POLINA - Midnight in Siberia: A Train Journey into the Heart of Russia - page 109

“I saw it!” she says, knowing full well that this American radio crew had not come to ask
her for directions to the banya . “It was heading over that building. It was a ball. I thought
it was just the sunrise, but then”—she claps her hands together once to re-create the loud
boom she heard—“and there was just black-and-white smoke. I was afraid. But just for a
moment.”
We ask if the community has recovered.
“I think this was actually a message from God,” she says. “A message that our commu-
nity is nice and deserves some attention. We have enjoyed the attention.”
And Polina has moved on, suddenly far more interested in my clothing choices. I am not
wearing gloves or a heavy coat. She suspects vanity.
“There are just old guys around here—no one to fall in love with you,” she says. “Get a
hat on, kid.”
Sergei and I move on down to the lake, which seems surprisingly peaceful for the very
spot on Earth that just swallowed a meteorite. We find one guy walking down a snowy path
along the lake. Yes, he saw the meteorite. No, he wasn't stunned. No, he hasn't found any
debris. No, he doesn't know where we might find some—but he suggests a village eighty
miles away, back on the other side of Chelyabinsk.
Done.
Sergei and I climb into the car and ask Oleg to set course for Yemanzhelinka. The place
is barely a village, more a depressing settlement that makes Sagra seem well developed.
There are perhaps three or four feet of snow on the ground. The homes are wooden and
uncared-for, painted in light blues and greens, with dark gray metal roofs sagging under the
weight of the snow. This dying little place is sadly common in Russia, villages with stag-
gering poverty, unpaved roads, rampant illness, alcoholism, and dwindling population that
are largely forgotten by the government. We drive slowly through the village. I ask Oleg to
stop to chat with a teenager who's passing by.
Sergei asks if he's seen any space debris.
“Oo-meenya, yees [I have some]!” he says, digging into his pocket, then opening his
hand to reveal a small black pebble, perhaps the size of a marble. I am not going to lie. The
fact that this is—or at least may be—a chunk of extraterrestrial debris seems pretty cool to
me.
“What are you going to do with it?”
“Show it to my friends. Keep it as a memory.”
“Would you sell it?”
“Well, there are rumors that some guys are paying one thousand rubles [thirty dollars]
per gram.”