Picnic at the Iron Curtain: A Memoir: From the fall of the Berlin Wall to Ukraine's Orange Revolution

by Susan Viets

  I heard shuffling below. The couple in my cabin arranged items on a small side table by the window. They stood up.

  “Mushchina [man], dievushka [girl], sit with us. We invite you to join us for something to eat,” Ivan said.

  The man across from me jumped down from his bunk. I hesitated for a moment. Then I followed. The two of us sat side by side on the lower bunk across from the couple. Square-jawed, Ivan looked fit and tidy with his short cropped blond hair and clipped moustache. Tanya, paunchier, assumed the role of genial compartment hostess. Both wore matching shiny tracksuits, flip-flops and socks. They looked as at home on board a train as they might be in their own living room. We introduced ourselves. Ivan handed us shot glasses filled with vodka. Small plates of bread, pickles and Ukrainian kovbasa sausage stood on the table. This was my first experience of Ukrainian hospitality.

  We drank and ate. I answered questions about Canada, England and Hungary. Then tired and foggy-headed from the alcohol, I excused myself and climbed back up onto my berth.

  I unfurled a sheet that lay neatly folded at the end of my bunk. It had been washed and pressed but had gone grey and limp with age. I thought that a Western rail company would have retired such a sheet from service long ago. Still, I appreciated the housekeeping effort. If my train ride was anything to judge by, Ukrainians might be poorer than most people that I knew in the West, but they were welcoming and certainly knew how to have fun. I slid under the sheet fully dressed and pulled a blanket over top.

  Some time later Ivan woke me. “Take your suitcases down,” he said. “We’re near the border. The guards will want to inspect your bags.”

  I fumbled in the dark to retrieve my luggage. Ivan lifted it down to the lower berth. I followed and sat with my cabin mates. For a long time we heard clanging and banging as workers adjusted the train wheels to span the wider Soviet rail gauge.

  Guards boarded the train. They wore military caps and uniforms with hammer and sickle insignias. They were unsmiling and unfriendly.

  “Passport,” one demanded. I handed my documents to the guard. He studied the visa. I felt nervous because Rukh had sponsored it. The organization, which had only recently acquired official status, campaigned for Ukrainian independence, a direct challenge to Soviet rule. Soviet authorities considered Rukh to be suspect and full of trouble-making renegades.

  The guard examined my passport photograph for a long time. I did not know where to look when he stared at me. Direct eye contact might be interpreted as insolence, so I gazed off to the side. The guard finally handed the documents back and left the cabin. I climbed onto my bunk and fell asleep. The next day was a blur of more vodka, lots of jokes, some very bad music, tea from the train wagon lady, glimpses through breaks in the forest of stout women in headscarves and boots walking along dusty roads, blue and yellow Ukrainian flags in western towns, Soviet Ukrainian red and blue flags as we moved east and more broken sleep. Then, right on schedule, the train pulled into the Kiev station at 3 a.m.

  I saw Yaroslav before the train stopped. He held a bouquet of roses in one hand and clutched the handle of a huge trolley designed to carry freight with the other. It was the only trolley in the station. I wondered if Yaroslav had to fight someone for it. People dragged bundles along the platform. Friends and family members greeted them with bouquets of flowers.

  “Welcome to the nearly independent republic of Ukraine,” Yaroslav said. He handed me the roses. Then he led me toward the exit.

  We picked our way through the dimly lit station trying not to disturb anyone. Travellers sprawled across the floor nestled against oddly shaped bundles held together with rags or frayed bits of rope. The station looked like a refugee camp. I was glad not to be alone.

  Yaroslav was slender and had a shock of blond hair. He was quick in all his movements and quick-witted too. At the age of twenty-one, he spoke Russian, Ukrainian, Polish, English and French fluently. He studied economics and also wrote and edited articles for the English-language news service for Rukh. I felt grateful to Yaroslav for importing me into Ukraine. He had persuaded Rukh leaders to sponsor my visa when I tired of waiting for papers from the Foreign Ministry to arrive.

