Trafika Europe 7 - Ukrainian Prayer

VOROShILOVGRAD

women had a less uniform appearance—some of them were in dresses, some of them in white blouses and black skirts; others, mostly the younger ones, were wearing jeans studded with masses of rhinestones. Some women had winter coats around their shoulders, some were wearing leather jackets, and a few others had raincoats on, although the autumn air had had already been thoroughly dried out and warmed up by the sun. It was actually rather cozy down here in the valley, like on the southern Crimean coast. The locals greeted us with a joyful roar. We all crawled out of the car, smoothing our wrinkled clothes. Tolik, wearing his Milan jacket, and the presbyter, wearing a black jacket and holding a folder, took the lead, followed by Seva, who was also wearing a suit, albeit a red and rather dubious looking one, as well

pot-bellied man. “The Russian border,” he answered succinctly. Then he retreated into his own thoughts. Seva shut off the engine, and we coasted down the hill. The bricks under our tires were all broken up. The road was crushed, like the spine of a dog run over by a truck. Having descended into the valley, we stopped in the middle of a small lot. There was a relatively spacious building there with a slate roof and fake columns on one side. About forty locals were standing on the front steps. They seemed to have been waiting for us. I could instantly sense the atmosphere of a grand, festive gathering. The men were mostly wearing dark, inexpensive suits, bizarrely colored ties, and thoroughly polished shoes. The

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