Travels in the Caucasus 1923 (A journey through Georgia and Armenia) – by Frank Xavier Calleja. Part 1: Preparations for Departure

Frank on the right, outside the offices of Berliet House in Istanbul, 1920s. Source: Family archive.

Introduction

In 1922 or 23,  my grandfather’s cousin Frank, (a member of the Maltese Levantine community living in Istanbul, Turkey) took part in a motoring competition across what was known as the Caucasus region, in Georgia and Armenia. 

In Ancient Greece, Georgia was known as Colchis, the land of the golden fleece, destiny of Jason and the Argonauts. These wild and beautiful lands had been taken over by the Bolsheviks in 1917 and then in 1922 became part of the newly formed USSR. Very few foreigners travelled or were indeed welcome there and much of the Western world had little idea of what life was like under that regime. Secret police and informers were everywhere and foreigners who got picked up by them were pretty much on their own. Frank’s account of his adventures there, form a fascinating first hand account of what it was like for people living under the soviet regime, while his encounters with many indigenous tribal communities describe lands rich in history, myth and culture.

Frank had indicated in his memoir that the expedition had taken place in 1922 but at another point says 1923. After some deliberation I have concluded that it must have been 1923 as his account includes a discussion on the Soviet state’s manipulation of workers’ salaries using the Chernovets currency. This coinage did not come into being until November 1922.

The original manuscript for this memoir was handwritten in French in the early ’70s and was found with Frank’s effects after he died.  It has been translated by Frank’s grand-niece and God-daughter Esmé Clutterbuck and edited and transcribed by Esmé and I. Most of the photographs also came from Frank but have been supplemented by a few photos and illustrations found on the internet. The text has been edited into 3 parts for ease of publishing. Additional information and editor’s notes are shown in parentheses in italics.

Countries bordering the Black Sea, with Istanbul, the former capital of Turkey, at the western end and Georgia at the furthest point east. Source: Public domain.

MEMOIRS OF CAUCASIA (1923)

Part 1 – Preparations for Departure

By Francis Xavier Calleja 

Horrified by the dull life I had been leading for some time I began to long for some kind of adventure. A trip anywhere, it didn’t matter, as long as it would change absolutely the monotonous course of my existence and like a bolt of lightening wrest me from my torpor.

I had just emerged – as usual bruised and disabused – from a ridiculous love affair, the most extraordinary I had known up until then. All my energy and joy of living felt stripped out of me.

An equally important factor, and one which I cannot omit to mention here, is that of my birth. I came into the world one Monday 27^th June, in a year of grace, sometime around eight o’clock in the evening.

Those who know even a little astrology must be aware that the date, day and hour come under the sway of Cancer; and are intimately connected to the moon. They will also know that although those born under this sign are typically calm, thoughtful and go about things in a slow but sure way, the moon confers on them a love of change, of the bizarre and of journeying. They are (or love) in consequence, travellers, artists and perhaps lunatics.

It will then be easy for amateur students of the science of the stars to understand my restless state, my wanderlust. To envisage a fine visa on a brand new passport, the packed labeled luggage ready to be conveyed by the porters. I adore that. A boat weighing anchor, the departure whistle of a train, the engine of a plane that starts up and waits for me and then the inexpressible feeling when this train, this boat and this plane leaves without me.

It is of this that I never ceased to dream. But little did I know, this September 14^th 1922 that I would be leaving the following night [sic 1923, see note above].

The following morning whilst looking at myself in the mirror I was surprised to notice that my lower lip had more or less regained its former elasticity. This coincided by chance with the fact that I was no longer obsessed by its misshapenness. And now the look of a grumpy child, which had become my normal mien, had completely disappeared.  I began to smile and caught myself whistling a popular tune.

What could all this mean? This change in me, which seemed so intimately connected with my whole make-up, was certainly a good omen. I had a premonition that something new might well be coming. Light footed and heart full of hopes I went back to the Maison Berliet office where I worked.

[Ed. Berliet was a French automobile manufacturer and the forerunner of Renault]¹.

It was only eight o’clock in the morning and contrary to habit I was the first to arrive. I set to work immediately, although it must be said without great enthusiasm. The unknown happening, that I had an inkling of and that I hoped for with all the force of my being, absorbed my thoughts.

