Chapter Two: The right people

From Berlin to Poland; a life changes.

Trains streamed into Berlin’s main station, off-loading thousands of weary, and grateful, war-ravaged Ukrainians onto the safe soil Europe’s largest economy. Trackside, volunteers eagerly awaited the newest refugees, shuttling them towards the first steps of their new lives.

During those nascent days of full-scale war, before Bucha, before Irpin, before Mariupol, before Ukraine became a burden to German policy makers, an almost festive attitude existed amongst those receiving the escaping masses.

For those now finding themselves classified as refugees, the energy was harder to discern.

Sipping coffee, my first exposure to a populous living in the throes of an eight year war revealed itself to me.

Babies cried, and kids devoured free candy by the handful that much was normal; among adults their shuffling gaits and generally disconnected nature didn’t match what I had witnessed during my time covering the 2015 refugee crisis.

I couldn’t yet understand what revelations their stories held.

I couldn’t yet fathom their pain.

I couldn’t yet imagine their horror.

I would though.

Heading to my own boarding area, to depart on a train that would ultimately deposit me a few miles from Ukraine, the serenity of the near empty platform created a jarring juxtaposition to the scene one level down.

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Basking in the quiet, lost in my own thoughts, I saw her for the first time.

This singular meeting, random only to those unfamiliar with intra-European rail travel, changed my life.

Bubbly, gregarious, literally wrapped in the blue and yellow flag of her nation, she was an excited, near combustible package of courage, intellect, and deeply held patriotism.

Helena became my first interview.

A medical doctor and university professor from the southeastern town of Ivano-Frankvisk, Helena had been on holiday in Egypt with her then 16 year old son, Michael, when the re-invasion took place.

While many told her to stay abroad, she cut her trip short and rushed home to join her country’s cause.

Introducing myself, Helena immediately agreed to go on camera.

Her words to me that day, lasting just a few minutes, ended with an invitation to join her in Ukraine.

Joyfully accepting her offer, we boarded the train together.

And for nine hours, through Germany and into Poland, seated just a few seats apart, we didn’t speak.

Helena and Michael’s stop came first, and passing me on the way out, she flashed a smile and offered a firm reminder to make sure I made time to see her once I’d gotten settled in Ukraine.

Again, agreeing without hesitation, I watched as she stepped off, and then was enveloped in a shroud of overwhelming guilt.  

Seeing her seemed a ridiculous notion, as the silence of the journey led me into a dark crevice of my own mind. There in the shadows, fatigued and feeling unworthy, I’d convinced myself I’d never be allowed into Ukraine, that my transition, while freeing in so many ways, would handicap this journey.

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A stop or two later, a group of three came aboard, all speaking English with accents immediately marking them as British.

One woman, and two men.

The female and one of the guys pared off, sitting together, displaying the familiarity of couple hood.

The third traveler took his place directly behind me.

All young, appearing in their mid to late 20’s, they seemed uniquely out of place for whatever it was they were undertaking.

They changed my life.

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His name can’t be used. Not with good conscience.

He gave me one, a name he uses publicly, one he claims is his legal name. One that has been reported on by the traditional media, and one he uses on social media.

He was however traveling on a passport with a different name, issued by an EU nation.

I’ll call him James.

James, handsome in a mischievous way, told me he had just been introduced to his companions by mutual friends back in the UK and that they were on their way to Ukraine.

Telling him I was a reporter, I asked to do an interview with him about why he was going and what he planned to do once in Ukraine.

He demurred.

I’d never ask him again, and I’d never find out, despite creating a bond with him which will probably last a lifetime, or three.

After talking about US politics, specifically the fact I’d just been texting with Roger Stone, I let him be and headed to the meal car for the final 90 minutes of the now 11.5 hour voyage.

Ordering a cappuccino, I was propositioned by a returning Ukrainian man, only to be saved by a Polish military officer who was taking a position with Ukraine’s newly established Foreign Legion.  James made his way to join us and we all ended up drinking together.

As they closed the kitchen, heading back to our seats, James confessed to me they had nowhere to stay as everything was sold out.

Without thinking I offered them the floor of my room in Przemysl, and as the train came to a halt on a dark, frigid night in the Polish border town, flashbacks of 2015 came flooding back. Refugees, scared, cold, helpless, and in confused despair, took up almost every part of the station’s interior, spilling into cordoned off parts of the exterior as well.

Food, medical care, old clothes, sim cards; everything needed to process Ukrainian refugees to the next destination was available, but none of what was on offer helped stem the utter confusion of the late night madness.

The four of us rushed through the crowd, needing to make it our accommodations before the check in desk closed.

We made it.

In the room, dropping our bags, I started to speak at length with Vic, the female third of the newly formed trio.

Having been to Ukraine after Maidan, she was on a self-described, “fact finding” mission to see how she could help, and during that first exchange with me quickly dismissed the notion that she had any romantic connection to Jay, the last of their group. Vic also elaborated as to how they came to know each other; it was through their shared professional occupation.

Computer programming.

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Going back to begin my story on refugees at the station, I ended up speaking to more reporters than actual refugees. Nearing midnight, it was apparent that many would be sleeping on the floor for the night, and that additional trains were appearing to deposit even more of their country people at irregular hours.

With the other three having come along with me, I made the decision to call it a night fairly quickly, and after doing one live broadcast, we all trekked back to the hotel.

Two truths struck me as I laid in bed that night, the first being that I couldn’t find an original angle to write about despite days of trying to formulate one, the second being that I’d probably not even try to head into Ukraine, having seen the uncontrolled madness associated with the entry and exit procedures into Poland from Ukraine and vice versa.

Fitfully falling asleep in a room full of strangers, I woke the next morning to the knowledge that every room in the town was booked for the next two nights.

With that news despair began to settle in, and finding out that Vic, Jay, and James were all taking a train into Lviv that afternoon, I made plans to leave the border area and go to Krakow to re-evaluate the entire purpose of my travels.

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Accompanying them as they picked up last minute supplies, including knives and sleeping bags, James asked me what I planned to do, and I told him everything.

That my passport didn’t match my name, gender, or face, and that I was harboring severe doubts as to whether it made sense for me as a transwoman to even try to enter Ukraine, and ultimately, that I should have left the ghosts of the 2016 book sealed away in Nevada.

“Come with us, come ‘on now. If you don’t come with us now, you’ll never go, and you’ll never get in.”

Did I understand what he was telling me?

No.

“Listen, here.” He shoved his other passport into my hand.

Looking over, his voice belied the insanity of what was happening.

“We’ll do this together. You’ll get in. Train leaves in an hour. It’s now or never.”

“James, I’m trans, it’s Ukraine.”

“Sarah, listen, this will make it better. This will be great. Now are you coming?”

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In line to approach Polish customs, a reporter of some national repute, tried to interview us. Equal parts scornful and in shock that we were heading into Ukraine, she warned us that we were “so unprepared.”

As we slowly made our way forward and the journalist began pleading with me specifically to change my mind, adding that she, “didn’t want to see my death on the news.”

After two hours, finally making our way into the customs exit room, the Polish agents did a double take, stamped my passport to leave, and wished me luck in the war.

We took our seats, on unforgiving wooden benches in an empty train car, the smell of urine permeating the floor despite the sub-freezing temperatures, the windows stubbornly stuck closed. One other journalist joined us for a ride into the unknown; our entire train was comprised of us five, alone, several cars of war supplies and hundreds of returning Ukrainian men who were all preparing to fight.