I was 13 years old and our family was moving to Korea for one year. Well, the two older sisters were not going, as the middle sister was away at boarding school, and the oldest was in High School–and she was to stay with our grandparents while we were away. This was the first long move away, as my father previously had been away at shorter periods, but since he was to work building off shore rigs in Pusan Korea, the decision was to move us all there-for one year. As my English was not too good, I had spent some time with an American teacher living three doors down, just to get my English in better shape than the Yes and No, plus “My name is Hasse” we had learned in English class in my elementary school..
My English was whipped in some kind of shape, and in late December we were on our way, my mother, father and my six year younger sister, that by the way had no English vocabulary at all. My mother did not speak much English either, and she had 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, just the way teaching was taught back in the 70’s. But itb was pretty shabby to say the least.
We were going away for a year all four of us and we had packed what we would need—-in to 5 suitcases. I can only imaging what we would bring in 2013, but in those days, 1975 to be exact; apparently you did not need as much to survive as you would in 2013.
The 5 Suitcases, 4 of them black Samsonite of them, one-my mom’s was yellow, they were all of course packed tight and I got 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 did not pop open during the trip to the far east on the other side of the globe.
In 1975, Scandinavian Airlines was the only airlines that were allowed for a layover behind the Iron Curtain in Moscow, then the Soviet Union. The four Norwegians was moving to the other side of the world, and our travels was 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 had 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 checked in at Fornebu Airport, my dad checked the suitcases to Fukuoka Japan as the plan was to spend on night there before flying on to Korea. He knew that we had too much luggage so he used 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 wouldn’t have had to pay for the extra luggage but for some reason he felt that no one should have to pay for luggage on an airplane. Successful he was and we smiled as we said goodbye to the 5 Samsonite’s, see you in Fukuoka, he said and looked forward to an un-adventurous trip to Japan, with only our carry-ons.
It started un-eventful, with a quick flight to Stockholm, a quick layover –didn’t even have to leave the plane as the Swedish passengers entered the plane and off to Tokyo Moscow we were — with a quick scheduled layover in Moscow of course.
In 1975, I didn’t care much for The Soviet Union-to say the least. They dominated Hockey of course, we always went 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 suited a cocky young 13 year old that though anything Communist was boring, and anything USA was cool.
We learned from the Swedish Captain that the weather in Moscow and the weather were pretty bad, but after a pretty scary approach we landed safely on the ground. We knew it would be winter-December-Russian –dah, and could see that it was snowing hard outside the airplane. For the un-educated reader I must inform that The Soviet Union was a closed country, and no one would travel to the country without being a part of the press, or with a diplomatic status. No one travelled to Russia in 1975, No one even could receive a visa to travel to Russia, and I don’t think anyone really wanted to travel to Russia anyway. We were not to leave the plane under any circumstances, we obviously didn’t have a visa, and we were there on the Soviet ground strictly for refueling purposes. Well, the weather was as mentioned earlier pretty bad, and it was snowing very hard outside the SAS DC 10 we were in. Inside the plane we were wondering what would happen, the Captain announced that we were to wait until further notice. We were curious to what would happen and what they would do with us, for that matter, I am sure the Communist folks in charge were also wondering the same. After a couple of hours with absolutely nothing happening, confusing and conflicting messages from the cockpit, finally something seamed to progress.
