Our family is moving to Korea for one year. Well, the two older sisters are not going, as Kersti, my middle sister is away at boarding school and the Mette -oldest is in High School–and she is to stay with our grandparents while we are away. This is the first long move away, as my father previously of course has been away for shorter periods, but since he is to work building off shore rigs in Pusan Korea, the decision is made to move us all there-for one year. As my English was not too good, I have spent some time with an American teacher Living three doors down, just to get my English in better shape than the Yes, No, and “My name is Hasse” we have learned in English class in my elementary school..
My English has been whipped in some kind of shape, and now in late December we are on our way, my mother, father and my six year younger sister-my sister that by the way have no English vocabulary at all. My mother did not speak much English either, so she has been taking a Pinsleaur English Corresponding course, with tapes, written work and tests to be sent to go with the boring and tedious way of pounding repetitions in to your brain. But it was pretty shabby and she has learned some words and phrases.
We are going away for a year all four of us and we have packed what we will need—-in to 5 suitcases. Its 1975, and a family of four can fit all their clothes in to five suitcases.
The 5 Suitcases, four of them black Samsonite’s –plus my mom’s-also a Samsonite, but yellow and a bit larger than the other four black ones. They are all of course packed tight and when we packed a day earlier, I had the job as the designated squeezer, as my body was needed to sit on top them before my dad pushed them together, locked them securely, and strapped them each with a belt, just to make sure they do not pop open during our trip to the far east on the other side of the globe.
In 1975, Scandinavian Airlines is the only airlines that were allowed for a layover behind the Iron Curtain in Moscow, then the Soviet Union. The four Norwegians are moving to the other side of the world, and our travels is to go from Fornebu Oslo, to Stockholm Sweden, then to Moscow for a quick refuel, without leaving the plane and then fly to Tokyo Japan, further to Fukuoka , before supposedly landing a couple of days later in Pusan- South Korea. We have a year of our future clothing jammed in to the 5 suitcases and our uncle – that owned a fleet of taxi cabs drove us to the airport, that December morning of 1975.
When we stand at the counter at Fornebu Airport, my dad checks the suitcases to Fukuoka Japan as the plan is to spend one night there before flying on to Korea. He knows that we have too much luggage so he is using his trick of putting his shoe under the weight and adjusting each of them to match the allowed weight for such a long flight. He will not have had to pay for the extra luggage but for some reason he feels that no one should have to pay for luggage on an airplane. Successful he is and we all smile as we said goodbye to the 5 Samsonite’s, “See you in Fukuoka”, he says and we look forward to an un-adventurous trip to Japan, with only our carry-on’s.
The trip starts un-eventful, with a quick flight to Stockholm, a quick layover –we don’t even have to leave the plane as the Swedish passengers entered the plane and off to Tokyo Moscow we are — with a quick scheduled layover in Moscow of course.
I don’t care much for The Soviet Union-to say the least. They dominate Hockey of course, we always go for Czechoslovakia back then, or Finland-never Sweden, and definitely never CCCP/USSR so the plan of a quick layover with just a re fuel suites me well. I think anything Communist is boring, and anything USA is cool.
We learned from the Swedish Captain that the weather in Moscow is pretty bad, but after a somewhat scary approach we land safely on the ground. We know it will be winter-December-Russia –dah and can see that it is snowing hard outside the airplane. I have heard that The Soviet Union is a closed country, and no one can travel to the country without being a part of the press, or with a diplomatic status. No one travels to Russia my father has told me, no one can even receive a visa for a trip to Russia. I can understand why anyone would want to travel to Russia anyway. The flight attendant is telling us that we are not to leave the plane under any circumstances, we obviously don’t have a visa, and we are there on Soviet ground strictly for refueling purposes. Well, I can see through the small windows of the plane that the weather is pretty bad, and it is snowing very hard outside the SAS DC 10 we are inside of. I have read everything there is to read about the airplane we are flying on and know that this is one of the new DC-120’s in the Scandinavian Airlines fleet. Inside the plane we are wondering what will happen, the Captain announced that we are to wait until further notice. We are curious to what will happen and what they would do with us, for that matter, “I am sure the Communist folks in charge are also wondering the same” my father says smiling, always with humor or sarcasm in his voice. After a couple of hours with absolutely nothing happening, confusing and conflicting messages from the cockpit, finally something seem to progress.
