Many years ago, when studying in London, an American friend decided she would organize a small group to visit the USSR, as it was then. She was studying War Studies at Kings College and wanted a close up look at the enemy – or perhaps just wanted to experience what was a completely different world back then.

I was okay either way. I thought it sounded like fabulous fun. As an Aussie, while we took the Cold War seriously, we were perhaps not quite so terrified by the Russian Bear. So off we went, around a dozen of us, almost all her fellow War Studies students, myself and an old mate of mine who was also keen to see the place.

Now, such a trip requires much planning and preparation. So my friend organized some Russian language lessons for us, so we could carry on a basic conversation.

Fat chance. I learned how to say, “I am an Australian male” (it sounded very much like saying ‘yar Australianitz’, but honestly, who knows), because apparently one can’t just say, “I am an Aussie”, but after that, everyone lost interest, and we decided that the Russians probably all knew some English. Or should.

This was many years ago – I can almost pinpoint exactly, as it turned out that the week before the Chernobyl meltdown, we were just one hundred kilometres away from it. When it did explode, we were safely back in the UK, unaware of disaster, but in the coming months, we heard back from friends we’d made.

Those in the region were given no news and no warnings. Life went on as usual with the exception of a great many more trucks of soldiers going backwards and forwards. There was no evacuation from the region.

One wonders how many innocent people died because the USSR administration preferred silence to safety and responsibility. Imagine a government taking that approach – unthinkable.

Anyway, part of our preparation included talking to friends who had visited there – not many, as it was very much a closed society at the time. One of the things we were told was that the younger people and students were all very keen on swapping stuff.

Turns out that they were especially keen on Nike socks, Springsteen t-shirts and copies of Rolling Stone magazine. So, we loaded up.

We flew in on the infamous Aeroflot, and I must say that I had few complaints as they did serve rather liberal quantities of caviar, even to those of us in Cattle Class. A little later, when we took an internal Aeroflot flight from Leningrad to Moscow, they were similarly generous.

However, there was a minor problem. It seems that some of these planes were also used to deploy troops and materiel, as well as operating as passenger carriers.

The problem was that, apparently, the underlings tasked with returning the seats to position for paying customers had done so but forgotten to lock them in place.

Consequently, the moment the plane hit the tarmac, 200 people whooshed forward as the seats jammed down on them and were left looking up their own posteriors, I laughed until caviar came out my nose.

Having finally made it through security, although it took an age as my bloke insisted on looking through every piece of luggage I had (just one large piece), and when he discovered a Rolling Stone magazine, insisted on looking at every page. He was most impressed to learn that I was close friends with Prince. Well, he asked.

Our group was allocated a guide – every group enjoyed that privilege – and we also had regular “officials”, follow us everywhere. At a distance. They were easy to spot – I’m not sure they were wasting their talented spies on us – and we would often wave and yell out information about where we headed, to help. They saw no humor in this and would immediately jump in a cab, disappear, and shortly after be replaced by others.

On one occasion, I had forgotten something back at the hotel so dashed back and discovered a man in our room with a tool kit, under a table up against a wall, adjusting a small metal plate.

We were told later that these were listening devices – I have always attributed the fall of the Soviet Union to the fact that if they really had sunk to the level that they felt they needed to listen to me and my mates that it was all over.

The trip saw us sharing rooms and of course, being students, idiots and bulletproof, we had enormous fun with the listening devices. We’d cook up James Bond-like plots and sit next to the plates discussing them. I mean, who wouldn’t?

At the end of the first day, there was an incident that made me consider that I was possibly not quite as bulletproof as I thought I was, and that not everyone thought the world was as much fun as your average student. And also, that I was a complete idiot, although that was possibly not the revelation you might think.  

So, first night in Moscow, and some of us were keen to see the Bolshoi Ballet, so we scalped tickets – it was not difficult – which cost us each about a pound. As it turned out, our bundle of seats was not together but rather, scattered throughout the theatre.

So some were in the nose bleed section behind posts. I ended up in a box just around from the Soviet leaders’ box, which remained disappointingly empty for the night.

There was one small hiccup. What none of us had realized was that the reason it is called the Bolshoi Ballet is because their home is the Bolshoi Theatre. It is also home to other events and the Bolshoi Opera. Turns out that on this particular evening, it was the Opera which was in residence.

