Which brings me to some news. I’m actually writing to you from a Trans-Siberian Railway train compartment. We’ve decided—well, that’s not entirely accurate, Chase decided and I’m a reluctant but willing participant—to take a new job in Siberia. Before you jump up and start accusing me of betrayal (I know you had me signed up for the Gull Lake Community Church book club), let me say that this is going to be good.
Remember that time Chase got injured during his junior year playing football? He got hit in the ribs, right under his pads, and had a bruise on his side that took up half his body? He had to sit out two long games—I know, because I was there in the stands, watching him pout on the bench. I also recall the team losing those two weeks, due to the absence of their starting wide receiver. And remember the night during that time when he snuck over to our house, climbed up on the roof and knocked on our window? Halloween—I’d dressed up as the queen of hearts, complete with tiara and gown. I remember it well because he made me sneak out while I was still in my costume.
Oh, wait, I just remembered you were home all night, sick with the flu. I should probably tell you now that I never responded to your moaning in the middle of the night because that lump in my bed was actually a wad of pillows. Sorry.
Anyway, Chase and I went out on his motorcycle, and we drove down to the football field. He made me throw him spirals for two hours, just so he could feel the pigskin in his hands. He had this look in his eyes, too—a sort of desperation, like he might forget how to catch it and his life would then unravel before his eyes. You know how much football meant to him, especially after his mom died. He acted like it was the only thing worth living for. Although, if I had a dad like Chase’s I might have felt that way, too.
So the point is, I got to thinking about that and decided that for Chase, going home would be like being benched for a whole season. I know, I know—when Mom finds out we’re staying for another year (and that’s all, really, I promise), she’ll probably cry and box up one of her famous lasagnas and FedEx it to Moscow—or rather, Siberia. So you need to be there to help explain it to her.
Cookies, by the way, make it through the mail just fine.
Lest you think I’m losing my mind—and yes, I’m aware that brain cells diminish with each pregnancy, but outthinking Chloe has me at the top of my game—I did extract some promises from Chase:
1. We will live in a house. Seriously. Do you know how often the elevator dies on us? Just last week, we made it to floor 8 1/2? and waited for an hour before help arrived. I long for a yard, something free of cigarette butts, broken beer bottles and open manholes.
I am going to miss, however, the sunset over the skyline of Moscow, the way the sun flows over the tops of buildings, infusing the twilight above Gorky Park with gorgeous color and turning the walls of the Kremlin to bright crimson. I’ll miss the way the winter snow hides Moscow under a blanket of grace and how, as I stare down on it from nine flights, it resembles icing.
Which suddenly makes me miss your kringle. I think that could also ship well.
How are things going at the restaurant? So nice of you to take over Mom’s job as head baker. Sounds like Mom and Dad’s new place in Arizona is nice, also. I hope we’re not leaving you and Milton in too much of a bind running Berglund Acres on your own.
But I digress. Back to the promises.
2. We are going to homeschool. I’ve already started teaching Chloe and Justin their ABCs. Justin is exceptionally smart. After all, he knows how to dodge Chloe’s bite better than I do! How hard can it be, really? I love to read, and Chase has a couple of very large books here, one chronicling the history of the world. My kids will be brilliant!
3. I am buying a car. Seriously. I am tired of lugging home groceries on my back, dragging two toddlers on the subway (well, only one, really, since Justin actually uses his legs for more than just dead weight). I want wheels. Especially since we’ll be living in a village. Yes, a village. I’m not even sure what a village is. I’m seeing thatched roofs and busy bakers’ daughters, but knowing Russia like I do, that can’t be accurate. After four years, I know I have to be ready for anything.
I know you think these may be large requests. But a girl has to put her foot down sometimes.
WorldMar took Chase’s decision to turn down the chicken project pretty well. Maggie and Dalton were sad to see us go, but they promised to visit. As for Sveta and Igor—they’re expecting! Finally, little Ryslan will have a brother or a sister.
Meanwhile, I spent the past two weeks packing. Thanks to Aeroflot—which won’t allow us to take more than one suitcase per person, weighing twenty kilos (that’s roughly forty pounds)—and Chase’s fear that anything we put in a container to send east will disappear forever, we decided to take the train.
Yes, I said train. For seven days. Across Russia.
Chase was so enamored of the idea, I actually bought into the romance. I packed a few read-alouds for Justin and Chloe, along with a bag of toys, and even slipped in two—okay, five, but what if I run out of reading material?—books to read.
Nostalgia meets reality. It isn’t pretty.
Everyone in Russia takes the train. This fact should, I would think, guarantee some amount of standardized comfort. No such luck. It’s true that we took the train from Moscow to Ukraine for our vacation, but I thought we’d just gotten a very old train that didn’t represent all Russian trains. Silly me.
Have I mentioned that Russia is caught in the 1940s? Think World War II movies, with long, green train cars, smoke puffing out from under the giant metal wheels and officers dressed in uniform standing on either end of the platform, holding what look like AK-47s. When Daphne and Caleb came to say goodbye and we were all crying, it really was as if we were being sent off to Gulag. (I can’t get this out of my mind!)
