My first experience outside Ukraine was while on an important mission assigned me by the Party and state. Now don't get me wrong. No Soviet OO7 stuff, just a term in the Soviet army, except that I was posted in East Germany, defending the "outposts of socialism" in hostile European environs. Even then I could not quite understand why I had to be where I was, doing what they wanted me to do, but being stationed abroad was a matter of quite some prestige in the USSR. I was envied by many.
Now people often travel abroad. In summer the flow of travelers crossing Russian and Ukrainian frontiers is regulated not by the government, let alone the numerous political parties, but by grandmothers and grandfathers: half the railroad car was filled with children headed for their grandparents and the other half with parents on their way to pick their offspring and take them on summer holidays with them.
After boarding the passengers get to know one another and receive bed linen from the conductors.
A dignified lady addresses the conductress:
"I want you to replace my mattress. It's dirty."
To which the stewardess replies with rustic sincerity, "And how would you expect it to look?"
The lady is outraged: "You talk like Vira Serdiuchka (Ukrainian television's national transvestite)!"
The car is suddenly very quiet. The air is thick with scandal. The stewardess puckers her lips and takes a deep breath to power a string of convincing expletives by way of reply. Watching all this, I remember the guy acting as Vira Serdiuchka and can't help grinning, and then I notice that other passengers are doing the same. A moment later the whole car guffaws, the righteous lady and indignant conductress eagerly joining in.
I talk to the stewardess later and she says, "Number 42 train is considered clean, not like what you find on Zhmerynka-Moscow." Other passengers listen and contribute their comments. Apparently, everyone must have traveled the Zhmerynka-Moscow route at least once and the experiences vary from fearful to blood-curdling.
Facing me is a pleasant-looking man aged around forty. There is no avoiding the usual railroad small talk.
"Are you from Moscow? How much is meat and butter?"
"Well, about the same you have to pay in your parts. Oh yes, here is some boiled potatoes unpeeled and fresh tomatoes. Do help yourself."
"Thanks. And here is some homemade sausage."
"What about today's world soccer championships? What teams were supposed to play this time?... Yeah, I still remember our Kyiv Dynamo and how they beat the living hell out of Spartak."
"But of course. And our soccer stars. Blokhin, Dasayev, Zavarov!"
We are already buddies, eyeing each other affectionately, sharing old memories.
"So you are headed for our parts. Business or pleasure?"
"I'm on a business trip (face turning sour). I work for Gasprom, you know..."
The other one is all hostility now. "Sure I know, and do you know that you owe us four billion? A pretty sum. And you've got to pay, you know."
"I sure do," I am trying to reason with him, careful to speak calmly, the way I do trying to get across to my five-year-old son, "but for goodness' sake, you realize that I personally owe you nothing, don't you?"
The man recovers his composure. He is obviously embarrassed: "Sorry, friend, I didn't meant it the way it came out. No offense."
Night. The train crosses the border and stops for customs. Coolly polite officers ask for ID papers and suddenly stiffen. We have a Black among us, the only real suspect. Here is a potential national security threat. The customs officials take their time scrutinizing his papers. The man has a Moscow transit visa valid for one day.
A young master sergeant struggles with his Soviet English (the curriculum is still the same):
"From Moscow? How long?"
"Today," the black passenger replies.
"Two day? Two day impossible. Never! Only today."
"That's right, today."
"Two day not possible." The master sergeant raises his voice in irritation.
"Yes, today." There are tears in the Black passenger's eyes.
"Two day not possible, you hear me?" The soldier is mad and the inspecting crew are about to kick the passenger off the train. But then a young man, a student by his looks, intercedes, offering a fluent translation, and the conflict is settled. The master sergeant, sweating with overexertion, salutes and wishes a happy journey. The train moves on.







