Night Train to Cracow

This summer our family took a short 10-day trip to Eastern Europe -- our first.  We planned to visit Prague, Czech Republic and then Cracow, Poland.  It is a 12-hour journey by train from Prague to Cracow.  Our naive thought was to save a precious day for sightseeing by taking a night train and sleeping comfortably in a compartment and arriving fresh and rested in Cracow.  We arrived early by taxi at the Prague railroad station.  It was quite steamy out.  We ate a tasty light dinner and trundled our suitcases down the long, long platform past many railroad coaches to what we thought was our sleeping car.

We lifted our baggage aboard, went down the aisle and encountered a porter who glanced at our tickets and waved us back -- wrong car.  We attempted to cross over the coupling between the cars but found the door locked -- a dead end.  What the hell?  So we climbed back down to the platform with our bags.  We saw two porters, approached them and asked which way to our car.  One pointed to our left and one pointed to our right.  What to do?  Chaos!  The time was getting short and so were our tempers.  My wife cried that we would miss our departure.  I swore.  We argued.  Eventually, our 25-year-old daughter Eve led us to a distant car.

There, a young man dressed in a dark suit and tie and holding a clipboard looked at our tickets and motioned us aboard the car where he was standing.  He even helped swing our heavy cases up the steps.  Very welcome at this point.  We walked down the narrow hallway past the doors of the compartments, found our number and squeezed in with our bags.  Inside were two facing bench seats for daytime use. On the right bench sat a young man, small of stature with stubbly blond hair.  We said hello and he replied in clear English with a Slavic accent:  "Ah, Americans.  I am Evgeny."  I shook his hand and smiled.

The compartment was designed to sleep six people.  Our family numbered four.  We stowed our bags under the seats.  He threw his backpack up onto a ledge above him.  Above each bench seat were two levels of folded bunks, the top one quite high, near the ceiling.  Eve volunteered to take the middle bunk and Mary the lower.  I figured I had to take the upper.  But then I pictured myself rolling out of the top bunk in the dark and plummeting to my death on the steel floor below.  I looked dubious.

Evgeny saved me.  He said: "I will go up -- you are old."  I thanked him.  We all smiled.  Our car steward whose badge identified him as "Jan" came by and looked in.  He spoke serviceable English and told us that he had bottled water and beer for sale, then passed by.  I noticed that Evgeny already had a couple of bottles of beer beside him.  He offered one to me.  I thanked him and said:  "Maybe later."

Then the train station began to glide by.   Soon we passed through the Prague neighborhoods and out into the countryside.  I stood in the aisle across from the compartment, leaning out the open window, enjoying the breeze and looked for possible things to photograph with my new little camera.  Nothing special, so I entered our room.  I pointed to Evgeny's Black T-shirt which said "Polska" (Poland).

He said:  "I am Russian but I visit Polish friends in Warsaw.  We drink beer together.  Many beers."  He got up:  "I will be back."  He left, but soon returned carrying an armful of bottles.  "This should be fun," I thought.  He offered them all around, but we said we'd already had wine with dinner and declined.  I didn't want to get woozy and miss the Czech and Polish sights.  He popped one and drank it down in two big gulps.

He said:  "I like your country, America, but . . .," he wrinkled his face in disdain, ". . . Obama no good."  Mary, my wife, pleased to hear that sentiment, nodded in agreement.  My liberal daughter looked askance.  "Obama no good for president."  I thought he as quite outspoken -- the beer talking?  Eve tilted her head and asked:  "Why not?"  Evgeny laughed out loud:  "Obama is a black man.  Black man can't be president.  Impossible!"

Eve's and Mary's eyes locked and they both leaned toward him, in rare and sudden accord.  Mary said:  "Race has nothing to do with it.  We have many brilliant black men in office, in the Supreme Court, in business.  Color has nothing to do with it."  Evgeny leaned back, seemingly unused to hearing such radical notions.