So no ballet for us, but four hours of Russian opera. Actually, it was much better than you might think, as it was about some battle at some stage, and they had fires roaring on stage, and they rode horses at full tilt across the (big) stage. But four hours will probably cover me for Russian opera for the next five or six decades.

We came out around midnight and there were still plenty of people in Red Square, which is rather spectacular in the evening. I struck up a conversation with two young lads who were there to trade with foreigners. I was their man.

They seemed like nice guys, brothers – although the younger of the pair was obviously somewhat impaired. His brother was very supportive.

Having agreed to see what we might trade, stupid me starts to open my bag (with the aforementioned Nike socks, Springsteen t-shirts and Rolling Stone mags). The brothers freak out. Not here in full view. We must go somewhere that is quiet and hidden. Okay, I say (without much thought). So off we go down a small winding cobblestone alley off Red Square, in the opposite direction to the Kremlin.

Yes, at midnight in Moscow back in the 80s during the Cold War, I thought it would be a clever idea to head off down a dark alley with two strange Russians. Did I mention I was a complete idiot?

We probably headed down the alley, which grew ever more narrow, for some 600 to 800 metres, without seeing another soul, before we found a spot under a very dim light. It was opposite a building which had two large yellow doors (presumably, it was for back door deliveries to whatever the building was). So, the three of us sat down on the cobblestones and proceeded to pull out our goods and treasures.

Now, the younger brother, a lovely guy but sadly not fully with it (not sure how one says that diplomatically these days), would get incredibly excited whenever he saw something of mine that he wanted. I was thinking he best never take up poker, as this was strengthening my hand enormously.

I was very keen for one of those Russian fur (mink/sheep/rabbit/muskrat/rat) hats, apparently called a ushanka (although I did not know that at the time). I figured I had enough in t-shirts and socks to cover one. Well, perhaps one made from rat.

I am not certain how long we went back and forth, but we were all having fun and no one was getting hurt. That didn’t last. We had been so absorbed in our negotiations that we had not noticed that we were now completely surrounded by around fifteen heavily armed Russian soldiers (if you have never had a machine gun, let alone fifteen of them, pointed at you, I assure you that it is not something to include on your bucket list).

The mood changed. Shocker. We three stood up, arms raised. I am possibly not known as someone who would be first over the trenches (yes, my grandfather with his Military Cross and more for doing pretty much just that, would be spinning in his grave) and I was seriously terrified. Shaking like the proverbial leaf.

But I was Horatius on the Bridge compared to my Russian compatriots. I cannot imagine anything that would make me as terrified as the pair on them were.

The soldiers were just standing there, no longer pointing their guns at us, but nor were they making space for us to leave. Then I had my second brilliant idea (the initial one, heading down the alley in the first place). Seems those Russian lessons had not gone to waste. I started yelling ‘yar Australianitz’ for all I was worth, thinking that perhaps that might save me, although why and from what I was less clear.

To my absolute stunned amazement, my two Russian compatriots started yelling the same thing.

I immediately switched to, ‘no, they bloody are not’, thereby throwing them under the bus – I did suggest that courage was not my superpower.

At this moment, with the three of us yelling whatever we thought would save us, those yellow doors swung open (I suspect that it was from there that the soldiers had also emerged, but our lack of alertness meant we could not confirm that) and an officer walked out. He was a little, pasty-faced, beady-eyed chap in his full-length coat. He said not a word but strode through the soldiers and across to us.

If my friends had been scared before, they were now beyond hope. If one was not such a gentleman, one might mention loss of bladder control amongst my compatriots. They really were scared near senseless.

Our little friend walked up to us, was clearly not fooled by any false assertions of Aussie citizenship and looked at the two Russians rather closely. Not all evil is orange. He picked up the two Russians, both of whom were taller and more solid than he was, without any trouble at all, spun on his heels and walked, still carrying the two brothers, back to the doors.

He used their heads to open those yellow doors and flung the two inside before following them in. The doors swung shut. At no stage had he spoken a word to me or even looked at me.

This all left me in a rather unenviable position. Still down the dark alley off Red Square in Moscow in the early hours, with no one else having a clue where I was, and surrounded by those fifteen pesky Russian soldiers and their machine guns. This was not in the brochure.

What the hell does one do now? Nothing seemed to be ideal. But doing nothing gets very boring very quickly.

Inspiration struck – yes, another of my brilliant ideas. You’d think I’d learn. I’m just a tourist. Perhaps if they knew that, they’d let me go. How to convince them I was a tourist? I knew immediately. I reached into my bag and pulled out my camera (this was in the pre-digital era).

