A good writer should be able to write a wonderful story about the phone book, if needed. Lately, my life is a little less interesting than the antiquated phone book, while plenty of great stories from my past adventures swirl around in my head. As I am the master of this blog, I’ll to share two of them with you. I assure you, they’re both harrowing and nail biting tales. They both happened to me as a very young bride in 1977 during a time called the Cold War. Very angry and dark times between the USSR and the USA. VST was the husband to another and the father of year old twins. As he tugged bolts in the hot San Joaquin Valley sun, I moved to Moldavia, USSR, for six months to begin my own life as a new bride.
Having lived in a communist country in which government controls every aspect of life, I truly understand what FREEDOM means. The gravity of losing freedom doesn’t become real until you are on a sidewalk with a bayonet in your face because you attempted to jay-walk across an empty street. Empty because no one could own a car. Patrolled and enforced, because you better bein lock-step with everyone in the town. Or. Else.
The summer of 1977. At 21, I looked 15. Hopeful for the future, I had married in March and promptly found myself following my husband to work in the tomato fields of Moldavia for an American company, to remain un-named. This company, along with others, had an agricultural business arrangement with the Russian government. Please remember, this was during the Cold War, when we were all taught to believe that enterprise was not occurring between the two countries. Not exactly the case. because there we were in the middle of the USSR, working for a US company.
In the town of Tiraspol, I was the only American woman to have ever visited, let alone, lived there. My cut off jeans, too short to really cover anything, and bra-less tank tops were the talk of the town. My every move was documented. My every phone conversation taped. Every letter I sent or received was opened before I did, with some of the messages carefully removed by razor blade, if it didn’t meet Soviet standards. My clothing, sent to be laundered, was often stolen, until I decided it was better to wash everything by hand. I lived in a communist fish bowl. Just one little golden fish, swimming ’round and ’round that bowl, day after day, wondering what in the heck I’d signed up for.
Each day was a version of the one before. I was ill-equipped for this experience, not understanding the Moldavian language or the Cyrillic alphabet. Alone for 16 hours a day to figure things out, I made many assumptions, because, there was no one to explain this crazy land in which I found myself. While my new husband had been hired to do a real job at the farm, 45 minutes from town by taxi, I was just a bride. Brought along for amusement. Left in town, all day, every day, for the entire time we were there.
At 21, my options for interesting activities were slim. I could sit down and read a complete novel each day, cover to cover. Which, I often did. I could go to the daily market and buy ingredients for anything I felt like spending all day cooking on my single burner hot plate. I could walk about the town observing, while I was observed more. And I could sleep. Boy could I sleep. Some days, 12 of the 16 daylight hours were spent in dreamland, walking up and down the aisles of my American Safeway. I was starved for protein and calories, along with all the other issues I was dealing with.
After a very long summer of hell, we’d been allowed to leave Moldavia for a one week vacation in Europe. At the end of the week, we’d meet with co-workers in Vienna and drive back to Tiraspol, through a countryside that few Americans would ever see. I was looking forward to the trip, even though it would be with three men, two of which I really didn’t like very much, one of those being my new husband. The juice would be worth the squeeze, and I’d suffer through the manly company just to travel by ground and experience something few Americans ever would.
The morning we were to leave, the four of us met for breakfast in a little Viennese café. The vacation had been one to remember with trinkets and memories of Austria and Italy. By train, taxi, and foot, we had taken in the sights and sounds of Vienna and Venice, with lots of places in between. The four of us now sat quietly, awaiting word from our exalted boss, about the plans for the next part of the journey. I wasn’t really prepared for his proposal.
Arten Max was a short little man who made up for that with bravado and sexual prowess. At least he tried to make up for his deficits. The more he tried, the more disgusting he became. The troublesome part of my relationship with Arten was that he was my new husband’s boss, and therefore controlled every aspect of our lives. Being a brazen womanizer, he often went into great details about the Moldavian women he had conquered during his decade long tenure in the country. Arten disgusted me with his comments on my attire and the need to wear a short dress, stockings, and bra when visiting the far. There were not words low enough for this man, and he earned every badge I’ve given him.
A physical description of Arten, a major player in this story, would help. Arten was a tight little muscular package of sinew. Without a drop of fat on his lean little body, he stood at about 5’6″, therefore, making us eye level. His crystal blue eyes darted this way and that as he would work a room, making sure all eyes were on the American. He had a typical farmers tan, but often took off his shirt to make sure the upper body glowed bronze, as well. Blonde hair and chiseled features led the Russians to believe he was straight off the beaches of Malibu, but then, we all were.
