by David Greene
MIDNIGHT
in SIBERIA
A Train Journey into
the Heart of Russia
DAVID GREENE
Midnight in Siberia is a work of nonfiction. Some of the names and certain identifying details have been changed.
TO MY WIFE, ROSE
CONTENTS
Author’s Note on the Map
Map
Prologue
INTRODUCTION
1. ROSE
2. SERGEI
3. BORIS
4. ANOTHER SERGEI
5. LIUBOV
6. NINA
7. ALEXEI
8. VASILY
9. GALINA
10. MARINA
11. ANGELINA
12. ANDREI
13. POLINA
14. IVAN
15. TATIANA
16. NADEZHDA
17. YET ANOTHER SERGEI
18. TAISIYA
19. IGOR
20. OLGA
21. VITALY
Illustrations
Acknowledgments
Index
AUTHOR’S NOTE ON THE MAP
The Trans-Siberian Railway is Russia’s spine, a thin line of constancy that holds this unwieldy country together. It’s more than just a map that underscores this. The railroad connects families, bringing distant relatives together more affordably than air travel. And it connects different chapters in this country’s journey—today, high-speed luxury trains carry Russia’s uber-elite and standard-class trains carry business travelers, tourists, and families, all following the same path used by Stalin to ship political prisoners to the Siberian gulags.
While the Trans-Siberian, as broadly defined, includes a number of different routes, the primary two connect Moscow to Ulan-Ude, where one route continues east to Vladivostok and the other (the Trans-Mongolian) dips south to Beijing. I decided to stick—mostly—to the all-Russia route, using the train as a vehicle and guide, seeing Russia from west to east. I did take a few detours, as you can see. I jogged over to Yaroslavl, not a stop on the main route. Same goes for Izhevsk. And I took a bus down to Chelyabinsk, hoping to pick up a southern branch of the Trans-Siberian to reconnect with the main route in Omsk. That plan fell apart when I realized I would need a Kazakh visa for a bit of that trip. It proved far more efficient to backtrack to Ekaterinburg than to take a last-minute gamble at the Kazakh consulate. From Ekaterinburg, it was a rather straightforward trip eastbound (save for a heart-thumping hovercraft ride across Lake Baikal and a late-night jump back on the train in the village of Baikalsk). Then we hugged the Chinese border, before swinging a sharp right turn and completing the home stretch into the Pacific port of Vladivostok. There we arrived, after 5,772 miles (if we’d stayed on course), more tea than vodka (not by much), more instant noodles than fresh meals (by a lot), and a whole lot of conversation.
PROLOGUE
WASN’T HISTORY supposed to end in 1991?
Apocalyptic at that sounds, it was essentially the prediction of a political scientist named Francis Fukuyama who two years before that had penned an essay called “The End of History?”
As anti-Communist fervor was building around the world, Fukuyama argued that the East-West battle of ideas which fueled the Cold War was finally coming to an end. He favored nuance over finality, predicting that the world had not seen the last of totalitarian regimes and community ideology. They would ebb and flow and influence events here and there. But the trend was unmistakable: Liberal democracy, parliamentary-style governments, and market-driven economics were taking hold in more and more countries of the world. That would more or less continue. The great debate was over.
Fukuyama sure seemed prescient in December 1991, when the Soviet Union was dissolved.
The question worth asking in 2014 is whether we’ve arrived at the end of the End of History.
Russia, led by its enigmatic, macho leader, Vladimir Putin, blatantly ignored pleas and warnings from the West and forcibly annexed Crimea, which was (and remains, if you ask the most wishful thinkers) part of the sovereign nation of Ukraine. To foreign policy alarmists, this marked the resumption of the Cold War. To even the coolest minds, it was a seminal event likely to poison the West’s relations with Russia.
