Russia 1985
Travelling the famous Trans -Siberian between Beijing and Moscow in 1985 was a thrill enough. But when we found our travelling companions were WWII Stalingrad veterans on their way to the May Day march the journey became all the richer.
It was nearly dark as the train pulled into Omsk about 2000km before our destination of Moscow. We were 4 nights into our 6-night trip from Beijing. We were transit passengers so were only allowed 7 days in the then USSR. We were not allowed to book a hotel room. That aside, we had simply walked up to the station in Beijing, asked for a ticket to West Berlin please and pay our $200.
We had settled into our on-board routine. There were 3 trips a day to the dining car where every meal was served with a shot of mouth burning and eye watering cheap Russian vodka. We were devouring the goulash and soft potatoes after 2 months in China living on rice. We were always there with our noses to the door to be the first in. The rest of our day was filled with cards, Yahtzee, reading and wandering up and down the train having gestured conversations with other passengers. There were only 4 other foreigners we had found on the train, and they were in the nice looking first class with a 2-berth cabin. We had settled into our 4-berth cabin with a long seat for the day and a sliding door to close off the hallway. Each night the conductor came and dropped down the top bunk, adjusted the heating and made the bed with white sheets and blankets.
The train was clean but worn. The conductor was helpful but non-smiling and was with us the entire 6 nights to Moscow. He was ever patient as we had trouble working out the time with 10 time zones to cross in the journey. It took us a few days of turning up to the dining car at the wrong time to realise that the train was running on Moscow time! Having breakfast in what was locally the middle of the night seemed a bit bizarre. The train was warm which was just a well as Siberia was still snow covered in late April. The scenery had been bleak for the last eight hours with splattering of rain and a hint of sleet on the window.
Our cabin companions so far had been 2 very young soldiers on leave who seemed very anxious at being in such close proximity to a western woman. They were followed by a well-dressed elderly couple who spoke no English and sat rather primly side by side for hours each day. The slept fully dressed and initially I got a feeling they felt rather unlucky to be with 2 of the few foreigners on the train. She walked a bit, and Gary invited him for a few games of chess on his small travellers chess board. She had no end of small nibbles that she offered me to share.
I had snuggled inside by down sleeping bag and half dozing with my book on my knee, trying to decide if I would summon the energy to head down to the dining car whilst reflecting on our journey so far. This amazing train existed outside the reality of the USSR in 1984. Times were hard. This train that had been the lifeline for so many Russians since it was first established in 1812, was no longer affordable by most Russians. The people were restless. There was a sense of uncertainty in the air.
I moved towards the window as we pulled into the station. There was the usual collection of sellers on the platform and baggage trolleys helping passengers embark. Gary got off as he did every station with just his track suit and thongs but jumped back on rather quickly as the temperature could not have been much more that 5 degrees. The seats across from us were empty last night and I wandered each station who might get on. It was only a minute before the door opened and two older men came into our compartment, shortly followed by Gary. Both had grey hair and were dressed on the basic coarse coats and trousers of country people. One man had a scar down one side of his face and the other had a bad limp. They started putting their small, battered suitcases onto the top bunks, checking their tickets and talking amongst themselves. We nodded and said hello in our best Russian. They went to bed early that night.
The next morning Gary offered a game of chess which we had discovered was a great icebreaker in Russia. We showed them our passport and explained we were Australian. Our 20 essential Russian words could go only so far. Then to our surprise the man with a scar pulled out a beaten old wallet and produced a small, tattered photo of a woman and 2 small children. He indicated they were big now. The other man then produced his travel documents and to our surprise we saw the photo of a young man, maybe 18 in full military uniform. Russian numbers are the same as English and we could see 1940 and 18 so assumed he was 18 in the photo, and it was taken in 1940. That made him 62. He looked far older as we had thought in his 80’s. It took some time, pointing at the map in our Lonely Planet and gestures of guns and salutes for us the work out that they had served together in WWII and were on their way to Volgograd for the Mayday March and celebration for the 40th anniversary of the end of WWII. They had been in the infamous Battle of Stalingrad between August 1943 and February 1944 one of the bloodiest battles in WWII where most agree turned the tide of the war. Over 1 million Russian soldiers died and countless civilians as the soldiers fought in hand-to-hand combat with few ammunitions or weapons. Many froze to death or starved as supply lines collapsed. They had been there! I was in awe. My mouth dropped and I could not help it when my eyes watered. I took the calloused hand of the man with the scar on his face, and he let me, keeping eye contact as his eyes too watered. He squeezed my hand and his eyes looked away. I can only imagine the immense suffering and the trauma to all the survivors. Why do we do this to each other! Have we learned nothing! He was a child. They took so much from him and for what.
We discovered later that the Russian government had paid the fare for veterans from all over Russia to attend this year’s May Day celebrations. Like so many rural Russians this trip would never have been possible otherwise. I wander at the emotions that must have been swimming in his mind as he saw comrades in his first return to Volgograd (Stalingrad’s new name) in 40 years. We also discovered that Russians were only issued with one set of travel documents and the photo is of you when the documents are issued. Those were his original and only papers issued by the military when he was 18.
I was drained and emotional by the time they left us to change trains. Gary got off the train with them to help with their bags. As he left the compartment the man with a scar reached out to hug me. I held back the tears as I watch them leave the platform, almost marching as many Russians of that age seem to do. I remain moved to this day when I remember this story. I was in the presence of greatness who was a testament to survival and courage. But I was living in a world that would do the same again, and had already done, to millions of other young men. In the name of greed and ego we go on as if WWII had never happened.
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