Arten had one major physical flaw that he used to his own benefit. He had suffered a terrible injury when a piece of heavy equipment had fallen on his calf, while he lay under the said equipment beating it with a pipe wrench. After spending days within the horrors of a Soviet hospital, Arten could simply take no more. He walked out, in the midst of a life threatening infection. The resulting leg was no more than a skin covered bone between the ankle and knee. Rather a peg-legged pirate affair. Fitting. He used this for sympathy with his stable. All the girls made over this poor, poor American. They should have remembered that the Diamond Back Rattler comes from the states, as well.
It was under Arten’s demand that we had not registered our position in the country with the American Embassy. Whether or not the embassy knew of our location was not the true point. It was his ability to make us BELIEVE the embassy couldn’t and wouldn’t be able to help us if we needed help. We would simply remain invisible in their eyes. As the weeks rolled by, controlled by communism, I was also smothered by the manipulations of a crazy American that should have been keeping us safe, instead of carrying on affairs with most of the eligible women in the town. At any rate, the next three days would be no different. There would be no American Embassy to which we could escape, providing no umbrella of safety for this little chick-a-dee.
It seemed that during Arten’s miscalculations of travel, in my opinion planned quite to his specifications, there was only room for three men on the return car trip to Tiraspol. A rather large piece of a tractor engine would take up the fourth seat. As I was only along for the ride anyway, with no useful purpose, it would be my seat that would be sacrificed on the journey. I was given an instant choice to make, as time was wasting. In a foreign country, with doubts about every decision I’d made to get me this far, I was faced with a very hard decision. I was given three scenarios for my destiny and told to pick one.
- I would travel back to California alone. There was no apartment waiting for me, the new bride. Everything we owned was in storage. So, I would be setting up a solitary existence for an unknown length of time.
- I would travel as far as Virginia and stay with my new husband’s extended family. All strangers in a strange land, to me. I would wait there, alone, for an unknown length of time.
- I could take an adventure on The Orient Express, next stop Tiraspol, Moldavia. Winding my way through three days of lush countryside, I’d travel in my very own sleeping car. Yes. Sleeping car. Just like Joni’s song, “With the clouds and the star’s to read, dreaming of the pleasure I’m going to have watching your hairline recede, my vain darling.” What an amazing stroke of luck!!!!
Well, for a 21 year old girl, fresh out of college with her BA along with her MRS. degree, the choice was instant. Adventure #3. What an easy call. I would meet up with the men in three days. Three Glorious Days to find answers to questions that were burning holes in my brain. 72 hours to examine decisions that got me to the crossroads in which I found myself. My wild side spoke up and it was decided. The train left at 10 AM. It was 9:30 AM and the station wasn’t far. I needed to pack up, buy my ticket, and move out. I could hear that whistle blowing and almost feel the clickity clack under my feet.
With a flurry of activity, we arrived at the train station with 15 minutes to spare. I’d take my luggage with me, as there was no room in the car. With dollars in my pocket, I’d have enough money for daily meals. I had something to read and plenty to observe. I was ready to roll. Until a very important fact came into play.
While purchasing the ticket, we were informed that THIS version of the Orient Express had no dining car. No mahogany smoking cars with nefarious occupants sheltering devious eyes. No mysterious women with eyelids that shrouded intentions for evil. No men in tilted fedora’s, smoking expensive cigars while tapping their shiny wing-tips. No fine crystal holding finer liquors while being fingered by the finest of thieves. Save all that for a bed-time story.
The real passengers loaded the train. Plenty of zoot-suited men, out-date-ed with nothing but time to do very bad things. Fat women with heavy baskets of sustenance to maintain their womanly curvature. Fat women always cover their dietary needs. They knew already that no food of any kind could be purchased once aboard. Obviously, the most important fact was that this trip would be 72 very hungry hours unless I hustled up something quick.
The small, adorable kiosk, providing food for travelers, sat to one side in the station. Quick as a cricket, I was in front of empty bins. Yes, there had been sandwiches, bags of chips, fruit, and bread. There always was before the departure of the Orient Express. This, the three day trip, was one in which the vendor always sold out. With seven minutes to departure, there was no time to come up with Plan B. Arten hung back, snickering under his pompous mustache. He had been well aware of the train amenities and this wasn’t lost on me, as daggers flew out of my eyes, aimed right at his smug face. I purchased the remaining food from the vendor. Two bruised apples and two dried out rolls. A feast for three days.
With that, I kissed the only person I knew in Vienna “GoodBye”, boarding the Express Train to the hell that would consume me. eroding any confidence I had for the next three days. An American woman should never travel alone on the Orient Express. An American woman should glue her passport to one breast, and an alarm clock to the opposing butt cheek. Doing neither, a ding-dong American girl was about to have the ride of her life. All aboard!!!!
To be continued.