Midnight in Siberia: A Train Journey into the Heart of Russia (34 page)
Read Midnight in Siberia: A Train Journey into the Heart of Russia Online
Authors: David Greene
Another young man, on the couch directly in front of me, is also named Vitaly. He’s noticeably thin, though not in an unhealthy way—he almost looks like a ballerina. As I speak to the others he keeps staring at me, listening intently, until it’s his turn.
“Since my childhood, I danced. I traveled and performed in the U.S.—in Florida. Miami and Orlando.”
Sergei translates, then asks him, “You speak English?”
“A little.”
Vitaly gives it a try. “I start drugs in fifteen years old. I lose everything.” He pauses. “May I speak Russian?”
Of course, we tell him.
He explains that after his trips abroad as a child dancer he performed around Russia—but began trying drugs in the dressing rooms. He couldn’t stop and ended up on the streets instead of in performance halls.
“What was the drug, Vitaly?”
“Heroin. My mother wanted the police to lock me up. She didn’t know what to do with me.”
He finally found this rehab center but escaped from the program. Twice.
Now he’s back for a third time, at this cold outpost, miles from anything, with every excuse in the world to feel hopeless. But he doesn’t. He says he’s going to see the program through this time. He’s determined the world hasn’t seen the last of his Russian dance moves.
“After rehab, you’re going to dance again?”
He goes back to English.
“I really hope. Really hope and trust in this.”
“What kind of dancing?”
“Ballroom.”
“You know, my wife, Rose, really wants us to learn ballroom dancing. Maybe you can teach me sometime?”
He wiggles his hips and arms on the couch. “Cha-cha-cha,” he says. The room erupts in laughter. “It’s easy,” he says.
“Maybe for
you
, not for me!”
The two of us exchange smiles and agree to stay in touch about scheduling that first lesson.
End of the line. This statue occupies a nondescript spot on the train platform in Vladkvostok. But the number is significant: 9288, the number of kilometers traveled from Moscow, where there’s a statue marking the zero-kilometer mark. In between, gallons of tea and dozens of boxes of instant noodles consumed, new friendships formed, and a vast country better understood. (
David Gilkey/NP
R
)
Sergei and Liubov Klyukin lost their son at age twenty-one when a plane carrying Yaroslavl’s pro hockey team went down in a fiery crash. The couple built a shrine to their son in his bedroom. “There is this belief in our country that tragedy is a test for people who are supposed to be strong,” the mother told me. “And Sergei and I are strong. That is why we will get through this.”
This stone, easy to miss fifty yards off a small road in the city of Rybinsk (outside of Yaroslavl), honors those who died in a Soviet gulag here. The fresher bouquet sitting in the snow had six roses—notable because in Russia an even number of flowers is given to people who are still grieving.
Third-class accommodations are not unlike a cramped college dormitory room. Sergei is on his bunk, researching our next stop on his tablet, jumping on faint cell signals that appear occasionally. There is a bunk across from Sergei, two upper bunks above, and two more across the aisle, where the man is peering out the window (his table converts into one.)
Sergei’s family in Nizhny Novgorod could not have treated me more warmly. Aunt Nina is at the center, with Sergei to her left.
Alexei Mikheyev, with his mother, Lyudmila, in Nizhny Novgorod. Alexei was a police officer in the city. After top officials in the Russian government began a campaign to root out bad actors in the police forces, Alexei was falsely accused of kidnapping while off duty. During a horrific interrogation, he escaped and fell from a window, shattering his spine. He was quickly cleared of all charges but is now confined to a wheelchair.
Boarding a Russian train is no small thing—especially when passengers are saying good-bye to family they see rarely. Sergei had not seen his cousins in several years. As our visit ended, they followed tradition: They escorted us to the station, carried our luggage to the train, boarded with us to get us settled, then stood on the platform, blowing kisses as our train pulled out.
A truly memorable evening in the forest near Uva, Russia. We strolled at sunset with the Buranovo Babushkas, an elderly singing group who made Russia proud by finishing as runner-up in the Eurovision international music competition. Many of these women lost their husbands years ago and have turned to music (and to each other) for companionship.
Viktor Kalashnikov, at a museum in Izhevsk that honors the legacy of his father, Mikhail, who invented a killing machine, the AK-47. Viktor said his dad thought a lot about the stunning number of deaths his invention caused but believed that “the constructor is not guilty in that—politicians are.”
I spent a lot of time quietly looking out the train window, often seeing villages like this breeze past. Many of these communities are isolated and impoverished, with aging populations. I would imagine families inside those homes cooking over wood on an evening like this, struggling to get by.
