Bulganin and Krushchev

Alison Condie

1956

A day to remember. Adult or child? Child I think. Grown up memories have their own special quality but events often have a significant impact on a young, unprejudiced mind.

Having been fortunate enough to spend my first eleven years in the heart of Edinburghs Old Town, my childhood memories are vivid and numerous. World War Two was only a decade over, many families opted for emigration while others stayed to slowly rebuild their lives. But, despite less than peaceful world events, there was a sense of relief and hope for some positive changes. The streets teemed with life ( Sundays excepted ). Countless bands, swaggering kilties , visiting dignitaries, carriages, horses, waving Royals and Cockie Doo commissioners passed down the tricky cobbles of the Royal mile, from Castle to Palace in an ongoing, cheerful, kaleidoscope of pageantry which has blended over the years, etched into my brain forever, into one glorious melee of crowds, colour, characters, atmosphere, music, sunshine, fog and iron grey days set against a dramatic historical backdrop.

Imagine the shock to a nine year old, expecting cheers, to hear the jeers of a hostile crowd.

The year was 1956, just possibly 1957 but almost certainly 1956. A procession was due to pass down the Lawnmarket (my home), towards Holyrood Palace. Rather than do the favoured, and much enjoyed, windie hing my mother decided we should go downstairs and join the spectators on the pavement. Always eager for a parade I was happy to have a front row view.

People lined the route, not nearly so many as usual and not exactly a huge crowd but enough to give a sense of occasion. My mother made sure that we were right at the edge of the pavement so that we could see 'properly'. I cant remember if she explained exactly what we were meant to be seeing. If she did I certainly wasnt prepared for the eerie silence which hung over the street. Fragments of subdued muttering replaced the usual cheery chatter heard while waiting for a show. This was definitely out of the ordinary. For me, excited anticipation was replaced by fear. Given that I wasnt at school it might have been a holiday. The looming tenements and, by now, the sense of menace in the street gave a sinister air to the day.

A cry of here they come could be heard from the top of the street (we were about

half way down). Where were the bands? Id given up on the cheering but no bands!

A line of shiny black cars snaked down the narrow Castlehill. The lead car became more visible as it reached the wider road between Tolbooth St Johns Church (now The Hub) and my grandads pub the Eagle Bar (now the Ensign Ewart ). The booing started from somewhere up the street, gathering momentum as the cars glided by. I clearly saw some of the occupants but couldnt distinguish features. Even in a state of fear and uncertainty I remember feeling very embarrassed for the visitors, ashamed of our bad manners. The black snake disappeared, passing St Giles, moving on down the Royal Mile followed by a Mexican Wave of boos and catcalls. Obviously our visitors from the USSR, Bulganin and Khrushchev, were not a hopeful double act here for the Fringe.

Later, as far as anyone understood, the situation was explained to me. B& K were

BAD men, bogeymen, Communists, who had recently taken over (or were about to take over) Hungary and had brutally suppressed an uprising in Budapest causing deaths and dispersal as many fled to seek refuge elsewhere, including Britain. Words such as Communism, Iron Curtain, Eastern Bloc, Cold War, nuclear weapons, KGB became common to our vocabulary, some still are too much in use. Even for a post war child who scared herself witless reading true experience stories My POW Hell and suchlike which still featured in the Sunday newspapers, this was scary stuff. But the war stories, horrible though they were, belonged to the past, events surrounding Bulganin and Khrushchev were actually happening. I needed reassurance that we were safe from threat and was given it. Despite this, a sense of dread hung over me. I was far too young to fully comprehend the doings of the adult world. Thankfully feelings of fear quickly receded.

The variety to be found in local events was much more to the taste of a nine year old.

My 82 year old mother remembers this day as having a nasty unpleasant edge to it. She well remembers the boos and catcalls but as an adult, with an adults awareness, didnt share my fear of the unknown and was surprised to learn how deeply the experience had affected me. We agreed that it had been a complete departure from the norm. There were no ceremonial trimmings but basic protocol had no doubt been observed. Looking back I can still feel my embarrassment but am proud of those who cared enough to voice their displeasure, expressed freely.

That was my day like this , a sombre day which cast a dark shadow over what was supposed to be peacetime. Gradually I came to realise that every day somewhere in the world there is no such thing as peace and that darkness, of some kind or another, lurks in the hidden corners of most nations. I wont dwell on free speech , suffice to say that I am free to write this and am thankful to be living in my beloved country. Thankful too that my early memories are colourful, that festivals flourish and that pageantry is alive and well.