SERGEI - Midnight in Siberia: A Train Journey into the Heart of Russia - page 11

Sergei's loyalty to me and NPR is impregnable. If he is given a work-related assignment
or piece of equipment, he guards it zealously. Once I bought him a roller suitcase on the
company dime so he could more easily carry his radio gear. He read the instructions care-
fully, and every time he reached a flight of stairs—even just two steps—he would stop,
push down the metal handle, carry the suitcase up the stairs, then extend the handle back
out. As a longtime owner of roller bags, I told Sergei it was fine to lift his up by using the
outstretched handle. “David—the instructions,” he said in his thick Russian accent. “They
say it can damage the handle.” That black bag came with us to every corner of the former
Soviet Union and always reminded me that Sergei, as much as he is a part of my family,
is also Russian—fearful of breaking a rule, mindful of authority. And I was his authority.
I would often say, “Sergei, we are colleagues—we both work for the NPR foreign editor
back in Washington.” He would smile and say, “But you are the boss.” Russians can't ima-
gine life without a boss, without hierarchy. In the workplace they crave structure, predict-
ability, and a pecking order. These touchstones offer comfort in a world that is otherwise
chaotic and unpredictable. Doing anything—getting a new driver's license, scheduling a
doctor's appointment, getting a document notarized—might require hours of delays and
unanticipated bribes. The weather can get extreme at any moment. Traffic in the cities can
become so bad, with no warning, that a trip you expected would take twenty minutes might
take four hours. So Russians find their order and consistency at work.
Sergei, like most of his countrymen, loved regular hours. He appreciated the ability to
arrive at work at a particular hour and leave at 5:30 p.m. Those hours, of course, didn't
work for an American journalist responsible for covering news at any time of day. Sergei's
devotion to me and the company outweighed his Russian instincts, and he was willing to
work whenever assignments came knocking. We had a favorite phrase we repeated count-
less times—“we can do everything”—meaning if we keep working, beyond what we may
have expected that day, perhaps long into the night, we really can accomplish whatever is
demanded. Poor Sergei lived in Moscow's suburbs, a two-hour train ride from our office,
and he spent many nights sleeping in a small bed in our office.
O N THE FRIGID Ukrainian morning when we arrived by train in his homeland, Sergei had
one request: that we drop by his father's home on the outskirts of town for breakfast. He
did not have to ask twice; I was thrilled to meet his dad.
The streets of his neighborhood were cold and depressing: dilapidated shacks lined un-
even streets blanketed by dirty snow. The dwellings were not built of wood—a material
beyond most families' means—but of slag, the waste matter from coal production, mixed
with cement. The smell and essence of coal seemed to linger everywhere. We trudged
through the snow, up to one home, and approached the door as a dog let out a headache-