Buy Me A CoffeeMarina and I wait for a bus, and when it comes, we squeeze our way into it, blending in with a crowd that pushes and carries us like a wave into the sea. I say “squeeze”. This is literally what it feels like – something very familiar to me and, at the same time, almost forgotten, because this happened every morning in my childhood when I rode trolleybus number…Oh my, I wish I could remember the number of that trolley bus I used to ride every morning to my kindergarten, with my father holding my hand while the crowd carried us along. I both remember it and don’t remember it because, although it happened every morning back then, it never happened once my childhood was over. I told Marina what it used to be like, who is so squeezed from all sides. There’s no need for her feet to touch the floor – the crowd holds her so well. And while I am squeezed between a plump young man in uniform, Marina is squeezed between me, on one side, and, on the other, the crowd of people that keeps growing every second. Still more people enter the bus, until finally, the door closes—a miracle—and the closing door pushes everyone even further in.
An old woman behind the plump young man in uniform, to whom I will refer as “soldier” for short, says, in a chastising tone that older women in Ukraine and other post-Soviet countries often use: “Muzhchina, you swerve me. Stop swerving me!”
It sounds funny to me because I never heard the Russian verb she uses, “kolyshete,” used this way means “push” and, as far as I know, it is not a transitive verb, that is, it is not usually followed by an object, which, in this case, is “menia” (me). The old lady’s complaint is just her way of saying a simple thing: “Sir, you are pushing me”. It sounds funny but I tell myself I should be careful saying “funny” about anyone’s speech here, after all, what do I know about funny, I, who had left the Soviet Union so long ago and whose ancestors lived in Ukraine when none of the people alive here had even been born. Whether funny or not, I tell myself to remember the old woman’s use of “kolyshete”– not so much because I want to use it myself but because I like colorful expressions, and hearing it from the old lady on this crowded bus seems like a find I should treasure.
Muzhchina, i.e., the soldier she addresses, says, “Lady, it is not I swerving you! People, she says I’m swerving her! But it is not I who is swerving her! It is my bulletproof jacket! I would never swerve anyone alive!”
He pauses, unzips a mini sack with a little carry-on pharmacy he carries on top of his bulletproof jacket, takes out a small set of medical wound dressings, and pushes it into my closed hand: “A gift for you, Indiana Jones!”
I say, “Indiana Jones… Is that because of my hat?”
“The lady is from America,” Marina says. I am getting used to this explanation of my presence in Ukraine, because even though I don’t feel like a foreigner here, it helps making my Russian-only speech, which might have been perceived as unpatriotic otherwise, (or for that matter the strangeness of my Indiana Jones hat) seem fine.
“True, the lady is from America,” I say about myself, “but the hat is actually from Australia, where no one thought of it as an Indiana Jones hat.”
I take off my hat to show its underside to the soldier. “See, what it says here? I point at a tag: Designed in Australia.”
He doesn’t react to my mention of Australia but nods when I say “America,” and at the end confirms: “Indiana Jones, yes.”
Again, he unzips his portable pharmacy and takes out a little present for me. This time it’s a small rolled-up package of gauze. “No, no,” I say with more conviction than before, “You need it much more than I do! Please keep it!”
“Indiana Jones,” says the soldier in all seriousness. “This is for you. Do not reject it. I imbibed a little more than necessary last night, but it doesn’t change the fact that this humble medical gift is all I can offer you. In honor of Indiana Jones movies, which I loved so much in the days of yore.”
He pushes the small package of gauze into my hand, and I must accept it, if only out of politeness.
“Well, thank you,” I say. “Not that I ever thought of myself as a replica of Indiana Jones…”
The old woman who complained about the soldier swerving her is now immersed in light – her toothless smile lights up her face, and every wrinkle on her face seems to exude light. I say ‘quite a sight’ to myself, considering that we are squeezed in the back of the bus like chopped-up herring in a tin can.
I say, “Really, I don’t want it.”
I give the small rolled-up package back to the soldier: “Not because I dare to refuse the honor of the gift, but because you need it much more than I do. In fact,” I say, “One day, your life may depend on having it. Which is why it would be wrong of me to accept it.”
“No, Indiana Jones, it is my gift for you. I would have given you a gun, but this is all I can give you right now.”
Marina says it’s time for us to get off, and I’m getting ready to make my uneasy way towards the door. Luckily, most people standing between us and the door get off at the same stop, and right before Marina and I leave, I try to push the gauze and the wound dressing into the soldier’s hand again. Still, he’s adamant: he closes his hand into a fist so no gifts can be returned, and that is that. The door shuts behind us, and the bus is gone, and along with it, the plump soldier with the little pharmacy sack on his chest and the old woman with wrinkles that exude light.
I say, “Wasn’t it funny, being called Indiana Jones because of my hat?”
Marina says that the soldier was sincere. She uses the word “iskrenniy”: he earnestly wanted to give me these things, and he meant well, so I shouldn’t hold this Indiana Jones thing against him.
“I know he meant well,” I say. “I just thought these medical supplies should have stayed in his little pharmacy bag. He needs them more than I do.”
“Well,” she walks ahead, showing me the way to go. “He did say that he had imbibed more than usual the night before. Although I still think it was very touching…the way he was so happy to see his Indiana Jones on this crowded bus.”
We walk some more toward Drobitsky Yar, the Holocaust Memorial just outside of Kharkiv, the goal of our trip, when Marina says, “Here’s a checkpoint. I hope you have your passport with you.”
I reassure her, “Don’t worry. I have two, which is more than enough for one checkpoint.”
____________________
FOOTNOTES
1Muzhchina – a male. “[…] you swerve me!” is a literal translation of “Мужчина, вы меня колышeте!” (romanized: Muzhchina, vy menya kolyshete”).
BECOME A PATRON
