Many people have “happy places”, so-called “places of power”, where they indulge in bright memories from childhood and mentally transport themselves to that world that has gone down in history, where they were once happy.
Some of the warmest childhood memories of the author of this project are associated with his annual summer trips to relatives in Kiev, the starting point of which was invariably the Kievsky railway station in Moscow. These memories are so imbued with positive emotions that even today, finding yourself at this station or just walking around the capital’s Dorogomilovo district, those very joyful moments from childhood come to mind, when the upcoming “dear road” was anticipated.
An unchanging tradition was the fact that on the day of the trip, the author usually arrived at the station early, often several hours before the train’s departure. Free time was devoted to walking around the station and the surrounding area, buying gifts for relatives in Kiev, food and magazines for the road, or just hanging out in the waiting room.
The day of departure was always a holiday, and preparation for the holiday, as we know, is often better than the holiday itself.
The goal of this, to some extent a very personal project of the author, is his visual story about his vision of the Kievsky railway station and the surrounding Dorogomilovo district, as his own “happy corner” and the starting point of that very “dear road” from distant childhood.
I was born during the height of perestroika in Kiev, the mother of Russian cities. Consequently, this alone logically explains why I love and revere Kievsky railway station more than the other nine stations in Moscow.
The reason I was born a Kievite is because my father was serving in the military in the small Kazakh town of Panfilov (now Zharkent) on the Soviet-Chinese border. Shortly before my time came to enter this mortal coil, my mother went to join her parents (my grandparents) in Kiev, where she gave birth to me in April. Thus, I nurtured a love and warmth for this beautiful, long-suffering city literally from infancy. At the same time, in spirit, I always felt like a Russian Kievite, just like Alexander Vertinsky, Igor Sikorsky, and especially Mikhail Bulgakov. Incidentally, I am also connected to the latter by the shared place of our baptism, namely, the Church of the Exaltation of the Cross in Podil, not far from the famous Andriyivskyy Descent.
I lived in Kiev for a relatively short time. Some time after I was born, we returned to Kazakhstan. A few years later, my father was sent to serve at our military base in the Cuban town of Torrens near Havana, near the electronic warfare center in Lourdes, where we were unexpectedly caught by the collapse of the USSR. That’s why we sailed to Cuba on the beautiful liner “Ivan Franko” from still-Soviet Odessa, but returned two years later on the same ship to Novorossiysk. My mother, brother, and I returned to Kiev for a while, but in the chaos that reigned then, my father decided to continue his military service in Russia, where we eventually settled in a small town near Moscow near the base of the Taman Division.
I suspect this wasn’t an easy decision, as I had relatives left behind in Kiev and Sumy, many of whom believed that the collapse of the Soviet empire would change little in the lives of both peoples. Nevertheless, the decision was made, and of course, no one planned to forget their relatives. It was from that moment on that Kievsky railway station became a special place for me.
It’s no surprise that, as a frequent visitor to this station (known as Bryansk Station until 1933), I became seriously interested in its history. The decision to build the current station building was made in 1912 to commemorate the 100th anniversary of the Russian victory in the Patriotic War of 1812. Construction of the station began during the reign of the Tsar but was completed under Bolshevik rule.
Originally, the station was planned to be divided into two distinct areas. One was intended for high-ranking first- and second-class passengers. An image of St. George the Victorious, the symbol of the capital city, can still be seen above the entrance. Above the southern entrance for third- and fourth-class passengers, one can see a fresco of the Archangel Michael, the patron saint of Kiev. Interestingly, during the Soviet era, two coats of arms of the Soviet Union were installed in the place of these frescoes. Many believed the original frescoes had been destroyed, but when orders were given to begin restoration in the 1990s, architects were surprised to discover that the originals had survived. They had been “under wraps” all this time, requiring only minor restoration.
Incidentally, the entrances to the station are located beneath decorative arches reminiscent of the triumphal arch at today’s Victory Park. And on the towering clock tower, beautiful eagles can be seen, mounted at the edges, as if preparing to swoop down and bring their metal talons down on the scurrying onlookers near the station. These are also references to the Patriotic War of 1812.
Today, Kievsky railway station is a fairly quiet and somewhat phlegmatic place. It’s easy to find a free seat in the waiting rooms, even in the evenings, when most trains depart from its platforms. There are only two or three small food service establishments in the entire station, and there are almost never any queues. The once-popular kiosk selling newspapers and magazines for travelers is gone. But it wasn’t always that way!
It’s difficult for me to give an objective assessment of life at the station during Soviet times, but judging by the numerous surviving photographs, it was in full swing back then. This is hardly surprising, as Ukraine was then one of the Soviet republics, which could be visited without crossing borders and enduring the tedious nighttime border checks that later emerged. Numerous trains departed from the station’s landing stage daily, carrying passengers not only to Kiev, but also to Sumy, Kharkov, Odessa, Lvov, and other cities of the former Little Russia. This was a welcome addition to numerous Russian-Ukrainian families, whose members traveled freely between the cities, unaware that anything might change in the future.