  On the road outside the station Yaroslav stuck his arm out and flagged down a car. It turned out that this was not an official taxi but rather a regular car driven by a man who had dropped a friend off at the station. Yaroslav and the man haggled over a price. I watched and learned. This informal taxi system – a glorified form of hitchhiking – seemed the best way to travel. Once Yaroslav was satisfied with the price we got into this car. He told me that anything, even an ambulance or a snow plow, could be a taxi if the price was right.

  Our driver straddled lanes, flying through Kiev streets at top speed. I wondered if he had ever taken driving lessons. Fortunately the roads were deserted, so it seemed unlikely we would have an accident.

  “Not very many people here own a car. You need good connections to get one,” Yaroslav said.

  He told me the names of the streets. We travelled down Taras Shevchenko Boulevard, turning left onto Khreshchatyk Avenue. Yaroslav also provided commentary. He said that the yellow brick buildings flanking the road were a reminder of Ukraine’s bloody history. Parts of Western Ukraine had at various times been absorbed into the Polish, Austro-Hungarian, German and Soviet Empires. After the Second World War, brigades of German POWs constructed the buildings lining Khreshchatyk, including the main post office in the central October Revolution Square. As we passed the post office, Yaroslav asked the driver to slow down.

  “See that entrance facing the square,” he asked.

  “Yes, what’s so special about it?”

  “The portico collapsed a few years ago. Everyone standing underneath was killed. The POWs got their revenge,” he said. “Actually a lot of buildings here are poorly built and badly maintained, so watch out where you stand.”

  October Revolution Square spanned both sides of Khreshchatyk. A red granite statue of Lenin dominated the side of the square opposite the post office. I lost my bearings but could tell by the bumpy ride that we travelled up from the square along a cobblestone hill. We passed by the Golden Gate. Yaroslav said that it marked the boundaries of the ancient city, Kyivan Rus’, which pre-dated Moscow and was a major centre of religion, trade and learning. We continued another block along Yaroslaviv Val. Then the car stopped in front of a building and we got out. Even in the inky darkness I could tell that it had once been magnificent but had crumbled through years of neglect. Yaroslav’s cousin lived in the building but was away, so Yaroslav had arranged for me to stay in his apartment.

  The light socket in the archway leading into the courtyard had no bulb. “They’re always stolen,” Yaroslav explained. Then he warned me to watch out for a large pothole that I could not see for lack of light. It was even darker inside the building. I dragged my hand along the wall to guide myself down the hallway. Once inside the apartment Yaroslav flicked a switch. “They mix chalk with the paint,” Yaroslav said. “Don’t lean against any of the painted walls unless you want your clothes to turn blue.”

  The apartment was dingy, with peeling wallpaper in the living room. However, it was well situated. Yaroslav explained that I could walk to the city centre from here. I thanked him for his help, then he left. I unpacked several rolls of Hungarian salami and smoked cheese and cartons of juice. The fridge did not work, so I stacked the food in the kitchen cupboard. I picked up the telephone receiver. I heard a dial tone. I went to bed, satisfied that I had a functioning phone. The next day I began my descent into paranoia.

  In the morning I had an appointment to meet Yaroslav at the Rukh headquarters, near Parliament. I looked forward to this meeting as an opportunity to learn more about the organization’s political manifesto. Rukh fought for independence, but I had not been able to uncover its plan for governing if this goal were achieved. All the political propaganda stressed the republic’s wealth as the breadbasket of Europe, but said nothing about energy poverty
that left it totally reliant on Russian oil and gas imports. I also wondered what Rukh’s plan was for Ukraine’s share of the Soviet nuclear arsenal and whether it would shut the Chernobyl nuclear power plant that had caught fire and exploded with such devastating consequences four years earlier, in 1986. At that time I had sat in my parents’ den in Ottawa watching television news reports as neighbouring countries began to detect clouds of radiation and raised the alarm.

