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… about such things.”
    “Thank you,” Erin murmured. Yes, of course, she knew she couldn’t bring fruit—or dirt, grass, trees, vegetables, etc.—into Russia. Her smile became a little sick. “She’d have to eat all three bananas within the next few hours.
    “Your train!” the clerk said, pointing toward the tracks.
    Resembling a large green sea monster, the train labeled Moscoba was hissing and chugging its way to a stop. A whistle shrieked, and the train went silent except for the softest whisper of air.
    “Thank you,” Erin murmured again.
    “It will be an interesting trip!” the friendly clerk commented. “You will probably have a couchette next to another American—or Briton. They like to keep the English-speaking peoples together. Cornered off, yes? You understand?”
    Erin nodded as she turned to hurry back to the platform. She didn’t understand at all, and she wasn’t terribly sure she wanted to. For the first time, she was feeling hesitant. Had she been a little foolish to rush into the U.S.S.R. by unconventional means, all alone? No, she scoffed at herself. She wasn’t doing anything that adventuresome! College students did this type of thing all the time, and surely other Americans traveled into Moscow by train from Helsinki—otherwise the clerk wouldn’t have known that they were usually put together.
    The Moscoba suddenly issued a deafening shriek. Startled, Erin shoved her three bananas into her bag and hurried for her luggage, placing a firm grip around each of her bags as she followed a small stream of people into the train. She had no difficulty boarding; a porter politely showed her to a delightful couchette—handsomely furnished with Victorian-style wood. The Russian government might be based on a concept of a classless society, Erin thought, but “class” could certainly still be purchased. Mary had rattled off something to her about deluxe first class, which she and the majority of tourists visiting the country traveled by, the “soft” class, which was the second in comfort, and the “hard” class, which translated to economy.
    The train lurched, seeming to heave a deep breath as it chugged into action. Erin threw her window open wide and allowed the wind to course through her hair as she watched the Helsinki train station slowly become miniature. Curiously she looked ahead at the approaching landscape, but it was winter bleak and barren. After a while she felt her face becoming numb, and she pulled her head back in. The trip was a long one; the train would not pull into the Moscow station until morning. Erin knew she couldn’t spend all that time staring out windows, but for the moment she was willing to allow her sense of excitement to rule her actions. She opened the door to her couchette and moved across the small hallway to stare out on the other side, then laughed at herself as she saw more barren-looking snow. It might be approaching spring in New York, but here winter still held a solid grip.
    Staring at the endless snow and lifeless stick trees suddenly brought the snap of unwelcome pain. It had been a winter like this when Jodie died. There had been a severe snowstorm and the ground had been so frozen that they had been forced to delay the funeral for a couple of days.
    Erin moved in from the window, shaking herself as if she could dispel memory. She could remember her parents with great love but little pain; Julie and Howard McCabe had become parents very late in life, both near fifty when Erin was born. They had lived long and happily, always considering themselves double-blessed with their little daughter so late in life. Both Julie and Howard had died of natural causes, easily, in their sleep, within months of one another. Her parents had been so in love, and so proud and independent, that after the pain of loss Erin had been grateful that they had died so very gently with their dignity intact. She could never imagine her self-sufficient father forced to rely