It’s impossible not to recall the great work “The Master and Margarita” by the aforementioned Mikhail Bulgakov.
“At the very moment when the diligent accountant was rushing in a taxi to stumble upon a self-writing suit, a passenger carrying a small fiber suitcase emerged from the soft-seater compartment car number 9 of the Kiev train arriving in Moscow. This passenger was none other than the late Berlioz’s uncle, Maximilian Andreevich Poplavsky, an economist and planner living on the former Institute Street in Kiev.”
While this fragment doesn’t specify where exactly the train arrived from Kiev, the answer is obvious. But in the final part of the story of Poplavsky’s unsuccessful visit to Moscow, the station that had saved him is mentioned quite clearly.
“The apartment was inspected; no longer thinking of his late nephew or the apartment, shuddering at the thought of the danger he was in, Maximilian Andreevich whispered only two words: ‘Everything is clear! Everything is clear!'” — he ran out into the courtyard. A few minutes later, a trolleybus carried the economist-planner towards Kievsky railway station”.
If we travel back to the so-called wild 1990s, which are most vivid in my memory, Kievsky railway station was a bustling, colorful, if somewhat seedy, place.
Once in the waiting room, passengers would typically look around in confusion, trying to spot even a single empty seat among the throng of seated and reclining bodies, along with their bundles and suitcases. Kiosks stood in practically every corner, selling questionably fresh belyash, bland coffee from a 3-in-1 bag, or a bottle of Ranova lemonade.
However, you didn’t have to leave your comfortable spot to satisfy your hunger. From time to time, loud-voiced babushkas would stroll sedately along the rows of passengers, carrying the shopping bags popular in those days. Depending on the potential buyer’s desires and ability to pay, they would extract pies, chebureki, meringue pastries, and other simple delicacies.
There were also stalls selling a wide variety of printed materials, so valuable and essential on the train. Jokes, crosswords, magazines such as “TV Park,” “SPID Info,” “Vokrug Smekha,” “Krokodil,” and many other publications could brighten up any passenger’s journey or, at the very least, serve as a good base for slicing sausage.
But what kind of empty-handed guest would you have? Naturally, gifts were needed for the relatives to whom every passenger from Kievsky railway station was so eager to see them. As if specifically designed for this purpose, the Kitezh market, located right next to the train station, consisted entirely of typical 90s-era container-style stalls. The vendors sold everything: Marlboro cigarettes, Love Is and Turbo chewing gum, Chupa Chups lollipops, and all sorts of chocolate bars, the enticing advertisements of which the millennial generation knew by heart. The most popular items among departing citizens were coffee cans—an excellent gift for relatives eagerly awaiting a guest from the white-stone city.
When bargaining with vendors for a discount, you had to hold your bag of money tightly to your chest. Here and there, gypsy women in colorful headscarves would emerge from the crowd of onlookers. Depending on the situation, they might either sweetly ask for a “silver penny” or take the initiative themselves, attempting to steal a hapless customer’s wallet.
Today, the site of the Kitezh market, which vanished into oblivion at the turn of the millennium, is occupied by the Evropeisky shopping and entertainment center. Although it is now a clean and completely safe place to shop, it should be noted that it has lost its individuality, turning into one of those cookie-cutter shopping centers that mushroomed across the capital during the reign of the jovial Yuri Mikhailovich Luzhkov.
These days, every train station in the capital (and elsewhere) plays a standard Russian Railways jingle, a short melody, before announcements. Unfortunately, this innovation has also robbed many stations of their unique character and atmosphere, as each previously had its own signature melody. As for Kievsky railway station, it boasted the pleasant musical chime of bells that preceded regular announcements of the departure or arrival of the next train.
And often, shortly after such an announcement, you’d hear something like “Shvydshe, shvydshe, skoro vidiyde!” in the crowd, and watch as a family hurried toward the coveted carriage, dragging suitcases and clutching characteristic beige tickets.
And what kind of carriages were they? Of course, in those days, no one had even heard the quaint phrase “Wi-Fi.” But even such a luxury as a working air conditioner could cause a surge of delight among passengers, for back then, it was truly a rare sight, like a blooming fern. Most often, passengers had to refresh themselves on the road with an open window (if it opened, which wasn’t always the case) and a cold beer purchased from brisk vendors at intermediate stations. They could also offer boiled crayfish or a stuffed animal as a gift.
One can’t help but recall the moment when slightly damp bed linens were handed out by a sleep-deprived and therefore slightly rumpled conductor. With a sly sidelong glance, he might quietly offer to exchange rubles for hryvnia, albeit at a rather exorbitant rate. The icing on the cake were the unforgettable train toilets, mercilessly closed by the conductor when passing through sanitary zones, forcing unwary passengers to reminisce about various dance steps.
“A passenger eats a lot. Ordinary mortals don’t eat at night, but a passenger eats at night, too. He eats fried chicken, which is dear to him, hard-boiled eggs, which are bad for the stomach, and olives”.
