Epic Journeys

Our last day of the tour was heading overland to Austria by train. It was a 24 hour journey through western Ukraine, into Czechoslovakia and finally Austria. The Russian cars reserved for us had sleeper compartments that during the day were folded up for sitting room. Once again friend Bruce and I had our compartment to ourselves. It made for an enjoyable trek not having to step over other passengers when moving around in the small cabin. 

 

We, like the rest of the group, welcomed this day-long span to decompress after a very active and at many times jarring encounter with the Soviet Union. Bruce and I discussed all the surprises we encountered and laughed at the many misunderstandings. He did a fantastic imitation of our guide Viktor with his droll recitation of facts. Try as we might, neither of us could keep a straight face and very un-Russian like broke into smiles. 

 

While not chatting we spent long periods of time gazing out the windows at the passing landscape. We watched the tundra like view rush by. It reminded me of stretches of northern Minnesota with clumps of birch trees standing wistfully among rolling hills. The wintry white made us feel like we were headed to Siberia.

 

There were a number of rivers to be crossed and the train slowed down to negotiate any ice on the bridges. I noticed the constant presence of soldiers on either end of the bridges. I felt sorry for them for drawing this duty that left them exposed to the harsh elements. Stepping out from their guard booths, they stomped their boots together and clapping their arms against their chests they watched us pass. I wondered at the need for this security in a such a remote countryside.

 

A habit I’ve developed when traveling abroad is select a book that is indigenous to the country in which I will be traveling. For Russia I selected a biography of Vladimir Lenin. It was a paperback of the founder of Bolshevism and gave me an up close view of his thinking and actions.  It was my constant companion during the 9 days I journeyed across Communist Russia. Within the pages I met a ruthless ideologue who icy resolve matched the wintry tour I was on. This first Leader of the Soviet Union was a zealot for a new world order. Compromise was a weakness and absolute rule was his goal. Growing up in America I was not used to such disregard of human life. The cruelty of his purges and social reforms cost millions of lives. He is credited with withdrawing from the First World War. The liquidations that followed made Russian losses in WW I pale in comparison. 

 

As I read the biography I learned of Lenin’s harsh economic plans. These later morphed into Stalin’s bombastic 5 year plans.  As I read the pages I considered that such dictatorial strategies must have been buried with Stalin in 1953. Yet, some 30 years later, the redundancy and inflexibility of the command economy persisted. 

 

I witnessed a tawdry example of conscripted employment while on one of my afternoon strolls though Moscow. Marching against the wind along one of the streets in downtown Moscow I was accosted by a strong chemical odor in the air. Turning a corner I discovered the source of the odious smell. There before me were heavily clad women painting metal railings. As I came near I saw several buckets filled with soupy grey paint. Taking brushes with stubby bristles, these women daubed the paint to the ice-cold metal. There were four women occupied with this tedious task. Their exertion was  amplified by the plumes of steam their mouths emitted. Waiting for the light to change I noticed that the unpainted railings were not prepared or cleaned. The rust, chipped paint and dirt were ignored and simply smeared with paint. Drips fell onto the snow covered sidewalk below, later to be shoveled into piles by other workers.

 

This scene struck me as a pathetic example of mindless work. The 5 year plan of painting railings required completion. Get it done, check the column and move on to the next task. 

 

Getting up from my reading and reverie I decided to go for a cup of tea. In my growing cynicism I appreciated the Russian tradition of the samovar. The samovar is a cultural and culinary mainstay throughout Russia. In any Russian novel or drama the samovar always plays a minor role. A sort of cameo character that sets the scene. A samovar, for the uninitiated, is an elegant water heater. It is composed of two parts; a water boiler below that heats water, and a tea pot that sits atop. Often a samovar is made of brass, however copper and stainless steel or also used. Usually the tea pot is ceramic. Typically there is an artistic flourish to the finish of the tall ornate  samovar. One would not be off the mark by describing a samovar as a piece of sculpture; a work of art.

 

In our Russian train there was a samovar located at either end of our wagon. Though more industrial in design and larger than the domestic version, these sturdy water heaters were proudly related to the more elegant home designs. Tea cups are also unique. They often have a metal basket with handle. A glass drinking vessel nestles within that allows for safe handling of the hot beverage. 

 

Like a water cooler in an office space, the samovar is an ideal place for gathering. As I approached the end of the corridor I saw two other fellow passengers filling their tea cups. One held hers to her mouth and was blowing over the contents. I waited and we began to talk about our trip. We had many highlights and not a few lowlights to share. We laughed at some of odd customs we encountered and were grateful for this warm wagon as we left the shivering confines of Russia.

