So that I wouldn’t be late, I came to the Kiev train station with time to spare. I looked at the timetable, but the Kharkov train was not on it. I went out to the platform, but I didn’t see a train standing. A vague anguish stole upon me—did I mixed something up?
I opened the little bottle. I inserted the clean end of a matchstick, read the “Our Father…” and put my mother’s baptismal cross to her forehead.And though twenty years have passed since that moment, I’m still amazed at what happened next.