NO OTHER CHOICE
 

An hour out of Nizhni Novgorod we realized suddenly that we were on the wrong road.  We had somehow gotten on the road to Kirov instead of taking the road to Kazan.  Kirov was the northern road and Kazan the southern, the one we were familiar with.
    The Kirov road was longer and, because it was winter, ran the risk of having more snow on it.  We had too much experience with lonely, snowy roads (and ice holes that could swallow up half your car) to risk it, and so there was no choice but to go back to where we'd made the wrong turn.
    We had lost almost three hours by the time we made it back to the road we should have taken and were, at best, only halfway to our final destination.  Once back in Nizhni Novgorod we stopped three times to get directions--every time a living soul appeared.  The last time was from a car that pulled up next to ours at a red light.  The people looked at us when Nikolai tooted the horn, but refused at first to roll down their window.  It was late and they were afraid.  Nikolai made a gesture of helplessness and stared at them intently.  At last they cracked the window.  To our amazement they were going to Kazan and told us to follow them.
    We had been following them almost an hour and a half when the phone rang.  It was Mikhail calling from Vetoshkino.  Mikhail is the husband of Tatyana, Nikolai's cousin.  Mikhail and Tatyana live in the village they both grew up in, knowing no other.  And for many years now Tatyana's 96- year-old mother has lived with them, overseeing everything that keeps the house running smoothly while Mikhail and Tatyana work to keep food on the table.
    Hearing Mikhail's voice was enough to make us feel as if we were almost there.   The long road ahead of us in a moment disappeared, eclipsed by our joy.  Mikhail was calling, however, to say that he had just learned there were major problems on the road near Kazan.  At first Nikolai wasn't convinced and argued, but the argument was, as he knew, with himself.  Again and again Mikhail urged him to turn around and go back to the northern road, the road we had been on four and half hours earlier.  It was unbearable.  Nothing could have been as discouraging as turning around a second time.  Yet, the urgency in Mikhail's voice, as well as the fact that he was a lifelong villager, finally won out.
    We drove almost an hour in silence, neither of us knowing what to say to the other.  When Nikolai finally spoke it was as if his voice was coming from the other end of a tunnel.  "I had no choice but to believe Mikhail.  He's too experienced.  He doubts there'll be a problem with snow.  They've had a strange warm spell.  He said the earth has turned to mud.  I had no choice but to trust him. He knows the Kirov road with his eyes closed.  If we have a problem we can call him and he'll be able to help."
    In the dark I shot Nikolai a glance.  He returned it as  quickly, as we both shuddered at the thought of having a problem.
    It was 5:00 am as we turned onto the main road leading into Vetoshkino.  We inched along in the dark.  Our headlights barely cut through the mud that covered them, despite the fact that three times already we had stopped and cleaned them, using up all our spare water. While, for the last two hours even the "highway" had turned to mud, the road into the village was simply unbelievable.  It was filled with gaping watery holes--the depths of which we could only guess at as the murky water rippled in the wind beneath our dim headlights.  We wove around them slowly, at times finding no more road to drive on than the width of our tires.
    Our attention was so fixed on the mud holes that, at first, we didn't notice the two headlights flashing in front of us.  A truck on the side of the road seemed to be waiting for us to approach.  As we
drew up a man jumped out. . . .    //  End of excerpt.


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