Love Is Never Past Tense... (21 page)

One of the conductors beckons with his hand. There is a bottle on the table. There are some more stewards from other train cars. They drink for me. The feeling of pride for myself helps me to survive and live …

***

At last, the intense, nervous crossing over the Soviet border is behind us. The train cheerfully clicks its wheels. I look around. The people who just left the country where many of them already lived half of their life, rush somewhere into the future. What it holds is not known to anyone—or to me either. I could only trust that it will be better than the past, and furthermore the present. Otherwise, there is no sense in it. The majority of my fellow passengers are married, middle-aged people. Everything about them is obvious: the husbands work all the time and the wives just sit on their butts. Spoiled, doing nothing, they continually demand their husband’s attention for any trifles. “Get that small suitcase. I want to get a jacket, it is cool.” And the man climbs to the last shelf, and from lots of things, fishes for the necessary small suitcase. ‘Wifies’—for certain are diplomas’ specialists ranking themselves as the intelligentsia. But whether they actually worked on their specialty or not—is an open question. Do they know anything at all besides spoiling their little doggies, which they hold in their arms and to whom they give more preference than to their kids and grandmothers whom they drag somewhere into uncertainty?

Next to me, sits a lady (she can only be called a lady because of her impressive weight). I get acquainted with her and her seventeen-year-old son. The lady continually teaches the child what is good and what is bad. The boy looks unusually kind and trustful: his big light eyes do not express anything except tiredness. His lips are chubby, like his mother’s lips, and his light curly hair is like hers too. They are not so interesting to me, but there are no other fellow travelers nearby.

In Czechoslovakia there is another stop. We change trains. Everyone needs to leave. Boris remained in the Soviet past. He will not reappear now to easily pick up the suitcases and bags to rearrange them on the other train. We need to search for other assistants. Luckily, the seventeen year old boy jumps off the train and helps place our luggage on the new train.

Mom, Alla and I are standing on the platform. “Why does Alla’s face look like an old woman’s?” I wondered. She has somehow grown thin and matured during these days. “Goodness, what I have done!” I look at my mom and think how this lady, who was honored to dance with Boris Yeltsin, now, goes through such suffering.

At last we are in the train car. The train gets under way. Ahead is Austria. We still stand in the corridor. The mother of the boy moves ahead of me and sticks her index finger (covered by dry, badly-groomed skin) right into my face. Loudly and purposely she speaks directly to me: “And you do not forget what we have done for you!” What is this? What did she want to say? But her purpose is achieved: she insults me to tears. The boy tries to apologize to me, but it is already too late. His mother did her deed.

I went to the end of the train car. There I meet the other man who helped transfer our suitcases. He smiles—the mouth is full of gold teeth. He starts speaking, obviously trying to interest me: “Don’t pay attention to the fact that I am short. I am so clever, that if you take some away, I’ll still be clever. Here are some things that I have bought. Nested dolls, souvenir spoons, and several picture cameras. I made it possible to outwit customs.”

He wheezed heavily. He turned away, seeing my full indifference to his bragging. Then he gained strength and continued: “In Austria, I will get rid of all this. I will get a pile of money. You know, there is a woman waiting for me in Kharkov. And in Italy too, there is an acquaintance … She loves me, this is how!” He again breaks off and pulls out a cigarette from his pack. He takes a few puffs and suddenly jumps up to me and spits out a line, his mouth looking like an eyeglass case filled with gold: “You know what? Just marry me! I see you are a lonely woman, overloaded—you have your mother, the child, suitcases … But I will help you. You can rely on me. I am only here to get money in Austria, and we will start a good life …”

I shudder and open the door of the train car. “You see, suitcases are temporary. At this time, I don’t need a temporary husband. I’m sorry.” His love for me somehow quickly dried up. He did not approach me anymore. In Austria, I remember, he displayed the knickknacks, and traded. Then he disappeared. I did not see him anymore.

