By the mid-1950s, the “Khrushchev Thaw” relaxed many of the hardline policies put in place during Stalin’s reign of terror. In fact, Nikita Khrushchev famously denounced his predecessor characterizing Stalin’s leadership as a “cult of personality”. Surprisingly to some, Stalin did not rise from the dead to exact immediate retribution. Also in this time, Khrushchev started the process of closing the Gulags thus releasing millions of political prisoners. One such survivor was Viki’s father Uno.
In 1956, Uno was allowed to relocate his young family from Siberia to Tallinn, a journey by train of a few thousand miles. Viki was three years old, brother Jüri was just a baby. In Tallinn they lived with Uno’s parents and brother in a 400 square foot (38m2) apartment located on what was then known as Lennuki Street (nka Mardi). While such arrangements were not uncommon, seven people living in such small quarters is extraordinary – even if three were children (Viki’s Uncle Allan was only 11 at the time).
Certainly, life behind the Iron Curtain was quieter post-Stalin. Still, it wasn’t a bed of roses. Despite the Thaw, the Kremlin’s top priority remained keeping a lid on the extended Soviet family. Of course, this required constant oversight punctuated by the occasional use of force. The Hungarian Uprising in 1956 followed by the Prague Spring in ‘68 and the Polish Solidarity Movement in ’80 proved to be huge thorns in Moscow’s side. Estonians took notice of how the Kremlin’s ostensibly benevolent leadership handled adversity. Of course, these events had a uniquely enduring impact on young people.
For nearly five decades, European maps presented Estonia as very much a part of the USSR. Yet, Estonians did not consider themselves to be so much a part of the Soviet family. Like many other Soviet republics and Warsaw Pact nations, Estonians had their own language, their own culture and a resilient longing for their own sovereignty. They also had an advantage – ideal location.
In the decades following Stalin’s Winter War meltdown in which the USSR failed to overtake Finland, regret likely lingered among Soviet leadership to the extent Finland gave Estonia an unfettered window to the West. Tallinn’s close proximity to Helsinki – 50 miles (80km) across the Gulf of Finland – allowed Western culture and information to easily leak into Estonia via Finnish radio and television broadcasts, much to the chagrin of Soviet authorities.
As was the norm for broadcast television around the world, there were only a handful of channels available to Estonian viewers at that time. The state-owned channels were, of course, officially approved. The two Finnish channels, on the other hand, were officially off limits. Nonetheless, they were must-see-TV for Estonians, even those who could only receive the weakest of signals. As a practical matter, there wasn’t much Soviet authorities could do to curtail this clandestine activity.
So, unlike many others trapped behind the Iron Curtain, Estonians could see for themselves the pleasures and treasures of the outside world. Product quality, availability and technology were on full display. And nobody was ever seen standing in a queue hoping for a chance to purchase basic necessities. Incidentally, it’s not as if Estonians had never experienced “the good life”. As a sovereign county between the World Wars, Estonia’s standard of living was, indeed, comparable to that of Finland.
Consequently, Finnish TV effectively laid bare the lie that Soviet communism was a successful method by which to organize an economy. As bad as that was, even more damaging to Soviet credibility were the news programs broadcast on Finnish TV. These often presented a somewhat different perspective on important matters of the day. As a result, Soviet state news was exposed for what it was – overt propaganda.
So, thanks to friendly airwaves and favorable geography, Estonians’ experience with Western culture was relatively well-informed. The popularity of these programs – especially among younger generations – likely stemmed from human nature’s attraction to “forbidden fruit”. But, also, because it demonstrated explicit evidence of a substantially better lifestyle outside the USSR.
Granted, this is a simplistic sketch of the times in which my friend Viki grew up. But it does give a sense of what life was like in a closed, oppressed, economically broken, society. To the extent regular exposure to Western “decadence” was in direct conflict with authoritarian requisites for control, well, this certainly contributed to Estonia’s black sheep status. Of course, this was a badge of honor many free-spirited young Estonians wore proudly. Viki among them.
