May 01, 2008

Crossing Russia by Boat

During the summer of 1971 a remarkable expedition took place in Russia. Although it went almost unnoticed in the Soviet Union, not to mention the rest of the world, it could be called historic. Press coverage was scant. The Primorsky Chemist, published out of Dalnegorsk, the remote mining town in the Soviet Far East from which the expedition originated, printed the following:

There was quite a crowd last Saturday near the Palace of Chemists. Plant workers along with their families had come to see off four brave sailors setting out to sea. There was a brass band and many flowers and banners, one of which read, “Happy Sailing To You, Lovers of Marine Sports!” The festive procession with the sailors at its head marched along the settlement’s main street – Gorky Street. Near where the road turns toward the sea, the travelers were met by a bus to take them out to the pier. Two small boats, with the brave travelers on board, set a course for the North.

The “brave travelers” were setting out to do something that had never been done before – to traverse the entire expanse of Russia by river. The boats were small motorboats designed and constructed by the crew, members of the sailing club at an ore processing plant. Not long before, this club had been founded by Lazar Prakhin, the 32-year-old automation foreman in the plant’s sulfuric acid shop.

The town of Dalnegorsk lies nestled among the rounded peaks at the southern end of the Sikhote-Alin mountain range, about 300 kilometers north of Vladivostok. It was not easy to lure educated Soviets to this remote mining settlement to operate its ore processing plant, but for mechanical engineer Lazar Prakhin, who had come there as a child, it was paradise. There were forests to hike and ski, the Sea of Japan to sail, and mountains to climb.

Prakhin was an extraordinary man, endowed with remarkable talent and boundless energy. In his professional life, he eventually went on to oversee the construction of chemical plants in the Leningrad area and to head his own construction company, before dying under mysterious circumstances on his sailboat in the Gulf of Finland, in October 1993.

Perhaps one reason the expedition received so little attention is that, in the country of Five Year Plans – a country where all good things were supposed to come from above, from the Communist Party – this expedition was very much the brainchild of an individual, one who had little time for or interest in politics. The idea for the expedition was Prakhin’s and Prakhin’s alone, in fact it was a dream he had harbored since childhood.

Surely, in addition to his talents as engineer, outdoorsman, and sailor, Lazar Prakhin must have been one heck of a salesman to persuade his employers to sponsor such an expedition. There are a few hints as to what would have made sponsoring the event appealing to a state factory. First of all, Prakhin brought together a group of boating enthusiasts into a factory club by the name of Lovers of Marine Sports. Such official clubs were popular and were viewed with approval by the authorities. Furthermore, the trip was dedicated to the 50th anniversary of Soviet Primorye, i.e., the 50th anniversary of the takeover of Primorsky Krai by the Soviet authorities soon after the end of the Civil War. The actual anniversary, however, was still an entire year away, so this justification was a bit of a stretch. The above newspaper excerpt also gives us some idea how the expedition was “spun” to its sponsors. This was the sort of feel-good spectacle of brave Soviet manhood that was very much a part of the catalogue of Soviet propaganda. And certainly there was a genuine sense of pride in and admiration for what a group of plant workers was setting out to do. However, by the time Prakhin returned, having succeeded in his mission, his great achievement had somehow been completely stripped of its patriotic aura.

Prakhin’s widow, Lyudmila Prakhina, who during his lifetime was partner to everything he did, including this expedition, has published a book about the experience: 14,000 Kilometers Across the Rivers of Russia from East to West. In it, she does not delve into why the expedition received so little attention, but one senses a deep hurt that something that they had undertaken with sincerity, something that had forced them to overcome many trials, had ceased to be anything of special significance to the coworkers they returned to. In fact, they were welcomed back to work with annoyance for having stayed away so long.

There is one nuance that makes the Prakhin story all the more interesting. One almost wishes it did not need to be mentioned. The Prakhins are Jews. At the time, this was a fact of little significance to them – at least that was the mindset they tried to maintain. Like many Jews of their generation, they were raised by parents who, out of a sense of protectiveness, did not instill in them a sense of pride in their ethnicity. But it is beyond doubt that throughout their lives they came into contact with people who viewed them as outsiders. More than once Lyudmila Prakhina heard the words, intended as a kindness, “You’re a Jew, but you’re really a good person.”

