491.9 Kilometers of dreams took me straight into the worst nightmare yet. I’d slept 6 extra hours in an upright position. Perhaps I’d been awake here or there, but never when the train stopped in Tiraspol. For that little snippet of time, I was out like a light. No one knew where I was going or whether or not I had documents to go there. All very important information in a communist country.
Russian law in 1977 required that in order to leave a certain area, you must have the proper documentation and travel visa. Written permission to leave a home town’s border was required. Without a blessing from those in charge, you were breaking very serious laws, as I was now.
I had no permission to be in Kiev, arriving by train or any other method. I had no contacts in Kiev. The only word I knew was “TractoroExport”. This agency of the Russian government was our only contact. It was this word that I kept repeating over and over as a small viewing audience grew. It was obvious that this very distressed and young woman needed some immediate help.
On long taxi trips to the farm on which we worked, we would often get stuck on dirt roads behind prison trucks. The trucks themselves were modified box trucks with no side windows. The back door had a window with steel bars and no glass. To each side of the door, there were square steel platforms with railing. Each one of them held an armed guard and a huge Alsatian, bigger than ANY German Shepherds bred in the states. These dogs were magnificent with amber colored eyes that didn’t miss a move. Pair them with two Russian guards with AK-47’s that would stab and shoot you simultaneously, while laughing. Ice water veins, they looked straight past us into nothing.
As I struggled from the back seat to see prisoners inside, they jockied for position to look through the bars back at the taxi behind them. Crowded, the men, with their blank stares and shaved heads looked like prisoners of war. I can only guess what crimes they had committed. Jaywalking outside of a crosswalk? Not handing over a passport when it was demanded? Now, with no paperwork to be in Kiev, I could join them on their box-truck journey. Because, I had broken some big, big laws with my untimely slumber.
Led to a waiting car by a uniformed officer, the crowd parted and I felt very small and extremely important, all at once. Seriously in deep water, I got in the back with no more tears to cry. Not even a hiccup. Petrified and living my worst nightmare. It wasn’t a regular patrol car, but not a black Mercedes either. Somewhere in between.
“I take you. TractorExport. Now.”
I didn’t quite know what my fate would be. I hoped they would find some kindness in their hearts to send me back to Tiraspol or out of this communist hell hole to await my fate in Vienna. Pulling up to the TractoroExport building, I felt comfort that I could read the word, but also terror at what was to come.
Inside a plain but clean office, four very Russian men, all in black suits, white shirts, and grey ties, stood on one side of a desk glaring at me. I sat on the opposite side. In my experience, all government buildings and offices look exactly the same. There are multiple pictures of Lenin everywhere, sometimes even in life size. Pictures of Leonid Brezhnev, the Acting General Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist party, were smaller in size, but also hung around the building. The furniture was all the same cheaply varnished, reddish wood. Every bookcase, desk, chair, or stapler was exactly the same in any office I had visited. Communist produced and government issued.
The four TractoroExport associates were not sympathetic to a lost American. The were judgmental and harsh. Peering into my eyes, they shared their disbelief that I’d been so stupid. I agreed with them on that count.
“And you did not get off at your stop, Why? Do you realize you are in very deep trouble? What REAL business do you, an AMERICAN woman, have in our city, KIEV? Does KIEV sound like TIRASPOL? “
The questions went on and on, and soon, I was again weeping. In quiet irritation they discussed the options for my return. Delivered to where, I knew not. They held my passport, my train tickets, and what little Romania Leu I had left.
“You will need to pay for ticket back to Tiraspol.”
This was great! I had the Leu. I handed it all to them. Just take it. Blankly they stared back.
“This is worth nothing. We need $100 American dollars for the six hour taxi ride back to Tiraspol. You will pay now.”
I had turned ALL my available dollars into Leu in Bucharest. It was then I found out the truth. Leu was not worth the paper it was printed on. I had zero money. I had broken serious laws. And now, it was up to these men to decided my fate.
An hour later, after many more questions and accusations, the four men escorted me to a waiting taxi driver. Just one. I was relieved. It was a little before noon, and they gave me a sandwich and soda to take on the trip. Each one shook my hand and dropped the angry Russian attitude just long enough for a Goodbye. The driver was given proper documents to carry his precious cargo to Tiraspol and return to Kiev immediately. With that, we were on our way.
For the first few hours, the driver would occasionally glance at his rear view mirror and me. Self conscious in the beginning, I finally ignored him and took in the countryside. I’d used the restroom before leaving, so, I was in no distress. But, at one point, he pulled over the car on an isolated stretch of road.
I really didn’t want to look outside, in fear of what I might see. It didn’t seem odd when he went to the trunk, opened it, and spent extra time in the back. I wasn’t sure what was happening, but as long as it didn’t involve me, I was okay with that. I was looking forward to seeing the translators and my husband, in that order. I’d have some choice words for Arten. On several occasions, he had almost cost me my life and liberty by suggesting this trip. He would hear about it, along with his superiors. I was ready for what I would need to hear about my ill-timed slumber.
After a good 20 minutes had passed, the driver closed the trunk and returned to the car. We were off. Just before sunset, a very tired girl was delivered back to a run down and ratty hotel, The Druz-bah. Two very excited interpreters came running out to the taxi. They held money for the driver and helped retrieve my belongings from the trunk. With heartfelt and sincere Goodbye’s, he was off in a cloud of dust and I was left in the arms of two true friends that had been worried sick ever since the men returned without me.
A few minutes later, there was my new-ish husband. Things really hadn’t been good for us that very long summer. It was just nice to see another familiar face. The four of us retreated to our hotel room with my suitcase and back pack. Shopping on our vacation had been fun, and I brought special souvenirs for the interpreters.
Opening my bags, the obvious was staring me in the face. One last slap from the worst three days I could’ve ever experienced. I. Had. Been. Robbed.
Thinking back to the taxi ride, I flashed again to the stop on the road. The extended play time in the trunk. The quiet demeanor of the thief. He had been thorough. Cameos from Italy–gone. Amber jewelry –gone. Gold cross and chain –gone. The list was as long as it could have been for two newlyweds on an impromptu honeymoon. Sentimental gifts and trinkets that together didn’t amount to very much to anyone except us.
Immediately, the interpreters were asking if we wanted the driver arrested. Needing only to have said the word, our belongings would have been returned. The driver would find his place in the box truck with the others.
“No. I think he needs those things more than we did. I’m safe. Can we leave it at that?”
So ends the tale of my fateful train trip. So many times through the years I have given thanks that it unfolded the way it did with angels at every turn to help me through. Politics and Covid have changed travel and customs forever. The names of the towns I rolled through are all changed, as well. The Orient Express is no longer the name of a portion of a train excursion. Like so many things in life, the best things held dear are the memories of a different time, place, and a very young American woman, living adventure one day at a time.