No one to mess with...

PRAGUE, several days ago-- I really didn't want to wear this goofy hat. I preferred my beret. And look at my disheveled jacket... But now that I've got your attention, I expect you to pay attention, comrade.

This could have been the beginning of a really scary Halloween outfit.

Well, OK, I guess you can relax. I can only parody that mind set for so long. I just don't think I would make a very good assassin. It's not that I couldn't spray the poison gas in someone's face; the problem comes in jabbing myself with that antidote ahead of time so that I'm immune when the spray is released. I hate needles.

But the guy who runs the KGB Museum in Prague is for real. And from everything I could observe...Well, you remember that song from the TV sit-com All in the Family, where Archie Bunker sings, "mister, we could use a man like Herbert Hoover again?" I think the curator who conducts the ongoing one-man show really misses Stalin. (The museum's Web page can be found at www.kgbmuzeum.com. Click on the symbol for the British flag for English.)

 Nikita Krushchev denounced Stalin. Eight years after his death in 1953, the government removed Stalin from his almost-final resting place next to Lenin in Lenin's Mausoleum in Red Square. But there's always someone who doesn't get the word, and the curator of the KGB museum in Prague thinks Stalin was a great guy.

He may not be alone in that. According to one Web site, (http://history1900s.about.com/od/worldleaders/a/stalinembalm.htm)  an estimated 500 people died in the crush to get a glimpse of Stalin's corpse when he was placed in the mausoleum. Through famine and purges he had caused the death of millions of his own people, but he was the man who led the Soviet Union to victory in World War II.

The KGB museum is just a short stroll from the Charles Bridge leading into Prague's castle.

And, oddly enough, it's just a block or two away from this building.

Our host had all sorts of KGB tricks up his sleeve. Somehow a wind-up razor had something to do with KBG stuff probably because it had a special feature: Take off the shaving head, and on the wheel that spun the head there was a little needle. You could tattoo yourself! And what was the favorite tattoo among prisoners? A thumbnail image of the face of the man of steel--Stalin. The rumor was that you wouldn't be shot by a guard, or it would be like shooting Stalin. You know, sort of like defacing the flag.


That sounds like a cock-and-bull story, except for the fact that the 1997 Russian film, The Thief,which was nominated for an Academy Award, tells the story of a Russian boy whose mother takes up with a thief who has this Stalin Tattoo on his chest. 

Our curator was pretty enthusiastic about the KGB, although he avoided being photographed, and we didn't think to ask his name -- although our consensus was that he didn't want us to know it. But he did allow me to photograph the back of his head as he spoke before an illuminated map of the Gulag (an acronym for "Main Camp Administration"), the prison camp system in Russia. Citizen Curator pointed out the positive news that sometimes families got to live in or around the camps. And that many prisoners became soldiers in World War II. And that they completed wondrous public works projects.

More than a million prisoners were kept in work camps in the Gulag.

In 1963, two years after Stalin's removal from the mausoleum, Krushchev accelerated the denunciation of the Stalinist state by encouraging publication of Aleksander Solzhenitsyn's small and very readable book, One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich. Here's an excerpt from a New York Times book review that tells how that single day in a 10-year stretch ended;

"He has not been sent to the open steppe to work in the 20-below zero wind. He's gotten an extra bowl of mush for supper. He's worked at building a wall and gotten pleasure from it. He had gotten a hacksaw blade into camp without being caught. Heís bought some good tobacco. And he hasn't gotten sick.

A day without a dark cloud. Almost a happy day. There were three thousand six hundred and fifty-three days like that in his stretch....
"Three thousand six hundred and fifty-three days.
"The three extra days were for leap years."

 While I was pondering Solzhenitsyn's 10-year sentence, our curator had other things on his mind, like the knife that was spring loaded so that you would fire the blade with great force at an unsuspecting victim:

The spring-loaded knife, dismantled. The eyeglasses are for scale.

A double-barreled firearm concealed in this cigarette pack demonstrates that smoking can be a bad habit. "A cigarette, comrade?

He also was keen on impressing us with the ingenuity of a war hatchet that could be dismantled and  reassembled into a saw. Its handle had a blade protruding from the top for jabbing. the Curator dropped to the floor, holding one hatchet over his head in a defense posture while he swept the room with the other one, simulating chopping the legs of those standing next to him. Then, with two quick moves he simulated jabbing it in someone's midsection and then under the chin. Lizzy Borden would have loved those axes. I could have purchased one (for camping) for a mere 7,000 kroners, which pencils out to about $425, but he only had one left, and I was short of kroners. Dang!

Sometimes the curator would get excited in his discussion and  make those raspy throat sounds of Gollum, the malevolent big-eyed urchin elf who was without loyalty or conscience in his lust to get his hands on The Ring. Then there were the quick chu-chu-chu shooting sounds, along with  the growly voice talk to share his excitement over the ingenuity of the KGB devices. As near as we can tell, his museum is a one-man operation where flash photos are prohibited, in order to preserve the artifacts of the Soviet Army and police. This uniform. For instance:

The swags of horse hair attached to the uniform helped the women wearing them (yes, women) get past dogs, who would smell the horse and not the person.

These stamps were intended to be used to counterfeit German passports.

Other artifacts at the museum included infra-red auto headlights which would be difficult to notice at night, but quite effective if the driver had special night vision glasses; miniature cameras that could be concealed in attache cases; surveillance recorders; morse code devices, and a hollowed-out book that contained a small handgun as well as some very persuasive metal knuckles.

The tiny gun next to the pen fires only small blanks. It rests in its music box, which plays patriotic songs and has Lenin's silhouette on the cover.

The wire is a garrote for killing suddenly and silently. Small teeth are incorporated into it.

To get us in the mood for his 50-minute monologue, the curator posed us for a photo just as soon as we had forked over the 300 Kroner each (roughly $18.50 U.S.). He had the hats ready for us, and the weapons, and he told us just how to hold them. To wit:

I can't speak for the other two, but I think I look like I mean business.

Now compare that to the image immediately below:

I don't know about you, but I think we look every bit as credible as those two guys above. Shira, especially, who is holding her pistols exactly like the Russian soldiers. I think I can do this.

Why don't we wind this up on a happier note? There was lots more in the KGB museum besides poisons and assassinations. This display, for instance shows what every Russian Army officer should have in his home: The "books" are actually a music box.

Tug on the center "book" and it will lean out, and then the patriotic music begins.

This dispatch pretty much winds up Wilson's European trip. Next Tuesday, it's on to Central America. A friend from the ballroom dance community came up with a great Groupon that provides six days of lodging, a guide, and most meals for two for $1,200. That's almost cheaper than stealing. It's the end of the rainy season in Costa Rica, so the weather is going to be a bit dicey, but at least Wilson, the Indestructible, is up for it. I'm just hoping I'm over the cold I picked up shortly after visiting the KGB museum. Should I be worried?

Love,
Robert,
and Wilson

The name is James (spelled with a "D") Bond.