Henry Kissinger, former U.S. secretary of state and one of the world’s most influential foreign policy minds, wrote in the Washington Post following the Crimea annexation that it is dangerous to view Ukraine “as a showdown” over whether the sovereign nation “joins the East or the West.” Ukraine has to function, Kissinger wrote, “as a bridge between them.”
He went on to argue that the West certainly has interests in Ukraine—growing economic and cultural ties—but that so does Russia, perhaps even more. Kiev was the birthplace of the Russian Orthodox religion. Ukraine has been strategically important to Russia for centuries, especially Crimea, where Russia maintains its Black Sea naval fleet. And in Crimea and eastern Ukraine, many people speak Russian and feel a closer cultural connection to the East.
Kissinger wrote that each side has to recognize the interests of the other. He didn’t hold out much hope for that: “Putin is a serious strategist—on the premises of Russian history. Understanding U.S. values and psychology are not his strong suits. Nor has understanding Russian history and psychology been a strong point of U.S. policymakers.”
His casting of this modern conflict represents just one view. But it’s hard to argue with the reality he underscores: At worst, Ukraine could become a colossal misunderstanding that morphs into a new “showdown.” At best, Ukraine can be used as a “bridge” between competing interests and philosophies. Either way, the old fault line and the East-West battle over ideas, territory, and influence remain present today.
All of this has been building of course. The United States and its allies were furious when Russia invaded its neighbor Georgia in 2008. Likewise, Russia was furious in 2011 when it agreed under enormous pressure to abstain rather than veto on a UN vote to approve NATO military action in Libya, given assurances that NATO was going to tread delicately. NATO bombs were dropping within days.
There are reasons to think these tensions may die down. Russia and the West have shared interests, and they’ve worked together effectively at times—on space exploration and pressuring Syria to hand over its chemical weapons stockpile. Russia’s global dominance in energy may also be fading, and that could weaken Russia’s economy to a point where it must either get along with the West or face economic deprivation and collapse from within. But for now, Putin clearly believes that a stand-off with the West is in Russia’s strategic interest and that he’s strong enough to pull it off.
Just as notable as Russia’s aggressiveness abroad is Putin’s management of the home front. In recent years, he has solidified the Kremlin’s control over local and regional governments, pressured news organizations, curtailed the right to protest, and targeted minorities—most glaringly, Russians who are gay and lesbian. He has also threatened human rights organizations, especially those that receive funding from the United States and elsewhere abroad.
Most stunning? By all accounts—and admittedly, polling in Russia is often unreliable—Putin is more popular than ever.
On May 1, 2014, more than one hundred thousand Russians descended on Red Square to celebrate their president and cheer his conquering of Crimea. It was arguably the most impressive display of Russian patriotism since the Soviet collapse and quite a counterpoint to the anti-Putin protests of 2011 that received plenty of attention from Western media but appear, for the moment, largely forgotten.
If we t
hink of 2014 as a snapshot, what do we see? A Russian leader moving further away from Western democratic values. An East-West divide marked by growing mistrust. A military stand-off that has seen both NATO and Russian forces mobilizing and carrying out exercises with the aim of intimidating.
This moment may not mark the end of Fukuyama’s End of History. Perhaps this is one of those moments he predicted when the Cold War enemy would score a blow, on the ultimate path to defeat.
I’m tempted to look at this moment differently: as a reminder that culture and history matter, values and traditions endure, peoples of the world have different instincts, wishes, priorities, and dreams. It is easy to see Vladimir Putin as an authoritative leader with his own selfish motivations who has been able to squash anyone who wants to protest and dupe everyone else into letting him lead. That portrayal may hold some truth. But Putin, popular as ever, shrewd as always, also embodies a Russian soul that is unfamiliar to many in the West.
During the Cold War, Soviet citizens were nearly impossible for Americans and others in the West to understand. Authors and journalists—Hedrick Smith among them with his book The Russians—took us into apartments in Russia, into the lives of people, giving us a rare window into the culture of a place that seemed so cold and threatening.