 

After I had filled my tea cup the conversation turned to the final logistics of our trip. One of them reminded me that when we came to the boarder we would need to make a declaration of our purchases. We would ned to show receipts as well as our remaining currency. They needed to add up to and match the triplicate we received when we entered the country in Leningrad. I felt a shiver go up my back. 

 

Excusing myself I retreated back to my compartment. Opening the door Bruce could tell something was wrong. “What happened Joel, did you see a ghost? You are white as sheet!” he exclaimed. “As good as if I did!” I answered. 

 

Standing in the doorway, I reported what I had just heard. “When we get to the border we not only have to show our passports but also our receipts and money!” I blurted out.

 

“So what?” came Bruce’s innocent reply, “I could hardly find anything worth buying in Russia. And what I did is all there in my suitcase.” pointing to the shelf above. 

 

Closing the door I leaned back against it. I then revealed to Bruce my afternoon adventure in the Moscow bookstore. He sat dumbfounded and asked incredulously, “What are you going to do?”

 

I hardly heard his question as already I was scanning our small compartment. Speaking half to myself and to Bruce I said, “I have to hide the money. I have way too many rubles!” 

 

Moving forward I set down my tea. I then began lifting the cushions of our seats. “No, too obvious.” I muttered. 

 

“What about your suitcase?” Bruce offered, “That’s a normal place. Maybe tuck it in your clothing for something.” 

 

“No, they will probably rifle through the contents!” I cried.

 

I then looked up to the ceiling. Standing on the edge of our bunks I felt the ceiling tiles. They lifted quite easily and I said, “I could leave them here. If they find the Rubles I can plead ignorance. I could say someone else left them there.” I reasoned, already practicing my excuse. 

 

Getting down I opened my suitcase and removed the envelope that contained my ill gotten Rubles. Days before I was thrilled with this stash of Russian currency. Now it was like krypton and I felt my powers ebbing away. 

 

Standing back on the seat, I raised the ceiling tile and slid in the envelope. Then getting down I stared up at the tile to see if it looked normal or out of place. Content with its appearance I sat down and pulled out my handkerchief. I had sweat on my brow and could feel moisture under my arms pits. Staring at Bruce, I said, “Sorry to get you in this mess. If I get caught, it is all on me. You are innocent.”  

 

Thinking of the cold comfort I was offering, Bruce replied “Now I am having second thoughts of inviting you on this trip. Then grinning, he said, “Naw, just kidding. This is the most exciting thing that has happened on our trip!”

 

He then wanted me to retell the story of the currency exchange. He asked about the details and what it was like in the moment. He was thrilled and said he wished he were there too.

 

As I talked, my conscience kept thinking of the Rubles over head. I had hoped, “Out of sight, out of mind.” But I could feel the illicit Rubles glowing from above. They were there waiting to be found, calling out, “Here I am, find me!”

 

Finally I got up and said, “No, they are going to look up there and find the money. I’m just going to put them in my pocket. Otherwise I’m afraid I will keep staring at the ceiling. They’ll notice my gaze and follow my eyes to  the treasure.” 

 

Getting back onto the bench a third time I lifted the ceiling tile and removed the envelope. I then slid it in my back pocket where I kept my handkerchief. 

 

Remembering my tea cup I picked it up. It was cool now and I absentmindedly drank it. Gone was the romance of the samovar. Gone was the thrill of homecoming. I was now consumed with panic. What had I done? What’s going to happen? 

 

For the rest of the afternoon the train hurtled on towards the boarder, mile after mile. Trapped inside my compartment it felt as if time were crawling by in inches. Some time later I heard a commotion in the hallway and someone called out, “We’re approaching the boarder!”  

 

Soon the train began to slow down and structures began to appear outside our window. 'Was this my final stop?’ I wondered. ‘Would I be put on a train back to Kiev, or Moscow?’ Now that the train was slowing my imagination began to gallop. Seeing my distress, Bruce kindly reached over and patted my knee, “Its going to be alright.” he said. 

 

Suddenly the train came to a stop and both of us lurched forward. I got up and opened the door. I peered out and saw other passengers step out of their cabins. One of our Austrian guides emerged from their compartment. She said, “Everyone has to stay in their own compartments. Russian inspectors will be on board soon for customs and passports.”  I returned to my compartment but left the door open for air. For the next half hour I paced in circles, like one of the lions I had witnessed a few nights before at the Moscow Circus. 

 

At last we heard some banging of doors and shouts come from down the hall. Anxiously I looked out into the corridor and saw two uniformed soldiers standing at the far end of our wagon. Tugging at their hand were leashed dogs sniffing this way and that. Slung over the chests of the men were Kalashnikov rifles. Their woolen winter hats with a red star emblazoned on the front, matched the dark green of their uniforms. The dark expression on their faces also matched. 

