LENINGRAD.

Timaru Herald, Volume CXXIII, 15 December 1925, Page 10

LENINGRAD.

UNDER THE BOLSHEVISTS LIKE A TOWN IN WAR ZONE (By Lord Newton.) .Lord Newton, who in his diplomatic days was well acquainted with St. Petersburg, recently returned from a visit to the famous city on the Neva, which is now known as Leningrad. In Finland it was generally asserted that a permit to enter Russia was almost unobtainable, and that weeks might elapse before a reply arrived from Moscow. Nevertheless my application at the Soviet Mission in Helsingfors for a visa was courteously complied) with without any unnecessary delay, and I urns merely asked the object of my journey, to which i replied, with perfect truth, that it was prompted solely by curiosity, and by a desire to revisit a city which I had known slightly in former days. . The journey from Wiborg to Leningrad ought to be a very simple affair. The distance is trivial, and there is no change of gauge, as the Finnish lines form part of the old Russian railway System. But the difficulties which •most of the European States delight in imposing upon communication with -their neighbours since the war arc even more conspicuous here than elsewhere. There is a delay of two hours at the Finnish frontier; then a fresh ticket must be obtained to cross no-man’s land; when the Russian frontier is reached a third ticket is necessary, another two hours’ wait takes place, and trains are again changed. By means of these simple expedients a journey which might be coucluuded in three hours is expanded into eight. AN UNINSPIRING PICTURE

There is nothing solemn or awe-in-spiring about tin: entry into Soviet Russia. The Red Flag waves over a collection of rickety wooden shanties, built in what appears to be little more than a forest clearing, and surrounded by dusty spaces, which are doubtless transformed into seas of mud later on. In and out of these huts wander coidiers and officials, wearing a variety

of shabby uniforms; workmen and peasants lounge aimlessly about; women and children, both encumbered with a minimum of clothing, for the weather is hot, pervade the rough platforms or sit on the grass proffering apples and vegetables, for which there appears to be no demand. Everyone seems to Jbe easy-going; no one seeim to be in a hurry or to have much to do. In a word, ostensibly wo are in the old Russia again, and the impression is' heightened when I endeavoured to change some money, and am informed that the thing cannot be done, because it happens to he a Prasnik (Saint’s Day). “What: Do Prasniks still exist? I thought that you had done away with Church festivals long ago!” “Well, we still have ten, whereas they were formerly fifty, and you unfortunately have chanced upon one of the ten.”

This was discouraging, but a polite official came to the rescue; agreed to accept Finnish money for my ticket, and even supplied further change. Nor did official politeness end here; for, accepting my assurance that I carried nothing objectionable, my modest luggage was not even examined. The train appeared. It consisted of several old sleeping cars adapted'for ordinary use, and in this I and the only other traveller from. Finland—a Russian woman—took our seats. It is hardly necessary to remark that in former days this must have been one of the most frequented routes in Northern Europe. LENINGRAD TO-DAY Leningrad! The very name sounds ominious and fateful. Nothing sensational has occurred so far, but surely something will happen here. Perhaps | lynx-eyed secret police will appear and confront one with real or imaginary offences? Nothing of the kind. A peaceable-looking youth takes my ticket as if I wore travelling by tube, and I emerge from the station to find isvostchiks offering their services in the old style. Rut it is not really the same thing. Formerly they were numerous and cheap; now they are few and dear, and their bargaining seems j to lack conviction.

Is there any riverside town in Europe which can provide a more beautiful prospect than that from the Troitsa, Bridgo on a summer’s evening? In the foreground rolls the majestic ami swiftly-flowing Neva. On the one side

rise the pinnacles and cupolas of the Peter and Paul fbrtress; on the other tho gilded domes of churches; pseudoclassical but dignified facades of palaces and Government buildings line both banks, and far away the glittering and graceful spire of tho Admiralty stands outlined against a sky oi almost incredible purity. It is like a Canalettea come to life. A DILAPIDATED CITY Closer contact with realities creates a very different impression. It is hardly an exaggeration to say that the first aspect of the streets of Leningrad is strongly reminiscent of a town in the war zone in France. Hero are burnt houses, gutted houses, decaying houses, broken windows, hanging doors, peeling paint, crumbling plaster, and rotting stucco. Some of the streets are impassable; others are encumbered with mounds of rubbish resembling barricades and pitied with deep holes. In others there is a luxuriant growth of grass. Of course, excuses and explanations are not wanting. Some of tho houses were burnt intentionally, others were gutted in order to obtain wood during the winter of 1918-1919, others again have been abandoned by their former occupants, and have fallen to pieces. The deplorable condition of the streets is attributed to a disastrous flood last September; but surely, there has been plenty of time to repair them, more especially as a largo proportion of the population is unemployed. The best that can be said is that things were much worse a year or two . ago.

Even in those streets which are in fair or moderate condition' wheeled traffic is rare, and transport is almost entirely confined to a tramway system, which appears to be worked efficiently. This is fortunate, for there are no omnibuses, practically no private vehicles, droskies are few. and taxis prohibitive in price. The Nevski Prospect, celebrated in former days for its brilliance, is now a shabby and ill-kept thoroughfare. Palaces and hanks have largely disappeared or have been transformed into Communist offices and institutions. The Yacht Club, once the resort of the fashionable world 1 , is falling to pieces.