In the evening, about ten o’clock, bodies in winter clothes unload at the Viennese railway station. Everyone goes up to the second floor. It is Friday evening. December 1st, 1989. It seems like an eternity has passed since we left Kishinev.

According to the chatter, we are supposed to be picked up. I heard it spoken about earlier, but not in details. In short, for some reason we begin to wait for buses. But nobody comes. About an hour passes, and suddenly through the loudspeaker comes the announcement: “Everyone must leave the station premises by 12 midnight. The building is closing.”

“The doors will open again at six in the morning. Suitcases and hand luggage should be taken with you.” Outside is frost, snow. There are more than four hundred of us. Everyone leaves. Suitcases, bags, my mom, my courageous girl—everyone is tossed out into the snow. The crowd buzzes and at the same time keeps calm in cold horror. Everyone obediently gets out. The snow falls. The crowd at the Israeli consulate pops up in my memory. It is strange: it appears that it is easier to control a crowd, than to control one person. The crowd has three states: it is obedient, or exults, or is enraged. But this crowd has arrived from the Soviet Union—it has gotten used to obedience. The organization which should have delivered the buses had simply forgotten about the arrival of the emigrants. The people helping the emigrants appeared to be Jews. And Friday is their sacred day. A holiday. Beginning of the Sabbath. Here they also enjoy their warm houses. This enjoyment will proceed until Monday. For everyone who arrived, this means that they must spend the whole night with their old men and women, children, and suitcases in the frost, until six o’clock in the morning when they will be allowed to move into the station building and enjoy the warmth until midnight.

I sit Mom on a suitcase. The sadness does not leave her face because she does not have the strength to stand up for her child. Alla looks as if she is bewitched; she does not take her eyes off me and tries to guess my actions.

“Daughter, guard everything here, and I shall run upstairs to talk to someone.” The station is not closed yet, but I am the only one on the second floor. Where have all the strong men gone? Oh! All of them guard the families outside. Nobody even tries to understand, or to change the situation. If the order is to lie in the snow—OK! Crawl! OK! Even when sent to the barracks, they also will go and not say a word.

I go upstairs. I search for the manager, the chief, director—anybody who can help. I did not sleep for two days. I cannot sleep on the road, especially in such turmoil. There is the managing director. I tell him about the situation that has developed.

He measures me with his eyes and negatively shakes his head. “No,” I say, “you find me the phone number of these people. Now.” In the railway station air, hang the words which are flying off my lips: emigration, Perestroika, peace to the world, freedom. He stops me and leaves, calls somewhere, and comes back. I’m so tired. I want to sleep. Things move so slowly …

In half an hour there appears one of the bosses of the organization sponsoring the resettlement of the emigrants. He is tall and good-looking, wearing a chocolate colored leather coat, with a fur shawl-like collar that comes to an end near his waist. He is freshly shaved and wears expensive cologne. As I look at him, before my eyes arises a vision of a huge hall, women wearing fancy dresses with open shoulders, light from chandeliers, music, champagne, and chocolate …

This one also measures me with his eyes after the station manager introduces us. It seems to me that he looks at me with irritation, and maybe squeamishness. Yes, I look like a vagabond. No, I did not take a shower for several days, did not wash my hair, and did not have a manicure. Yes, I am from that country which you do not love, and maybe hate. You think, why am I going to this well-groomed, refined society? You think, what am I here for? But you in fact know. Hell, you are helping us to move, which means that you are sure that we shall get accustomed, and we shall find human dignity. I am of the same opinion. If I could only take a bath …

From a short conversation it is revealed that our friends supporting the emigrants in Vienna have simply forgotten that people will arrive on Friday. A cold apology—but in half an hour five Icarus buses pull into the railway station. Only women and children with their luggage are allowed to enter the buses: there are not enough seats.

