moscow train to the war

Despite the disadvantages of such a long train ride - the change of almost 9 time zones and the ever wobbling floor - Marshall enjoyed it. Drinking hot tea from mugs with beautifully patterned cup holders and alternately watching the shimmering trees in the window for almost the entire compartment, and then kissing Benedikt in passing and flipping through magazines one after the other, spitefully turning the pages a little faster. It seemed like an eternity since they'd seen their whole family, but in fact it had been almost four years, and all they could do was drive to the border and deliver gifts and letters, not sure if any of it would reach them at all. Getting through on the phone was a dead end. Their worries combined into one big tangle that could not be unraveled no matter how hard anyone tried. When they got back in the late morning, Benedikt was pulling out their things, and Marshall tilted his head a little to the side, looking at the dial on the clock hanging over the platform. The black hand moved slowly but surely toward twelve o'clock. Next to it, but noticeably lower, hung a train schedule. The train to Vladivostok was about to leave, and in another fifteen minutes people from the next platform were going to Leningrad. On a neighboring platform, some girl was playing classics, hopping from foot to both feet, and another boy who ran up to her seemed to be suggesting that he draw the tiles of the platform with chalk instead of jumping on imaginary numbers. Probably if Marshall could have crossed the tracks he would’ve joined them with great pleasure. Benedikt swayed slightly because of the weight of the luggage in his hands; Marshall’s suitcase was considerably heavier, whether from the fact that he had robbed the train a little by carefully stuffing the cup holder in it, or because he had picked up rocks from the beach in Vladivostok. They made absolutely no sense, but Seo was sure that one day Benedikt would ask him for a couple of them to draw on another white sheet and set the unusual lines on them in watercolor. Marshall intercepted his suitcase and, rubbing Benedikt’s shoulder only lightly, strode at the same pace as him down the platform. It had been a long time since they could have run as fast as they could to the station door, or Marshall would have run, and Benedikt had no choice but to accelerate. Age, and baggage, and the weight of steps that comes with time, left no strength for such fun. “Kvass?” Marshall poked somewhere near a stall with girl in white apron pouring brightly colored liquid into glasses. Seo had already learned this station by heart, even better than Benedikt, though they had never been to the Leningradsky Station next door, for example. “Only yeastless for you,” Benedikt hummed, setting his suitcase on the floor, the flat, horizontally long bottom allowing it to be set so it wouldn't move even if a hurricane came through. “If you don't take me the sour one, I'll probably put you in this yellow barrel.” “If you’re going to stain my sweater,” Benedikt poked his finger at a small goldfish that was embroidered on the yarn fabric. “Afraid that I can't forgive you if you get this fish drink some kvass and it dies in agony.” For teaching someone's granddaughter to draw fish, Benedikt received embroidery, which even after almost ten years he never dared to put in the far corner of the closet. Girl went to Poland with her mother, clutching a large, bright drawing of her beloved goldfish. Benedikt had never once asked what had happened to her. Grandma hadn't received a letter from them since last year. “Better take care of the real one. She gives you a sad look every time you walk by.” Benedikt rustled the banknotes in his pocket. “She just wants to eat my paints.” Marshall pretended to throw up his hands. “Why don't you show her how you draw then? Her aquarium on a windowsill somewhere would look nice and she wouldn't be that sad.” With both suitcases closer to the wall, Montagov went to get them both some kvass, for he had miraculously found two coupons in his coat, and Marshall got a newspaper at a kiosk. Being the one responsible for the administrative and economic side of the business by which they survived must have given him a morbid mania for reading almost everything he could get his hands on. Benedikt pulled a crossword puzzle from the last page and was satisfied with that, but it was true to say that the more they continued to read the news the more panic they would fall into. They both couldn't care less about politics now – not when their whole family might have already fallen victim to it, not when war was around the corner, and not when all they had left was themselves and their strong shoulders to lean on. Neither Marshall nor Benedikt told each other that somewhere out there they were both making their own, inarticulate escape plan. Their attempt to finally call Moscow home was failing miserably; they'd probably have to run even farther, but how close would they be