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filled in correctly with the right date sequence and we explained this to the Ukrainian soldier. But though we tried to convince the mytnyk that it was just a mistake, we were given only a terse reply: “Here, mistakes do not happen.” The young missionary, understandably upset, explained that he had only $200.00 with him and had planned to live on this sum for two months. Clearly paying for a new visa would use up a large chunk of his meager expense money. After more argument, we insisted on speaking with the mytnyk’s supervisor who, to our surprise, grud gingly acknowledged that a “mistake” had been made and allowed the young American to enter the country without additional payment. The relief of the missionaries was short-lived when it became apparent that not all of their lug gage had arrived on the plane with them. Since Marta and I were both veterans of this particular inconvenience, we stayed and helped them through what we knew was going to be a long and tedious process of reporting missing luggage. An hour and half later, when we had finally finished filling out forms and listing lost items, the baggage claim area was empty and we were totally exhausted by the long flights, the jet lag, the uncomfortable layover in Frankfurt and the many problems upon landing. Afternoon had turned to dusk, and a cold; a piercing wind was blowing when we all exited together and stood outside the arrivals terminal. Marta and I gratefully located the official US embassy van which was to take us to our hotel and had turned to say goodbye to our new acquaintances when we noticed that they were looking rather lost. We discovered that while we were dealing with the misdated visa and the luggage problems, their greeters, thinking that the group had not arrived on that particular flight, had left. In 1993, there was no taxi service from Boryspil to the center of Kyiv and there were no buses to ferry passengers who had not made prior arrange ments. In short, the missicnaries were stranded and we didn’t have the heart to leave them to fend for themselves. There wr.s nothing to do but to offer them a ride to their youth hostel, which they quickly accepted. We all squeezed into the van, a tight squeeze made a little easier because of the lost luggage. Since our hotel was closer, we went there first. Disembarking, we instructed our driver to take the young men wherever they wanted to go. As we started to say goodbye and wish them luck, the leader of the group asked us to wait. Turning to his friends he said, “Take a good look, boys. Those are angels.” It took me a moment to realize he was not jok ing and the funny retort that had come to my mind died instantly. Marta and I looked at the young men in the van. In their clear, steady gaze and in their expression the two of us read pure and abso lute conviction in the truth of their leader’s words. They really believed that we — two tired, slightly grumpy, very rumpled, far from angelic looking women — were indeed heavenly guardians who had shepherded them along from the first fal tering steps of their religious mission to Ukraine. “Thank you” seemed a wholly inadequate response. A denial felt equally inappropriate. After all, who was I to contradict what they believed with such certainty. I finally settled on a simple “Good night” and walked into the hotel, dragging my suitcase behind me. I cannot say this incident changed my life. I did not become a selfless do-gooder of charitable deeds, devoting my life to helping others. However, almost five years after that night, I still remember the questions that crowded my mind as I checked into the hotel “Intourist” while the van was driving away. My first thought was a sad one. What has this world come to if a simple good deed can be considered something worthy of an angel? Other thoughts, of a more philosophical bent, followed. What if they were right? I mean, I am quite certain that I am not an angel in the accepted sense of the word — I certainly have no wings and no halo. But it was obvious that I was an angel to those young men. And perhaps, I thought, we can all be consi dered angels. Perhaps we all have the capacity to accomplish angelic deeds at times — in spite of ourselves, in spite of being impatient to get where we are going, or in spite of just wanting not to be bothered by someone else’s troubles. Perhaps we should all be more aware of this capacity within us and strive to nurture it. But as I finally lay down to sleep that night, my final thought was simple and happy. How nice it was, how very good it was to have been called “an angel”. ’’НАШЕ ЖИТТЯ”, БЕРЕЗЕНЬ 1998 17
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