If aggression triumphs, the whole world will be engulfed by a new era of war, and we might not see the end of this era in our lifetime. The future of all of us now depends on the bravery of the Ukrainian people. It is our duty to support them. – Yuval Noah Harari, 24 Feb 2022.

The Wshodnia train station in Warsaw, Poland, is different to many buildings in that city. Rather than the formed concrete and sharp edges that dominate the design of many structures, it is all modern glass and exposed steel beams. The high ceilings and clear walls do not provide any respite from the cold weather of winter though, and any thoughts I had of discarding my beanie and jacket as I entered the main entrance of the station were quickly forgotten. Even most of the locals seemed to keep their winter gear on although, of course, there was the one teenage boy kicking around in shorts to go with his puffer jacket.

A check of the departures board confirmed I still had at least an hour to wait until I’d be able to confirm which platform my train would depart from. I sat down on one of the benches nearby, checked for the 83^rd time that I still had my phone, wallet, glasses and passport in their assigned pockets and killed the time either reading or ‘doom-scrolling’ through various social media channels. One of the videos that popped up on my Facebook timeline was combat footage from Ukraine. A conflict that I, like many others, had viewed through the prism of bite sized video clips, posts and too short news stories – it was so far away and surreal, but at the same time the soldier and the father in me felt rotational pangs of connection and guilt in turn.

After what seemed another day of waiting but was really only 40 mins my train’s details flashed onto the departure board. Train 1251. Departing 17:49h. Destination: Kyiv. Platform: 3.

The train from Warsaw to Kyiv takes about 15 hours all told including a couple of stops for border crossing formalities and are generally quite full. I strode out to the long platform searching for my assigned car. The train that evening was 18 carriages in length, composed of a variety of first, second and third class seated and sleeper options. As luck would have it my carriage was located at the far end of the platform from where I emerged into a very cold, dark and wet Warsaw evening. I hunkered into my jacket as much as I could, pulled my scarf up and beanie down, grabbed my bags and marched as quickly as I could to my carriage. All thoughts of the war and conflict remained as impersonal and far away as the video I had seen earlier. That was all about to change. Three stories, from three families, on Platform 3 would make it all very real.

The Wife

As I finally reached my carriage I raised my eyes from the ground and popped my head slightly out from my scarf to look for the conductor so I could check into the train. It was only then I noticed a tall blonde-haired lady standing near the entrance to the carriage, a small boy hugging her leg tightly. The lady was distraught, tears streaming down her face and mixing with the freezing rain as she spoke rapid fire at the conductor and his offsider, gulping air between breaths in what I can only guess was a plea for help or explanation of her plight. The offsider, a gentle faced older lady, had her hand on the back of the blonde-haired lady in a comforting manner.

They definitely did not need me interfering so I moved away a bit, waiting for them to resolve the problem and hopefully be able to assist the increasingly upset lady. The conductor and offsider stepped away to confer and in doing so moved closer to me, heads bowed together. I have zero knowledge of Polish but as a Portuguese linguist there are occasional words that sound similar. . .one of those bobbled out of the conference in front of me and bounced around my head until it triggered a memory. Bilet (Polish). Bilhete (Portguese). Ticket. The lady didn’t have a ticket.

“She has no ticket.” I said at the realisation, louder then intended. The conductor and offsider looked up, and while many people in Poland speak good English, this was not the case here. The look on the face of the conductor was a mix of confused and annoyed as the random, nasal Australian injected himself into the situation. Glancing between the lady,  the train and the conductor a potential scenario rose to the surface in my jetlagged and cold-addled brain. The lady needed to get to Ukraine. She had no ticket for this train. I actually had a spare ticket! My work colleague for this trip, Mark, would miss the train due to flight delays in the United States and catch up with me later in Kyiv. And so instead of jamming two people into an allegedly three people sleeper cabin, it would just be me. There were two spare bunks.

“Excuse me, they can stay in my cabin.” I offered. I combined this with a vague combination of hand actions to try and demonstrate my intent but as my siblings could attest, I had always sucked at charades and Pictionary and clearly my efforts here were not any better. But being a creative and innovative fellow I figured out I could use my phone instead. Breaking out Google Translate, I asked if there was a problem with the ladies ticket and said that she and her son could stay in my cabin if that helped. The conductor took my phone and read the translation with the offsider peering intently next to him. They chatted briefly before the conductor waved his hands and shook his head “Nie, nie.” The offsider grabbed the phone and rapidly typed something back into it. The translation – which became a discussion over a couple of messages – was heartbreaking.

The lady was trying to get back to Kyiv and then onwards to another destination. Her husband was either injured or ill from the war (the translation wasn’t clear) and she needed to get to him. But she had no ticket and it sounded like there was an issue with identification. So there was a concern that either the Polish or Ukranian Border Police would not permit her to travel. They would not allow her on the train even with my spare ticket. She would not be getting to her husband any time soon.

The offsider led the lady and the child away and back down towards the stairs. Even further away from where she needed to be. Still separated by war from her husband.

The conductor gestured for me to move forward, checked my passport and – in an irony I’m still not sure how to process – let me on the train without confirming my ticket details.

The Sister

Once I had lugged my hefty suitcase onto the train I turned left into the narrow passageway and made my way down to my cabin. The cabins were on the right hand side of the train away from the platform. Each contained three stacked bunks on the rear wall, a small basin with a wooden cover doubling as a table, and a smaller cupboard more akin to a bathroom mirror cupboard (sans mirror), but one that thankfully had a power outlet in it that could charge my rapidly depleting phone battery.