Like his Uncle Allan, Viki was an exceptional athlete (as was his brother Jüri). But, instead of basketball or soccer (aka football), his specialty was the modern pentathlon: shooting, swimming, fencing, horseback riding and cross country running. As a young man in the early 1970s, he competed successfully throughout the USSR.
Other specialties evolved as well such as intellect, obstinance, charm, vodka and benevolence – to name a few. Of course, he also possessed an inherent anti-authoritarian tendency. It was the latter, probably in combination with one or two of his other talents, that drew the attention of the local KGB. More on this in a moment.
Viki lived in the Lennuki Street apartment until 1979. The passing of his grandparents and the departure of his Uncle Allan eased conditions a bit. Still, it was less than ideal by contemporary standards. In 1975 he met a beautiful young woman. They married the next year and by decade’s end, Viki and Aive were new parents to a wonderful baby boy. Mauri bore a remarkable resemblance to his proud papa.
Despite the broad strokes used here to portray an epic struggle against authoritarian control, life was not all bad in Estonia. This is especially true for young people who, by nature, tend to be socially affluent and generally optimistic. After all, they have their entire lives ahead of them. Anything is possible.
Such was the case for Viki. With a strong spirit, and sometimes strong drink, he lived life to the fullest in spite of inherent limitations – and risks. Among his peers, he enjoyed a stature most Westerners could not fully appreciate. You see, my friend Viki was a taxi driver. And when he wasn’t a taxi driver, he was a bar tender. Intrinsic to both occupations was a certain prestige, even a degree of freedom.
I’ll never forget my first car – a 1978 Dodge Diplomat. It was a two-door coupe with cherry red, metal-flake paint, a white landau roof, “rich Corinthian” leather seats and a 5.2L engine. I was only 19 when I bought it in ’81. All my friends had cars. So, I was thrilled to join the club. I used it for transportation to work, university, the store, or to just drive around and listen to music – because that’s what we did back then. It was originally equipped with an 8-track stereo system which I immediately swapped out for a modern cassette player – a proud accomplishment!
So, while I was admiring my handiwork with the stereo system, the typical teenage boy in Estonia was waiting for the tram or trolleybus to get to school or work. Or he was walking. Same for his parents. Privately owned vehicles in the USSR, while theoretically possible, were almost unattainable. For a young taxi driver like Viki to have ready access to an automobile – well, that was no small thing. Same for his work behind the bar.
Back in the day, the club scene in America was heavily influenced by pop culture. Disco music in the ‘70s and dance movies in the ‘80s were the rage. The movie Saturday Night Fever was a massive hit as it featured both disco and dancing! Later came Urban Cowboy, Flashdance and Footloose. These popular soundtracks quickly found their way into juke boxes and cover-band set-lists from coast-to-coast.
Tallinn had a lively club scene too. Young Estonians in the shadow of Western influence had ready access to contemporary music via Finnish radio broadcasts skipping across the Gulf at night. Of course, Estonia had its own pop stars as did the broader USSR. So, clubs were not lacking for dance music. I can almost picture Viki working his magic behind the bar – something akin to Tom Cruise in the movie “Cocktail”. Maybe this isn’t quite the case. Nonetheless, it was not a bad job for a young man in the USSR.
So, all things considered, life was pretty good for Viki in the late 1970s and early ‘80s. Married to a lovely young woman. Father to a son. And respected in his work. His wit, affability and generosity earned him many friends – a good thing to have. But in the USSR, it only takes one enemy to make life very unpleasant very quickly. Such was the case for Viki after he attended a birthday celebration outside Tallinn in 1983.
In Soviet times, visitors were not particularly welcome. The fear among officialdom was that Westerners would contaminate and erode a carefully crafted narrative serving to prop up Soviet hegemony. So, while it was technically possible to visit the USSR, the red tape involved in securing an entry Visa made it effectively impossible for nearly all Westerners. However, Finnish visitors were a notable exception.