Thankfully, Chase reserved us a private compartment. I had whittled our belongings down to fit into eight suitcases, but they still fill the upper bunks of our compartment to the brim. Chloe and Justin have had to share our lower bunks the past two nights. Remember: cloth diapers.
Our bunks are made of cracked brown vinyl, and someone turned the heat up to broil—probably in anticipation of never having heat again once we get to Siberia. Justin and Chloe are stripped to the waist and spending their days leaping from bunk to bunk. Between the bunks is a small table on which we picnic each day.
Lest you think Russia is without comforts, they do serve complimentary tea every morning. However, the buildup of grease on the ceiling above the stove in the dining car made me turn to my stash of bagels and I haven’t been back there since. Our saving grace is the food vendors lined up outside on the train platform at every little town we roll through. The train stops for about twenty minutes and Chase darts out and buys roasted potatoes in a bag, cooked palmeni, winter salad (think potato salad with cooked carrots, pickles and beets) and fresh bread.
The conductors—who aren’t nice, stately gentlemen but plump, angry babushkas who would just as soon throw us from the train as bring us our tea—close the bathrooms during these stops. This annoyed me until I took the time to explore this inconvenience. One look through the escape hatch of the toilet directly onto the tracks, and I understood why. Travel note: Never walk on a railroad track in Russia.
Chase, of course, has made friends with our fellow passengers. Last night our neighbors knocked on the door and invited Chase over for smoked fish and vodka.
Now, don’t get excited—Chase hasn’t become a drinker in Russia. But the man loves his fish, and three hours later I could hear him leading a round of songs next door.
This just might be the longest week of my life.
Once we get there, we’re going to be just fine. I know it’s Siberia, but really, how cold can it get?
Don’t worry about me. It’s only a year. I can do anything for a year.
My love to Milton, and kisses to Amelia and baby Clay.
Josey
“Chloe!”
They say that all
your sins come back to haunt you when you have children. I’m here to tell you that they’re right. I gave birth to a child who is constantly paying me back for every dark night I slipped out of the house to hang out with Chase and disappear on the back of his motorcycle.
“Chloe!”
She’s dressed in just her underwear and T-shirt since we’re traveling in a moving sauna. The compartment doors are open—to circulate the heat, apparently—and I get up, duck my head out the door, and peer down the hallway. The little scamp has made her escape. She’s standing in the hallway and at my voice, she looks back at me, gives me a grin and bolts.
Oh, good, it’s a game. “Chloe!” I step out into the hall, on the chase.
Outside, the terrain is chapped and brown, foretelling the upcoming winter. When we pass through villages, I see the same tired, scarf-outlined faces staring up at the train, old faces that wear travail and exhaustion in their lines, that look at me with wondering eyes, trying to imagine where I’m going, what I’m doing.
I’m trying to imagine the same things.
I’m numbed by the never-ending landscape of identically forlorn villages—the wisps of black coal smoke from broken chimneys and the blue and green houses, poorly hidden behind lopsided fences.
I’m starting to dread what I’ll find in Bursk.
“Chloe!” She weaves in and out of the legs of fellow sojourners who have their elbows propped up on the railing that runs along the windows. Most are dressed in nylon sports pants and sleeveless army T-shirts. They all wear the monotony of our trans-Russian trip on their faces. No one makes a move toward the runaway.
“Chloe, stop!”
I’ve nearly caught up to her when I see a man turn from the window and crouch, right in her path. “Hey there, tyke,” he says, and I just about fall over. English!
He’s slowed her enough for me to catch up, and I scoop her into my arms, throwing her wriggling and giggling body over my shoulder. “Thanks.”
“I see I’m not the only crazy non-Russian taking the train across the Motherland,” he says, standing. “Nathan Blume.”
“Thanks, Nathan,” I say. “Josey Anderson.”
“Oh, a Scandinavian,” he says, smiling. He’s got dark eyes and dark hair and is wearing a T-shirt, sweatpants and flip-flops. His version of Russian casual.
“From Minnesota,” I say, filling in the blanks. I take his hand. He has a firm grip.
“South Dakota,” Nathan says. “And who is the runaway?” He nods to my daughter, who I now spin around and prop on my hip. She claps at this acrobatic move.
“This is Chloe.”
He takes her hand and gives it a little pump.
“I have a matching male version back in our compartment.”
“Twins. Wow. Bet that’s fun in Russia.” His eyes are twinkling, and from his comment, I realize he’s been in Russia long enough to understand that twins in this culture are an oddity, and a collective joy. I can’t walk down the street without having babushki stop and make comments about my bookends. Russians have no problem asking personal questions, and the most common is, Where is their babushka? Apparently, they should be with their grandmother because someone my age isn’t equipped to raise twins.
I sort of agree with that one, actually. But I smile at Nathan. “Oh, yes, it’s been so much fun. And now we’re moving to Siberia.”
“You and the kids?”
