WELCOME TO VOLGOGRAD
When England arrive to play Tunisia they will discover the heartbeat of Putin’s nationalism — and the poorest host city
THE running joke in the city formerly known as Stalingrad is that no one ever got round to repairing the roads after the Second World War battle which all but destroyed the place.
Everyone seems to tell it. Now the World Cup is coming to town, bringing some repair work with it.
The familiar pre-tournament smell of tarmac is in the air. It was there in Brazil four years ago and in South Africa before that, as they tried to patch up the infrastructure in time.
They’re planting trees on every pavement and there are two new parks for the city where England arrive to play Tunisia on Monday in the first of four games here.
The image the city will present to the world is an illusion, though. The realities of daily life include plumes of smoke given off by the Red October steel plant, which has been shut down for the duration of the tournament and its workers told to stay at home.
It is said they will not be paid during this attempt to ensure that fans and players of the world’s best football nations breathe the freshest air.
The city which took the name Volgograd in 1961 is the heartbeat of Vladimir Putin’s brand of nationalism, yet it is struggling: the poorest of the 12 host cities.
The defeat of Adolf Hitler’s forces in 1943, on Mamayev Kurgan, the hill overlooking the new, stateof-the-art £280million Volgograd Stadium, was the turning point which saw the Germans driven all the way back to Berlin.
But many here point to the contrasting economic fortunes of the victorious and defeated cities. ‘We bear no comparison with Berlin,’ says Aleksandr, an accountant.
Berlin has a modern metro system. Volgograd’s is the only one in Russia to use trams, the oldest of which are Czech-made and have doors on only one side.
Even the memorials to the Battle of Stalingrad, which are everywhere, seem to root this place in the 1940s, idealising war without finding a modern way to articulate its futility. ‘We are locked in the past,’ says Anton Valkovsky, an art curator who will this weekend stage a contemporary public art event in the centre of the city.
Although Anton’s budget has been cut by 60 per cent to free up cash for the World Cup, and workers will struggle to commute because one of the city’s three main arteries is effectively closed for the duration, this tournament does seem to be a release for people. A reminder that there is actually another world out there.
‘We don’t have many visitors, so it is a chance to use English,’ says Kate, a hotel receptionist who, like all of those who do have the language, are relishing the sudden opportunity to use it and talk about their place, for better or worse. ‘People are saying it is like having a visitor to stay, when you get everything tidy and fix things up. It means things are happening. They’re fixing the roads.’
It would have helped if one of the South American nations were playing here — Moscow is awash with the noise and colour of Peru, Colombia and Mexico — but for those shopping in the World Cup store near the Lenin Statue, the only England merchandise available was an anaemic white T-shirt. Other teams playing here are Nigeria, Iceland, Egypt, Saudi Arabia, Poland and Japan.
The air of anticipation is strongest among those in their 20s. Sara, a volunteer at the Volgograd Arena, is a medical student who wants to bring her skills to London once qualified. ‘The world is arriving and we don’t see it much,’ she says.
Locals say average wages here are about £223 a month and call centres seem to be the future. The Volgograd accent is neutral, with no distinct dialect, and the pay expectations low, so Aeroflot, Microsoft and Russian bank Sberbank route calls here from across the Russian Federation.
Amid the daily problems of earning a living, the reputation of the England fans does not seem to be a major preoccupation.
Some locals do fear being caught up in the kind of fights between Russians and English which occurred in Marseille two summers ago. ‘We have heard on Russian media talk of English and Russian fans saying it will be the Third World War,’ says Maria, who works in human resources. ‘We’re afraid of that. We won’t go up to the stadium.’
Others feel this place is too far from Moscow to attract the organised Russian fighters. ‘There are some Rotor Volgograd fanatics but it’s not the same,’ says Aleksandr.
He is talking about local team Rotor, once owned by one of the city’s manufacturing firms, who famously knocked Manchester United out of the 1995-96 UEFA Cup.
The club were declared bankrupt in 2015 and have now been reformed to play in the second tier.
No one seems to know whether the club will actually play at the Volgograd Arena, which looks like a prime candidate for white-elephant status when the World Cup caravan has moved on.
It will also take much more than a football tournament to accomplish what is really needed to connect this place with the wider world — a new airport.
The one built by the Germans during their occupation of the city in the early 1940s was on such a low-lying site that it is almost permanently fog-bound between November and February. ‘People have to fly at night when the fog is less of a problem,’ says Aleksandr. ‘That’s what it’s like in this place.’