 

Looking over my shoulder, Bruce gave out a low whistle. “Boy, do they fit the part.” Ducking back inside the two of us waited. After about five minutes we heard a door slide open and closed. Then another door open and closed. The soldiers were making their way down the wagon inspecting each compartment, one at a time. Woosh went a compartment door open, whoosh it closed. We counted the couplets. There were three more until they reached our cabin.

 

Then, the two guards were at our door. They slid it open and walked inside with their two canine companions. Closing the door behind them they barked out one word, “Passport!” With our document ready at hand we gave them over for their inspection. Holding one apiece they studied the photograph within and then up at our faces.  My typical reaction of smiling when looked at disappeared instantly into a very soviet stare. Satisfied they snapped the passports shut and handed them back to us. 

 

After that they said narry a word. The dogs began sniffing around the beds and walls. Each soldier in a practiced manner took out tools from their belts. Methodically they began to unscrew panels that I had not paid attention to. There were three of these panels in our compartment. Looking inside each and finding it empty they screwed them tight. Likewise one soldier pulled out a rod and lifted the ceiling panels. The other scanned a flashlight about the cavity. Finding nothing they returned their tools to their belts. Patting their dogs they turned and opened the doors and walked out. They were gone.

 

Frozen in spot, Bruce and I stared at each other. Neither of us seemed to be breathing. Finally we both exhaled and took in a breath. Our eyes widened and we waited. And waited. All we could hear was the repeat of doors sliding open and closed. Finally, there was the bang of another larger door and silence. We crept towards our door and slowly opened it. Peering out we saw our companions doing likewise. Someone down the hallway, called out. “They left! They're heading to the next wagon.” A collective sigh could be heard up and down the hallway. 

 

Bruce and I then emerged to join our relieved fellow travelers. A great conversation broke out with every one relating how they felt when the soldiers entered their cabins. Every one was excited and frightened. Many said they thought they were going to be arrested, without explaining the guilt that lay behind their confession. Bruce and I fell into the relief and merriment of the moment. Everyone tried to puzzle out the meaning of the panel inspection when it dawned upon us. They were not looking for hidden goods or even money. Their focus was on people. They were practiced in the search for human cargo. That is why they looked exclusively behind panels and above in ceilings. Those were the only places stowaways could hide. Quietly, I reflected on my fortune for removing my envelope of Rubles from the ceiling. They could have easily fallen out when the tiles were lifted. I was relieved not having to explain or offer excuses to those grim faced soldiers. However, coming up empty in their fishing expedition for humans, they may have found simple pleasure in detaining a minnow with too many Rubles.

 

Finally our later the train finally began to move again. But not in the expected direction. We were used to moving forward and at times backwards on the tracks. Now to our shock, we were moving skyward. Both Bruce and I buried back into our compartment and sat down. Looking out our window we were incredulous as the ground outside fell away. ‘What was happening?’ We wondered. Soon our car was rocking ever so slightly left and right. We were somehow being lifted into the air. Suspended for some ten minutes we heard clanking and shouting outside. Then, we began to descend again. A thunk, a clatter and all was still. A few minutes later our car began to move forward. Slowly we picked up speed and evidently we were on our way. 

 

Later that night when we had gathered at the samovar we learned the reason for the elevation of our train car. It turns out the Soviet train gauge, the width between wheels, is wider than the European gauge. When trains come to the Russian border their wheels need to be removed and replaced by another pair. It is a laborious affair the Russian insist on. Their xenophobic history has kept them in fear of their neighbors. Having been invaded by Napoleon and Hitler, I can sympathize. It gave new meaning to the phrase, ‘Wheels up!’ 

 

Nevertheless, it was a fitting farewell for our exit from the USSR. When our train finally rolled into the Hauptbahnhof in Vienna, all of us gave out a collective cheer. I left the capital of Austria with an eager heart to learn about its large neighbor to the east. I had imagined the Great Bear of Russia was tamer and more approachable than the histories I read. I was disabused of this myth. I had entered a police state where freedom was a fantasy. Yes, I had experienced its dazzling beauty of art and architecture that I shall never forget. But I also witnessed the ever present shadow of fear. A pall of hopelessness hung in the air and a life of drudgery looked out from myriad of faces. I am still struck by this country of contrasts. A people of enormous passions and resolve unable to find the soft touch kindness. 

 

It was a happy homecoming when I finally reached Graz, some two hours south of Vienna by train. There at the platform as I emerged from my car was my dear Sarah, flowers in hand and buoyancy on her face. I have never felt more fortunate in my life. We hugged after our 10 day separation. I tugged my suitcase behind me, now without worry it would be yanked away. Then I began to tell her about my visits of the troika of  soviet cities. And how I too may have been snatched away. 

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