Only in Russia

Only in Russia

We have a winner! There were several dozen entries in our essay contest. 

The winner is Bert Beynen, of Des Moines, IA. The entries of the two runners-up will be posted on the Russian Life website (www.russianlife.net). 

The Last Bus To Moscow University

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.

Bert Beynen

Des Moines, IA