Part of understanding history and events is understanding people. And I feel lucky to have had that chance, living in Russia and, more recently, taking a wild and eye-opening trip across the vast country on a train.
Inside cramped sleeping quarters on trains, in homes, apartments, and cafés, while soaking in a Russian bathhouse or chasing debris from a meteorite, I got to meet Russians, bringing with me an ear, a deep curiosity, and no agenda.
I learned about a culture and way of life different from my own and began to understand how dangerous it is to assume that one way of thinking or any one system of government can apply everywhere.
So many Russians welcomed me into their lives. I would like to introduce you to some of them in the pages ahead.
MIDNIGHT IN SIBERIA
INTRODUCTION
I STRUGGLE AWAKE, and there she is.
Russia.
A silver-haired grandmother in a flowered nightgown. She’s framed by the morning sunlight flooding through the dusty windowpane. And she’s holding a glass of water before my crusted eyes and parched lips.
Russia is Aunt Nina.
Here she stands, fresh and awake, despite last night’s marathon conversation about politics, childhood, dogs, snow, soccer—whatever her nephew Sergei served up next—that lasted far beyond my vodka-laced endurance. Forty years younger and barely mobile, I could be jealous of her energy or humiliated by it. Above all I just need that water. I blame Russia. No, Russia didn’t ram seventeen shots of vodka down my throat. But Aunt Nina’s family is so warm, and so persuasive. That’s what Russia does to the uninitiated at night. And now she’s greeting me in the morning—not very forgivingly.
“Dobroe utro!” That’s Russian for “Good morning,” delivered in a tone that mixes sweet and stern. Her pursed lips, tight with impatient disappointment, indicate I have only five minutes to roust myself from this bed.
What fond memories of the night before! The table was crowded with Aunt Nina’s creations: Piping hot borscht (the venerable Slavic soup made of beets) usually with dollops of sour cream to make it creamy, potato pancakes stacked in towers, tender stewed chicken drowning in some addictive red sauce, and vegetables pickled to perfection. Serving dishes inhabited every open piece of real estate. And the night was crowded with Russian proverbs—which I am convinced Sergei’s family members were authoring on the spot.
“David, it is bad luck to only have one shot.”
“David, you know what they say in Russia? A horse can’t walk on three legs. He must have a fourth.”
“David, in Russia, even numbers like eight are bad luck. We must go to nine.”
Nights around the dining room table don’t end. In Soviet times this was sacred ground, a hiding place where it was safe to smile and laugh and talk openly. And traditions don’t die easily in this country. Why should they, when they’re this merry and liberating? More vodka means more stories, which mean more laughter, which mean more vodka, which brings us to the morning.
I am guzzling water, peering sheepishly over the rim of the glass at Aunt Nina and Sergei, my friend and colleague. They are vertical, staring down at the patient with a combination of bewilderment (vodka is rarely this damaging around here) and hope (if my hangover progresses to the next stage, it will be messy for all involved).
It’s 9:30 a.m., and Sergei and I have a meeting in an hour, so I promise to shower promptly.
“Dvadtsat minoot [20 minutes]?”
I’m begging for mercy.
“Bystro [Go quickly]!” Nina says, clapping her hands twice for emphasis.
I limp into the shower, turn on the faucet, and let the stream of water serve as a masseuse for my aching head. Beyond therapy, hangover showers serve another purpose in life, and that’s reflection. And here in Aunt Nina’s shower, I can’t stop thinking about how my experience of the past twelve hours has been so . . . Russian.
My morning nurse is the embodiment of the Russian babushka, or grandmother—the term really applies to any older Russian woman. A word of caution: When you say “babushka” out loud, put the emphasis on the first syllable—“BAH-boosh-kah.” (By comparison, a “bah-BOOSH-ka”—an English-language invention that doesn’t exist in Russian—is a scarf. And calling a tough old woman a scarf doesn’t get you far around here).