A couple of men, obviously secret police, enter the airplane, followed by a several armed soldiers that are standing watching the door.
“Please prepare your passports for an identity check” I hear the Captain instruct us over the speakers. They apparently need to check the passports and see who is on board. My father is handling all our travel papers including tickets or passports, He takes them out and when the serious looking Soviet official stands waiting, he hands our passports over to the serious looking man.
“Spasibo” is all he says and moves on to the next row. After the official had gone through the cabin, he stops at the door. He counts the passengers in the cabin that mostly consist of Japanese, Norwegian and other Scandinavian travelers. They count the passports and say something in Russian to the military woman that is assisting him as a translator. She speaks to the Head Stewardess that gave us the announcement earlier. The good looking woman tells us that they will hold our passports as we will now head out of the plane and in to the airport to wait for further instructions. Out of the plane we go, in to the airport terminal, and we are told to go wait for further instructions. That’s when my mother speaks to my dad: “Bjorn- look, it’s our suitcases”. Our Suitcases-the same five suitcases that was checked to be picked up in Fukuoka Japan, is standing there in the terminal in Moscow, all together, nicely placed in the middle of the terminal floor. My dad looks shocked, we start to speak, and he tries to talk to the translator that is standing with our group. We had earlier on been divided in to Japanese, in one corner, and Europeans and other Westerners in another. The translator that I don’t think speak very good English, at least that’s what I think, me with my “Yes”, “No” and” My name is Hasse” Norwegian elementary school and a little tutoring by the American teacher English. The Translator doesn’t sound like an American at all, that much I can hear. “No worries Mr. Johnsen, it is nothing to worry – the suitcases will be handled properly”. As we are staring at the Five Suitcases, we are told that we will have to be transported to the other side of the city. The weather is apparently too severe, and there will be no planes taking off from this airport tonight. We will be transported to the other airport, were a plane will be ready for us. It is snowing and freezing cold, down towards -30 degrees Celsius and this sound like a probable solution. As we are followed in to the Bus that is to transport us, we realize, we are all in Moscow, in a bus, with no officers other than the female translator, and we do not have any papers. Our passports have been handed over to someone and we were inside of the Soviet Union. The bus is freezing cold; it is ice on the inside of the window, so I scratch the ice off and as we are rolling off from the terminal. I look to the curb and see them:
“The Five Suitcases!!! Dad, look”. Our suitcases-all five of them, they are standing there in the snow. It is obvious, you cannot miss them; four black Samsonite’s, and one Yellow- a little bigger, all with the familiar belts around their belly. They are lined up nicely, from small to larger, on the sidewalk outside the terminal-as the snow is starting to cover them-there are there. The Five Suitcases filled with the clothes we so carefully had planned and filled with what we thought we would need a year away from home in the Far East. And we are going to another airport, on the other side of Moscow. Our bus takes off and they disappear in the rear window. There is a Swedish business man that is swearing in his native language. There is nothing like a Swede swearing, it for some reason doesn’t sound bad, sounds exciting for us Norwegians at least. He roils out his faen and jævla kommunister, the entire time in the bus from going through Communist Moscow that December night. My father smiles, he loves the way a Swede sounds when they swear as well, I think that most Norwegians love hearing a Swede swear. There in Moscow, in the freezing bus, listening to the Swedish business man swear knowing that my family is moving to Korea –apparently without any suitcases, there I write a Hammer and Sickle in the ice on the inside of the window, with a cross across the entire symbol, my silent revolution against the communist state of all communist states. As I write my protest on the window I realized that I can see through the window, and all I see is huge boulevards, not much traffic, snow piles, and ice covered buildings. Not many people out in the streets, they are probably not allowed I think, and it is dark. Not much to see at all, I think—but I am proud of my protest art I have written on the window.
