East Bound - Russia x Germany

Sovietskii

Vorkuta looked like it was glazed in clear frosting, little wisps here and there. Old snow was packed around the sides, but the platform looked clear, crisp, and empty. High, stark white apartments stood around on stilts, while lower, cement coloured buildings seemed to cower beneath them. Russia was staring out the window, absentmindedly twirling his ushanka strings. We had long packed, folded, and put away everything so that we sat on the bare faux leather. Poland tapped his foot in agitation, always looking from the window to his hands, burrowing his brow. The train screeched to a halt on the bare station with its neon flashing lights, and a non-operational sign reading 'Welcome to Vorkuta!'. Russia made us wait till every other passenger that was in a hurry left. That way, we wouldn't need to trip over our own feet. We had no place to go. He himself was almost placid, not minding Poland's nervousness, and kept watching the outside. He finally huffed, stood up, and waved us to follow.

"Let's go." He put his duffel on his back so that the straps went over his shoulders, almost like an alpine extreme hiker. The cold hit me as soon as I came out of the warmth of the car. We had to skip across the platform because of the cold nipping at our ankles and necks. Seeking refuge under the station, we quickly put on the fur coats. Milling around, loitering, talking on the phone, growling, laughing, crying, were people, all dressed in thick jackets and hats. Some, in grey uniforms, looked grim, others in multicoloured clothing were merrily on their way. Most of the people were from our train, you could tell by their many possessions and western-style clothing. Natives and army outposts were in muted colours, holding almost to nothing. Russia strutted up to one of the older men with epaulettes. "How far till Sovietskii?" He asked, too bad he spoke in German before he realised his mistake. It made him sound like a tourist.

Slowly, the man gave his answer. "Close. Could go on foot if desired," he eyed Russia for a moment. "Westerner," he tilted his billed cap.

"Извините," the other seethed. "But army officers should deem more respect to those who served." The dynamic switched immediately. The officer realised too late that next to him wasn't a tourist. Nor a regular civil citizen, either. 

The man reeled. "Oh, sorry. Erm, well, you can go on foot....sir," he tried meekly.

"As a matter of fact, I will," Russia growled, marching off. He joined us where Poland shook his hand in congratulations.

"As if he was a lower rank than you!" He chattered in giddiness.

"Hmph, they shouldn't behave like we're all worms," Russia said. "Come, there's a store that sells good boots here."

"Isn't Vorkuta a prison city?" Poland asked.

"Yes. Still, sort of is. The coal has to be mined by someone. Easy labour. It used to be, just like any other northern settlement, an exile camp. You're here till the rest of your days," He led us out of the drafty station, into the square. Cars that you wouldn't normally see on roads were everywhere. Volgas past their prime. Broken down Moskvitches without windshields. An old orange Totra. Here and there, a muddy Skoda could be seen. He made way across the street to a meat and fish kombinat centre where they sold an assortment of items. We came in, and I was hit with an unpleasant smell, a mix of mustard seed with fish and cold boiled meat. The round grey tiles on the floor were covered in spats of black gum glistened in the whitish old lights. At the end of the hall was yet another plastic white door, and we entered. The large hallway was occupied by strings of dried fish, crumbly churchkhela, a type of snack where nuts were coated in sugary syrup, dried fruits and spices, rows and rows of smoked sausage, and kolbasá. I was almost about to ask why we came here when I noticed another small passageway leading to an underground channel. On the top read 'Fur and Boots - Cheap' written in red against yellow. We descended into the dark little shop below to find an array of coats and furs and boxes upon boxes of different shoes. The man behind the counter was busily smoking, exhaling through a vent, not even noticing his new customers. It took me tripping over a wood block with a thump to make him whip his head around.