The expedition, consisting initially of Prakhin, Vladimir Nikolayzen, Igor Mironov, and Yevgeny Taranets (Lyudmila Prakhina joined them a little later) set out from Rudnaya Pristan, a coastal town a few kilometers from Dalnegorsk, across the choppy waters of the Sea of Japan in two small motorboats named Ocean and Taiga. Neither Ocean, nor Nikolayzen, Mironov or Taranets made it to the end of the journey. The boat was lost in an accident that nearly cost Lyudmila her life, and the men deserted the expedition shortly thereafter.

The men made their way through the Sea of Japan and the Tatar Strait. At the tiny settlement of De Castries they made their first portage on foot, with the help of locals, and soon they were on the Amur River. But at Nikolayevsk-na-Amure they had an unexpected 16-day delay due to ice (in June!). In the end, they had to travel to Port Ayan by steamship, and here again they were held up by weather that delayed their helicopter portage to Nelkan on the Maya River. In Port Ayan they were joined by Lyudmila. While the men had been facing the natural elements, Lyudmila had been forced to overcome her own obstacles – she had only managed to get a plane ticket to Nikolayevsk-na-Amure. When all other options had been explored, it seemed her only hope for reaching Port Ayan was a cargo ship that, she had been told, absolutely did not take passengers. The indomitable Prakhina eventually managed to persuade some of the ship’s junior officers to hide her in their cabin.

Finally, Lyudmila reached Ayan, the weather cleared, and the crew, along with their boats, fuel tanks and supplies, were transported by helicopter to Nelkan. They then traveled the Maya, Aldan, and Lena rivers to Yakutsk, where they paused to perform routine maintenance. The Lena then took them to Zatoplyayemaya for a rail portage, and then they continued along the Ilim and Angara rivers to the Yenisey. The two little crafts faced a series of fast-moving rapids, which they navigated successfully, but when the party reached the Yenisey, they ran into real trouble.

Traveling at night not far from Yeniseysk, Ocean, with Lazar and Lyudmila on board, ran into a floating barrier outside a timber processing plant.

The only thing Prakhin saved was me, as well as a pair of plastic barrels for fuel. No one could understand how Prakhin managed to save me.

This was one of life’s mysteries. After all, everything happened in a matter of moments.

After we had dropped off one of our fellow travelers in Maklakovo (he had decided to visit his relatives), Prakhin was steering the boat toward the opposite bank. I was lying in my sleeping bag, admiring the evening sky. Prakhin steered the boat confidently. Although I was resting, I was constantly listening to the workings of the outboard motors. Something was worrying me. I looked out of the sleeping bag and became frightened – all around us were logs and there was a very strong current. The motors for some reason started to sputter. Suddenly Prakhin gave the command,

“Put on your life jacket!”

I had only just managed to put on my life jacket when another order came.

“Pull the starter cord!”

I rushed to the stern, and Prakhin jumped out onto a log to grab hold of the boat. Forget it! The boat wound up trapped by a boom set to guide the floating timber in a spot that should have had a light, but didn’t and never had, as old-timers later asserted. Prakhin tried to hold on to the boat, but the current was so strong that when I attempted to start the motor, the center of gravity shifted to the stern, and water started to rush in through the transom so quickly that, in a matter of seconds, the boat was on its backside. In the next instant it capsized, covering me and all its other contents.

All that I remember afterwards is this: Prakhin is lying flat on some logs having grabbed the straps of my life jacket… And all around there is nothing. Then Prakhin pulled me up onto a log and tried to catch what was being swept past us. But the only things floating were the plastic barrels – that is all that he managed to save. The fast-moving Yenisey swallowed up Ocean and everything in it and carried it off to the Arctic Ocean.

Despite the efforts of a specially-trained diving crew, their money, maps, personal documents, binoculars, cameras, sleeping bags – as well as their log of the journey up to this point and many other little essentials – were gone for good. They wired their employers for emergency funds (which were issued as a loan “against future earnings and vacations”) and went into Yeniseysk to get maps and new identity documents.