to those they did leave behind ages ago? Benedikt handed Marshall a glass of kvass and leaned closer to slide his eyes over the lines with him. Seo took a big gulp and grimaced, flipping the page so Montagov wouldn't have time to read anything. “Probably the most sour kvass I've ever tasted in my life,” he coughed. “Did they accidentally confuse flour with citric acid?” Benedikt kicked him lightly and flew back over himself, but quickly lost interest. “It would be nice if there was something here besides who got elected to the party,” Marshall handed the news bulletins to his husband and moved back to the suitcases, which no one had been so kind as to steal while they were both scattered about. Benedikt leaned on the suitcase, and Seo set his glass on the floor. “Look, I think we should for sure ask Alisa which coat she likes better later,” Marshall poked at a poster of sketches of outerwear in the newspaper. “Last timeI saw her, she had a big hole in the side of her jacket. I'm not sure if Juliette can sew it up.” Montagov mumbled something in response. Despite the acidity that seemed to sting his tongue, though not much, Marshall drank most of it. He looked again for the clock with his eyes because he didn’t want to bother Benedikt to show him the wristwatch, but it seemed to be hidden somewhere. No one wanted to hurry home, though the bustle was tense, and they thought that as soon as they crossed the threshold of their apartment they would find themselves not in comfort, but in another lump of anxiety. And now, frozen somewhere between the journey and everyday worries, it seemed that they could stay here longer and maybe even take the next train somewhere. To the other side of the world, to a place where no one could reach. Something jerked against Marshall's leg, and he jerked, falling on top of Benedikt, almost to the floor. Someone's soft fur felt through the thin fabric of pant leg. “Oh my god. Who are you, buddy?” Seo glanced at the dog, ears hanging out and looking straight at him. Its eyes stared straight into Marshall's same eyes. Benedikt folded the newspaper in half and looked at the dog, too. He put his husband on balance, but Seo crouched back down and gently touched the slightly wet nose. “Do they let dogs in here?” Benedikt gently scratched dog behind the ear and dog tried to jump on him, wagging its tail. “Who did you come with?” Either dog had mistaken Marshall for his owner or it just wanted someone to play with, and one of the few people who were just standing still and not in a hurry was them. “Go back to owner, hmm?” dog still kept glaring at Seo and sticking out its tongue. Marshall had to sit down on suitcase, too, and try to calm the dog, who kept trying to jump on it. The light-colored Borzoi, with a little bit extended head and short, drooping ears, flapped its black-black eyes, and it was almost as big as Marshall, though it had thin paws. Dog glanced at Benedikt as it tried to get a better look at him. “Are you lost? Or do you just want to play? Sorry, but the only entertainment we have is the newspaper,” Montagov twirled the red headline in his hands. “And I'm not sure you can do the crossword puzzle with me.” Borzoi liked the crossword puzzle, especially the places that were inked the most and was ready to pounce on Benedikt next, so Seo wouldn't be able to hold it back, scratching behind its ear. But a boy ran out from the side of the platforms, shaking a jar of crayons in his hands and looking around nervously. His red cheeks and shining eyes were a contrast to the dullness of the station, which seemed to be pressing, and the dreariness could hardly be displaced by idle, funny talk about nothing. Barely noticing a dog trying to sit on the suitcases of two strange men, he immediately rushed over there. “Is this where you’ve been all this time?” he almost shouted, running up to dog and hugging it around the neck. Borzoi barked loudly and finally broke away from Marshall, pouncing on boy. “I thought you'd stepped on the railroad tracks somewhere. How could you do that!” It's true what someone says that pets are often like their owners. Dog's fur was lightly brownish color, right in line with the boy's hair. And they were both so complementary that if they hadn't had each other they would have remained souls lost somewhere. Benedikt smiled slightly, seeing dog literally knocking boy to the ground. “I guess it was just bored and came to wander around,” Marshall shook his head. Boy barely pulled the dog off him and it licked his hand, sitting up and wagging its tail again. “Thanks for not letting him slip away, or I've already done that to him,” he nodded at dog's extremely happy face. “He once ran from the fourth floor outside in the freezing cold! I almost went mad, I thought he'd freeze to death if he didn't come home.” “He's quite a runner,” Marshall chuckled. Borzoi licked suspiciously near the crayons and boy jerked his hand away. “You already ate my blue crayon. If you get poisoned, mama will kick you out of