There was a pause in the conversation.  I changed the subject.  What was he doing traveling?  He said he was on vacation.  Was he in school?  He said proudly:  "I graduate from University in St. Petersburg."  I asked about his family.  He came from a family of doctors:  "My father is doctor.  My uncle is doctor.  My brother studies to be doctor.  My mother is -- how you say? -- psychiatrist."  "And you?"  "Not me.  I don't know yet -- maybe lawyer or engineer."  Wow, I thought, he is one of the elite of Russia.

He asked politely, "What did you do in Prague?"  We all looked at each other.  Such a swirl of images and places and buildings in four days!  I did recall the colorful pictures of the celebrated Czech artist, Alphonse Mucha.  Beautiful Art Nouveau prints.  Lovely ladies.  I said:  "We went to the Mucha museum."

His face clouded:  "Ah, Mucha -- good artist, but . . " he spit it out:  "Mucha is JEW!"

No one spoke.  Then Mary said:  "I don't think so -- I saw a picture of him singing in his church choir.  Maybe Catholic."

"Ach, no!" He shook his head.  Silence.

He asked:  "What else did you do in Prague?"

I thought, "Well we went to the museum of communism -- that was really something.  Upstairs, over the McDonald's. On, maybe not -- better skip that."

"Oh, we went to another museum -- of the writer Franz Kafka -- the famous novelist."

He said:  "Ah, Kafka, very big writer, but . . .," his lip curled, "JEW."

After a moment, I said:  "Yes, I guess so.  I don't know if he was Orthodox."  I thought, "Maybe I will mention the museum of communism."

"Oh, Evgeny, we also went to the museum of communism.  We saw the statue of Lenin pointing his finger toward the glorious future.  The many propaganda posters of Uncle Joe Stalin."

Evgeny shook his head.  "Ah Stalin -- Stalin is JEW!"

We looked shocked.  Mary said:  "Wait a minute -- I thought he was a Georgian."

"Da, da -- Georgian Jew."

I added:  "But he was schooled in a monastery -- by Orthodox priests."

He smiled, knowingly:  "Ah Propaganda -- all lies!"

I stared at him.  I said:  "You know, I've heard and read about Stalin after the Khrushchev secret speech denouncing Stalin, but this is a new one!  He often persecuted Jews --- oh well."

Eve said:  "Oh look Dad -- a town."

I took the opportunity to get up and cross the hall and take a couple snapshots.  A village, neat houses with red-tile roofs, and a concrete block factory, then rich green country, glassy rivers, bushy banks.  Dusk was falling.  The hall lights came on.

Two girls came out in the hall.  College age.  Giggly Americans.  They both wore tan T-shirts with large brown Hebrew letters across their chests.  I stopped them and asked what they were going to do in Poland.  "Oh," they said, "our group is touring."  Some of their grandparents had been Polish and they wanted to visit where they had lived -- before the war.  One gestured down he hall: "We fill up the whole rest of this car."  And she giggled again.  They looked in our compartment and nodded and went down the hall.

I wondered if Evgeny had noticed them.

Sitting down again, I looked out the window as another train roared by in the opposite direction to ours.  "Quite a busy time."  Evgeny nodded.

He asked:  "What do Americans think of Premier Putin?"

We looked at each other.  I said:  "Well we don't know too much about him.  Umm, we wondered about after the last election.  All the demonstrations in Moscow -- the democracy movement?"  He sneered:  "Ah, democracy!  What Russia needs is a strong leader.  Putin is strong."  He clenched his fist.  "Putin very strong man."

Another silence.  Evgeny was aroused.  "All these foolish little countries that try to go by themselves:  Ukraine, Byelorussia -- all those.  Foolish!  Stupid!  Putin will bring them back to us.  Putin will make Russian empire again, big and strong!  You will see."  He sounded angry.  We looked at each other.

Just then, the steward knocked and held out a white armload of sheets and pillows.

