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VOROShILOVGRAD
the mornings the smooth
operation of rain falling
slowly like factory workers
trudging home after a tough
shift, passing empty tin cans.
We listened to border radio
stations, giving us news from
both countries, alternately
informing us about clear days
and calling for precipitation.
Women’svoicescamethrough
the speaker, telling us about
the heat waves battering
distant, unreachable places,
complaining about the stifling
heat and the unending racket
in the city anddreamingabout
travel and cool weather. It
all seemed so artificial and
intoxicating from where we
were—we listened greedily to
their smooth breathing, their
short yet frequent bursts
of laughter. We wanted to
look them straight in the eye
as they reported the day’s
exchange rates.
The summer was so dense
that it was impossible to push
through to the other side.
Every evening after work,
we’d lock up the booth, flop
down on our couches, and
listen to the radio— one of
the truckers had hooked
Kocha up. I’d fall asleep to
the music request show;
and wake up to long, sad
conversations between radio
evangelists would. The latter
were particularly earnest in
the early mornings, when
things were light and easy
and I couldn’t even think of
falling asleep again. Around
that time they’d generally
be holding forth about
the importance of fasting
and reading excerpts from
the prophets’ holy books.
Occasionally, they’d break for
weather reports, which made
their sermons all the more
exhaustive and optimistic.
Three months of good
sleep, a healthy appetite,
and sentimental feelings. I’d
always thought that it would