THOMAS L. CHIU
HE CALLED HER
THE LAST TRAIN TO ALMATAY
I, Anatoly, was born the year before the November Revolution
of 1917. Seventy-eight years went by.
I was an only child. Why? Perhaps because we were poor. Perhaps my parents
were preoccupied with the turmoil of the times. That day in 1917 was to
decide the many fates of the Russian people.
We Muslims were not spared in the fierce and painful chaos of those times.
One thing which happened to my family was the forcible dispersal of our
inherited land. The consequence was indeed a sharp turn toward a life of
uncertainty. My father, after losing the property, had need for work. Because
of his literary skills, he was conscripted to edit a newspaper in another
town. My mother worked in a cotton field not far from our house. We saw
my father once a week, sometimes less often, for reasons we did not know.
I suppose, because of this arrangement, we took special preparation each
time father was to come home. Thus, mother would spend a little longer at
the farm to earn extra money so she could bake a special non my father loved.
She would add some cinnamon and honey to it. For me, it was an endless joy
of anticipation. Was he going to laugh? Was he going to tell us the many
stories of the big towns?
Out here in Khiva, my birthplace, in the heart of the Kara Kum Desert,
we learned the news after it was churned many times over. So we relied on
father's accounts.
Mother was anxious about the perpetual unrest among the people. She wondered
about the decrepit machines, which never got repaired. Her hands had bruises.
Would the new leaders bring better farming equipment? Father spoke of global
concerns, which baffled mother. They both always came to terms, however.
Their laughter sometimes made the chickens stand still, in shock. Arguments
melted into tenderness.
It was a cold dreary day, with some dusting of snow on the roads, when
I left home that early morning to catch the last train out from our village.
I had to hurry because the train would be crowded, and no seats were guaranteed.
I dreaded the thought of carrying my two large bundles of clothes and books,
because of the very limited spaces on the train. I feared the angry faces,
all ready to pounce upon each other, crowding into this last train. Many
even were uncertain of the destination. And yet there were no second thoughts
now.
I was travelling to Almatay to stay with my uncle, who promised to look
after me. My parents died not long ago.
I was eighteen. The world beyond our house was full of "strange beings."
That was my perception. Everything beyond the rail tracks was a cloud.
I was not thrilled at all.
The embarkation process took place rapidly. I found a seat in the middle
section of the train. It was going to be mine for the next twelve or fourteen
hours.
Meanwhile, within the wagon of the train, I noticed that a variety of people
were holding tightly onto what appeared to be their life's belongings, like
myself. There were small children in the bosom of their mothers. There were
men with tired looks on their faces, clinging to their tools and metal boxes
that contained nails, hammers and measuring instruments. They seemed determined
to go. Was it a better life they were seeking? Or was it simply a life?
I too, was in this similar dilemma, though I thought my mission was to
acquire a new life. The train was our vehicle.
Indeed, no one knew or could predict what would happen the moment the train
started to roll.
About an hour on, the skies turned dark. The heavens opened up with snow
pouring down upon us. We all uttered something unpleasant. Someone cursed
the gods. We shared the view of the soft white flakes smearing our windows.
Suddenly we all were thrust into staring at each other. I tried to read
"My Mother" (or was it simply "Mother"?) but was distracted
by my neighbor, who incessantly coughed and made so much noise I began to
fret. Though not hungry, I sifted through one of my bundles for some dried
apricots. Soon the crying of children could be heard. Eyes turned to the
poor mothers, who tried everything to calm their infants. Two men, probably
the fathers, gently took the infants from the respective mothers and started
to bounce them in the air. One father began to sing a lullaby. I was amused.
It took my attention away. The other passengers smiled approvingly. An elderly
man, who wafted in and out of his dream, managed to whistle the same tune.
A Little carnival.
