often been invoked in this war and in whose memory the three most famous Army Orders of this war had been created: Alexander Nevsky, Suvorov and Kutuzov. A dark red velvet flag with tassels was suspended over Suvorov’s tomb, a large flat stone forming part of the stone floor of the chapel and bearing the simple words: ‘ HERE LIES SUVOROV ,’ and nothing else. Around Suvorov were other tombs. There was one with the following inscribed in beautiful eighteenth-century lettering: ‘Spouse of Lieutenant-General Alexander Alexandrovitch Biron, youngest daughter of Prince Alexander Danilovich Menshikov. Born December 17, 1712. Died September 13, 1736.’ A young lady of that frivolous age, between Peter and Catherine, when squabbling female royalty and their German favourites nearly undid the work of Peter the Great. On a small table near the entrance was a visitors’ book. I looked at one of the latest entries: ‘Having visited the grave of the Great General, at a time when the German Nazis are shelling the town and killing innocent people, I fervently hope that his shadow will help us to defeat these barbarians. There can be no question about it. (Signed) Major …’ The scrawl was hard to make out. The date was July 7th, 1943.
Outside the chapel, in the large yard of the monastery, now turned into a large vegetable garden, there was an air of country quiet. The doorkeeper was a very doddery old man, probably one of the oldest men of Leningrad. He might well have been a former monk of this very monastery. On our way back we drove past the Smolny, heavily camouflaged with netting, and the beautiful baroque church that Rastrelli had built, camouflaged green and black. ‘We have to repaint it white in winter,’ said the architect. ‘But the camouflage of this place is so thorough that from 13,000 feet they simply cannot identify it.’ Then we drove past the beautiful Tauris Palace, which Potemkin had built for himself, and later the seat of the Duma, and scene of so many historic events during the stormy days of 1917. I remembered those exciting days of April 1917 when crowds around the Tauris Palace with many soldiers among them were clamouring for the resignation of the Lvov–Miliukov Government. Improvised orators jumped on to improvised platforms. Some praised Kerensky to the skies. To them the lawyer who looked like Rachmaninoff, and had such a wonderful gift of the gab was the Man of Destiny. Many ladies thought him a dushka. Another orator was being howled down for defending Milyukov, an Imperialist – so his opponents said – who wanted to go on indefinitely with the war, because Russia had been promised the Straits. ‘To hell with the Straits!’ soldiers in the crowd were saying. ‘Down with the war!’ A Jewish lawyer with pince-nez was saying to the little crowd around him that Kerensky was the true guardian of Russia’s democratic liberties, the liberties the Russian people had won with their blood in overthrowing Tsarism. But a Sturdy soldier angrily shouted he had been rotting away in the trenches for three years, all for the benefit of international capitalism, and that the Russian Army had had enough of it, and he shouted that there was only one man whom the Russian people could trust, and that was Lenin. ‘German agent!’ the little lawyer cried. ‘He came here in a sealed wagon from Germany!’ There was now angry shouting on both sides. Unrestrained Russian democracy was living its brief hectic life.
The shelling which had stopped for a while now started again and Colonel Studyonov thought we had better go home and cut out the visit to the anti-aircraft battery. The Morskaya had at one point been roped off: a disposal squad was taking away an unexploded shell. We had to drive round the other way, through half-deserted streets, past Velten’s beautiful building of the Ermitage and across that superb square outside the Winter Palace now called the Uritsky Square. The giant caryatids of
Outside the chapel, in the large yard of the monastery, now turned into a large vegetable garden, there was an air of country quiet. The doorkeeper was a very doddery old man, probably one of the oldest men of Leningrad. He might well have been a former monk of this very monastery. On our way back we drove past the Smolny, heavily camouflaged with netting, and the beautiful baroque church that Rastrelli had built, camouflaged green and black. ‘We have to repaint it white in winter,’ said the architect. ‘But the camouflage of this place is so thorough that from 13,000 feet they simply cannot identify it.’ Then we drove past the beautiful Tauris Palace, which Potemkin had built for himself, and later the seat of the Duma, and scene of so many historic events during the stormy days of 1917. I remembered those exciting days of April 1917 when crowds around the Tauris Palace with many soldiers among them were clamouring for the resignation of the Lvov–Miliukov Government. Improvised orators jumped on to improvised platforms. Some praised Kerensky to the skies. To them the lawyer who looked like Rachmaninoff, and had such a wonderful gift of the gab was the Man of Destiny. Many ladies thought him a dushka. Another orator was being howled down for defending Milyukov, an Imperialist – so his opponents said – who wanted to go on indefinitely with the war, because Russia had been promised the Straits. ‘To hell with the Straits!’ soldiers in the crowd were saying. ‘Down with the war!’ A Jewish lawyer with pince-nez was saying to the little crowd around him that Kerensky was the true guardian of Russia’s democratic liberties, the liberties the Russian people had won with their blood in overthrowing Tsarism. But a Sturdy soldier angrily shouted he had been rotting away in the trenches for three years, all for the benefit of international capitalism, and that the Russian Army had had enough of it, and he shouted that there was only one man whom the Russian people could trust, and that was Lenin. ‘German agent!’ the little lawyer cried. ‘He came here in a sealed wagon from Germany!’ There was now angry shouting on both sides. Unrestrained Russian democracy was living its brief hectic life.
The shelling which had stopped for a while now started again and Colonel Studyonov thought we had better go home and cut out the visit to the anti-aircraft battery. The Morskaya had at one point been roped off: a disposal squad was taking away an unexploded shell. We had to drive round the other way, through half-deserted streets, past Velten’s beautiful building of the Ermitage and across that superb square outside the Winter Palace now called the Uritsky Square. The giant caryatids of
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