The upcoming stretch of the Yenisey included the most dangerous rapids they would encounter the entire trip. It was decided that Lazar would face them alone, while the others traveled ahead to Krasnoyarsk by train. As it happened, due to poor visibility and a lack of navigational charts for this stretch, Prakhin picked the most dangerous possible entry into this stretch of river. For two kilometers – a distance that passed in what seemed like an instant due to the speed of the waters and the degree of focus required to survive the whirlpools, whitewater and rocks – Prakhin was buffeted by the mighty Yenisey. Only later did he learn that navigating the Kazachinsk Rapids in a boat like the Taiga and along the course he had chosen was generally considered to be impossible. His survival is testament to incredible skill and luck.

Meanwhile, Lyudmila Prakhina was in Krasnoyarsk, a city she knew from her time at the Siberian Institute of Chemistry and Technology, trying to find supplies.

While the fellows waited for Lazar on the riverbank, I set out for the city, where I hoped, through friends and acquaintances, to somehow supplement our supplies. One of my friends told me about some geologists who belonged to an Arctic expedition (it’s a shame I can’t remember the name). After thinking a little, I set out for the expedition base camp. It took me a long time to get there, but my efforts paid off. The chief of the base camp sympathized with our situation and gave us gifts beyond my wildest dreams: they included canned stew, condensed milk, dried fruits and vegetables and two camel sleeping bags. They piled all these riches into a ramshackle little car and brought me, like a queen, to the riverbank. There was nobody there, but I remembered that we had agreed that if nobody was at the riverbank, it meant that Prakhin had already arrived and they had crossed over to the other bank. I had to signal them, and they would come for me. I signaled. Soon Prakhin arrived with Igor. They were both gloomy. I immediately understood that something had happened at camp, some big conversation, but I didn’t ask any questions. We silently loaded the geologists’ gifts into the boat and set out for the opposite shore. Suddenly the motor died and we were neither here nor there. The second motor was on the shore and it’s embarrassing to admit it, but the oars were there too. That’s the story! The situation was becoming critical. A paddleboat was coming right at us. I sat spellbound watching this approaching giant – I am not exaggerating in the least. A paddleboat is a giant of a thing, with tremendous paddles that could chop us up and spit us out like a meat grinder, without even noticing. The palpable sense of danger forced Prakhin to act quickly and decisively. He silently moved Igor away from the rudder and calmly, even tenderly, pulled the starter, once, twice – and suddenly the motor started up.

Gradually, relations had soured between the Prakhins and their three companions, and, now that they were down to one boat, it was clearly time for someone to go home. Lyudmila assumed that the men would continue on without her, but that is not how things worked out. Whatever tensions had been building before the shipwreck outside Yeniseysk were exacerbated by the accident. Nikolayzen, Mironov and Taranets had been nearby and in a position to help, and for some reason they had not. After Krasnoyarsk, the Prakhins continued on alone.

It was as if two months sailing together had never been – the long talks by the campfire, meals from a common pot, and much more that, it seemed to me, should have made us close for the rest of our lives. We hired a vehicle to get to the train station and at the station we parted, like ships at sea.

The Prakhins traveled by train to the Chulym River, which took them to the Ob and north toward the Arctic. It was already September 13th when they left Kolpashevo – the expedition was far behind schedule – and the Arctic Circle lay ahead. As they sailed down the Ob, they awoke every morning to find the tarpaulin that they draped over the boat as a kind of makeshift roof covered with ice. There was minimal time to rest or sleep and little food left to sustain them. But they had to keep moving or give up. Soon the northern river would be impassable. Near Khanty-Mansiysk, rough waters almost capsized the boat again. Fortunately, this accident occurred close to a village that had a fuel depot.

Somehow we dragged the boat to the shore (just like the Volga boatmen in the painting by Repin), brought all our stuff up onto the riverbank (all this under a driving rain and a wild, almost hurricane-force wind). We covered everything with a waterproof tarp and, completely done in, we made it to where the lights were…. It turned out that we had come upon the little house of the woman who guarded the fuel depot. An elderly woman answered our knock and, to our surprise, invited us into the lodge without asking a single question. Her little stove was going full blast. She gave us something to change into, hung our things up to dry, and set us up with a place to sleep on the floor that was fit for a king. In all, she sheltered us, fed us, warmed us and put us to bed. I had a splitting headache and didn’t have the strength to open my eyes – my eyelids just wouldn’t obey me; I was probably delirious, since from time to time I felt something cold on my forehead, and then again I would lose consciousness. But, hard as it is to believe, by morning I was better.