I’d take some photos so they’d know I was here as an innocent tourist – I had not figured out where the various items we’d planned to swap and which were now lying around my feet fitted in, but one problem at a time.

So, there am I, down said alley, with a camera with no flash, pretending to take photos. It suddenly struck me that perhaps Russian soldiers would prefer that one did not take their photos. So I shoved it all away, back into the bag. And stood there like the proverbial shag on a rock again.

Again, time crawled. Next idea. Well, if I am going to be shot and dumped in a ditch, I may as well at least grab the Russian hat. It didn’t seem like the two brothers would need it in their near future. So I shoved it into the bag as well. And put all my stuff back. After all, who knew what was going to happen?

So, yet more time standing like there like the proverbial third wheel. Finally, I figured something had to happen. What if I moved ever so surreptitiously towards a slight gap in the circle? They might not notice. I could slip by. Yes, add that to the list of bright ideas.

So, I picked up my bag (with my new Russian fur cap), one tiny step towards the gap, and then another five minutes standing doing nothing. Then a second step. Another five minutes. It was agonizing, but all though this, the soldiers just stood silently.

I continued this for some time until eventually, I was getting close to the circle. Finally, a step brought me level. At this stage, I was as nervous as a student who just realized he had studied for the wrong exam.

A tentative step took me just outside the circle. Nothing happened. I waited for a few minutes and made another small step. Then another. After a while, I was several feet beyond the circle and trying to convince myself that the soldiers had not noticed me moving. Seriously, that is what I was thinking.

Suddenly, their plan became obvious. I was to be shot in the back while escaping (spy movies have a lot to answer for). That was why they had removed the brothers. No witnesses.

Perhaps if I ran back to the center of the circle? Although what that might achieve, I had no idea. The only thing for it was to run away. Yes, the Monty Python knights fleeing the Rabbit of Caerbannog, screaming ‘run away, run away’, springs to mind.

Nevertheless, I took off. I was never a particularly good sprinter, but Usain Bolt would have had trouble catching me. Plus, I was having to dodge bullets. At least, I thought I had to. So I ran back and forth across the alley. I dodged, sidestepped, swerved, ducked and more, for about one hundred meters, by which time I was thoroughly and utterly exhausted, gasping for air.

It was a very cool evening but I was sweating profusely. And I’d pretty much had enough. I thought that if they were going to shoot me, have at it.

I looked back, expecting to see the soldiers all down on a knee taking aim. Instead, fifteen Russian soldiers in a heap, all laughing hysterically. Had they arrived on Aeroflot, I have no doubt we’d have seen caviar shooting from nostrils. They could not have hit me if I were five meters away, in the state they were in.

Bastards! I shook my fist, made a few gestures, yelled a few obscenities, and then thought that perhaps offending Russians with guns was not my best move – certainly not my worst, but not my best. So I took off down the alley until I eventually emerged back in Red Square.

There is, of course, a postscript. The next day, with my nerves still jangling like a car crash, we were touring the city in our allocated minibus, which I suspect would have been old when Stalin was in charge.

We were approaching Red Square, along the main road, when I noticed a building with two large yellow doors. Clearly, this was the main entrance to the building behind which we had enjoyed our little adventure the night before.

I asked our guide what was in the building. The poor woman went absolutely pale and shook her head. I asked again. Still no response. A third time? She led me to the back of the bus and whispered to me she could not talk about it. I was not giving up. But what is the building? You must not ask. Why?

Finally, she whispered in my ear, it is KGB headquarters and we cannot talk about it.

So, my Russian friends had taken me to the back of KGB headquarters to trade. You could not make it up. I spoke to various people in the coming days and they said that some trading was usually tolerated, but apparently doing it on the KGB doorstep was, forgive the pun, poking the bear.

I asked what would happen to my friends (I had come to think of my fallen comrades like that). The consensus was that they would have been sent to some form of camp (it definitely was not a summer camp) for a minimum of six very unpleasant months. It seemed extreme.

One further final postscript which is purely speculation. It is well known that Putin himself was an officer in the KGB at this time. Now, does a description (not that I had ever heard of Putin at the time) of an “evil, little, pasty-faced, beady-eyed chap” remind anyone of a certain dictator?

Records suggest that Putin was serving in Dresden at the time, but perhaps he was back for a holiday? Surviving an encounter with Vladimir? One can dream.

And yes, I still have the hat.

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