Outside it was a ravishing autumn day; the trees caressed by a light breeze from the Bosphorus; were shaking their rust coloured locks. The air was pure and perfumed and on the road in front of our office the pylons supported high-tension electric cables that sang their song. Thus witnessing the perfect harmony that can sometimes exist between nature and modern science.

I gave myself up to my dream, my thoughts running towards new and distant horizons; eager for freedom, wide open spaces and adventure.

All of a sudden ‘Brrrr’, the telephone, I lifted the receiver. It was the strongly burred voice (Fr. grasseyant) of my friendly boss, calling me to his office.

What could it be, this directorial summons so early in the morning? The car delivered the night before hadn’t satisfied him? Was the secretary ill so that Monsieur the director had no one to dictate his letters to? Or perhaps he was going to inform me of the imminent arrival of an inspector from Lyons with the usual recommendation….”And above all make sure everything is in order.” A recommendation that anyway is useless since we all know this paradoxical truth; i.e. that being an inspector means that one inspects nothing at all whether one comes from Paris, London or Timbuctoo.

But I was soon going to have the key to the mystery. I knocked on the door of my boss’s office and after a resonant sonorous and joyful “Come in”, I found myself in the presence of the Director for the Orient of the Berliet company in Lyon.

It is about fifty years since that morning but, nonetheless, I have only to close my eyes and I can still picture my boss of that time. Dressed in a well pressed, good quality suit enhanced by the joyous cascade of a vibrantly coloured pocket handkerchief. He was small in size, of ruddy complexion and had waxed hair, groomed close and sticking to the temples. His prominent eyes and eyebrows had a faintly Chinese quality. These were the main characteristics of the boss.

Monsieur T…. was getting ready to go out or so one would have believed. For he was winding a large silk scarf round his neck and an overcoat was carelessly draped over one of the armchairs.

“My dear friend, I am so happy for you”, he said shaking my hand and giving me a note to read. “The Director at Lyons has decided to name you as his delegatory representative at the Competition on Lorries and Light Wagons held in the Caucasus and organised by the Soviet government. I know you too well to have even the slightest doubt as to the excellence of the director’s choice or to the success – given your commercial knowledge and tact – that you will not fail to pull off.”

There followed a small homily on the nature or causes of success. A durable, solid, universally reputed commodity is not always enough. Knowhow is needed, diplomacy and tact; the ability to work things out and take decisions. He spoke for at least 10 minutes but I no longer heard him.

Through the half open casement window my thoughts flew far and away into the distance. I saw myself already departed; driving down unknown roads and crossing new lands. I climbed mountains with precipices giving into the new, to success and forgetfulness.

(The sound of) Mr T’s pen falling on the glass top of his desk shook me from my reverie. There were yet more instructions and advice. I thanked Mr T. and then found myself at my work table completely taken aback by what had happened.

With an ardour new and up to that point, unknown, I set to work. I had only eight days in which to organise things.

Lorry from Berliet in production from WW1 to 1932. Source: Janmad @ wikimedia commons.

The two lorries that were to take part (as exhibits) in the Competition, along with the chosen mechanics, had already left the factories at Vénissieux [near Lyon, France] and would be arriving in Istanbul by the end of the week.

I had to concern myself with them, so that all was in order; have them checked one last time in our workshops and get ready the spares/equipment that we were taking with us.

At last, oh joy! I had to get the passports and Soviet visa, which at that time was not easy to obtain. No matter how much of a struggle it was, no difficulties existed for me, I could no longer see any obstacle. My firm resolve to set off, take part in the Competition and, above all, to overcome our rivals was like a kind of steam roller which brushed aside or crushed all obstacles leaving the way beautiful and clear.

As we shall see I was more than a little mistaken here.

As expected the lorries and the two mechanics arrived towards the end of the week. I went to meet them at the Galata quay and the impression I gained of them, at first glance, was excellent.

New Quay, Galata. Image c/o LHF.

With the prospect of three or four months of Communist life ahead I would have felt sore-pressed had there been no friends.