“Well, you gave us a scare,” said our savior upon seeing that I was gazing about with a look of clarity. “Your man is down by the river,” she continued, answering the question she read in my eyes. “What desperate ones you are! Yesterday the radio was full of warnings: don’t go onto the river, don’t go out, expect hurricane-force winds, a storm – and you with your derring-do… What the devil got into you! Don’t you have parents or children?”

“We do,” I said. “I have a mother and my little boy is growing up. We’re just a couple of good-for-nothings.”

Finally, in late September they reached Salekhard, the administrative center of the Yamalo-Nenets Autonomous Okrug – a city located above the Arctic Circle. Now the boat had to be chiseled out of the ice every morning before they could continue on their journey. In the polar village of Labytnangi they caught a train for their longest – and final – rail portage of the journey, to Kotlas on the Northern Dvina River.

To tell the truth, it was pretty ghastly at the train station, or not “pretty ghastly” – it was just ghastly. All around there were suspicious-looking people – it wasn’t clear if they were vagabonds or homeless or maybe former inmates, or just people looking for something to do. The ticket agent warned me, “The police are nowhere to be seen around here, so be on your guard.” We were on the platform, sitting on our stuff and trying to figure out how to load everything onto the train […]. Prakhin stood up and loudly, but not to anyone in particular, announced:

“Guys, we need your help! Without you, there’s no way. There won’t be much money – we simply don’t have it – just enough for a bottle.”

Silence. Seems it didn’t hit the mark. And suddenly there was a voice from somewhere:

“Whadda we gotta’ do?”

“Load the stuff in the wagon.”

“No problem,” said the same invisible voice.

Meanwhile, what I was thinking was that we’d be robbed blind: these guys had nothing but rags on them.

[…] And now the train started to crawl to the platform. It hadn’t come to a stop when our helpers swooped down on us. I ran to the head of the train, but I hadn’t had time to reach the first wagon when I heard the familiar whistle – you know, the kind coaches use. I ran back in confusion wondering what had happened. It turned out nothing had happened – it was just that everything had been loaded in the wink of an eye. And just imagine – it turned out afterwards that absolutely nothing was lost – not a single thing.

While the Prakhins did suffer some theft along the way, over and over throughout their journey they benefited from the kindness of strangers – people who had little themselves but did not hesitate to share it.

I will never forget how, somewhere outside Vologda, Lazar became seriously ill. He had a high temperature and became delirious. […] I decided to look for some little vendor or shop that sold vodka, and if I was lucky, find out something about a pharmacy. And just imagine – I didn’t have to search for long. There was a store where all you could see was a little window, since the doors were only for deliveries and all transactions were conducted on the street, right at this cherished little window. Periodically, a hand would appear with a bottle, and this bottle would float majestically above people’s heads, followed by envious gazes, and recede into the distance with its purchaser. But not very far into the distance – ten steps away or so they were already awaiting the happy hunter. The liquid quarry was poured with an experienced hand into glasses prudently brought from home and then was promptly tossed down. The empty bottle would then go back with one of the celebrants to the end of the line.

I stood spellbound, observing all of this. I understood that the line wasn’t for me, and if I did get into it, I wouldn’t make it to the end. I was standing there thinking: “Who should I ask? First of all, who knows how things are done around here? And second, what if I give someone money and he’s suddenly off to Vorkuta?”

While I was standing there, trembling with fear and pondering what to do, I heard a voice next to me,

“Whaduya want?”

I told this fellow our troubles. I didn’t notice at first that while I was talking, the men all became quiet and were listening attentively. I was still sharing my tale of woe when the men grabbed me and the entire crowd made its way toward the river bank.

“It’s never happened that we Northerners didn’t help someone in distress, not since time began!”

I could barely keep up with them – it was a good thing we didn’t have far to go. Before Lazar knew what was happening, they picked him up and carried him somewhere. I ran after them.

“Guys, where are you going?”

