| General Fiction posted August 25, 2025 | Chapters: |
...20 21 -22- 23... 
|
  |
The Journey to Kyiv
A chapter in the book Dmitri's Extraordinary Fate
Dmitri's Extraordinary Fate: 22
by tfawcus
| Background Dmitri, a 17-yr-old boy who has been convalescing from war trauma with Elena, a volunteer carer, is now trying to catch up with his girlfriend, Leila, who is on her way to Turkiye. |
.jpg)
The blare of a two-tone horn heralded the train’s arrival. As it swung around the corner and bore down on Dmitri, he felt like a knight confronted by a dragon. He raised his hand, and instead of swallowing him up in a burst of flame, it slowed and came to rest with a deflated pssst. He climbed aboard, and, after stowing his bag, settled into a seat by the window with Stanislav’s satchel resting on his knee.
The last of the carriage doors clunked shut, a shrill whistle blew, and with a groan and a shudder, the engine jerked forward. The rhythmic clackety-clack of the wheels gained tempo as the train gathered speed, and he was on his way into the unknown with a tangle of emotions. However, any regret he had about leaving Elena and Pavla was outweighed by the anticipation of adventure and the prospect of being reunited with Leila.
He fingered the locket that lay next to his heart and pressed his forehead to the glass, watching fields of sunflower stubble slip by. Tall, once-erect stems fringed the fields, but they were now dry, coarse, and drooping from the weight of depleted flower heads and they stood like wounded survivors. He turned his gaze inward. Across the aisle, an amputee with week-old stubble fingered the stump of his missing arm, his gaze fixed on a point in space. Dmitri opened his sketchbook and started to superimpose the one image on the other. The soldier noticed the way the callow youth kept glancing up at him and scowled.
Feeling uncomfortable and embarrassed, Dmitri put away the sketchbook. To cover his awkwardness, he turned his mind to the cost of getting to Istanbul. He certainly couldn’t afford a flight from Moldova to Türkiye. That was out of the question. Even if he took a bus the whole way, travelling through Moldova, Romania, and Bulgaria, the cost of the journey was going to be more than twice what he had in his pocket. He had three days before his eighteenth birthday, so he needed to earn money fast. Maybe he could set up in the railway station precinct when he reached Lviv and try his luck offering lightning caricatures. If he could get half what the soldier had given him in Moreniv, he’d only need to sell a few.
With that in mind, he reopened his sketchpad and drew some to put on display as samples of his work. He knew enough about human nature to add a touch of humour. He sketched Myko Doroshenko with eyebrows bristling, standing in the doorway of Baba Roza's café with his rolling pin raised, and to attract the ladies, he drew Leila in a graceful dancing pose. He was particularly proud of his sketch of Pavla wearing her flamboyant velvet jacket with the silk scarf knotted at her hip, a champagne glass in one hand and an impossibly long cigarette holder in the other. She looked every inch like a model from the 1920s. The soldier watched him with interest and came over to have a look.
‘Not bad! Not bad at all. How much do you want for the dancing girl?’
‘A thousand.’
‘You must be joking, lad.’
‘All right. Eight hundred … for a hero of Ukraine.’
The soldier grimaced. ‘I’m no hero. Just a poor bloody baker with one arm missing. Now, let’s have a look at the one you were doing of me when you thought I wasn’t looking.’
Dmitri pulled it out from under the pile and held it up. The soldier looked at it in stunned silence. ‘By Christ, how did you dream that up? It’s just the way it was. You’re a flippin’ genius.’
‘Do you want it?’
‘Not likely. I’ve got more than enough memories of my own without that. But I’ll take the dancing girl.’ He put his wallet on the table and thumbed eight grubby notes from it awkwardly with one hand.
Dmitri again felt a tinge of guilt as he handed over the drawing, but he was over halfway towards getting his bus fare. The thought of rescuing Leila overcame any scruples about trading on her beauty.
The train arrived in Lviv late in the afternoon after wending its way through several kilometres of suburbs. Velinkra and Kalynorad paled into insignificance in comparison to this vast metropolis. The station seemed more like a palace than a railway terminus. Glass tunnels overarched the platforms, bathing them in a soft and golden light, and the main concourse took his breath away with its soaring columns and chandelier. He gazed up in awe, and passengers buffeted him around like a pinball as they scurried for their trains.
