Silence

Trains always begin their journey in silence. Only the view beyond the compartment window starts to change. The world slides from one side to the other. For a moment, you keep pace with people walking along the platform, then swiftly leave them behind. Only then, as the train gathers speed, does the rhythmic drumbeat of the wheels rise beneath you.
My hope of having the compartment all to myself on the trip from Moscow to Minsk was not to be. The door slid open with a squeal, and the almost square face of the car attendant appeared in the doorway.
“My God, please don’t give me a two-hundred-pound man who snores all night,” I thought.
My prayer was answered. A moment later, a young woman appeared.
“Please put your luggage on the berth. I can’t get in,” she said in a gentle voice, smiling warmly.
She sat opposite me, no more than a foot away. In the close quarters of the compartment, silence was impossible, so I made small talk about the rainy weather. It lasted only a few minutes before drying up.
She told me that she was Belarusian and had spent a few days vacationing in Moscow. Her name was Ann.
“I work with people,” she said when I asked about her occupation.
“Princess,” I thought, wondering how to capture as much of her attention as possible.
“After arriving in Minsk, I’m taking a bus to Vilnius,” I said.
“Really?” she replied with genuine interest.
I congratulated myself. Lithuania had once been part of the Soviet Union, but now it was a foreign country. Talking about travel abroad was always a good way to keep a conversation going.
Wanting to impress her with my cleverness, I explained how I planned to outsmart the customs officers. I opened my suitcase and showed her a bottle of vodka that I was bringing as a gift for relatives in Lithuania.
“The label says 0.5 liters,” I explained. “That’s within the limit. But the bottle actually holds 0.7 liters. I simply replaced the label.”
“Wow!” she said.
After arriving in Minsk, I spent the night at a hotel, while Ann headed home. Before we parted, I gave her my Instagram account, hoping she would contact me.
The next morning, my heart sank when I stepped up to the customs desk at the border.
The officer was Ann.
She hadn’t lied when she said she worked with people.
“Do you have any prohibited items to declare?” she asked in a gentle voice, smiling warmly.
I opened my suitcase, recalling an old proverb: speech is silver; silence is golden.