Only in Russia
In the summer of 2004, Russian Life held a reader essay contest. The theme was "Only in Russia" and stories had to be true and less then 500 words in length. Winners received a Russian Life sweatshirt.
First Place
The Last Bus to Moscow University
By Bert Beynen
I was late for the last bus back to Moscow University, but when I turned the corner at the Metropol Hotel, the bus was still standing there. The engine was already running, the driver next to the bus, agitatedly talking to someone who looked both puzzled and bored. I got on the bus and waited with about six or seven other passengers.
About five minutes later a young girl came to the bus. Her body was terribly deformed and she had difficulty getting in, her crutches more of a hindrance than a help. Immediately, two or three passengers jumped up to help. She threw her long blond hair back and I saw her face in the dim light of the one light bulb at the entrance.
It was an incredibly beautiful face, as if nature had sucked all the beauty out of her crumpled little body and put it in her face. It was also an immensely proud face. She declined all help and sat down on the front bench of the bus, her back toward the glass partition between the driver's cabin and the bus. We sat and waited.
Suddenly the driver ended his conversation and jumped in the bus. As he slammed the door he and the girl quickly turned and looked at each other. Then the bus shot forward. We raced through the Moscow midnight traffic at high speed, swerving now and then to avoid a pothole or overtake a car. I began to worry and looked at my fellow passengers to see whether they thought this was normal behavior for a bus driver. But each clung to the seat in front of him and I couldn't see their faces. The girl sat on the front bench, serene like a queen, and didn't seem to notice the worried little group in front of her.
After about 10 minutes, the driver overtook another bus, opened his window, and shouted something at the other driver. Both busses now stopped. Our driver opened the glass partition and yelled at us that we had to transfer to the other bus. Surprised and relieved we got up and changed busses. The girl did not move.
We drove on and saw how our old bus took a right turn toward the Komsomol Bridge and disappeared into the dark night. The driver probably just took her home, but I prefer to think that they lived forever happily in the dark Moscow night: she proud and serene, he busily arguing with a friend.
The next morning I saw some of my fellow passengers at the bus stop. I walked up to them to ask them what they thought of our midnight ride. But they turned away from me and then my bus came.
Runners Up
Demeaning Circumstances
By Richard Bamforth
It was a rare sunny April day in Leningrad. We had a free afternoon after a whirlwind tour of palaces, museums, and churches. It was 1983. Andropov was in charge and there were no hints of an end to Communism. Everyone was busily employed, lampposts were festooned with red banners for the upcoming May holidays. The streets were being swept meticulously clean by elderly women wielding archaic brooms made of branches.
I was nearing the end of a 36-exposure film in my camera. Sunlight and banners made for spectacular shots as my wife and I strolled along the Nevsky Prospect.
Although warned not to take pictures of people in demeaning circumstances, I was determined to sneak a good one of an energetic sidewalk sweeper. It was still quite a distance to our hotel at Alexander Nevsky square and my wife was getting weary.
We studied our map carefully, decided on the appropriate bus, and rehearsed the ticketing procedure. Eventually the right bus came along. Pat courageously boarded. I waved her on, and continued by foot.
Immediately a classic example of outdoor housekeeping appeared ahead of me. I readied my camera, walked casually past her, then quickly turned back to capture her in action.
Proud of my success I resumed my walk. Within a minute I was gasping for air as a hefty man in a black coat, hat pulled down over his eyes, pushed me hard against the nearest building. He flashed a card that looked official but my eyes blurred with terror.
I knew some Russian but my tongue stuck in my mouth. The man accused me of taking forbidden pictures and demanded my camera. I sputtered a few defensive words about photographing his beautiful city but in my mind were visions of life in a Siberian labor camp.
Passersby ignored my plight. I knew my life was at stake. The man in black kept pressing his muscular grip on me and I finally consented to give up the film but not the camera. He agreed after extracting from me the name of my hotel and the number of my room.
In a flash he was gone. Sweat poured from my armpits as I headed briskly toward the hotel, heart and head pounding with panic.
Our group was already seated for dinner. Ignoring my frantic wife I went straight to our leader and our Russian guide and blurted out my story. They were sure I was the victim not of a KGB attack but of a random criminal act. Unconvinced, I spent a sleepless night with our bedroom door doubly locked and barricaded with chairs.
We survived unmolested, my greatest grief being the loss of that precious roll of transparencies. The terror of those captive moments was, however, not enough to prevent a return trip two years later. I now have thirty-six different views of life in Leningrad but not a single one of a Soviet lady with her medieval broom.
Russian Customs Flap
By Tanya Sheppard
As a Russian teacher in the late 1970's and early 1980's, I often took groups of high school students to the Soviet Union. In those days, needless to say, we instructed them carefully about what to expect at the Russian customs and passport control as they entered and exited the country.
One year, on our way in, a mild-mannered young man named Rich was "invited" out of the waiting line by two young male customs officers and shown into a room. Clearly nervous, he looked to me for reassurance, and I signaled to him to stay calm and just do as he was asked.
About ten minutes later Rich emerged, red faced, and said that he had to empty all his pockets and open his suitcase. Everything was in order, he explained, except for one item. If he had tried to explain in sign language what it was, he feared they would have been insulted; if he had refused to tell them, he was certain he would never see the group or the U.S. again. So he feigned ignorance, and, after a few minutes, they dismissed him with a wave of the hand.
His "contraband"? One pure latex, all-American whoopee cushion!
All stories copyright of the authors. Printed here with permission.
