A MEMORY OF RUSSIA

So a memory from my past. A place I rarely like to go to these days, though I guess it’s my past which has made me the person I am today, as I said, a place I don’t like to visit much, as my past is one of inexplicable experiences and at times   perplexing problematic  situations which couldn’t be avoided by me. I had no control of my life until about six years ago, and there are times when by the jinx of my past and in some cases my existence, I still lack in decision making and life choices.

Though my destiny was planned from the womb and over the past few years, I have tried to attain some kind of provenance, in soul searching and closing doors, locking them, but not throwing away the key to all of the keyholes.

I still own a box with past papers and parts of my brain still remember things I would like to forget. Though my life I feel has been a life of thirty people in one, at times, I do have experiences that I feel honoured to have had. Like singing on stage with a famous singer at the time in the London Palladium, meeting some amazing people and visits to Parliament meeting our Queen and so much more, but the bad outweighed the good tenfold sadly, though my plan to try to change my map I hope will show me a new way to live and be alive.

When I think back to some parts of my life I really wonder was that me? I lead such a simple life right now, but my past was far from simple. I have only shown you parts of my world in my blog page, as I keep saying, I hope one day to write my autobiography and then you will learn the Fiona Cummings that will shock you and I hope entertain you too!

I have written before about the first time I went to Russia, how terrifying it was? How my Mum and I were pursued by the press right up to the runway of our flight to the former iron curtain. As a six year old child, I learned how to pose for photographs, for me it was the norm, though the norm I didn’t like at all. I just wanted to be a normal child. Though normal wasn’t in my makeup. From the conception of a brutal cold woman who gave me up just a few days old right through to a foster home where by I’m sure my tiny body suffered neglect as my adopted Mum, my only Mum in my opinion, said when she got me at four weeks old, I came to her in a bad state of filth.

Then to be brought up with the knowledge I was going blind was to my parents hell on earth and ruled their life to find help. Hence leading to Russia, through Lourdes and other countries. But Russia it was, for sixteen years. 32 visits in total. Receiving the most painful treatment, excruciating cerium and running’s with the KGB, Mafia and more.

I have talked about Gorki Park; the mystery of that place was eerie. The forests, with their stick like Berioska trees, silver birch trees, which stood tall and streight with white trunks and forgiven branches, which pointed to places of cosy intrigue and wooden buildings of homemade tasty foods of jams, cheeses, breads and meats and nuts. Old ladies would serve huge orange teapots with white polka dots on, with delightful smiles of warmth in a country suffering at the time from poverty and imprisonment as far as freedom to see the world, even hear the world, as radio and TV was so restricted. The newspapers only published what the people were to read. I think the n so called new Russians now need to remember those times. They need to remember they still have family members who will still suffer the soviet fear which is right through their blood and I’m sure weeps out through their veins in nightmares.

The new Russians are not in my opinion real Russian people. Real Russian people are strong kind guarded folk, who would give you their last Kopeck and last breath. The new Russians are greedy, just like those in the west.

But there is a difference between New and old for a reason. Too much exposure too quickly. Now some would ask how could I say too soon when they waited a lifetime, yes, Russia waited a lifetime, but not the youth of today. They were born into richness and dishonesty. Those who are rich in Russia how are they rich? Not by loyalty and not by a decent way of life for sure. They are rich through dishonesty trickery and forbidden fruits.

I only visited Russia twice when it was going through the transition. The first time, was exciting and had hope. The second time, a couple of years later, was simply dreadful. This beautiful city of Moscow, old Russia, was transformed into a culture of glamour, greed and grab.

Old communist buildings were left to rot and new buildings put up like Lego bricks. Fake workers and false faces.

American flags hanging from stunning ancient statues and glitzy bright lights replaced the gentle amber glow of the previous watery lamps which lit the streets for peasants from the past that went about a decent life of hardship, but came home to warmth by their families, who all had one thing in common. Life. Life as they all understood. A common understanding.

Yes they never went abroad to see the green grass on the other side, but they spent times at the sea and were protected by what they may not be able to ever have. When you see what is out there, what if you can’t get it the legal way? What happens with their lives?

New Russians remind me of Looters. Grab what you can whilst it lasts. Rape the lives of others whilst your houses are dripping in gold’s and rich velvets. Brag to those who don’t have what you have. Laugh at their failures. What kind of people are they? Where is there to go?

I guess right back to the days of the Czars. When the rich had it all and the poor were trampled on. Again, no lessons have been learned.

One bitter cold evening, my Mum and my Russian boyfriend were to go to a friend’s house. I knew the friend, but it was his Mum and Dad, who were to be our hosts. I was excited, not just because I was spending precious time with a man I was totally in love with, but because we were going to spend a warm night with a loving family. As we kicked our boots against the rickety steps which lead up to the old building, with the front door creaking in the wind from the November night. We huddled into the porch entrance. Tried to close the snowy nipping cold out and rang the doorbell to our friends flat.

The door went click and in we went. My boyfriend knew where to go, as this family he had known since he was five. He was 23 at the time. We opened the old black gate across the lift, then as the noisy metal slammed closed; manually we had to shut the doors of the lift. Pushed the warn buttons, the tiny dim orange light in the corner, the knowledge of being watched, by whom, we weren’t quite sure. Whether it is a camera behind the light or a double mirror on the back wall, whether it is the Mafia, the KGB or just a night-watchman, not sure, but eyes somewhere for certain.

The tiny lift holding the three of us was cramp. Doors pushed open, gate open the smell of cats stunk as most flats did in the hallways. We went to a padded leather door with thick studs keeping the leather fixed to the door. firmly nailed on. Door opened and we were met by an old lady and man. Such happy faces. Such eyes. Deep and meaningful caring eyes with souls of agony but hearts of gold and arms of love.

Then our friend came to us with a wise joke and from then we laughed the night away. On the food table was the finest foods prepared by the elderly lady. All traditional Russian food we drank champagne and heard stories that I have never heard from any western person. Mysterious story’s which as a writer by birth intrigued me beyond belief. I was starving for more information, though exhausted by translating from Russian to English for the benefit for my Mum.

At the end of a perfect evening, the lady went into her china cupboard. She handed me a stunning teapot. It is dark blue with gold and the most amazing shape. Thirty years later, I still have that teapot. Every time I go to clean it, I feel the old lady’s presence. Of course she will be long gone now, I hope to a world that will show her the kindness she showed us that night, as she took a risk. As I left her flat, I feared she would get a visitor from an organisation who didn’t approve of westerners befriending Russians. We may tell them of another world, yes, we may have, but this world I know here, is not the world I grew up with in the former USSR. I worried that lady and her family wouldn’t be eating for a month as all her reserves were on that table that evening.

I never visited that lady again, but in my heart she remains.