the house,” boy stroked his nose and pushed his muzzle away from harm's way. “Are you going somewhere or have you just arrived?” inquired Benedikt. “I came to see my sister off, but there are such schedule delays that she and my aunt probably won't get on the train until this evening,” the boy shrugged. “And you came to the capital to rest?” “No, we live here,” Benedikt scooped a paper ticket out of his pocket. “We did go to Vladivostok for some time.” Boy seemed to glow. “Really? On the Trans-Siberian Express, just like that? I heard there are beaches there, is that true?” They both nodded at all one hundred and five questions from him. “Have you ever been to other countries?” “Kind of,” Benedikt answered evasively for both of them. “My mom wants to go to France, I think she's already thinking about buying a ticket there. She says we'll have to leave him here,” boy scratched Borzoi behind the ear. “But I don't want him to starve to death somewhere. I want to take him with me.” “You probably won't be able to take him anyway if your mom just doesn't have enough money for a ticket,” Benedikt sighed. Boy lowered his head sullenly, but his glare didn’t fade, he was very, very interested in these two strangers who were much to his dog's liking. They were sitting on their suitcases, drinking some pretty much alcohol and reading another newspaper full of propaganda. Benedikt personally, besides doing something to make boy not so sad, wanted to have a camera with him to draw the views from the train window, and the rainbow shining from the glass, and the dog himself - as he was with his ears hanging down and his tail standing up. “Do you live in Moscow, too?” stepped forward Marshall. “On Tverskaya-Yamskaya. We got it from,” boy twirled his hand and the box of crayons in the air. “Somebody. I don't know.” “Oh, and we're on Tverskaya,” Benedikt leaned back, holding his coat so it wouldn't fall to the floor. “Not far at all, we don't live on the side that adjoins Okhotny Ryad.” Though to get there and not go bankrupt they had to live in the suburbs for six months, later move to the outskirts of Moscow, and only then slowly but surely move toward the center, skillfully choosing the time and place to move. Their route from home to the train station became shorter and shorter each time, until in the end they had only two long streets to walk. “We have our own kind of spontaneous painting class. That's how we survive honestly.” Boy looked at them excitedly. “It must be great there! Can I paint anyone I want?” “Well, whatever your heart desires,” answered Benedikt simply. “I can draw you your dog if you like. So you won't miss him so much.” Dog barked again at the whole station and rubbed his nose against Montagov’s leg. He wasn’t averse to having his portrait taken. “Just keep in mind that you'll have to pick the best one,” Marshall put in. “He won't rest until he’s done a couple hundred sketches.” “And I'll draw my own,” boy assured. “May I? May I come to you?” Benedikt and Marshall looked at each other enigmatically. After all, would they lose anything by doing so. For most of their students - the love of animals is like a whole part of their personality. Benedikt loved their timeless stories about cats, dogs, fish, even rabbits. He would help their drawings with ears, legs, pink noses, and thin whiskers. Marshall kept entertaining the part of the people who drew the damn thing time after time. Marshall handed him his second ticket, and Benedikt, finding a pen in his suitcase, began to write out their address. “Memorize if you lose it, okay?” Benedikt’s pen barely touched where it was writing. Boy nodded readily and glanced at Borzoi, who was just as absolutely staring at him. He smoothed fur on dog's neck lightly. “Tverskaya Ulitsa, building...” but Benedikt didn't have time to finish. A soft whistle rang through the hall, from the speakers upstairs and the radio in the kiosk and next to the kvass stand, but it made everyone’s ears ache. Then were loud words: “Attention! Attention, please!”. Marshall lifted his head in sync with everyone else in the room. There was silence. With unblinking eyes, half the crowd stared at the radio, hanging somewhere between hissing and trying to say something. Borzoi whined a little pitifully and nuzzled against the boy. Benedikt didn't notice the ink from the pen dripping first onto the paper he held in his hand and then onto the coat on his lap. Marshall tried to find that janky jazz that played just a moment ago seemed to come from every crevice and remained so playful against the grayness of everything else. He didn't immediately understand the words coming from the nearby radio. First they formed into sounds, then into letters. Leading his gaze along the curls of his husband's blond curls, Seo finally heard it. “...We are transmitting an important government message. Citizens of the Soviet Union, today at 4 in the morning, without any declaration of war, German armed forces attacked the borders of the Soviet Union…”