Galvanized, Mary and Eve grabbed them, pulled down the upper bunks on their side, and stretched the sheets over the cushions.  I sat on the bench seat by Evgeny.

I asked:  "Do you drive a car?"

"Oh yes," he said proudly, "I am 21."  He pulled from his pocket a wallet and displayed a plastic card that looked much like my driver's license with his picture on it.

"If policeman stops me, I must show card."
"Oh sure," I said.  "Me too."

"If I am in St. Petersburg, will usually be OK . . . But if i am in another city, not so good."  He shook his head.

"Why?"

"Policeman will say, . . " his voice grew gruff, " . . Why you here and not in St. Petersburg?"

"Aren't you free to drive from city to city?"

"Yes, but is Eastern Europe.  Police will ask this."

Inspired by his example, I drew out my Minnesota photo driver's license and held it next to his.  They looked very similar.  I think he read my full name --  "Shapiro" -- and he looked at me and the girls.  Shortly, he got up and left us.  He didn't come back until the steward came by and said that overhead lights in all compartments will go out in 10 minutes.  He pointed out small reading lights by the pillows.  Then he got very serious.

"Your door has three locks.  Use all three."  I looked.  Isn't two enough?

He said  "Inside button locks can be opened by key from hallway."  His voice dropped.  "There are gypsies on train.  They have keys.  You must do this."

He pointed to a small steel chain hanging from a screw on the inner door frame. "you must wrap it around inside door knob and snap it together  Do it every time you get up.  They will steal all you got while you sleep -- passport, watch, jewelry.  Never hear them on noisy train."

Mary shook her finger at me:  "You hear? -- Every time."

We brushed our teeth in the little toilet at the end of the car.  Over the sink, there was a small sign with a skull that warned not to drink the tap water.

The night was still warm.  No air conditioning.  While our window was slid open, it was not bad inside.  Evgeny came back and made up his bunk above me.  The car went dark.  The girls went to sleep fast.  In the dark, I tried to.  But many trains roared past.  Then there were signals clanging.  And now and then, we stopped dead in places with glaring floodlights.  Were we in a station or a train year?  Bump, bump.  We started up again and the purple curtains began to flap outside the windows again.

I groaned, stirred, and sat up and tried to tuck them inside and slid the window closed.  Quieter.  Better, for fifteen minutes.  Then the trapped body heat and sweat built up until Evgeny stirred and opened it.  The din returned.  I think I slept two hours.

The steward rapped on our door.  I opened it.  "Cracow in twenty minutes."

 Very groggy and bleary-eyed, I forced myself to get up and staggered barefoot down to the toilet.  I must get in before the others.   Sweet relief ahead.  Ooh, the floor was all wet.  I rinsed my face, lips pursed, and returned.  The girls were up, dressed, had closed the upper bunks and were sitting on the bench seat getting ready.  Evgeny's leg still hung out above me as I sat, half bent over.

The steward hustled by and demanded our sheets and pillows.  We were too weak to resist.  Evgeny stirred and pulled his big pack out of the ledge above.  I said:  "Drop it and I will catch it."  He did.  He slid down and we collapsed bunk and sat side by side.

He asked me:  "So how did you sleep?"

I groaned:  "Miserably -- noisy, sweaty, hard bunk."

Evgeny smiled and looked superior.  "Ah -- that is why you must drink beer.  I slept good."

My wife said:  "You must visit the United States and you will meet many fine people there -- some black and some Jews.  Your mind may change."

"Ah, no, impossible."

She smiled and pulled her Bible out of her travel bag:  "What is the greatest book in the world?"

"Ah, the Bible."

"So, who were all the people who wrote both parts?"

Evgeny looked puzzled.  Then he laughed.  Was it an epiphany?  He pulled out a metal cross from under his shirt.

The train slowed and stopped in the station.  The hallway was filled with the college girls and their backpacks.  We finally exited.  Evgeny went one direction and we went the other.