The families of all the delegates were at the airport first thing in the morning. There was only one flight that day, a stopover in Moscow. All our hopes were pinned on passengers who would get out in Moscow. We took up positions at all the registration counters just in case. You never know where anything will happen. Using my connections, I ran from counter to counter, scouting. Mama with her energy even managed to cross customs a few times by accident. We kept Papa out of this because the tension was unbearable. He still had a long trip ahead of him, a serious scientific report to make, and tiring days. We could rest up after he had left.
At last around four o’clock, the plane arrived and the truly dramatic moment had come: Would there be seats? My people whispered yes. The scientists, unable to believe their luck, registered their tickets, went through customs, and vanished beyond
passport control. The families stood downstairs, practically weeping in relief. We decided to wait until the plane took off. And how right we were. About ten minutes later four of the eight delegates came back down the stairs with their briefcases— back from beyond the border. With his bad luck, Papa was one of them. They looked as if they had been sentenced to hard labor. They told us that at the last minute some Chinese or Koreans showed up with tickets for that flight.
On the way home Papa smiled crookedly and said that it could have been worse. We could see how upset he was. After all, he had anticipated this trip for months, had bought loads of books about Japan, and, with his intellectual curiosity, had memorized the country’s geography. He didn’t sleep that night.
The next morning was deja vu: the same counters, the same stopover flight. We were afraid to believe in success. The remaining delegates got seats and disappeared beyond passport control. Papa was pale and stumbled as he walked away. We didn’t go home until the plane was in the air.
That evening Papa’s brother called. His voice resembles Papa’s. At first I shuddered. I saw the plane take off with my own eyes. Did they have a forced landing in Siberia, and he's being sent back? My feverish imagination was working overtime. But I quickly realized that it was my uncle.
Each time we left for the airport we all sat down for a minute and wished Papa a bon voyage. It must have helped; he did go.
FEBRUARY 3. Even though we had a car, we never traveled more than two or three hundred kilometers outside Moscow. The horror stories our friends told us were enough: trouble with gasoline, no food to be bought, no place to sleep. And God forbid the car break down. You could be stuck in some hole for several weeks. Once I had a marvelous incident with fuel right in the middle of Moscow. I was working with a group of American tourists who had come from Europe in a West German bus. We were running out of diesel fuel, and we were supposed to go to the theater that evening. Around three in the afternoon the driver and I went off in search of diesel fuel. We visited almost all the gas stations, but they were all out. We decided to go back to the hotel, pick up the tourists, dressed for the theater, and try once more. We got to a gas station, where a grim attendant came out and said that he had diesel fuel but the pump wasn’t working. I begged him to do something. He came out with a huge hammer and began banging away at the pump with all his might. The diesel fuel didn’t flow, I was on the verge of tears, and we were going to be late for the theater.
“Don’t be upset,” my tourists said. “We’ll have other nights at the theater, but we’ll never see a show like this again.”
We went on in search of gas. After a few more kilometers we reached another station. We were outside town by now. A group of curious men, colorful and motley, one with a funny red cap on his head, came out to meet us. The diesel fuel poured into the tank. “Red Cap” was particularly helpful. The driver, with German precision, counted out the correct number of coupons for the fuel.
“No money, no coupons,” the workmen said. “This is a
rich country; we can fill up more than one bus. Come back tomorrow; we’ll give you as much as you need.”
The Americans didn’t understand what was happening, so I translated for them. The German was also surprised. Here we had spent half the day looking for diesel fuel, and now they were giving us liters of it for free. The tourists started collecting presents. They sent me to Red Cap and the others with panty hose and other foreign trifles. “Senkyew, senkyew,” the men said.
There was something hurtful, touching, and sad about that event. The men at the station looked like friendly Russian fools before the tourists. Our truly rich country put people in ridiculous situations.
FEBRUARY 6. This morning I went to meet friends from Berlin at the train station, the famous Byelorussian station, from which trains left for the front in the early days of World War II. Now it is the window to Europe: Moscow-Berlin, Mos- cow-Paris, Moscow-Hanover. I think that of all the Moscow train stations it is the most peaceful and civilized. The Leningrad station is fairly decent, too.
Train stations have always played a special role in Russian life. A person of certain means could travel in comfort, style, and taste. The smallest stations had restaurants and bars. Gentlemen came out of the cars with their walking sticks, headed for the bar, had a shot of vodka and a sturgeon sandwich. The steam whistle blew, and they hurried back to their comfortable, warm
compartments. Winter voyages were wonderful. Outside the window were snowy fields and forests, and you sat in warmth, drinking hot tea with lemon and conversing unhurriedly with your companions.
Even now train travel retains its fabled charm if you are traveling in a normal train and a good car. Once we couldn’t get tickets for a compartment car and had to ride in the so- called common car. It was a nightmare. The lights were on overhead, the door to the next car banged all night, and there were drafts everywhere. Three hours before we reached Moscow, the conductor yelled, “Reveille!” like in the army. He had to collect the linen. With inviolable Soviet passivity the passengers got up as one, and five minutes later the car was a seething beehive—people removing and rebundling their sheets, lining up for the toilet, gathering their luggage. Then we spent another two and a half hours trying to get comfortable on the bare hard bunks to nap some more. I was boiling with anger at Soviet rule and our herdlike instincts.
But traveling in what’s called a soft car is sheer pleasure. You can sleep until the last moment; no one bothers you. In the evening the waiter comes for your order for dinner with champagne, and the conductors are infinitely polite.
Now back to stations. In modern Soviet times they have turned into something colorful and awful. They have become places for people to sleep through the night, to drink, to whore—the pits. Unfortunate passengers spend days and nights waiting for trains here, and the lucky ones can sit on benches. The others have to sit on the floor. They eat in their spots, often on a spread-out newspaper, and change their babies there, too.
The train station has its own life day and night. Many of
its inhabitants are homeless, and this is their permanent refuge. There are also professional thieves, who prey on careless tourists. For very moderate prices you can get any pleasure you seek, although you may pay dearly afterward. I have friends who live not far from three stations, and half their building is occupied by station prostitutes.
A new feature of the stations under perestroika is a number of cooperative establishments. Now you can get a decent, albeit expensive meal. A crazy friend of mine, Lisa, went to work for a co-op at a station, selling meat patties at night. Now that’s a school of life! She’s a kind girl, and soon all the local bums and thieves became her friends and protectors. Uncle Grisha was a colorful character, a little old man of fifty or so who swept the floors. One night he showed up in a pair of glasses without lenses. Someone asked him why he was wearing the frames. He answered with complete seriousness, “My vision’s getting worse with age.”