We arrive at the other airport an approximate 40 minutes later, and there, as we arrive- we are met by two men, both very similar dressed with the customary Russian fur hat and long black coats. It is almost like it is all happening in Black and White, not very colorful at all. It all looks like the Black and White pictures of my dad’s football team from the early sixties. He had played on the Union football team by the shipyard that he worked and they had the Norwegian Company football league. Since they were all part of the union, they were invited to come and play in the Soviet Union. They travelled through USSR and were teamed up against the best teams in the country. Some officials had misunderstood and thought they were the real champions. They were pitched against the likes of Dynamo Kiev and people showed up in thousands to see the Norwegian Champions. Needless to say they were disappointed in the Norwegian opposition as they were just worker that happened to also be good at football. They were killed in every game, but I guess the Communist regime loved at as this was the show that they needed to prove that Communism worked. Well, I have seen the pictures that my dad had from the trip, all in black and white. And now, 15 years later, I am in Russia and it actually is black and white…I don’t see any colors in Moscow that night.
We finally arrive at the terminal, but the weather is as bad there as it has been on the other side of town at the other airport, and our hopes of going anywhere vanishes. After being shuffled in to the airport, waiting for around 30 minutes, before an official come and talk with the translator we are told that no airplanes is taking off tonight. “The f&#$@ing communist b#@$%rds, Bolshevik low life sons of bitches……and further on I hear the Swede swear and my father smile and patiently waiting for further instructions. We are tired, we have no idea what will happen, as we have no passports, the airport is about minus 20 degrees-inside- and what will we do? My sister is seven years old and is sleeping in my mother’s lap, and I not only don’t like the Russians- or the “Bastard Sons of Bitches Russians” as the Swede would have said- I have started to dislike everything Russian. I might add that my mother likes, or love all Russians. She has seen and loved both the movie Doctor Zhivago in addition to Anna Karenina, and has a very romantic view of the whole continent. Nothing romantic in my young cocky opinions about the cold and ugly black and white country they call Soviet Union.
Off to Hotel International- is the message, and we cannot believe it.
“Something is not right, this is not supposed to happen” my father say, he have obviously experienced the communist system travelling there before, and he know this is not right. We have no passports, no visas, and are not supposed to be anywhere in this country, but we are shuttled in to yet another bus, for transportation to the Hotel International. As we walk in to the bus, we see a bus being unloaded at the ramp, and there my mother eyes the yellow suitcase among the other four black Samsonite’s.
” What are our suitcases doing here, and why are they being unloaded here”, my father ask again-he doesn’t sound surprised, but he is still in awe of how screwed up this can get. The translator has disappeared-he has been replaced by another one, and this one speaks English at my level; lots of Russian-in my case Norwegian-, mixed in with a yes, no and a couple of other English words she must have picked up somewhere.
“No understand sir”, she says, she obviously doesn’t know, and doesn’t want to try to give any explanations. Again we see the Five Suitcases disappear, in an ocean of other suitcase being unloaded at the Airport- the wrong airport I might add, as we are leaving the terminal for Hotel International – in Moscow.
Arriving at the hotel, we are offered a bite to eat. It is now around 2 at night and we have not been fed since on the plane, back many hours ago. We are not really offered to eat; we are told to go upstairs to the second floor and instructed to sit down at a table. By now it is only a few of us, a couple of Swedish tourists, the Swedish swearing businessman, us four Norwegians, several Danish Sailors and a Dutch older woman. An old “Babushka”, or older Russian Woman, she must be some kind of a waitress, even if the restaurant officially is not open. They have prepared some kind of Goulash, or Russian Stew, and out came glasses of tea and a bottle of Vodka. 13 years of age and the Babushka tells me that Yes I was also to drink a shot.
“It is cold, you man, you need Russian Vodka” the Babushka explains. It makes a whole lot of sense to me; I look at my dad he nods and us all –including me, down the shot in a quick gulp. I feel the water in my throat almost coming back up and I swallow a couple of times, feeling tears coming in my eyes. My sister does not get any, but my father offers the swearing Swede the shot and he pulls his head back and downs it in one gulp. Russia isn’t so bad after all, if they allowed kids to drink vodka –is my thought. We go up to the rooms, and then my newfound like-not love- fades again. The rooms are more like a dorm room you would find in an orphanage. All the men are told to share a huge room with 20 plus beds, and the women are in a walked into a separate room. They have one bathroom, for 20 people, and a couple of sinks and a shower. Doesn’t matter, we are so tired we all fell asleep, me in the bed in between my dad and my newfound Swedish swearing hero.
