In this part of the world the fuzzy line between cops and criminals is nearly imperceptible. We made a beeline for the consular division of the Canadian Embassy. It was high time to get an official take on how fast and how far the local police could reach. What my country could do for me, and the shell shocked Russian I had in tow, was another matter.
The Canadian Embassy in Kiev is like a miniature of Canada with its lawns, multilingual signs, and the proud red and white maple leaf flying out front. The transition from frantic, brash Kiev to self-effacing Canadian earnestness is jarring. The man at the security desk greeted us politely in both French and English. I asked to speak to someone in the consular division, and without blowing up, pulling a gun, demanding a bribe or becoming abusive, he asked to see our identification.
“My passport, it is gone!” Anna rifled through her bag.
I was confused. She held what looked to me like a passport. Anna handed it to the man at the desk. “She may be correct,” he said, examining the document. “This is an internal passport. It is an identity document for use inside Russia. It is not a passport or an internationally recognized travel document.”
“I do not understand how I could lose it. I always keep it with my internal passport in this zippered pocket.” Anna held it open to demonstrate. “I checked this morning when we left the hotel. I definitely had it.”
“It’s okay, miss Keitel, this will do for now.” The clerk reached for the phone. “I’ll call the vice consul right away.”
“You know, Jess, when they were dragging me to McDonald’s, mother kept asking me if I had my documents. They ‘set me up’ — like you say. She was alone with my bag. She had a chance to steal it.”
“Ladies, please take a seat.” The clerk indicated a bright orange sofa. “It will be just a moment.”
At the time, the possibility of Anna’s mother stealing her daughter’s passport, hadn’t crossed my mind. It had, however, just crossed Anna’s.
The Vice Consul saw us right away. He escorted us from the lobby, through the consular inner sanctum, then to his office on the second floor. I gave him the run-down on the mess I’d gotten into with Anna and he told me what I already knew: that I had a Canadian passport and was therefore free to travel. He warned me, as if I didn’t already know, about the possibility of corruption and official or police payoffs that could, at any time, render travel very dangerous. He then offered me an escort to the airport where I could get a ticket on the first available flight out of the country — obviously, without Anna.
Anna was silent throughout the meeting. She knew that as long as we stuck together, I was just as trapped in Ukraine or Russia as she was. What it amounted to was that my safety could only be guaranteed if I abandoned her and fled westward.
By stealing her passport during the attack at McDonald’s, Anna’s mother added an entirely new and unpredictably dangerous twist to our situation. First off, a passport is required to obtain a visa. Losing a Russian passport outside of Russia effectively dooms the traveler to a one way trip back home to replace it. Getting one in the first place is no mean feat, and with a leftover Soviet system of registration in place, it means going back where one is authorized to live within Russia. In other words, replacing the missing passport would effectively force Anna back into the waiting arms of The Skater and a reserved room at the Cuckoo’s Nest if she was lucky. If she wasn’t, a headfirst shove through an ice-fishing hole. My stomach tightened as I thought, it was no wonder The Skater let Anna get away.
“Thanks for the ride, but it’s not going to work. I’m not leaving her to the mobster relatives, associates, or whoever is closing in.” I glanced at Anna. Her cheeks were as red as the mittens she was kneading in front of a colorful Quebec Winter Carnival poster. “She’s as good as gone here, no matter what she does. If I’m in any position to help, I will.”
“That’s commendable and there’s no denying the danger, but in reality all the consulate can do is recommend evacuating. The Russian doesn’t fall under our jurisdiction and we likely couldn’t intervene on her behalf if we wanted to.” The Vice Consul turned to Anna — the Russian. “Personally, I think you two need to get as far away from Kiev as possible, at least until you figure this out. Without a passport Anna, here, is not going anywhere.”
“What about a refugee claim?” I asked, grasping at straws and mentally kicking myself for not seeing The Skater’s disappearing passport trick a mile away.
“Not possible unless she applies here, to this country first. A foreigner in Ukraine can’t make a refugee claim in a foreign embassy unless it has been documented and denied by Ukraine first.”
“But Ukraine’s not going to protect her. They won’t even bother denying her. You and I both know that. Officials here are as corrupt as the Russians. Hell, they probably are Russians. They’ll feed her to the goons she’s running from rather than give her the time of day.”
“Then she must return to Russia. It’s her country, after all, and they have a duty to protect her.”
“Yeah, right, they’ll look after her.” From the work I had done in Russia, I knew the residential registration database all too well. It’s a countrywide system left over from the Soviets that tracks every citizen and which, for a few dollars, can be accessed by anyone. Not only can friendly cops sell information from police or government databases, but for a modest bribe, people can plant information of their own choosing onto those databases, anything from internal government records up to and including Interpol. “Russia is completely unsafe for her now.”
“Well, it appears that she can’t realistically make a refugee claim in Ukraine,” The Vice Consul said. “The missing passport is definitely a problem too.”
“What about Canada? Can she make a refugee claim in Canada?”
“Considering the situation, she would probably have a claim, but she needs to be on Canadian soil to make it. First of all you need to get out of Ukraine. If you’re not leaving without her you need to, in the very least, get out of Kiev,” he said.
“I’m not leaving her.”
“I suppose you aren’t. I wish there was more I could do but you’re sitting ducks here.” The Vice Consul eased into his desk chair. It emitted a familiar metallic groan. “I’m going to go out on a limb and give you my private number. While you’re in Ukraine, you can use the embassy as a contact point and address. Let me, or the embassy, know where you are at all times. In fact, why don’t you get in touch tomorrow morning? I’ll make a couple of calls and see what can be done.”
“You mean stay here?” I was confused.
“No, we’re not equipped for that. We can’t shelter an alien under these circumstances and you’ve made it clear you will not make use of an expedited departure to a safe country or Canada, which, Ms. Ducat, is all we can offer.” He took a breath and wrote his private number on a business card. “I’m asking you to keep in touch and allowing you to use this address as a safe drop off and pick up point for messages, mail, the police — if completely necessary. I wish there was more I could do.”
Maydan Nezalezhnosti — Independence Square — is Kiev’s obligatory Red Square. All Soviet cities have them, gigantic parade grounds to celebrate the glorious Revolution and military might. Since the Soviet collapse, Ukraine’s way of utilizing its own Red Square was to dig it up and turn it into an underground labyrinth of shopping malls. Taking shopping underground was probably wise, given the irradiation the city took during the Chernobyl nuclear meltdown in 1986. Around the square, various Stalinist and postwar structures house cell phone stores, fast food joints and Internet cafes. It was to one of those street level Internet cafes that we headed after leaving the Canadian Embassy.