Trafika Europe 7 - Ukrainian Prayer

VOROShILOVGRAD

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

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

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