Next morning we are awaken to get dressed, we have no change of clothes, so we put on the same clothes from the day before, I look outside the window and saw Moscow, with snow and ice on the window. We go down to the Restaurant downstairs on the second floor, the same place I received his first vodka shot the night before, and we sit down for a breakfast. It consists of some strange bread, hard as brick butter, and some mysterious cheese and jam are presented. As we eat, the waitress, actually the same Babushka from the night before, I recognized her as she have a huge bosom and smile to me making the hand gesture of drinking a shot. As we eat, she decided to start broom around our table, before we sat down my dad had noticed that she had brushed to tablecloth with the same broom, but she continued to brush the dust, as we eat our dry, very dry breakfast. “Only in Russia” I hear my father say.
Without passports, without visas without any permission to do anything we are guided up to the room, and then-suddenly a man come in. speaking perfect English and explain that the Authorities are so sorry for our mishaps and we are invited to a guided tour on a bus to see Moscow. Well my mother is ecstatic, she still has her romantic view of Russia, she loves Omar Sharif, even if he was absolutely not Russian, and they are excited to hear that they can see Moscow, if only by bus, we are obviously not allowed to step out of the bus no visas we are reminded. The cocky Norwegian that I am, I decide that in my revolution against communism-I will to stay at the hotel. I have no interest in seeing Moscow, I proclaim. I stay back at the hotel-pouting, immediately regretting that I have stayed back, I will never admit it, but I regret it the second they leave. My folks, even the swearing Swede, all get to see Ice swimmers, The cathedrals, The Kremlin, and other tourist attractions, while I stay looking out of a window-in black and white, regretting that I have stayed back, but proud of myself for putting my foot down against communism.
We don’t see the Five Suitcases in Moscow again. They are gone – problematic it will be, we have packed what we will need for a whole year (plus more) in to those five suitcases, and for all we know, they are gone forever. No one seem to be willing to address the issue, they are surely gone through with a fine tooth comb by the communist authorities and for all we knew they are never to be seen again. My father tries and tries again, but to no use. No one wants to address the issue and they pretend that they don’t have any clue what is to be done about the matter.
We arrive at the airport, no suitcases we are told again, and we board the Airplane, the same DC-10 we had been on 24 hours or so earlier. We land in Tokyo Japan an eight or so hours later, and changed airplanes to a huge Boeing 747 bound for Fukuoka. A couple of hours later we arrived in Fukuoka, we go to the baggage claim but nothing-no suitcases. Off to the hotel, this time a real nice 5 star hotel and we all fight to get in the shower first, my mother takes a bath after we are cleaned, and we really enjoy a night in this high rise hotel in Japan. No suitcases, all five of them are gone, but at least we are not in Moscow, are the thoughts. It’s the morning after and we take a taxi to the airport, this time for a flight to Pusan Korea, our final destination. After arriving we go to the baggage claim, just to see, and what do you know… there they are all lined up: The Five Suitcases, Our Five Suitcases, all lined up next to the baggage claim. No other suitcases are there yet, nothing but the Five Suitcases. Lined up from smaller to larger, the Yellow largest one that belonged to my mother in the back. I notice that the belts are gone, but even without the belts, they must have disappeared somewhere in Moscow, it is unmistakably our Five Samsonite Suitcases. Hopefully suitcases full of our future one year of belongings in them…No one will ever know where they have been, how they arrived there in Pusan Korea, two days later , after we saw them being unloaded at the wrong airport in Moscow two days earlier. It is a mystery, yes, but nevertheless. There they are all lined up-one after another-The Five Suitcases– in Pusan Korea. We collect the suitcases and go through the area where there is a customs officer and he is looking at them. “Open” he demands, and after we open them one after the other, he starts poking around in all our sweaters, shirts, socks, pants, underwear, belts and shoes. But is doesn’t matter that he leaves it all in a big bundle. We have our Five Suitcases with all of our future one year of belongings with us. Messy or not, it is obvious. It is all there…Ready for us to have with us for a wonderful exciting year on the other side of the globe.
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