“Don’t worry. We’ll set him up with a Russian banya.”

I waited by the river, one hour, and then another. It was already evening. I was so scared my head was spinning. I was sitting with the gun and guarding the boat – while it was still light I stuck our things and the motors into the boat. Where would I go when night set in? Where could I look for Prakhin? Who could I call for help? Suddenly, right next to me, there was a voice in the darkness:

“Wife, eh, wife! Where are you?”

“I’m here,” I answered.

I was half dead with fright. And what if something had happened to Lazar? From the darkness a vodka-steeped rustic appeared.

“Don’t be afraid. We left your man to sleep in the bathhouse till morning. When he pulls out of it, we’ll bring him to the river. And I’ll keep an eye on you. Fearful alone ain’t it? My woman sent food for you. Chow down and have a peaceful sleep in the boat. Come sun up, your man’ll be here.”

Sleep, of course, was not in the picture. We sat together around the fire. And then my “guard” fell asleep, and so soundly that you could have fired a gun by his ear and he wouldn’t have heard it.

In the morning the same crowd brought Prakhin back – healthy, unharmed, and a bit tipsy.

And then the women in one family invited me over and prepared a banya for me. I was so overcome with happiness and relief that I almost started crying! How many times had simple Russian people saved us from troubles, taken us in, helped us however they could – and all without any self-interest, all from the heart!

Lord! May they all be remembered with a kind word!

Oddly enough (or perhaps not), the Prakhins’ most dangerous encounter came when they were within a few hundred kilometers of Leningrad. When they were traveling across Kubenskoye Lake, Lyudmila became ill and they again went looking for assistance. They found a truck depot and the woman on duty there that night offered them beds in the drivers’ dormitory, Once they were inside, however, someone locked the door, and they found themselves surrounded by very unsavory characters.

Right next to me, almost head to head, an absolutely feeble old man was moaning. Then he got up, sat down, and began to remove the dressing from some bleeding ulcers. I turned to face the other way and saw something even worse. A naked drunk was lying there doing something obscene.

“This is a fine kettle of fish,” I whispered.

“But how can we get out without a key?” Prakhin whispered back. “Who knows what will come into that drunk’s head when I go to ask. Maybe we can stand it till morning?”

“No,” I whispered in horror.

And in the neighboring room the vodka was flowing, there was drunken swearing and the slap of cards. Lazar walked up decisively and from the doorway said,

“Guys, my woman has to step out. We’ll be right back. Open the door, please.”

“Yeah? We haven’t played cards with you yet or drunk vodka, and you…”

“Come on, guys. I’ll leave you my woman’s ring as security, then we’re sure to come back: she’d knock my noggin right off if I lost her ring!”

And he turned to me and said, “Take it off, eh! It’s your fault since you’re in such a hurry!”

Silently, I took off the only ring with a stone that I owned and handed it to Lazar. The gathering passed the ring from hand to hand down the long, filthy table and deliberated over whether my ring was enough security or not. They came to the unanimous decision that it was not – and turned their gaze toward Prakhin. He silently removed his watch and extended it to them. The procedure was repeated. Then some drunken voice squeaked from somewhere in a far corner:

“Boys, what’s the story here? Let’s toss for it, heads or tails – end of story!”

They all hooted joyously, and we turned cold. But again fate was on our side: a murmur went round.

“We’re not some kind of beasts, we do things fairly. Let ‘em go! But if you don’t come back, there’ll be no place to hide!”

On this they all agreed. We stepped out into freedom and decided that between here and Leningrad we didn’t need any more adventures.

On their way back to the river, they ran into the woman who had taken them to the dormitory. Sensing something was wrong, she invited them into her home.

“Don’t be afraid: I have a big family, but there’s room for everyone. My name is Aunt Katya.”

That’s exactly what she said, softly and with dignity – “Aunt Katya.” We melted. We so wanted to be warm, to be with people, with a bathhouse and clean sheets. We got that and more! Aunt Katya woke up her husband and he, in the middle of the night, heated up a real Russian banya, with veniki [branches to beat and invigorate the skin] – birch, it seems. Lazar and I splashed around in the bathhouse, washing off our bodily dirt and the physical and emotional exhaustion that had built up over long weeks, and while we were at it, we tried to figure out what clothing to change into. After all, we couldn’t run down to the river for our stuff! Suddenly, from the bathhouse anteroom, we heard the voice of Aunt Katya’s husband (for the life of me, I can’t remember his name):

“My woman brought you clean linens. They’re old, but clean. Please don’t scorn ‘em.”