These words, written by Ilf and Petrov for their novel “The Twelve Chairs,” have lost none of their relevance over the decades. After stowing their bags and suitcases under their seats, passengers immediately began the holy of holies—dinner. A traditional railway dinner in the turbulent 1990s consisted of sandwiches with dry-cured sausage and cheese, a piece of fried chicken, a crispy cucumber, and hard-boiled eggs with salt taken from a matchbox. Some might even pull out a piece of lard, carefully wrapped in canvas. This Lucullus feast was washed down with lemonades like “Kolokolchik,” “Zhivchik,” and the like. I don’t recall the olives mentioned by the writers, but tea in a glass with a clinking holder was a constant culmination of a train meal. After dinner, passengers would prepare for bed, joyfully anticipating a quick reunion with their families.
Yes, it truly was a holiday! Each such trip was a small one, but a celebration nonetheless, slightly marred only by the booming cry of “Customs control, get your passports ready!” that would soon resound in the night cars, waking the drowsy passengers.
But even this couldn’t dampen their spirits. Once again, I’m reminded of the incomparable Bulgakov, who also traveled this route almost a hundred years ago and described it in his “Travel Notes.”
“Around one o’clock in the afternoon, two hours late, the Dnieper River appears from behind the Darnytsia forests. The train enters the railway bridge, patched up after the explosions, stretches high above the murky waves, and on the opposite bank, the most beautiful city in Russia, Kiev, unfolds amidst the greenery of the mountains”.
Beautifully said! I’d add that for me, the symbol of each arrival in Kiev was also the statue of Motherland (Baba Katya, as my grandfather for some reason called her), as well as the golden domes of the Kiev Pechersk Lavra, slowly rising above the Dnieper as the train approached the city center.
Early in the morning, briskly jumping off the arriving train, I walked to the tram stop, where I waited for either route 1 or route 3 of the Kiev high-speed tram, which took me to the Industrial Bridge, 15 minutes away from where my grandfather lived. And then came strong, warm hugs, the giving of gifts, and the always generously laid table. The shabby conversation was interrupted only by the radio, broadcasting a familiar tune in the form of a short instrumental melody based on the song “How You Don’t Love Me, Kiev.”
Many years have passed. The exterior of the Kievsky railway station has remained virtually unchanged, save perhaps for its color. Until 2012, when the station celebrated its 100th anniversary, its color was practically white. But after restoration work, it was returned to its original gray hue.
However, the station’s atmosphere has changed significantly. Soon after 2014, the number of trains running between Ukraine and Russia sharply declined. As a result, its waiting rooms became less noisy and crowded. Passengers rarely heard the spoken Ukrainian language, and even less so pure Ukrainian. The number of currency exchange offices near the station, offering rubles and hryvnias in addition to the usual dollars and euros, gradually diminished.
The onset of the coronavirus pandemic in 2020 literally destroyed what little remained of the station’s familiar atmosphere. The last trains made their return journeys between the two capitals in early March of that year, after which rail service between Moscow and Kiev was completely suspended.
Back then, no one imagined this would last long. Having heard about bird flu, swine flu, SARS, and other diseases popular in the media, people thought that this time too, everything would soon return to normal.
Alas, it didn’t happen quickly. And the events of February 2022 further delayed the possibility of quickly restoring the station’s primary purpose—to serve as a link for the numerous Russian-Ukrainian families unwittingly caught up in the situation. Trains still depart from its platforms, but much less frequently, and the station’s information boards no longer list Ukrainian cities on their schedules.
Those relatives who always greeted me warmly and with open arms in Kiev had passed away even before these events. Today, if I were in my native Kiev, for the first time in my life I would have to think about which hotel to stay at, because, alas, no one is waiting for me there anymore. Only a few family graves remain at Lukyanivske Cemetery.
They are gone, but the memories of those moments when, clutching bags and packages in my hands, I would board the Moscow-Kiev train (usually number 41/42), joyfully anticipating a quick reunion, the inevitable festive meal, and long, heartfelt conversations, are surprisingly fresh.
Skeptics say that the former noisy and friendly atmosphere of the Kievsky railway station will never return, but I completely disagree. History, as we know, has a cyclical nature. Remembering once again my namesake and fellow countryman Mikhail Bulgakov, I can’t help but recall one of his most famous lines, “Everything will be right, the world is built on this!” As he put it into the mouth of Woland.
At the time of this project, Kievsky railway station, alas, is a shadow of its former glory. Time will pass, and everything will change, I believe. The ‘hee-haws’ and ‘shokanes’ echoing from the benches in the waiting room will return, and the tears of joy at seeing relatives will return. Those same relatives who will once again embrace their loved ones with hands clutching bags of lard, blood sausage, “Malyatko” buns, and boxes of “Kievsky,” “Khreshchaty Yar,” or “Barvinok” cakes.
The spirit of that same, albeit slightly altered, “dear road” will return, bringing joy to new generations of Muscovites and Kiev residents.
Studencheskaya Street lazily
leads us to Kievsky railway station,
Where, beneath the clock, once again, leisurely
Loving eyes meet.
(Igor Sarukhanov, “My Dorogomilovo”).
