A Weekend in Estonia: The Truth about Russia

“Not everything has a name. Some things lead us into a realm beyond words.” -Alexander Solzhenitsyn; historian, author, and former Gulag prisoner.

I spent two days in possibly the cutest city I’ve ever seen: Tallinn, Estonia.  It reminded me a lot of Toledo- beautiful views, friendly people, and narrow cobble-stoned streets everywhere.  You actually can’t get lost because nearly every street takes you back to the main square.

There was a fantastic variety of restaurants and cafés, all very modestly priced, which left sweet aromas radiating onto the streets.  If I had to explain it, I’d say it was the same intensity as the smells of Russia, except in the opposite direction.  (Absolute value considered, Russia = Estonia.)  In Russia, middle-aged men on the marshrutkas reek as though they haven’t showered since the fall of communism.  You hold your breath, but you can still taste something funny.  In Tallinn, we couldn’t help but follow the delightful scents of cinnamon beer and freshly baked pastries.

While I feel well acquainted with the old city of Tallinn, I can’t say I met very many Estonians.  There were a myriad of tour groups in every direction, and I heard more English this weekend than I have all semester in Russia.  Even more surprising was how little Russian I saw and heard, considering Estonia’s independence occurred just two decades ago.  But we soon learned why.

Per an Australian hostel manager’s recommendation, we ventured beyond the old city’s walls toward an old Soviet prison.  “When you reach the water, take a left,” he directed.  From afar, we saw a giant, monochrome building, shrouded in barbed wire that overlooked the sea.  I swear it was a sight straight out of Shutter Island.

We paid some ladies 2 Euro to enter the prison.  Naturally, I expected some kind of exhibits or touristy attractions, but there weren’t any.  We entered on the ground floor and fell into a mild sensory shock.  Dim light cast eerie shadows, and a damp, mildewy stench pervaded the building.  Worst of all was the cold.  I don’t know how the temperature dropped so suddenly, but it was frighteningly chilly.  I can only imagine what that place feels like in the dead of winter.

At first, my friends and I felt a thrill, a kind of adventure as we weaseled in and out of the labyrinth of rooms. A door completely covered in mold, rotting plants, partially-exposed pornography beneath peeling wallpaper. Pretty soon that excitement lulled, and I started to feel sad and empty.  Broken glass, rusted showers, a collection of needles. The hostel manager told us that prisoners would exchange tuberculosis-infected spit with one another just to be relocated to minimum-security.  A well-worn book, a veil, a Liar Liar poster. This was no exhibit; this was real life that had frozen when the prison was finally closed in 2001, when I was already eleven years old.  An operating room, a hanging room, a pit full of shoes.

The authenticity of that prison was blood-curdling.  I’ve always wanted to visit something like that in Russia, but part of me wonders if that’s even possible.  Russia, the Soviet Union’s immediate successor, wouldn’t want to flaunt its history of atrocities.  Estonia, however, was utterly victimized and has no incentive to hide it.  To think how many people lived day in and day out in that prison under tireless supervision.  To think how many of those people committed an illegal—though by no means immoral—crime against the state.  And to think how many people were by all definitions innocent.  It’s sickening.  And it’s no wonder there’s so little Russian spoken there today.