Finding himself in front of a newsagency, he bought a reel of sticky tape, a packet of rubber bands, and a new sketchpad. Thus armed, he gravitated to the relative backwater of the station café. He had three hours before his connection to Kyiv, and he hadn’t had a bite to eat since breakfast. A family with several children was vacating a table against the wall, leaving half a bowl of French fries unconsumed. He slid in behind them and surreptitiously snaffled a few. Glancing around to make sure no one was watching, he scooped a handful into a paper napkin and slipped them into his pocket for later. A sparrow swooped down beside him and cocked its head expectantly. He emptied a few crumbs into the palm of his hand and watched as it sidled towards his fingers.
A waiter loomed up beside him. ‘We’d rather you didn’t feed the scavengers, sir,’ he said, while clearing the table. ‘Now, what can I get you?’
He ordered a glass of tea, and while waiting for it to arrive, stuck his sample pictures on the marble column behind him, together with a notice proclaiming, “Lightning caricatures: 700 UAH each”, and underneath he wrote “SPECIAL OFFER: Two for 1000 UAH”.
While waiting for a flock of eager customers, he sipped his tea and sketched the grand architecture of the main concourse. He was so engrossed in the task that he failed to notice two burly security guards approaching with an Alsatian straining at the leash.
‘Move on, lad. This is station property. Find somewhere else to tout your wares.’ The Alsatian underlined the order with a low growl.
He stuttered an apology, took down the sketches, and fled.
A bewhiskered gentleman sporting an Alpine hat followed him through the impressive entrance arch and onto the street.
‘Hey, lad! Wait a minute. What’s your name?’
Dmitri swung around to face him. ‘Dmitri Zahir. Why do you ask?’
‘I saw what happened in there. Those two bullies. They had no right … Look, I’ll give you a thousand for those pictures you had on display. They’re good. Especially the one of the flapper.’
He paused, looking Dmitri up and down appreciatively. ‘And if you want a decent meal instead of those soggy French fries … and a bed for the night … my place is just around the corner.’
Dmitri pocketed the thousand-hryvnia note in exchange for the drawings and offered his apologies. ‘That’s very kind of you, sir, but I’m booked on the overnight train to Kyiv. Perhaps another time.’
The man sighed. ‘Ah, well, c’est la vie. You’re a fine-looking young man. Take my card in case you happen to be passing this way again. Best of luck to you and take care in the big city. It’s a dangerous place these days.’
Dmitri backed away, touching his forelock and muttering, ‘Not half as dangerous as it is here.’
***
He had booked a third-class ticket in a platskartny vagon, an open-plan sleeping car carrying half a hundred passengers, and ten minutes before departure, he joined a jostle of figures on the ill-lit platform.
An inspector in a peaked cap scanned his boarding pass and ID with a torch. ‘Third carriage,’ the man said briskly, pointing with his penlight towards a cluster of people surrounded by battered suitcases; men and women of all ages, bundled in coats and shawls against the night chill; and children perched on heaps of luggage, swinging their legs. A spirit of camaraderie had already sprung up, and he was welcomed into the group with quick smiles and nods of acknowledgement.
‘First time in platskartny?’ a stout woman with a kerchief asked as she shifted a heavy rucksack on her back.
He nodded. ‘Yes.’
She chuckled. ‘You’ll love it if you don't mind a bit of snoring.’
‘And farting,’ a young man with a guitar case chimed in to the accompaniment of ribald laughter.
Dmitri smiled hesitantly, grateful for the welcome.
When the train horn sounded and the doors clanked open, the whole group surged forward in a kind of orderly scrimmage. People hauled each other’s luggage aboard, a child was boosted up by three different hands at once, and the guitarist grabbed Dmitri’s arm and hauled him aboard.
‘Top bunk?’ asked the kerchiefed woman, pointing at his ticket.
‘Yes.’
‘Then you’ll need this.’ She handed him a folded mattress pad. ‘Spread it out quick before the train lurches. Watch the trick: tuck the end under the board or it slides all night.’
Following her example, Dmitri climbed up to the narrow shelf and spread the pad, trying to imitate the efficiency with which others were making their nests. Across from him, the young man with the guitar was already humming under his breath.
The woman winked at Dmitri and said, ’He’ll be singing us all to sleep before long.’
The guitarist laughed. ‘Better than the sound of the wheels, eh?’
Dmitri settled onto his bunk, the satchel with Stanislav’s art materials resting against his chest. The carriage was alive with chatter and the squeak of mattresses being unrolled. For a moment, he forgot the uncertainty of what lay ahead and relaxed into the security of this strange, temporary family on wheels.
Once everyone had settled and the first bustle of bedding down was over, food began to appear as if by magic. Plastic bags rustled; lids popped off enamel tins; the sharp scent of pickled cucumbers mingled with the sweetness of apples.
‘Here, lad,’ said the kerchiefed woman, pressing a hard-boiled egg into Dmitri’s hand before he could protest. A man offered him some salt-cured pork fat on a slice of rye bread.