The buses are gradually filled. The men remain on the platform. They will wait under the open sky ‘til the morning when the other buses will arrive for them. Half of the family luggage remains with them. I enter the last bus. People settle freely, with comfort like they are going to a resort. “Well, scoot over: without me you would wander the railway plaza like cows all night long!” People are silently moving closer together. To accommodate Mom, Alla, and me they release some space on the long back seat at the end of the bus.

“Wait!” I shout to the bus driver. “I need another ten minutes.”

I approach him and explain that all the men remain outside until the morning, like cattle in a corral. I will try to do something for them. The driver agrees to wait.

“Go ahead, just be quick about it,” he replies in Romanian. Everyone who heard my conversation thought that I spoke in Italian. Actually, I spoke in Romanian. Nobody asked questions.

As fast as my legs would carry me, I run to the station and fly by the men who obediently accepted their lot to wait for morning. I fly through the still open doors of the station. On the second floor, again I search for the manager. I explain to him that for the first time, we have arrived in a civilized country, and are compelled to freeze in the cold, here, in the center of Europe. “This,” I told him, “is a reproach to you and your hospitality.” He listens attentively, maybe from politeness. But his face is like stone, and it is impossible to understand what is happening in the brain of this human. I feel like I am winding myself up, and I even choke with anger.

“There are sick people out there, and some with heart problems. By the morning you will have dead men on your plaza. Then you will have to talk, but not with me …”

I glare at him, and saw that it worked: he picks up the phone receiver. It appears unsolvable problems do not exist: all the men with their suitcases can be moved to an electric train, which will stand at the platform until the morning. In it, they will be warm. Nobody will freeze, they won’t get sick. I am full of impudence and I stretch my hand to the manager, but so that it is difficult for him to understand: for a handshake or for a kiss? The man hesitates, then takes my small hand into his big warm palm and gently shakes it. Then he does not withhold, and brings it to his lips. “You are a charming, courageous and persevering woman. Successes to you. Welcome to Austria.”

I go, but I fly downstairs, light, like a helium balloon. In effect, men, totally unknown to me—will live through the night in warmth. I again run up to the bus, persuade the driver to give me a little more time, and come back to the station. In fact, nobody there speaks English. The crowd follows me with gladness. Everyone goes aboard the electric train. Everyone! Nobody remains on the plaza. “Hey! You at the station! Now you can close the doors!”

Again I am shifting everyone in the back seat of the bus. Next to me, a woman sits with her daughter and mom. In her hands is a little dog. The dog has a dry nose. Its mistress has decided not to spend money to buy her dog some water. “Alla, where is our bottle of water? Look, what a dry nose the dog has …”

All the buses depart for different hotels. We are carried to northern Italy. At daybreak, at six o’clock, we approach the hotel located in the mountains. We are still in Austria, but extremely close to the border. The owner waits for us, and has prepared warm rolls for his visitors.

He is going to set the table, and serve tea. But on the sly, the crowd steals up to the trays with rolls. Some start to stretch their hand to the food. “Let go!” I order. “It is enough to embarrass me!” Hands disappear. Alla, Mom, and I receive a room, a big light room in a picturesque mountain hotel. At that time we did not know, that we will be fed there two times a day, that everything is paid for, and that we will stay in this room for two whole months while we wait for authorization to leave for Italy.

We take a shower and we lay down on the beds. A couple of hours later there came a knock at the door. I open it. “Tell me, and where is my husband?” The question repeats again and again with each new knock. I get up and hang a note on the door: “Your husband is not here. Pass by.” All husbands are sitting in an electric train. Oh, to hell with them … I put my head on the pillow—and immediately I plunge into the deep dream which carries me away from the reality of life into some fairy tale.

***

“Italy … Oh, Italy! Though time runs rapidly, Italy will never grow old. The antiquity of this country only transfers the unique aroma of its youth. The charm of eternal youth is created by nature, the sea, and cheerful people … But the everyday modern reality overlaps the breadth of History. The present, Antiquity, Revival, and the Renaissance have fancifully intertwined into the image of Italy, having made its Olympus of poets, artists, sculptors of all time: their Muse, their inspiration.”