Page 211 - The Mirror of My Soul. Vol. 1

Nicolai Levashov. The Mirror of My Soul. Vol. 1. Born in the USSR

an endless wall of trucks on my right and I had no chance to tuck in, and in front of me

was a car with a driver who supposedly had five-years driving experience, (as he had
boasted!)

The situation was quite complicated! I had no time for reflection and did the only
thing possible—I overtook my fellow-traveller’s car at his left and then understood the
reason for his incomprehensible conduct. There was a Polish traffic policemen waving
with his stick. He waved also to me and I, overtaking the first truck, stopped my car on
“my” side of the road. When my companion saw the policeman ordering him to stop, he
stopped right there without thinking that I had nowhere to go in this situation.

Probably he exaggerated “a little” his five-year driving experience and if it were
not for my reaction, at best our cars could have been crushed and at worst we both could
have been seriously injured! But everything turned out all right, I said a couple of

“warm” words to my fellow-traveller about how “super-professionally” he stopped his
car and paid two fines—mine and his—because he “again” had no money. What could
I do? I could not turn his pockets inside out to prove him a liar could I? In fact, the nearer
we approached the Soviet border, the more he begrudged spending Deutsche Marks.
Most likely, he calculated already, how much it would be in roubles and watched every
cent (or pfennig)!

One way or another, it was the most serious incident during the whole journey.
Soon, we reached the Soviet border in Brest. We passed the customs control without
problems and left our cars at the customs parking—in order to move further we must
pay customs duties for our cars. My fellow -traveller had asked his relatives to bring the
required sum of money to the customs. I asked him if they could bring money for me
too, because I had no one who would do me this kind of a favour; they said yes. Whilst
we were waiting, we could rest for several hours. His relative brought the money; we
paid customs duties and set off again driving through Belorussia and Ukraine

Ukrainian and Belorussian roads were slightly better than Russian ones, but all the
same they were very far from perfect. The main roads were in good fettle and whenever
it was possible we could drive at a pretty high speed of over two hundred kilometers per
49
hour. Certainly, we decreased our speed, when approaching the posts of the GAI .
Besides, the driver’s brotherhood never failed—a short signal with a high-beam light
and we knew that “friends” in police uniform were waiting for us. The fact that you had
violated the speed limit did not bother them at all. On the contrary, it was very convenient
for them—for each infringement they received twenty five roubles which went directly
into their purses! Therefore, I never was distressed violating speed limits as the money
from my “fines” went to the traffic cops’ pockets.

Meanwhile well-known native fields and forests were flashing by, the traffic signs

could be understood without an interpreter and communication with people did not cause
a sense of inferiority.

That night we reached Kharkov and spent it in the apartment of my student, my
apartment was not yet inhabitable—there was nothing but naked walls in it. After I had
a good sleep, I called my friends and they agreed to register the car. We had arrived with
German plates and could not drive for long without registration. I agreed about

49 The State Traffic Police.
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