Custy was a brave French foreman/petty officer type. He was of medium build, rather stout with red hair and a Charlie Chaplin moustache. Although not that young he was terribly shy and when one spoke to him his clear blue eyes seemed to shine even more under the circumflex accents of his eyebrows.

The second, Merie, was absolutely the opposite. Brown haired, thin, a rather hard stare; he seemed imbued with great willpower and a very fine intelligence.

The 2 lorries in Frank’s team. The man far left may be Merie, behind him Custy, then Frank in the flat cap next to the man in the fur Great coat. Source: Family archives (not labelled).

Both from the factories at Vénissieux, had been chosen for this competition as much for their political colour as their technical skill.

They had advanced ideas, as one called it then, and occupied the spectrum of political opinions; a place between “pink” and clear, not too subversive as we will see. [Ed. meaning politically left of centre].

However this charming pink hue, though only slightly pronounced, would completely disappear after a week’s stay in the USSR. It was to be with practically no (political) colour that my two erstwhile communists would depart for home after their return to Istanbul four months later.

The Comrade Isaac Abramovitch

In the few days that followed, our cargo was checked and equipment sorted out! With all the paperwork ready – the usual sort that accompanies this kind of expedition – we had only now to concern ourselves with our passports.

To get into Soviet Russia at that time was a great event; one could not enter as one pleased. It was only after numerous enquiries and counter-enquiries, made on one’s behalf by the French authorities and the Soviet Consuls that one was granted or refused a visa according to the case.

Having been invited to participate in the conference by the Soviet Government through the intermediary of ARCOS [ARCOS All Russian Cooperative Society]² at Istanbul – I had no doubt as to the ease with which my comrades and I would obtain visas.

I must say, however, that it occurred to few people to want to go to Russia at this time. Rightly or wrongly, trade was not free there, as was the case elsewhere in such dreadful countries.  It was exclusively in the hands of the government – all commercial transactions were dealt with by official bodies such as ARCOS (Istanbul), l’Unerstag, l’Azneft etc installed in the principal European capitals. It was through this network that we were involved in the expedition. We were supplying a good number of useful vehicles to the Soviet cause through the medium of ARCOS at Istanbul and I knew personally certain members of this institution.

The invitation to Berliet to participate in the Caucasian Competition had come from this place and I had no doubt as to the help that we would be granted.

Having phoned to ask for a meeting explaining that it was a question of our passports, I was told that I should go along straight away with my two Frenchmen. We lost no time and, at the agreed hour, we presented ourselves in the antechamber of Comrade Tanglich, Chief of ARCOS. I knew Tanglich very well having approached him many times on the subject of vehicle arrangements.

He was a robust man in his sixties with grey brush-like hair who, putting his hand on his heart used to say to whoever would hear (or wanted to hear) that he was at the end of his tether. At least he pretended to be so. For, several months later, we learned that from on board a Transatlantic liner (of which he had booked a passage), several minutes before it was due to go out, Tanglich had sent to the Comrade Ambassador his resignation as director of the Istanbul based Soviet delegation, his communist party membership card and advised that he had taken with him the delegations’s funds.

Some time later we learnt that before the [Russian] Revolution, Tanglich had been the owner of important factories in Danetz – at Rostov to be more exact – and had been completely dispossessed of his belongings by the Communists.

With a view to saving his skin and with the firm intention of regaining possession of, if not all, then at least a part of his fortune, he embraced the communist cause and was registered as a member of the party. Thanks to his connections and knowhow he became an influential member and was sent to Istanbul to act as director of ARCOS.

He profited by the presence of large sums of money in the coffers of ARCOS, to which he had sole access and which would afford him some comfort in his old age, recalling the old phrase “Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s and to God what is God’s.”

To return to my tale, while we waited in the antechamber to be received by Comrade Tanglich, he sent word that he was very busy and regretted he could not see us. An obsequious employee gave us a note of introduction for the Soviet Consulate where we were to go for our visas.  This employee informed us that all was in order and that the Comrade Consul would be informed of our imminent visit by telephone.

Russian Consulate in Istanbul

At Chichli in a remote district we had all the trouble in the world to find the small villa, jealously guarded, where Comrade Isaac Abramovich Faltken mysteriously fulfilled his function as Consul for all the Russians.

