I heard shuffling below. The couple in my cabin arranged items on a small side table by the window. They stood up.
“Mushchina [man], dievushka [girl], sit with us. We invite you to join us for something to eat,” Ivan said.
The man across from me jumped down from his bunk. I hesitated for a moment. Then I followed. The two of us sat side by side on the lower bunk across from the couple. Square-jawed, Ivan looked fit and tidy with his short cropped blond hair and clipped moustache. Tanya, paunchier, assumed the role of genial compartment hostess. Both wore matching shiny tracksuits, flip-flops and socks. They looked as at home on board a train as they might be in their own living room. We introduced ourselves. Ivan handed us shot glasses filled with vodka. Small plates of bread, pickles and Ukrainian kovbasa sausage stood on the table. This was my first experience of Ukrainian hospitality.
We drank and ate. I answered questions about Canada, England and Hungary. Then tired and foggy-headed from the alcohol, I excused myself and climbed back up onto my berth.
I unfurled a sheet that lay neatly folded at the end of my bunk. It had been washed and pressed but had gone grey and limp with age. I thought that a Western rail company would have retired such a sheet from service long ago. Still, I appreciated the housekeeping effort. If my train ride was anything to judge by, Ukrainians might be poorer than most people that I knew in the West, but they were welcoming and certainly knew how to have fun. I slid under the sheet fully dressed and pulled a blanket over top.
Some time later Ivan woke me. “Take your suitcases down,” he said. “We’re near the border. The guards will want to inspect your bags.”
I fumbled in the dark to retrieve my luggage. Ivan lifted it down to the lower berth. I followed and sat with my cabin mates. For a long time we heard clanging and banging as workers adjusted the train wheels to span the wider Soviet rail gauge.
Guards boarded the train. They wore military caps and uniforms with hammer and sickle insignias. They were unsmiling and unfriendly.
“Passport,” one demanded. I handed my documents to the guard. He studied the visa. I felt nervous because Rukh had sponsored it. The organization, which had only recently acquired official status, campaigned for Ukrainian independence, a direct challenge to Soviet rule. Soviet authorities considered Rukh to be suspect and full of trouble-making renegades.
The guard examined my passport photograph for a long time. I did not know where to look when he stared at me. Direct eye contact might be interpreted as insolence, so I gazed off to the side. The guard finally handed the documents back and left the cabin. I climbed onto my bunk and fell asleep. The next day was a blur of more vodka, lots of jokes, some very bad music, tea from the train wagon lady, glimpses through breaks in the forest of stout women in headscarves and boots walking along dusty roads, blue and yellow Ukrainian flags in western towns, Soviet Ukrainian red and blue flags as we moved east and more broken sleep. Then, right on schedule, the train pulled into the Kiev station at 3 a.m.
I saw Yaroslav before the train stopped. He held a bouquet of roses in one hand and clutched the handle of a huge trolley designed to carry freight with the other. It was the only trolley in the station. I wondered if Yaroslav had to fight someone for it. People dragged bundles along the platform. Friends and family members greeted them with bouquets of flowers.
“Welcome to the nearly independent republic of Ukraine,” Yaroslav said. He handed me the roses. Then he led me toward the exit.
We picked our way through the dimly lit station trying not to disturb anyone. Travellers sprawled across the floor nestled against oddly shaped bundles held together with rags or frayed bits of rope. The station looked like a refugee camp. I was glad not to be alone.
Yaroslav was slender and had a shock of blond hair. He was quick in all his movements and quick-witted too. At the age of twenty-one, he spoke Russian, Ukrainian, Polish, English and French fluently. He studied economics and also wrote and edited articles for the English-language news service for Rukh. I felt grateful to Yaroslav for importing me into Ukraine. He had persuaded Rukh leaders to sponsor my visa when I tired of waiting for papers from the Foreign Ministry to arrive.
On the road outside the station Yaroslav stuck his arm out and flagged down a car. It turned out that this was not an official taxi but rather a regular car driven by a man who had dropped a friend off at the station. Yaroslav and the man haggled over a price. I watched and learned. This informal taxi system — a glorified form of hitchhiking — seemed the best way to travel. Once Yaroslav was satisfied with the price we got into this car. He told me that anything, even an ambulance or a snow plow, could be a taxi if the price was right.
Our driver straddled lanes, flying through Kiev streets at top speed. I wondered if he had ever taken driving lessons. Fortunately the roads were deserted, so it seemed unlikely we would have an accident.
“Not very many people here own a car. You need good connections to get one,” Yaroslav said.
He told me the names of the streets. We travelled down Taras Shevchenko Boulevard, turning left onto Khreshchatyk Avenue. Yaroslav also provided commentary. He said that the yellow brick buildings flanking the road were a reminder of Ukraine’s bloody history. Parts of Western Ukraine had at various times been absorbed into the Polish, Austro-Hungarian, German and Soviet Empires. After the Second World War, brigades of German POWs constructed the buildings lining Khreshchatyk, including the main post office in the central October Revolution Square. As we passed the post office, Yaroslav asked the driver to slow down.
“See that entrance facing the square,” he asked.
“Yes, what’s so special about it?”
“The portico collapsed a few years ago. Everyone standing underneath was killed. The POWs got their revenge,” he said. “Actually a lot of buildings here are poorly built and badly maintained, so watch out where you stand.”
October Revolution Square spanned both sides of Khreshchatyk. A red granite statue of Lenin dominated the side of the square opposite the post office. I lost my bearings but could tell by the bumpy ride that we travelled up from the square along a cobblestone hill. We passed by the Golden Gate. Yaroslav said that it marked the boundaries of the ancient city, Kyivan Rus’, which pre-dated Moscow and was a major centre of religion, trade and learning. We continued another block along Yaroslaviv Val. Then the car stopped in front of a building and we got out. Even in the inky darkness I could tell that it had once been magnificent but had crumbled through years of neglect. Yaroslav’s cousin lived in the building but was away, so Yaroslav had arranged for me to stay in his apartment.
The light socket in the archway leading into the courtyard had no bulb. “They’re always stolen,” Yaroslav explained. Then he warned me to watch out for a large pothole that I could not see for lack of light. It was even darker inside the building. I dragged my hand along the wall to guide myself down the hallway. Once inside the apartment Yaroslav flicked a switch. “They mix chalk with the paint,” Yaroslav said. “Don’t lean against any of the painted walls unless you want your clothes to turn blue.”