  I walked down Khreshchatyk Avenue, past the Dnipro Hotel, to the Rukh office. I stopped to use a bathroom along the way. I opened the cubicle door and faced a cracked, stained toilet bowl with no seat. The floor seemed worryingly slick. A small plastic container mounted crookedly on the wall contained torn bits of newspaper instead of toilet paper. I felt certain that cholera lurked in the cubicle. I soon learned that when nature called it was best to take the tram to Parliament and use the clean bathroom there.

  I entered the Rukh office and saw Yaroslav, who was busy at the fax machine, sending out his latest edition of the news. A tall, slender student, with the prominent cheekbones of a model, counted megaphones. The student locked the megaphones away in a cupboard and then turned and introduced himself. “Sashko,” he said. “Those are our most important weapon,” he added, gesturing toward the cupboard with the megaphones. Soon older members who led the organization arrived.

  They welcomed me to Ukraine and showed me a desk where I could work. I did not speak Ukrainian, so I chatted in Russian, asked my questions but realized from the answers that no detailed policy platform existed yet. I thanked the Rukh leaders for their hospitality. I sensed tension and unease throughout the conversation. When the older men left I asked Yaroslav what I had done to offend them.

  “It’s the language,” he said. “Some of them spent years in labour camps for writing poems or singing songs in Ukrainian. They’ve paid quite a price to keep the language alive.”

  I had studied Russian and Soviet history for five years and knew none of this. My crash course in history from the Ukrainian perspective had begun. I felt a sense of déjà vu from Budapest. I would not be able to speak Russian here and would need to hire a Ukrainian interpreter. In the meantime I sat at my desk and kept my mouth shut. Yaroslav told me that one leader asked him if I was nashyi [ours].

  “What does that mean?”

  “Whether you’re with us or against us.”

  This was the language of war. I felt upset to be viewed with suspicion and also by such extremes that allowed for no middle ground as an impartial observer. I realized too that this situation was my own fault. A Rukh-sponsored visa came with expectations. I would need to break the tie to maintain independence. I was beginning to feel very alone in Kiev. In this city I had no family members, friends or colleagues, and knew no one of common nationality or mindset. For the first time I began to understand what it meant to be an alien. This struggle was about the right to exist as a Ukrainian and I was not one, so I almost did not count. I sat quietly in the office and listened closely to Ukrainian chatter around me, hopeful that I might soon absorb the language, or somehow feel more at home. Around noon I turned my attention to a new set of concerns.

  I had a meeting scheduled that afternoon at the Foreign Ministry press centre with Mr. C. and Mr. I. We had met in March, when I requested accreditation. I had spoken Russian there and no one seemed to mind. What troubled me was that I could not think of a good excuse to explain why I had arrived on a Rukh-sponsored visa, instead of waiting for government papers. Since I spoke poor Russian, perhaps I could play dumb and attribute the change of plans to a language misunderstanding. Something about Ukraine was turning me into a child prepared to tell any story to avoid getting in trouble. I would not behave this way at home.

  I left the Rukh headquarters and walked up the hill toward Parliament. A wooded park, at the top of an embankment, ran alongside the road. The Foreign Ministry press centre was situated on a side street lined with trees, in a low rise nineteenth-century stone building painted pale yellow. A decorative knee-high metal fence ran along the front of the building. Flat oval-shaped street lamps hung from wires strung across the road. I did not know what to expect from the meeting, so I dreaded going in. I stood on the sidewalk and procrastinated a while. I stared at attractive brick apartment blocks across the road and wondered who lived inside. The buildings had bay windows and balconies made from finely wrought metal work. They were designed with care. Then I stepped up to the main entrance and into the press office.