At this time, the Soviet government had not yet been officially recognised by the “Grande Turc”; the organisations of White Russians were springing up everywhere and there was not a single day when a Soviet functionary was not beaten up by refugees. Comrade Isaac Abramovich had had his share some time before when a certain number of refugee Cossack officers had surprised him and set about him. The Turkish police had, not without difficulty, succeeded in pulling him out wounded and whimpering at the hands of his aggressors.

He still bore, quite visibly, the scars of this terrible encounter and had the air of a tragic beast, which, despite all his skill in hiding his feelings, he could not cover up.

Being told the object of our visit he told us that, in fact he had been waiting for us. Comrade Tanglich had telephoned him about the matter.

All his sympathy centred, from the start, on my two companions of whose situation he said: “These are two proletarian French” – this he pronounced with obvious satisfaction – “who are going into Soviet Russia as mechanics to drive lorries”. “As for you”, he said to me not without irony, “your case is different; you have a Spanish name and yet you are a British subject. You pretend to want to go to the Caucasus to participate at a Competition of vehicles, yet I know, pertinently that you are going there for journalistic purposes. An enquiry made on your account has given me proof that you are ‘affiliated’ to Reuters in London.” 

In his imagination, probably tainted with persecution mania, Reuters became a sect, a Mafia, with which I was somehow affiliated. [Servet Yanatma (2020) argues that the Reuters news agency was indeed viewed with some suspicion by the Ottoman government as well as other foreign powers]³. 

For a moment I watched Comrade Abramovich, completely stunned. What to say? What was going to happen? The first instant of stupor passed. I began, composedly, to formulate my defence.

“So what of it if my name be Spanish?” – I said to him – “It does not alter the fact that I am a proper British subject to which my passport bears witness.  If we were to use names as a basis for establishing the nationality of someone we would we lose our Latin identity.”  I looked him straight in the eyes and Isaac Abramavich Zaltkin, Consul for all the Russians with a Yiddish name, understood me.

The blow had carried but the evil smile he directed at me also had its effect and a cold shiver ran down my back. I had made myself an enemy.

However I continued: “It is absolutely true that I collaborated with the Reuters agency a good many years ago. I have now no relation whatsoever to this agency and, I assure you, I have never worked as a journalist and have not the slightest intention of doing so in Russia. [This was not strictly true, Frank is actually listed as an employee at the telegraph agency for Turquie-Havas-Reuter in the Annuaire Oriental business directory for 1922⁴, the year before these events took place. He may have forgotten when he came to write this memoir some 50 years later]!

Listing in the Annuaire Oriental for 1922 showing employer and domicile for Frank aka Severino Calleja. Source: SALT Research, Istanbul.

“I am, as you well know, one of the agents of Berliet House which, invited to participate in the Caucasian Competition, has sent me there to represent it.”

“One never breaks with one’s past young man” – he said to me – “and furthermore there are other reasons which forbid me to give you your visa. Just this morning, in Istanbul, the Allies arrested a certain number of Soviet officers. It was scarcely a diplomatic act and will indubitably incite reprisals in Russia on foreign subjects. I can hardly give you a visa that could well be the source of grave trouble for you.”

I was beginning to feel nervous. I knew that arrests of Russian Navy Commandants had taken place that same morning.

At this moment in the débacle of General Wrangel, all the main Russian flotilla had passed through the Bosphorus straits and the Dardenelles. Not a single boat was left to the Bolsheviks in the North Sea [i.e. Black Sea, which lies north of the Bosphorus].

General Pyotr Wrangel Source: Public domain

[General Pyotr Wrangel 1878-1928, nicknamed the Black Baron, for his penchant for black uniforms and his aristocratic upbringing, took over as leader of the White Russians in 1920 in their last bastion of power in the Crimean Peninsular⁵. The White Russians were the principal opposition force to the Bolsheviks (the reds) in the Russian Revolution. At the end of 1920, the reds finally broke through the defences in the Crimea, so Wrangel organised the evacuation of 100,000 refugees to the Dardanelles, which included taking the entire Russian naval fleet with them (i.e. the “Wrangel affair” Frank alludes to. He goes on below to recount how the Bolsheviks tried to reverse this]. 