Officially, Finland occupied geopolitical space that was deliberately intended to be neither East nor West. In fact, it had barely escaped being trapped behind the Iron Curtain along with the Baltic States. So, Finland took great pains to avoid the appearance of being too Western. This is why it wasn’t until 1995 that the Finns joined the European Union and, furthermore, why they resisted joining NATO.
So, with meticulous diplomacy and careful deference, Finland managed to forge a constructive relationship with the USSR which, ultimately, led to relaxation of travel restrictions. Of course, this did not occur as a genuine token of true friendship on the part of the Soviets (nor was it a two-way street).
By the mid-1960s, Soviet leaders realized planned economic growth was not occurring as scheduled. So, one way to help mitigate the shortfall in domestic productivity was to attract the fruits of labor earned in jurisdictions outside the Soviet Union. The downside to this strategy was that before hard currency can be extricated from the clutches of wide-eyed tourists, the tourists had to be allowed entry.
This concession to financial necessity is, more or less, how Finnish tourism came to be accepted in the USSR which was otherwise closed to Westerners. Since Tallinn offered excellent value and was only two hours away by ferry, it was the “go-to” preference among a majority of visiting Finns – particularly those seeking an exotic experience on a shoe-string budget. However, there were rules. First and foremost, travel beyond Tallinn’s city limits was strictly prohibited.
Finnish tourism quickly evolved into an opportunity for friends and family to become acquainted, or reacquainted. Finns and Estonians have always enjoyed warm ties. In fact, their languages are closely related within the Baltic-Finnic branch of the Uralic tree. Incidentally, the Hungarian language (Ugric) represents the largest branch on this tree.
When Estonia disappeared behind the Iron Curtain, longstanding ties to Finland were completely cut off for many years. But, as rapport was re-established, so too was generosity among close neighbors. For Estonians, it was helpful to have friends with ready access to Western clothing and other goods. For Finns, it was good to have Estonian friends to stay with when in town thereby avoiding the Viru Hotel.
By the way, as the only hotel in Tallinn open to foreigners, the Viru featured extraordinary staffing and unique electronics not typical of comparable hotels. Officially, it had 22 floors. The secret 23rd floor was where the surveillance equipment was located. Among other surreptitious activities, the KGB monitored guest conversations in a room located behind a steel door marked in Russian, “There is Nothing Here”.
So, as relations between Estonians and Finns returned to normal, it would not have been unusual for Viki to host a Finnish friend on holiday. Furthermore, given Viki’s gregarious nature and big heart, it would not have been unusual for him to invite his Finnish friend to a birthday party. By the early ‘80s, it might even have been somewhat routine to adopt a more casual approach to certain rules.
The birthday party was outside Tallinn’s municipal boundary which made it off-limits to foreigners. It didn’t matter how many times this rule may have been overlooked in the past. And it didn’t matter who else may have broken this rule. What mattered is that Viki violated a security edict by virtue of his friend’s acceptance of a kind offer to attend a birthday celebration outside Tallinn – and somebody took notice.
Reporting such indiscretions to authorities was simple. What isn’t so simple is understanding the motive behind such a fateful action. In a de-facto police state, such as the Soviet Union, this is not something one does on a dare. Of course, it could be done out of normal human failings such as spite, jealousy or rage. But, in a country that encouraged – even incentivized – its citizens to spy on each other and report suspicious activity no matter how trivial, motives fall onto a much more complicated and potentially sinister spectrum.
The KGB harassed Viki and his young family for quite some time. He was frequently visited at his home and his job. He was regularly surveilled. Finally, he was strongly encouraged to find a new home outside Tallinn, and a new profession to go with it. So, he moved to the village of Põltsamaa near the geographic center of Estonia. Here, for the next several years, he worked as a pig farmer.
All this because of a kind invitation to a birthday party. That’s my friend Viki – half Estonian, half Russian and all heart.
