When news bulletins show Russian artillery bombarding civilians in Ukrainian cities, I think of Iryna. How must she feel about her neighbours’ suffering? Iryna won’t see what we are seeing, of course; she will be fed a doctored truth, alternative facts. She will hear of the glorious Russian army fighting off the forces of evil. Will our generous, open-hearted friend now believe Westerners like us are evil? I cannot believe that. Not Iryna.
We met Iryna ten years ago on our retiree Russian adventure, when Russia seemed safe and welcoming. Not for us – the packaged holiday – the gaggle of fellow tourists, kept to a tight timetable. This trip, to Moscow and St Petersburg, would follow our itinerary, our timetable. Visas secured, flights and Sapsan train from Moscow to St Petersburg booked, off we set, armed with guide books and the barest smattering of the language. That smattering has long scattered but, back in August 2013, I could make a passable attempt at "where is the bus to Pushkin?”. This was how we met Iryna.
Our goal that day was Tsarskoe Selo, the beautiful Catherine Palace, on the outskirts of St Petersburg. According to our guide book, trains ran every 20 minutes from Vitebskiy Station, a metro ride from our hotel on Nevskiy Prospekt. Easy, we thought – but no! A sign, in English, produced as we approached the Vitebskiy ticket desk, announced that trains were cancelled until mid-afternoon. So much for our full day of exploration. Undeterred, we diverted to plan B, rather more vaguely described as "a host of minibuses” running from Moskovskaya Square. So, another metro trip to test our grasp of Russian Cyrillic script.
As we emerged, blinking, into the sunshine, the scale of Moskovskaya Square proved vast – no visible corners for reference, no clue as to where minibuses might lurk. Defeat loomed. A curated tour at exorbitant cost suddenly seemed tempting. Then, Iryna appeared, solid and round as a life-size babushka doll, drawn by our “tourists, looking clueless” sad vignette.
‘Debroye utro,’ I began, thankful it was still morning for “good afternoon” escaped me. Flashing the photograph of Tsarskoe Selo, I lobbed in an “izvinite” and a “spasiba” or three, along with a stab at the bus question. An incomprehensible stream of Russian resulted. Sensing our bafflement, Iryna grabbed the guidebook and riffled through it, without finding whatever she was looking for. Giving up, she thrust the book back, grabbed my wrist and tugged me across a narrow side road. “Follow me”, her beckoning arm and broad smile urged as she bustled away uphill. Follow her we did, far uphill then along a busy dual carriageway, quite obviously leaving Moskovskaya Square behind. Was this some kind of grandma heist? Would there be a husband, son, nephew, cousin being proffered to drive us to Pushkin? Should we turn and run? Flee from a babushka?
Iryna kept smiling, encouraging us, waving us on. Then, suddenly, she stopped, grabbed my wrist again, watched for a gap in the traffic, guided me across the carriageways like a toddler – my husband left to fend for himself. Another short stint of beckoning, then a swerve to the side...
‘Ta! Da!’ Iryna’s proud stance and signalling arms announced.
‘Chesme!’ I gasped. Chesme, a candy pink, white-striped fondant fancy of a church I’d spotted in the guidebook, yearned to see, incredibly beautiful, impossible to find.
‘Chesme,’ echoed Iryna, face radiant, hands reaching for my camera, waving us into position, capturing the moment.
‘Come,’ she beckoned, guiding us in with proprietorial pride. This was her place of worship she seemed to be saying; the curator at the entrance her friend and confidant. There was a whispered conversation. Then out came Iryna’s purse, coins were exchanged, a lavishly illustrated, full-colour, English guide to Chesme thrust into our hands, reimbursement waved aside. “Enjoy”, Iryna’s happy face proclaimed.
Afterwards, we were guided back across and along the dual carriageway, down the hill we’d come up. Close to the point where we’d met, Iryna waved to a block of flats – ‘Mi doma!’ Her home. We’d met practically on her doorstep. Opposite the spot where we’d been floundering, Iryna led us to a side road that, earlier, we’d failed to notice. There was the promised host! Some minibuses were chic, executive-style mini-coaches, others were considerably less smart. At each, Iryna stopped to make enquiries, rejecting one after another until finally, at the oldest, the scruffiest, she nodded in satisfaction, indicated this was the minibus for us, saw us board the empty bus, then, with a cheery wave, toddled off to her doma.
This bus was decidedly no tourist charabanc, as basic as a bus could be, seats rock hard, moth-eaten carpets improvising as a screen between passengers and driver, suspension singularly lacking. Locals, laden with shopping bags and parcels, piled on seconds before departure and more were picked up at city stops. Passengers sporting guide books? None but us. Mile by mile along country roads, the bus emptied until, many miles later, we were dropped at the gates of Tsarskoe Selo. That had been what the interrogations were about; the reason for rejecting all the more luxurious options. Iryna had been searching for a minibus that would take us to the very door. And all for the equivalent of 70p each. Dear Iryna, canny as a Scot!
How did we manage the return journey? I have no recollection. I guess we just followed the crowd because we stayed until closing time. The palace was breath-taking, the grounds equally so but the highlight of that day was and remains our Russian friend. I call her Iryna, probably not her real name. Our friend in need, Iryna is a constant reminder, during these troubled times, that kindness and generosity, transcending barriers of language, race, nationality, exist. We need Irynas, now more than ever. We’ll never forget ours.