General Wrangel in Istanbul 1920. Source: LHF

There, secret agents from Russia, tried to persuade the captains of these vessels to return their ships to Russian ports by offering them large sums of money as inducements and assured posts in Russian maritime establishments. 

Were these promises kept to those who succeeded in eluding the vigilance of the Allies? I don’t know about that.

The fact is that Russian boats found themselves in the Bosphorus that day and that letters addressed to Commandants had been seized. It became apparent that three boats had completed the formalities ready for off and were making ready to go back up the Bosphorus to go to Russia.

The French authorities who, since the occupation of Istanbul, had run the business of the port, knew all this and two torpedo boats waited for the fugitives in the Black Sea at the exit of the Bosphorous. A few hours later they returned to Istanbul escorting the fugitives. It was to this that Comrade Isaac Abramovich was alluding.

White Russian fleet 1921, in Bizerte, Algeria, its final destination.

I insisted again, using all possible arguments, to try and convince him. But nothing would work. He arose to bid us take our leave. He asked me to call another time and promised to do his best to allow me a visa one day if the political situation permitted.

I was literally furious. The lorries were on the point of being loaded on board S.S. Moravia and I absolutely had to depart. It was nearly the end of September and we had to be in Georgia at the beginning of October.

In one fell swoop I saw my dreams vanish. Berliet House had to be represented at the Competition and would not be stopped by the fact that I could not leave.

Although it was difficult, at the last minute, to find someone who spoke Russian, this was essential since all the officials who I later had occasion to meet, spoke no foreign language. I went back to the office and told my boss the gist of what had happened.

What to do now? We suddenly thought of Monsieur Ganvier – apparently delegated by the French Government to protect French interests in Russia – but in reality, chief of the counter espionage service.  He personally knew all the members of the Soviet Mission and could be useful to us.

I asked Monsieur Ganvier for an interview which he immediately granted. I went to find him and told him in detail all that had happened between the Russian consul and us. He listened attentively to me and then, offering me a cigarette, said pointedly “Haven’t you understood that sending you to the Russian Consul was, so to speak, a manoeuvre the aim of which was to get to know a little of your ideas and to see what your reaction would be to certain questions. As I see it, it is not a question of what goes or doesn’t go with the Russian Consul because, when it comes down to it, you are not going to Russia but to the Caucasus; and there is the Transcaucassienne for the passport formalities for this region.”

Monsieur Ganvier had reasoned perfectly. The Bolshevists know that our port of embarkation was Batann [aka Batumi] and the Competition would take place in Georgia and Armenia. They would have to, therefore, let us pass by the Transcaucasian.  Crisply Monsieur Ganvier bade me farewell promising to do his best to smooth over this little incident.

That night I could not close my eyes; I could only ask myself anxiously if I would succeed in setting off or if, as usual, I would see my dreams go up in smoke.

The following day Monsieur Ganvier called me on the telephone. From his cheerful tone I understood that the situation was not as desperate as I had thought. He asked me if I would repeat to him, word for word, the conversation I had had the day before with Isaac Abramovich, informing me that Comrade Tanglich was at his house, ready to listen. I repeated faithfully, all that I had said to him the night before, omitting nothing. When I finished there was several seconds silence, then Monsieur Tanglich himself spoke to me. He would expect me at around 10 o’clock in his office at ARCOS.

We were there as soon as we could and were immediately led into a large waiting room. We were apparently alone so hoped to be received quickly. Above us from their portraits, the Commissaires of the People looked at us more or less benignly. Lenin with an baleful eye and high cheekbones, faced the bearded Leon Trotsky, and the Russian Tchitcherine appeared to be hailing the Tovarish Litvinoff. [Tchitcherine and Litvinoff were prominent Marxists and successive Peoples Commissioners for Foreign Affairs in the Soviet government].

Popular tryptych image of the Bolshevik leaders, Lenin, Stalin and Trotsky.