“And my husband, Chase. He’s working with Voices International to help create industries in a Nanais village.”
“Oh? Where?”
“A little town called Bursk. It’s north of Kha…Kha…”
“Khabarovsk. And by the way, technically, it’s called Far East Russia. But it feels like Siberia. It can get pretty cold there, even if it is on the Amur River. I hope you brought your dublonka.”
“My what?”
“It’s a thick fur coat. You’ll need that and a shopka—it’s a fur hat.”
“I do speak Russian, although lately my vocabulary is limited to child-care and household products.” I laugh, but there’s a sad irony in the fact that I came to Russia four years ago knowing the language, and now my husband can talk circles around me.
Nathan smiles, and I notice it’s a warm, nice smile. “A few grunts and some sign language will get you a long way. The people in Bursk are very nice. They’re used to having tourists visit in the summertime on excursions up the Amur River. They take them mushroom picking. And of course, it’s on my route.”
“Route? Are you a postman?” I’m jesting, of course, and he laughs. I think I like this Nathan.
“I’m a missionary. I visit all the northern villages a couple of times a month.”
“Josey?” Chase comes up behind me, puts his hand on my shoulder. Chloe squirms in my arms and reaches out for him.
“This is Nathan,” I say, handing off the renegade. She doubles over in shrieks as Chase runs his fingers around her tummy. “He’s a missionary from South Dakota. Apparently, he knows where Bursk is. He travels there on his route.”
Chase shakes his hand, smiling. “Come by our house when you’re in town. We’d be glad to feed you.”
Chase means he’d be glad to feed him, because our visitor would perish before he found something edible besides chocolate-chip cookies made by my hands. The Berglund iron-chef talents I did not inherit.
But I’m not really thinking about that. I’m relishing the word house.
I beam up at Chase. “Yes, stop by the house when you’re in town.”
Nathan chuckles, shaking his head. “A house, huh? Are you sure that’s what you want?”
His amused tone rings on in my ears like the dying dismal sounds of a gong as I look out the window to the shadowed steppe, the train chugging toward my future.
Chase’s ability to navigate through a country he’s never set foot in before astonishes me. He was born to be on the Travel Channel, or maybe that reality show The Amazing Race. We pull up to the train station in Khabarovsk, and he has a fleet of men helping us out of our compartment. (The fish-and-vodka breath clues me in to who they are.) Nathan is there, holding Chloe, keeping her from making another escape. Justin is a man after his father’s heart, lugging out a duffel bag about twice his size, aided surreptitiously by, again, Nathan.
I really like Nathan, with his now six-day beard. He carries himself like Chase—confident—and Russian rolls off his tongue like he might be Slavic, although he proves he’s from South Dakota by expertly handling the Minnesota three-hour goodbye. He is standing beside us and all our gear while Chase hails a cab.
“Chase tells me that you taught ESL?” Nathan says, letting Justin take a running dive at him from the raised wall of a bone-dry fountain while I attempt to keep Chloe away from the feral cats that roam the sidewalk.
“Kitty! Kitty!” Chloe reaches for one as it hisses at her and scampers away. I spot Chase standing on the curb, his hand in the air making the international sign for “I want a cab.” In Russia, however, anyone can be a cabbie—yes, there are official cabbies, but even Chase has been known to pull over, name his discounted price and give the occasional fare a ride across town.
“I taught English once upon a time at Moscow Bible Church,” I say, shooing away another cat from Chloe with my foot.
“I had friends there,” Nathan says. “Matt and Becky Winneman. But they went stateside quite a few years ago. Probably before you got there.”
I smile at him. Because I know more about the Winnemans than is acceptable to discuss in polite conversation. Like how Matthew nearly cheated on his wife with a slinky Russian translator and how Rebecca turned to me for help and tried to teach me to cross-stitch in the process. I glance at Chase, at the way he’s now negotiating a ride. I’m fairly sure Chase would never cheat on me—at least, I’m sure right now. But I know how easily it can happen.
Not to me, of course. But others.
“So what is it that you do, exactly, in Bursk?” I hook my foot around one of my bags as
I see a woman, dressed in layers of acrylic headscarves and flanked by children who could use a good bath, edge toward us. The first time I saw Gypsies was in Moscow, at the train station. My heart cries out against their poverty, but I’ve also been told that Gypsies are essentially an organized crime syndicate. I’m not sure what to believe, to be honest.
I pull Chloe up to my hip.
“I’m trying to plant a church there, but so far, I can’t get the men to come, and the women don’t trust me. So—” he gives a shrug “—I’m trying to talk the local detski-sod into letting me teach Bible stories.”
Justin launches himself again, and Nathan catches him, throwing him over his shoulder. The move reminds me so much of Chase, I’m wondering if these two were twins separated at birth. It would explain why they hit it off so well. He looks at me. “The kindergarten is going to love having Justin and Chloe.”
Uh, no. “I’m going to homeschool them.”
Nathan gives me a look I can’t interpret, just as Chase returns. “I found us a cab.”
Get Cozy, Josey! Page 5