Children wandered down the corridor with glasses of steaming tea from the samovar at the end of the carriage. One boy stopped shyly by Dmitri’s bunk.
Dmitri hesitated. He had nothing to give in return. Then, opening up his sketchbook, he said, ‘Would you like me to draw you a picture?’
Eyebrows lifted, and there were murmurs of interest. The boy clambered up beside him to watch as Dmitri’s pencil flew across the page. Within minutes, the child’s face took shape, wide-eyed and solemn. When he tore the page free and handed it over, the boy’s expression lit up with delight, and others leaned closer.
‘Do me next,’ the guitarist said with a grin, swinging his case onto the lower bunk. He was a lanky fellow with bright eyes and an easy manner. ‘But make me look like a rock star, not a third-class passenger.’
Dmitri sketched quickly, exaggerating the sharp jawline and tousled hair, adding a hint of stage lights in the background. The carriage erupted with laughter when he held it up.
‘You could make a living doing that,’ someone said. ‘We’ll all be wanting one before the night’s through.’
The guitarist offered him a packet of sunflower seeds in exchange, and they fell into an easy conversation about music and art.
By the time the lights dimmed, the whole carriage seemed to have relaxed into a rhythm: murmured voices, the rustle of blankets, and the soft clink of glasses as the last of the tea was finished. Dmitri lay back on his narrow bunk, sketchbook tucked safely away, listening.
Two bunks down, a young woman whispered to her neighbour about meeting her husband in Kyiv. Across the aisle, a pair of old men debated politics in low, growling tones until one drifted into snores. A mother crooned softly to her child, the lullaby barely audible above the steady clatter of wheels.
The train rocked and swayed, its heartbeat a ceaseless throb against the rails. Dmitri felt himself slipping between waking and dreaming as time and space dissolved in the rhythm until it no longer seemed outside him but within, vibrating through his chest and his bones. The shadows of the bunks swayed with each lurch of the carriage, a shifting pattern that seemed alive, as if the sleepers around him were drifting in and out of each other's lives.
He let his eyes half-close, and the murmurs around him turned into voices he knew: Elena’s, calm and low; Leila’s, quicksilver and bright; and Mira’s, calling him home. They melted into one, the resemblance so uncanny that he felt both longing and dread. He tried to call out, but his voice dissolved into the wheels’ iron rhythm. In the dream, Mira reached out her hand, but when he grasped it, it was Leila’s hand he held. And then the images faded into the blur of night, the hiss of the rails and the soft rise and fall of the sleepers’ breath. Time uncoiled, meaningless, and he floated in the motion of the train, carried forward as if by fate itself.
Gradually, the darkness gave way to the pale light of dawn spilling through the carriage windows and washing the weary faces around him in grey-blue light. Outside, grime-streaked apartment blocks slipped by, and the rhythm slowed. Around him, his makeshift family of the night was already stirring: blankets rolled, bags heaved down, children roused from slumber.
The guitarist yawned and winked at him. ‘Welcome to the capital, my friend.’
The train slid to a stop. A voice barked an announcement over the loudspeakers. The words were harsh and distorted, but the name Kyiv-Pasazhyrskyi was unmistakable.
Dmitri clutched his satchel to his chest, his heart pounding as the enormity of it struck him. The long night was over. Ahead lay the prospect of a new day and the uncertain road to Istanbul.
Book of the Month contest entry
 Recognized |
|
Characters
Dmitri Zahir, a teenage boy recovering from catatonia after the death of his twin sister in a bombing.
Mira Zahir, his twin sister, killed in a bomb attack.
Elena Prishtina, a volunteer carer who looked after Dmitri, aiding his recovery.
Leila Haddad, a Syrian girl employed by Elena whom Dmitri has fallen in love with.
Pavla Miret, an art teacher who has been giving Dmitri lessons.
Image: Jorge Jescar from Australia, CC BY 2., via Wikimedia Commons
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. Dmitri Zahir, a teenage boy recovering from catatonia after the death of his twin sister in a bombing.
Mira Zahir, his twin sister, killed in a bomb attack.
Elena Prishtina, a volunteer carer who looked after Dmitri, aiding his recovery.
Leila Haddad, a Syrian girl employed by Elena whom Dmitri has fallen in love with.
Pavla Miret, an art teacher who has been giving Dmitri lessons.
Image: Jorge Jescar from Australia, CC BY 2.
You need to login or register to write reviews. It's quick! We only ask four questions to new members.
© Copyright 2025. tfawcus All rights reserved.
tfawcus has granted FanStory, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