If Russia had a mascot, it could well be a babushka. In paintings or photos that capture Russia, you may have seen older women, selling fruit along the road, wearing babushkas (yes, this time, scarves). That’s one rendition of the babushka. There is also the urban babushka, like Aunt Nina. She lives in the western Russian city of Nizhny Novgorod, in the apartment she and her late husband were assigned to during Soviet times. Rural, urban, or otherwise, babushkas are known to be strong and self-sufficient. Many lost their men years ago to hard work or alcoholism, in many cases both. They are the engine and spirit of Russia’s older generation, and in some ways of the whole country.
Aunt Nina has boundless energy, can talk for hours about literature, loves to cook, and gives tough love. She lectured me and Sergei for drinking too much, then talked soused Sergei to sleep (I needed no help), and then rushed in the morning to deliver me water and sympathy.
Of course, all the warmth and love I felt during this visit was within the confines of a family’s home, which brings up an important point: On first impression Russians are generally not friendly people.
It’s the first thing international visitors notice: The streets are filled with nervous, blank faces. In public many Russians don’t seem to acknowledge that other humans are sharing their space. They are indifferent if, say, you want to squeeze past on a crowded sidewalk. They avoid eye contact as if they might get a disease from it. (A not-unrelated point: Russians who visit the United States are equally perplexed by Americans, and their obsession with smiling at people they’ve never met.)
You come to understand these tendencies. In Soviet times being in public was risky. If you accidentally spoke to a stranger who was under suspicion from the government, or told a joke about Stalin, or appeared too friendly with a foreigner, it could mean interrogation or in extreme cases worse—a journey to a Siberian prison camp. Many Russians developed coldness in public as defense, suppressing thoughts and feelings, not letting their true selves escape. And while the risks of putting yourself out there are far less severe in today’s Russia, remnants of that behavior remain. During three years living in Moscow, my wife, Rose, and I slowly adjusted to this. If someone slipped on the ice or was otherwise in need of help, strangers would often just walk by pretending not to notice. Why risk getting involved, especially if the police were being called? Rose and I would be the only people coming to someone’s aid, doing all we could with limit
ed Russian-language skills. A British diplomat friend once saw two teenage girls hit by a speeding car as they were running across a street. One of the girls was decapitated. The driver just sped from the scene. Our friend stopped his car, called an ambulance, and ran to the other girl, who was screaming uncontrollably next to her friend’s body. All the while, cars passed and pedestrians walked by as if nothing was out of order.
While seemingly cold and vacant to strangers on the outside, many Russians are beautiful and generous on the inside. Their public disengagement can be shocking, but they are some of the warmest people on earth. Once they get to know you and invite you into their homes, many Russians will freely share their stories, traditions, and food. When you enter a home, two things happen: You are offered a pair of slippers—polite encouragement to take off your shoes and make yourself comfortable—then you are offered tea or vodka. I spent many days hoping for tea and getting vodka. Whatever is in the glass or on the plate, however, there is no higher honor in Russia than to be welcomed to a family’s table and treated as one of their own, which was the case in Aunt Nina’s apartment.
As the shower slowly melts the hangover, I am feeling grateful. To be in Russia. To be on a journey with a Russian colleague who became my dearest friend in the country, Sergei Sotnikov. He has brought me to Nizhny Novgorod to spend time with his family. We are a few days into a five-week trip aboard the Trans-Siberian Railway. It’s the journey on which I hope you will join me in this book.
I am on this trip to see Russia, to experience it, to satisfy my curiosity and to answer enduring questions. My wife and I were Midwestern children of the eighties: She hails from northwestern Ohio, and I grew up in Pittsburgh. We were both raised by college professors who explained world events as best they could. Rose vividly remembers watching the Berlin Wall crumble on her family’s first color television, rabbit ears protruding in her living room, as her father told her what was unfolding—“This is the beginning of democracy spreading to the Soviet Union.” I was given the same expectation. So were millions of Americans.