A couple of men, obviously secret police, entered the airplane, followed by a several armed soldiers, that stood watching the door. We were instructed by the captain that we needed to get our passports. They apparently needed to check the passports and see who was on board. My father that was handling all our travel papers including tickets or passports, He took them out and when the serious looking Soviet official stood waiting, he recently handed our passports over. After the official had gone through the cabin, he stopped at the door. He counted the passengers in the cabin it mostly consisted of Japanese, Norwegian and other Scandinavian travelers, then counted the passports and spoke in Russian to the a Russian woman that assisted him as a translator. She spoke to the Head Stewardess that gave us the announcement. And Yes- they were called Stewardesses back then and they were all female. No equal rights back then. When, Scandinavian Airline Systems hired stewardesses, they had to be of a certain height and yes they had to be good looking. The good looking woman told us that they would hold our passports as we would head out of the plane and in to the airport to wait for further instructions. Out of the plane we went, in to the airport terminal, and we were told to go wait for further instructions. That’s when my mother spoke to my dad: “Bjørn, (my father’s name was Bjørn,) look, it’s out suitcases”. Our Suitcases, that was checked to be picked up in Fukuoka Japan, was standing there in the terminal in Moscow, all together, nicely placed in the middle of the terminal floor. My dad looked shocked, we started to speak, and he tried to talk to the translator that was 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 by the way didn’t speak very good English, at least that’s what I thought, me with my “Yes”, “No” and” My name is Hasse” Norwegian elementary school and a little tutoring by the American teacher English. The Translator didn’t sound like the American at all, that much I could hear. “No worries Mr. Johnsen” was the message. It is nothing to worry about the suitcases will be handled properly. As we were staring at the Five Suitcases, we were told that we will have to be transported to the other side of the city. The weather was too severe that there would be no planes taking off from this airport tonight, so we would be transported to the other airport, were a plane would be ready for us. It was snowing and freezing cold, up towards 30 degrees Celsius and this sounded like a probable solution. As we were followed in to the Bus that was to transport us, we realized, we were all in Moscow, in the bus, no officers, other than the female translator, and we did not have any papers. Our passports had been handed over and we were inside of the Soviet Union. The bus was freezing cold, I remember it was ice on the inside of the window, IO scratched the ice off and as we were rolling off from the terminal, I saw them: The Five Suitcases!!! Dad, look, our suitcases, they are standing there. It was obvious, you could not miss them. Four black Samsonite’s, and one Yellow, a little bigger, all with the familiar belts around their belly. They were lined up nicely, from small to larger, on the sidewalk outside the terminal-as the snow was starting to cover them-there they were. 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 were going to another airport, on the other side of Moscow. Our bus took off, I remember it very well. There was a Swedish business man that was swearing the entire way from going through Communist Moscow now close to 11 at night. My father smiled, he loved the way a Swede sounded when they swear. I still do, and I think that most Norwegians love it. For some reason it does not sound bad-at least not to us, when a Swede swear. Doesn’t matter when or how bad it is, it doesn’t sound serious enough to be offended. There in Moscow, in the freezing bus, listening to the Swedish business man swear knowing that my family was moving to Korea without any suitcases, there I wrote 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 wrote my protest on the window I realized that IO could see through the window, and all I saw was huge boulevards, not much traffic, snow and ice, and snow and ice covered buildings. Not many people out in the streets, they were probably not allowed I thought, and it was dark. Not much to see at all, was my though—but I was proud of my protest art on the window.
We arrived at the other airport an approximate 40 minutes later, and there, as we arrived- we were met by two men, both very similar dressed with the customary Russian fur hat and long black coats. It was almost like it was all happening in Black and White, not very colorful at all. It all looked 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 had seen the pictures that my dad had from the trip, all in black and white. And now, 15 years later, I was in Russia and it actually was black and white…I have no memories of any colors from that night.
We finally arrived at the terminal, but the weather was as bad there as it had been on the other side of town at the other airport, and our hopes of going anywhere went away. . After being shuttled in to the airport, waiting for around 30 minutes, before an official came and talked with the translator we were told that no airplanes was taking off tonight. “The f&#$@ing communist b#@$%rds, Bolshevik low life sons of bitches……and further on I heard the Swede swear and my father smiled and patiently waited for further instructions. We were tired, had no idea what would happen, as we had no passports, the airport was about minus 20 degrees and what would we do? My sister was seven years old and was sleeping in my mother’s lap, and I did not only not like the Russians or the Bastard Sons of Bitches Russians as the Side would have said I had started to dislike everything Russian. My mother liked the Russians I might add. She had seen and loved both the movie Doctor Zhivago in addition to Anna Karenina and had a very romantic view of the whole continent. Nothing romantic in the young cocky Norwegian boy’s opinions about the cold and ugly black and white country they called Soviet Union.
Off to Hotel International- was the message, and we could not believe it. Something is not right, this is not supposed to happen, my father said, he had obviously experienced the communist system travelling there before, and he knew this was not right. We had no passports, no visas, and were not supposed to be anywhere, but we were shuttled in to yet another bus, for transportation to Hotel International. As we walked in to the bus, we saw a buss being unloaded at the ramp, and there my mother eyed 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 asked again maybe not surprised, but still in awe of how screwed up this could get. The translator had disappeared, and been replaced by another one, and this one spoke English at my level. Lots of Russian, mixed in with a yes, no and a couple of other English words she must have picked up somewhere. No understand sir, she said, she obviously didn’t know, and didn’t want to try to give any explanations. Again we saw the Five Suitcases disappear, in an ocean of other suitcase being unloaded at the Airport the wrong airport I might add, as we were leaving then terminal for Hotel International. ….in Moscow.
