidence I had just seen, there would have been considerably more Estonians helping the Fascists to keep out the Soviets. The place had a slightly eerie feel about it all, the style highly reminiscent of an Aztec temple, though I thought it unlikely that the Aztecs would have used concrete breeze-blocks as a construction material. I also doubt that the Aztecs would have had a problem with people dumping beer bottles in these sacred sites. I climbed the gently inclined concrete boulevard up to the steel grey 'temple' itself. Towering above was a breeze-block column in the style of Cleopatra's Needle (correct architectural term is stele I believe). A Russian girl and her immeasurably less sexy mother (presumably) took some photos of the column, the daughter pouting and posing provocatively, as though she were on an FHM photoshoot. I was tempted to tell them I was a photographer from a men's magazine and could she pose again for a few shots, only this time with a few minor adjustments... The cheque would be in the post.
Back in town, I began to notice just what a small place Tallinn was. Small was certainly beautiful. I saw the woman from the passport control in a café; the man from baggage control coming out of a flat; the non-communicating couple with problems, dragging suitcases across the cobblestones, the woman shaking her head, bemoaning her incapable husband. Nevertheless it all added to the impression that Tallinn is an incredibly small and close-knit capital city. I could make myself at home here, I thought. I hoped that the Estonian Tourist Board would make a virtue of this small-town atmosphere in future. I hope they also make a virtue of the hyper-friendly knitted garment sellers along the old town walls on Vana-Viru. All of them were Russian and I ingratiated myself with them by managing to hold a semi-coherent conversation with them in their native tongue. Any tourist visiting Estonia must buy one of these patterned jumpers, mainly because it is the most traditional and authentic present on offer, but mainly because they are warm and look reasonably attractive. In a Norwegian fisherman sort of way, you understand.
After a ritual wash and brush-up, I donned a pair of decent trousers and headed for a night on the town, determined to get as inebriated as was safe to do for a single bloke alone in a strange city. Although I was alone, I never once felt threatened or intimidated by Tallinn and it's people, in same way I would feel slightly intimidated in, say, London. The whole atmosphere was one of security, peace and gentle fun, even late at night. I went for the traditional Estonian meal I had been promising myself for the past two days. Vanamaa Juures was a small cellar restaurant furnished in pre-war fashion, old clocks and antique radios and snapshots of a probably long gone family. If the setting was twee and cosy, the menu was extraordinary. My eyes immediately alighted upon the words 'Bear roast' and I was hooked. I had perhaps expected wild boar or possibly elk, but bear?! The table of Danes behind me asked the waitress in an incredulous way, 'Is that really bear?' I had to find out how it tasted. I just had to. I wondered how they actually acquired bear meat. Did they have bear farms in the woods, or did someone come to the restaurant one day and say, ' Alright, darling, I've got some lovely bear meat in the van for yer, love. Top quality gear, only don't tell everyone, we don't want the whole town to know. Know what I mean darling?' Anyway, bear does not taste like chicken, it tastes like peppery beef. My bear must have been either lazy or old because it was a bit stringy. The meal was quite a charming attempt to present a traditional 'Sunday' roast, as well as the obligatory dump truck sized mound of sauerkraut I got one roast potato, one Brussels sprout, and some diced carrot and turnip, handy for decorating the cobblestones with later on. Just to emulate a gluttonous old bear, I had some pancakes (of the Scotch variety) with honey.
Food seeping from my ears I went for a drink in the Irish pub, to ogle my flight of fancy (she looked rather less appealing tonight) and to have some one dimensional conversation (football) with the various Scots gathered there. I sat there with my pint of Kilkenny, feeling very happy indeed. I loved this friendly, easy-going town where you could see the Icelandic PM in the street and drink beer at 10 in the morning and walk around the city centre at midnight and feel completely safe. Why, even the bar staff knew what I was drinking after only two visits. I walked down to another, seedier bar for a very swift drink, but as I seemed to be the only customer apart from a smooching Russian couple, I moved up the road to an American bar, where I sat outside in the surprisingly warm September night and contemplated my next move. To my surprise I wandered into the Irish pub again and propped myself up at the bar. I attempted a conversation with a very drunk Scottish gentleman on my right, called Big Tom. He wasn't an I-want-to-be-your-best-mate type of drunk, rather the I'm-going-to-stare-at-you-as-though-I've-done-a-brain-swap-with-a-moose type of drunk. As Big Tom acrobatically reeled backwards into a corner table, I headed off.
As I turned the corner to the hotel I decided to nip into one of the seedier than seedy bars (the other one was an 'adult bar' called Pussy or something of that nature) next to the hotel for a nightcap. The pub was basic, what would be termed in the UK as a real spit and sawdust place. The barmaid was a giant, and possibly transsexual. She had a hidden clause in her contract preventing from making any friendly gesture towards the customers. I took a seat behind a pillar and watched the unfolding entertainment, namely karaoke. Most of the patrons were squat little Russian guys, unshaven and dripping in jewellery. There was also a more elderly party of Russians, the women short but plump with flowing dresses and ash-blond hair. An old Russian chap sung something which sounded like 'Tulips from Amsterdam', but wasn't. Being a karaoke fan I asked for a list of English-language songs. Nyet, comrade. Pretty soon though I sought compensation by participating briefly in the dancing which had started up. Typical Russian stuff, shuffling around in a circle, lots of clapping, drunk old man in the middle of circle doing an impression of a dancing tree. The next thing I remember was tapping on the window of the hotel to let me in, since I couldn't open the door for some reason, which they did with a cheery grin. In a British hotel, I would have been persona non grata for such a crime.
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Rec.Travel Library - Europe - Estonia
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