Watermelons’ Smugglers — Surreal Stories from the Soviet Past.
My aunt and I are in the lorry next to the driver. It’s pitch dark and we can’t see anything ahead apart from the white ghost of a car with my parents in it and the muddy country road with a grass mohawk in the middle disappearing into the track’s belly between two lights. Just as I start to nod off from the monotony of the road, the metal bones of the car screech from a sudden stop.
The lights from the police car lit up the bushes. Muted voices outside. Our beaten Zhiguli car is parked in front of the track. I can see my mother’s head through the back window. My father is outside. He hands the roll of banknotes to the uniformed man who turns towards the light, spits on his fingers and starts counting. The policeman nods and lets us go. We drive off relieved but alert. The bribe squeezed the profit margin yet again.
We made many journeys like this all over Russia, driving during night time to avoid the police. My parents were illegal farmers and smugglers for years but there were no drugs or contraband involved. The precious cargo was watermelons. It was simply illegal to grow and sell the produce for personal profit. Welcome to the USSR.
Disclaimer. I don’t claim to speak on behalf of the country or a generation. My experience can vastly differ from someone of a different ethnicity or someone who lived in a different location. But I am as honest as my memory allows.