Arriving at the hotel, we were offered a bite to eat. It was now around 2 at night and we had not been fed since on the plane, back many hours ago. We were not really offered to eat; we were told to go upstairs to the second floor and told to sit down at a table. By now it was only a few of us, a couple of Swedish tourists, the Swedish swearing businessman, us four Norwegians, a several Danish Sailors and a Dutch older woman. An old “Babushka”, or older Russian Woman, she must have been some kind of a waitress, even if the restaurant was not open. They had 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 told me that Yes I was also to drink a shot. “It was cold outside, we were tired and cold and we needed all a shot of Vodka” the older woman explained. It made a whole lot of sense to me, I looked at my dad he nodded and we all –including me, downed the shot. All of the sudden Russia wasn’t so bad after all, if they allowed kids to drink vodka –was my thought. At least until I saw the hotel room. The rooms were more like a dorm room you would find in an orphanage. All the men were to share a huge room with 20 plus beds, and the women in a separate room. They had one bathroom, for 20 people, and a couple of sinks and a shower. Didn’t matter, we were so sleepy we all fell asleep, me in the bed in between my dad and my newfound Swedish swearing hero.
Next morning we were awaken to get dressed, we had no change so we put on the same clothes from the day before, I looked outside the window and saw Moscow, with snow and ice on the window. We went down to the Restaurant downstairs on the second floor the same place the 13 year old had received his first vodka shot the night before, and we sat down for a breakfast. Some strange bread, some strange butter, and some strange cheese and jam were presented. As we ate, the waitress, actually the same Babushka from the night before, I recognized her as she had a huge bosom and smiled to me making the hand gesture of drinking a shot. It must be her, I thought. As we ate, she decided to start booming 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 ate our dry, very dry breakfast.
Without passports, without visas without any permission to do anything we were guide up to the room, and then-suddenly a man came in. speaking perfect English and explain ing that the Authorities was so sorry for our mishaps and we were invited to a guided tour on a bus to see Moscow. Well my mother was ecstatic, she still had her romantic view of Russia, loved Omar Sharif, even if he was absolutely not Russian, and they were ecstatic to hear that they could see Moscow, if only by bus, we were obviously not allowed to step out of the bus no visas we were reminded. I the Cocky Norwegian decided that in my revolution against communism-I decided to stay at the hotel my father-this was the way he was, said that was perfectly ok. I stayed back at the hotel-pouting , immediately regretting that I had stayed back, while my folks, even including the Swearing Swede, all got to see Ice swimmers, The cathedrals, The Kremlin, and other tourist attractions, while I stayed looking out of a glim window, regretting but proud of myself.
We didn’t see the Five Suitcases in Moscow again. They were gone we thought- problematic it would be, we had put what we would need for a whole year i (plus more) n to those five suitcases, and for all we knew, they were gone forever. No one seemed to be willing to address the issue, they were surely gone through with a fine tooth comb by the communist authorities and for all we knew they were gone. My father tried and tried again, but to no use.
We arrived at the airport, no suitcases we were told. and we boarded the Airplane, the same airplane we had been on 24 hours or so earlier. We landed 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 went to the baggage claim but nothing. Off to the hotel, this time a real nice 5 star hotel and we all jumped in the shower, my mother took a bath and we really enjoyed out on night in this high rise hotel in Japan. No suitcases, all five of them gone, but at least we were not in Moscow, were the thoughts. Next morning-off to the airport this time for a flight to Pusan Korea, our final destination. After arriving we went to the baggage claim, just to see, and what do you know… there they were lined up: The Five Suitcases, Our Five Suitcases, all lined up next to the baggage claim. No other suitcases where 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. The belts were gone, but even without the belts, they must have disappeared somewhere in Moscow, it was unmistakably our Five Samsonite Suitcases. Hopefully suitcases full of our future one year of belongings in them…No one will ever know where they had 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. A mystery, yes,but nevertheless. There they were all lined up-one after another-The Five Suitcases– in Pusan Korea.
The next thing I remember is a customs officer, looking at the five suitcases, opening them all up, poking around in all out sweaters, shirts, socks, pants, underwear, belts and shoes. But is didn’t matter that they left it all in a big bundle. We had our Five Suitcases with all of our future one year of belongings with us. Messy or not, but it was obvious. It was all there…Ready for us to have with us for a wonderful, exciting year on the other side of the globe.