The bunks had a rolled mattress and pillow. Sheets and pillow slips were provided in plastic packaging. I had brought a sleeping bag with me just in case the linen provided wasn’t warm enough for my Australian blood but the temperature inside the cabin was warm, bordering on stuffy so that wasn’t going to be an issue. I ditched my jacket, scarf and beanie, plugged my phone into the outlet and went and stood in the door to take in some fresh air and people watch. I was one of the first onboard and the remainder of the cabins started to fill up with the other passengers in drips and drabs. My neighbours on my right were a mother and daughter. The mother roughly my age, the daughter in her twenties I would guess. They were joined by another lady who they did not know, but a rapid round of what I assumed were introductions had them familiar enough to ignore each other peacefully. Down the passage a bit another mother and two children wrestled their luggage forward. This mother would have been a few years older than me, her children were a boy in his late teens by appearance, and girl of only eight or nine. A teenage girl paralleled their movement down the passageway from the platform, waving and pulling a funny face at the young girl on the train.

The group arrived at the cabin to my left and moved inside. Various bangs and crashes followed as luggage was stored, and then the boy stepped into the passageway, turned and gave his mother a big hug and a quiet word. The sister pushed her way in between them and pushed her brother into the passage, she received a pat on the head and a quick hug around the shoulder in return. Then the boy moved back up the passageway, hopped off the train and joined the girl on the platform. The two minute separation from the girl who I now deduced was his girlfriend had clearly made the heart grow fonder as they kissed on the platform. I looked away and down to the sister who was now pressed against the window of the train looking at her brother.

“Petro. Petro. PETRO!” she called to get his attention. The brother looked up and smiled and replied in kind. The sister was jumping up and down, perhaps regretting her earlier push and begging for her brother’s attention. The mother came out into the passage and guided her back into the cabin but she quickly remerged and this time, with tears in her eyes, called for her brother again. Petro came to the window and in the water and dirt marks on the window drew a tic tac toe board. With a practice that suggested this was not the first time they had done this, the sister started the game, her lip trembling as she did. They played it out and because brothers are brothers when they are messing with their siblings regardless of what country they are from, he beat her in four moves. The sister grouched, then cried and banged on the window as she talked in sobs. Not for the lost game I imagined, but the departure soon to be endured.

The  brother quickly drew up another game and, despite having a clear path to victory early on, managed to let the sister win this one. He had a kind face and was speaking gently to his sister as they played. After the second game she was too upset and her mother picked her up and took her inside. The brother and his girlfriend stayed resolutely in the rain for another ten minutes gesturing and clowning for the sister in the cabin before waving a final goodbye and moving away. A howl of despair from the girl followed them into the night.

The Daughter

Having watched the two heartbreaking scenes and not being able to do anything, I was really wishing I’d packed some of the famous Polish vodka to console myself. With a long ride through the night in the cramped cabin to follow, I stayed in my doorway stretching my legs and arms. As I did so the soon to be last onboard passenger arrived. A solid looking Slavic man in his 40s. His close cropped brown hair tinged with silver over a broad face and wide frame. He manhandled his duffel bag from one shoulder to the other while adeptly holding onto to the girl he held in his arms. The girl’s arms clung tightly around him, her face buried in the crook of his neck with her jacket hood protecting her from the rain. Accompanying them was a lady who was well dressed for the weather but much shorter. She dragged a small suitcase behind them, head down and struggling to keep up with the large steps of the man. He reached the entrance to the carriage and placed the young girl down on the platform as he rummaged in his pockets for his ticket. As he turned to the conductor the little girl’s head and shoulders dropped and her hood slid backwards. She was young, maybe five, and her parents appeared old for such a child – at least in Australian terms.

With his ticket checked the man threw his duffel onto the train, sent the suitcase following and then returned to his family. He brushed tears from the face of the lady – his wife? – hugged her hard and close, then bent down to the little girl. She did not or could not lift her head as sobs racked her body. A pure devastation rumbled through her and nothing would console her. The man was kneeling in a puddle as he talked to her, words and sound muffled through the train walls. Through the rain I thought I could see scuffed combat boots on his feet. And the scene fell into place – a soldier going to war. Or maybe returning to war. Certainly another separation about to be made wider as our train wound across the Ukrainian steppes.

The man stood up and deftly jumped onto the train. The daughter reached her hands up, fingers clamping the Warsaw air, and yelled “Papa! Papa” and he quickly returned for another hug. His wife leaning her own body over the two of them in a final family embrace. But it is time. He must go. So he boards again and the daughter’s world comes crashing down.

The man sees me in the passageway observing, nods in greeting and ducks into his cabin a couple up from mine. I don’t see the daughter and her mother leave – this was too much even for me and I seat myself on the bottom bunk and begin to write what I have just seen. To write this tale and hope I can truly capture the emotion and do justice to those three families. To be able to explain a usually unseen aspect of  the war to those of us who are far away, viewing a conflict through bite sized video clips, posts and too short news stories. The three families on platform have taught me a lot.

Epilogue

Almost sixteen hours later we arrive in Kyiv. A city of legend and stoicism and resilience to me. The man with the duffel bag emerges bleary eyed into the passageway as I do. A camouflage uniform now his mode of dress. He nods to me once more, takes up his bags and moves onto the platform. I wish him luck in my head to wherever he is going.

#NAFT #SlavaUkranyini