We came out and were dumfounded. To say that they were clean was an understatement! They were white as snow! Snow-white drawers for both him and me. And undershirts that were just as good. We stood there like two ghosts and laughed until we cried. It had been so long since we had laughed, and here we were just overcome. You could have wrapped the shirt around me twice, and on Prakhin it was the other way around – everything was at the point of splitting and was very short…

I quickly ran into the other room and was even more surprised. This was a night of surprises and contrasts. From the bad to the good and then to the better. That’s the miracle of life! Unfortunately, it’s often the other way around. I have also had that experience many times. But here it was a different matter. On the table, potatoes were steaming and there was a big jug of milk and next to it a huge loaf of bread. Was this not wealth! Was this not heartfelt generosity!

We did not turn down the food. We ate and told about our adventures, which left Aunt Katya wiping her eyes, while Gramps just sniffed a bit, not understanding why all this was necessary. At the conclusion of our storytelling he just “hmm’d” and said,

“Wife, wife, bring out the glasses! This calls for a drink, or I won’t be able to make sense of it all.”

Everyone had a drink and lay down to sleep. Well, what can I say? They led us into the main room, where their most honored guests were entertained, and laid out bedding that was also so snow-white that I still can’t figure out how, with such a family – five children, work in the house and garden, a job, no washing machine or hot water – it could be possible to keep one’s house and possessions in such a state of cleanliness.

Finally they reached Leningrad. At this end of the journey, there was no fanfare, no one to greet them. The two were in tatters, Lazar was unshaven, and they were both nothing but skin and bones. When they went to Gostiny Dvor to buy some clothing, they were followed around by the suspicious sales clerks, who even summoned security. The policeman who heard their tale was so impressed he had them driven in a police car back to the boat club where they had left Taiga. From Leningrad they flew to Odessa to be reunited with their son Boris and Lyudmila’s relatives. The expedition had taken 133 days.

I don’t recall that anybody in Odessa was particularly impressed by our trip or asked to be told about it in detail, “where, what and when.” For everyone, the main thing was that we had returned alive and well, and everything else was just gravy. Back then, right after what we had been through, there was such a strong urge to talk about it, to remember and relive everything that had happened to us. Now I understand our relatives. First, everyone loves heroes from books, movies, television and radio shows – heroes with a name. And here was the sister and her husband! And what’s so special about them? As the old saying goes, “A prophet is not without honor, save in his own country, and in his own house.”

[…] Recalling how the whole town had seen off Lazar and his friends, we hoped that they would greet us with excitement and ask to hear about our expedition. But our greeting was cold, to say the least. Evidently, our fellow-adventurers who had returned before us had said things about us such that, by the time we returned, everyone in Dalnegorsk had lost all interest in us, and the questions “when, what, how” were not heard at all. I don’t know what motivated this – whether it was envy, or something else.

For many years after our journey, Prakhin did not touch on this subject. He was always above passing judgment on others.

“Never judge people,” he would say, “Do not condemn the actions of others. After all, it is always easier to condemn than it is to understand!”

Today, Lyudmila Prakhina and her two adult sons, Boris and Michael, live in New Jersey. The family channels the indefatigable Prakhin spirit into the Prakhin International Literary Fund. The fund has two annual literary awards: The Truth is in the Sea and The Truth about the Holocaust and Stalinist Repression. Prakhina is also organizing an expedition to retrace the route of the 1971 journey. The 2006 laureate of The Truth is in the Sea, Viktor Boyarsky, a renowned Arctic explorer and the director of St. Petersburg’s Museum of the Arctic and Antarctic, is among those working to make this a reality. This past Holocaust Remembrance Day, Herman Rosenblatt, author of The Girl with the Apple, which is being made into a film, was recognized as the first laureate of Truth about the Holocaust and Stalinist Repression. RL

May 01, 2008

Crossing Russia by Boat

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