Time soon floated before us like ceremonial flags. We forgot its passing,
along with our own individual agonies and distress. We settled into the
very simple routines that were our anchors: sitting, eating, pulling our
sweaters closer to the skin, exchanging short uninteresting comments. Those
with blankets covered themselves regally and turned themselves away from
those without. I was beginning to feel the chill and later on the cold that
came through the broken windows and the half closed doors between the wagons.
For some reason no one bothered to check those doors. I found out later
that they were always left half-open because once closed they were not easy
to open. There was this rumor that an half-closed door prevented people
from being trapped inside when fires broke out. A frightening thought.
The cold now began to inconvenience me and perhaps the other passengers
too. My parka was proving inadequate. While trying to cope with this discomfort
we were informed that tea was going to be served. The tea was made from
carrots and apples. Somehow the idea immediately had a soothing, even warming
effect.
I negotiated through my bundle a piece of non, baked for me by a farmer's
wife. What a joy and sorrow-the non soaked with the sweet hot tea, which
was going to be my only meal. It's ordinariness seemed almost holy, a precious
moment.
Did I know what was to come the next few minutes or at the next station
stop? I entertained the thought that each taste of non I savored would
last forever.
Lulled by the perpetual movement of the train, my body began to feel the
need to recline and to go to sleep. I used one bundle as a pillow and rested
my head against it. Soon I was in deep slumber and dreaming. It was a blissful
dream. I was sitting near the lake where I once spent the summer with my
parents. It was most serene and comforting.
My sleep and dream were shattered suddenly by a sound that resembled a
gigantic crane gone berserk. It was, indeed, the deathly halt of our train.
We resigned to a long, long wait before the so-called engineers found out
the cause of the trouble.
In the meantime, there was confusion and vexation in every carriage. That
there might be a sabotage by a few disgruntled soldiers of the Red Army
was brought up. Arguments erupted among those sitting close to me-elderly
men who had been to previous wars. They also rambled about the perennial
famine, the inevitability of another revolution, the poor coal production,
and the treacherous wintry months ahead.
Now it was November, and to listen to all these sad things made the prospect
of coming days more gloomy and heartbreaking.
As If the motionless state of our train was not enough to cause gradual
discomfort and agony, a groan was heard, getting louder each minute, from
the far side of the wagon. The sound came from a woman with a starkly luminous
face about forty years of age, in a prostrate position lying across two
seats. An older, white-haired man, maybe her father, stood near her, his
right hand over the woman's shoulder, consoling her. The woman was mute,
apparently. She kept moving from side to side. Her eyes were red. Her tears
flowed like a spring. She was a miserable sight. And we were unable to do
much for her except to wish that our train would start running again.
In the midst of this chaotic scene, I looked out the window. The vastness
of the land, both near and far, was stretched out before us like a white
carpet. It was beckoning us to move on. Maybe even to tread upon it, so
we could be carried off the ground. All I wanted was to get to my new home.
"Do you know how long we are going to stay here?" I asked a man
sitting quietly behind me. He was not too forthcoming to what I considered
to be a simple question.
Disappointed by the silence, and feeling embarrassed, I withdrew and sulked.
After a good half hour, the same man tapped my back.
"I am sorry, my boy. I was thinking and praying. You asked about our
predicament here. I am afraid I cannot tell you for sure how long we are
staying here. You see, the tracks ahead were damaged by the floods this
spring, and no one cared to repair them. The snows have covered the alternate
tracks. It is not good news, my friend. I know you have much expectations
ahead of you. You have school to go to? Whatever the outcome, you have
a bright future. My future seems to have stopped here. I no longer can see
the apple trees so lovingly planted in Almatay."
The man was clearly soliloquizing. I did not follow this rambling. I refused
to consider that he had no future. The last few hours on the train gave
me wonderful opportunities to see and feel and, indeed, even share the heartaches
of the people with similar destinies. Our train would be here for some time.
And we were nowhere. We all believed this was not the last train
to Almatay.
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