  Mr. C. and Mr. I. shared the office. Each sat at his own desk. Mr. C. was small, greying and stout. Mr. I. was large and imposing with jet black hair and big teeth. We chatted politely. They inquired about my trip. Then I gave them the letter from my editor (I now worked for the Independent) formally requesting press accreditation in Ukraine that had already been faxed to them at least a dozen times.

  Mr. I. took the letter. He said, “Solnyshko, we will do what we can to help you but you are operating in a grey zone.” He lectured me, alluding to the fact that I had made a mistake by coming to Kiev on a Rukh-sponsored visa, though never saying this outright. He ended by calling me solnyshko again, which means “sunshine.” I was encouraged by solnyshko and even happier when I saw Mr. C. take a parliamentary press pass from his desk drawer and write my name on it. I felt so relieved. I was not accredited yet but a parliamentary pass meant that I would have freedom to work in Kiev.

  “You will move into a foreigners’ compound when you are accredited, just like the ones in Moscow,” Mr. C. said. “We hope you will be the first swallow of the new season.”

  It surprised me that Kiev had a foreigners’ compound because as far as I knew no other Westerners lived in the city other than a French consul general and a German consul general, both of whom had their own residences. I asked where the compound was located.

  “It doesn’t exist yet,” said Mr. C., “but we will build one.”

  Mr. C. and Mr. I. took me into the room next door, where some journalists and Members of Parliament had gathered for a meeting. I peered out tall windows framed by sash curtains and admired the well-maintained antique furniture. A dozen people sat around a table in the centre of the room. Mr. C. introduced me. I lost track of names after the introduction to Vadym Boyko, a television reporter and MP. I tried not to stare. I could not fully concentrate in the presence of such a dramatically handsome young man. He had raven black hair, pale skin, red lips, a slender build and a perfectly still face, like a sphinx. He offered to show me the local television station where he worked the following week.

  When the meeting finished one of the older journalists, with blue eyes and a weathered face, Slava, invited me for coffee. We strolled down the hill toward Khreshchatyk and then walked to October Revolution Square. Some of the chestnut trees still flowered. White blossoms lay scattered on the sidewalks and streets. The trees provided cover for birds. Kiev had little of the din of normal urban traffic. We heard birds singing in the branches and breathed in fresh, smog-free air.

  People crowded the sidewalks along Khreshchatyk and October Revolution Square. They dressed perhaps not fashionably but very tidily, the men in neatly pressed trousers and shirts and the women in well-ironed skirts and blouses. In the square a group of women in headscarves and bulky dresses struck up a four-part harmony.

  “Are they part of a choir?” I asked my colleague, Slava.

  “Those babas?” he said. “They’re just passing time.” I had never heard such sonorous and moving songs from amateurs. We walked uphill along one of the roads that led out of the square and reached a building not far from mine.

  “Just wait here,” Slava said.

  “Aren’t we having coffee?”

  “Of course. I’ll get it now.” I stayed put while he joined a line of people standing in front of what appeared to be a small opening in a wall. I saw no chairs or tables or glass-fronted façades that might indicate the presence of a coffee shop. Twenty minutes later Slava returned with two chipped teacups f
illed with brown liquid. We stood on the corner and sipped the brew. It looked like coffee but tasted oily and bitter.

  “Are you hungry?” Slava asked.

  “A little,” I said. I did not like to complain about a lack of food, even though I had so far found little in Kiev. Earlier, Yaroslav and I had gone into the Dnipro Hotel hard currency bar for a snack. We bought one small bottle of mineral water for $US5 and equally overpriced Snickers bars, past their due date and covered in a waxy white film. I decided not to eat mine but regretted this now.

  “Wait here. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Slava went into a small building with a sign that said gastronom. He soon reappeared with a bag full of ginger cookies shaped like miniature hubcaps. We ate a few.

  “Please, take the rest with you.”

  “Thank you, they’re delicious.” I would not normally eat a bag full of cookies but wanted them in case I found nothing to eat later on. We said goodbye. Slava strolled down toward the square. I decided to go to the gastronom to try to buy food for dinner.