We walked into a dance hall dressed in jeans and bright shirts that immediately attracted the attention of an assemblage of local girls, and at the same time stimulated the dislike of the resident boys. Yura invited a good-looking girl to dance, oblivious to the mood of the male crowd. Sensing a strong hostility in the room I abstained, wanting just to get out. Yura didn’t finish the dance, as we were hustled outside and surrounded by a gang of boys who clearly intended to beat us up. It was dark, and we couldn’t see how many of them were outside. Yura said to me in English, “I will act as if we were foreigners. Don’t talk to them. Find a moment, then hit and run to our place.”

I didn’t have a time to answer when Yura pushed one of boys who was standing close to him; I did the same. In the ensuing chaos we ran, chased by the mob. We ran into our hut and barricaded the door. The gang was furious, and tried to break the door down, swearing that they would tear us apart when they got to us.

And here was our fine moment, just like in The Magnificent Seven movie. We assembled and loaded our shotguns, then shouted to our besiegers, “We are going to come out and kill all of you!” They just laughed and foul-mouthed us; someone threw a stone at the window, and the shattered glass scratched Yura’s hand.

I shouted again, “Get ready, bastards. I am going to count to two, we are coming out… One...” On the count of two I kicked the door open, and we came out with our guns. This surely looked like a scene from a cowboy movie, few against many, superior intelligence against brutal force (we had guns, they didn’t).

Yura shot in the air, and asked, “Who want to get it first?” No one said a word, and the dark figures of our assailants melted into the night. I turned to Yura and said, “They have guns too, I suppose. They will be back, so we must get out of this place right now!” He didn’t object.

We heaped our clothes into our suitcases and left the hut in the hurry. We ran. The intoxicating moist air, full of the scent of wilted grass and flowers, enveloped us. We were full of energy and excitement.

Covered by fog, our path was glistening with dew in the pale light of the new moon.

We found our way back to the railway station, where luckily for us, a passenger train was arriving in an hour. That was the longest hour I have ever waited, expecting every minute the arrival of the insulted and humiliated aborigines.

A train stopped for five minutes. We appealed to a conductor to let us on without tickets, and after paying him some money we boarded the train. What a lucky day! The train was traveling south.

We found an empty compartment, and before our journey began we fell asleep, tired after the adventure. We slept until noon, and when awoke, we discovered a third man in our compartment; he was dressed in the cheap clothing of a village dweller, and kept to himself.

The train was scheduled to arrive in Sevastopol at eight in the evening. After lunch in the dining car we returned to our compartment, sat and watched scenery, and talked about our recent adventures. Time slowed down; the compartment was hot and uncomfortable even with an open window. There was no air-conditioning.

We came out into the corridor looking for a cooler spot.

A militiaman was moving along the corridor stopping at each compartment, knocking on doors, and checking passengers’ documents. Yura prodded me, “Look, a policeman. Where are our tickets and passports?”

We came back into our compartments and told our fellow passenger to prepare for a document check. That seemingly innocent event transformed the man instantly. He became nervous and fidgety, and his face became covered with dark red spots; obviously, he was in state of extreme agitation. He reached for his luggage—which consisted only of a small, cheap suitcase made of plywood—and opened it to be ready for the policeman.

We came out into the corridor again. The militia-man was in the middle of the car.

“Hey, what if this passenger is a criminal? Did you see how nervous he became?” said Yura.

When the militia man opened the door, our co-passenger stood up and extended his body into a string like a soldier in front of a general. He handed over a pink paper to the authority, and then reported, “Returning from a place of temporary confinement!” the policeman perused the paper for a long time, gave it back, and said, “Good.”

Militiaman gone, the passenger felt a need to explain, though everything was clear.

“I am going home after fifteen years. They should have let me go after Lame Devil (i.e., Stalin) expired, but someone decided that my situation was special.”
“Why it was special?” I asked.

“You see, I planned to assassinate the whole Politburo. I was sixteen at the time. They should have shot me, but something else was going on in politics, I couldn’t say what it was, anyway I got twenty-five years. In 1953 I thought they would let me go, but I was wrong and for eleven more years I cut the wood.”

I nodded, “At least now you are going home.”

“I have no home to speak of. My parents are dead, and my other relatives won’t admit my existence. I don’t blame them—times were hard. I am going to get out at the next stop, a friend of mine works there.”

Our recent activities, born from boredom, suddenly looked stupid. The train arrived at a station, and the man with the plywood suitcase walked out.