We were so absorbed in looking at the worthy sons of the Russian Revolution that we did not immediately see that a further visitor had come to fill out our small group. A dishevelled man wearing an old khaki uniform was there, nose in the air, under the large portrait of Lenin. In a high voice he poured forth invective and shook his dirty fist at the dictator. My two French comrades took him for a madman.

As for me this incident, banal enough to another’s eyes, took on a particular significance. We were the subject of a gross provocation; we, no strangers to the test the night before at Comrade Isaac Abramovich’s hands. It was besides, the current Bolshevik system to try to find out the opinions of those who, for one reason or another, came into contact with them.

From time to time the so-called visitor, probably a member of ARCOS, looked at us from the corner of his eye. Apparently he was inviting us to join in his little anti-Soviet demonstration but really he was looking to see what effect it had on us.

I whispered a few words to my two companions putting them on their guard and we took up again the reading, for a moment interrupted, of revues and magazines which exalted the delights of the communist paradise, the natural beauties of the Caucasus and the monstrous progress of Soviet industry. I was however not reading but flicking though my journal keeping a furtive eye on this novel Don Quixote. And he, seeing us indifferent to his manoeuvres, turned smartly on his heels and left the room.

I was no stranger to this kind of thing. This incident reminded me of when, on previous visits, certain employees of the delegation that I knew by sight – armed with hat and brief-case – came to mix with the public gathered in the antechamber and tried to pick up bits of conversation which would then be used to establish “a File of Confidential Renseignements’ [information] of nearly everyone who had anything to do with the Soviets.

The dull sound of a bell, and an employee came to tell us that Comrade Tanglich was waiting for us.

The man who was as he said “organised to his very fingertips” [Fr. “range jusque au bout des ongles”] received us amiably. He apologised for the error of the day before. But what were we seeking at the Russian Consulate anyway when we were bound for Batann, then to Tiflis [Tblisi] and then the Caucasian mountains; in other words the “free” republic of Georgia? It was therefore only the Transcaucasian Mission that could give us our visas. Who had sent us to Zaltkin and why? He could not understand who had made this mistake. A well-acted comedy! He rang and a young secretary came in. He gave the order to accompany us to the Transcaucasian [Mission], which was to be found elsewhere in the same building.

Preceded by the young man we made our way into a salon where at a desk, sat a Georgian lady whom I knew by sight. Without too many questions, this time, the Caucasian visas were stamped on our passports.

At last we were ready for the great adventure.

Even fifty years ago, to go into Russia was something that captured the imagination and was considered very dangerous. Foreigners that were obliged to go there signed a document at their respective consulates, which absolved the institutions from all responsibility for what might happen to their person or their possessions. I could no longer restrain myself and phoned the office with the good news. The S.S. Moravia was leaving not the next day but the day after that, in the afternoon. We had, therefore, more than twenty-four hours to finish what remained to be done; a few visits and a last once-over of our luggage.

On Board the Moravia

The weather was splendid when we embarked; one beautiful day in September. It was about five o’clock when a boat took us out to the Moravia, a small cargo boat of around two thousand tons – flying a British flag even though the entire crew was Greek with the exception of the English captain imposed by Lloyds with whom the boat was insured.

We were the only passengers on board except for a certain Monsieur Benjamin who had hired the boat to go load up with manganese at Batumi.

In so much as he was the hirer M. Benjamin occupied the only cabin worthy of that name saving those occupied by the officers on board.

As for us three, we were put, with profuse apologies, in a kind of cubby hole containing four bunks situated above and across the galley. Due to such a neighbour our “cabin” reeked of olive oil, spices, salted fish and the cheese. Oh my God! Those emanations of Greek cheese were to accompany us throughout the voyage.

Such as it was we settled into our cabin as well as we could; it looked out on to the poop deck where our two beautiful lorries were placed; they rested blithe and majestic in their mooring, seeming to be conscious of what awaited them; of what we expected of them. It was success, the stupendous financial killing mentioned in the prospectus, the perpetuation of a name already universally known. Their large headlights had the appearance of enormous metallic eyes which, lit up by the setting sun and facing towards me, seemed to say: “Go, fear nothing, you can count on us.”

It was with an appetite stimulated by the keen air – a breeze which after a precarious start had gathered speed – that we took our meal on board! The cuisine was simple, but good and tasty. The old English Commander sat all alone at his table, while his second, Captain Dimitri – the effective captain of the boat since the Englishman was no more than a façade – kept us company. He told us that it was he who fulfilled the functions of captain, that he with his subordinates had charge of the boat and that the other was there solely for formality’s sake and to justify the presence of the English flag.

The old Englishman read novels, smoked his pipe constantly and cared for his health in an almost religious way. Quite often having left the table followed by a waiter he returned a few minutes later and was served with an omelette or some such thing.

We did not understand at all this supplement to an already considerable meal; it intrigued us so much that finally I questioned Captain Dimitri. He burst out laughing and, making sure that the old Englishman was absorbed in his omelette and could not hear him, gave us this unlikely explanation.

Captain Johnson had, like everyone else, an idiosyncrasy. His was a fixed idea that after each meal his waist and stomach measurement should exactly agree with a determined number of centimetres. The boy that followed him, with wolf like step, was the carrier of a tape measure. Once in the cabin the old man lay down on his bunk and was measured. If he was a centimeter short he went back [to the dining room] and ate something extra. This true story amused us greatly and although many years have now elapsed, I can scarcely forget this old soft-headed sea dog and this Sancho Panza stomach measurer.

The days went by slowly and monotonously on board the Moravia; it took six or seven days to reach Batumi. I passed my time reading, writing and pacing up and down the deck.

My comrades were more fortunate, each being occupied with his lorry; keeping them up to scratch tightening a nut or bolt here or there. In short they were kept busy and the time seemed for them less long!

The day passed not so badly, but the nights! Oh dear, the nights were terrible; especially the first, but one got used to it.

This type of annex to the galley where we slept, among the varied perfumes of which I have already spoken, was infested with cockroaches. They were everywhere. Along the walls; marching in formation across the white ceiling; on our blankets, our pillows, and even in our bags.

At first we did not know of their disagreeable presence, these beasts remained hidden during the day. The first evening after a tiring emotional day I was happy to be able at last to extinguish myself, firmly deciding to sleep like a log! Alas, as soon as our lights were out I felt something cold and very light cross my nose and run across my cheek; then there were other movements in my hair; the little table next to my bunk was shaking with indescribable pullulations of insects in two boxes of sweets given to me on leaving. I switched on the light immediately and……horror! We were covered, invaded with cockroaches. They were everywhere, hundreds of thousands. My comrades also could not sleep for the same reason. We were armed with our slippers. And it was a pitiless carnage that earned us a severe dressing down from the maître d’hotel. He was furious and could hardly find words to describe the stupidity of our action. “How could we have massacred these little beasts that one had pains to bring to the cabin from the kitchens where they flourished. These small inoffensive beasts were enemies of poisonous spiders;  it was thanks to them that one could sleep in one’s own bunk without fear of being bitten.” Bites!  They were all on board this S.S. Moravia! 

Not convinced by this explanation as to the enmity existing between cockroaches and poisonous spiders, henceforth we did not make any efforts to help our undesirable nocturnal companions by ensuring there were no biscuits or sweets about.

So it was with on one hand the old Commander, touched by stomach mania and on the other, the cockroaches, eaters of poisonous spiders, that we arrived one beautiful morning at Batumi – the first stage of our journey to the USSR.

End of Part 1

Further Information and Sources

¹  Website about the Berliet automobile company, in French and English, with many archive photographs of early vehicles:  https://www.fondationberliet.org/ressources-documentaires/archive-article-dossier-camion-berliet/histoire-camions-berliet-gdh-gdr-tdm

²  Wikipaedia information on the All Russian Cooperative Society (ARCOS): https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/All_Russian_Co-operative_Society

³ Yanatma, S. (2022). Dominance, collaboration and resistance: Developing the idea of a national news agency in the Ottoman Empire, 1854–1914. Journalism, 23(2), 569–585. https://doi.org/10.1177/1464884920924174

⁴  SALT Research – Year books for the Annuaire Oriental commercial directories: https://archives.saltresearch.org/handle/123456789/2301

⁵  From the website “Russia Beyond”, more on the White Russian generals including Wrangel: White Russian Generals