Midnight in Siberia: A Train Journey into the Heart of Russia by David Greene

journalists here and they want tickets to the game—let’s help them!” And help this generous man did. We pulled up to the arena, and his son, Dima, ran up to the car to greet us. The tall, well-built teenager was soft-spoken, but there was little time to say anything anyway. We were in a rush to get inside. Dima told Sergei that we had no physical tickets—nothing but ominous, I had learned—but that if anyone asked, we should just say, “We are with Yuri Vladimirovich.” I never did find out who Yuri was. But boy, was his name well-known at the arena! Sergei and I rushed behind Dima, passing throngs of people waiting to go through security. At the metal detectors Sergei yelled out “Yuri Vladimirovich!” and we were waved through like dignitaries. Turnstyles where people were collecting tickets? We strolled right on through, as Sergei kept saying, to anyone willing to listen, “Yuri Vladimirovich.” Here, I thought, was a window into the shadier side of Russian life—know the right people and the sky is the limit. Ethical quandary—yes—but I comforted myself because Dima seemed to be doing something so very generous for us.
    In many ways the arena was familiar to me. I love professional hockey. My team is the Pittsburgh Penguins, and I go to as many games as I can. There was a concession stand, where I bought a beer. Same as at home. What was different were some of the food offerings. To go with beer? The best-selling option was bags of dried, salted fish strips that resembled worms but tasted far better. I washed some down with beer; then Dima, Sergei, and I settled into seats, never having shown a physical ticket to anyone (victory!). We were behind one of the goals. The ice, nets, general vibe—same as at home. A difference, however: cheerleaders. The Pittsburgh Penguins have no cheerleaders. Here, in the aisle next to me, cheerleaders, one on each step, in orange tops and silver miniskirts. The young Russian women did not look older than teenagers, twenty-one at most. And this was just the beginning. Across the arena, on a huge platform situated above fans below, were more young women, dancers dressed in tight-fitting outfits with black and white stripes. The theme of their attire seemed, at least vaguely, to be related to the railroad. As unfair a comparison as it may be, I could not help but think of the book and movie The Hunger Games , where each region of an oppressed, postapocalyptic country represents a different industry, and where the young “tributes” are dressed in costumes representing the industry of their homeland. In Soviet times Russian sports teams were sponsored by different industries—and Yaroslavl’s team, Lokomotiv, was and still is sponsored by the Russian Railway. As dance music blared, the girls danced in front of a sign that read, translated, “Russian Rails: main sponsor for Lokomotiv.” All over the arena was the familiar acronym “pzd.” On the scoreboard, ad after ad: “Russian Railways: We’re making our future.”
    But then the past took center stage. Players from both teams—Yaroslavl Lokomotiv and the visiting Magnitigorsk Metallurg (this team, sponsored by Russia’s steel industry, makes a Pittsburgh Steelers fan like me proud)—began skating around the ice as the arena fell silent. This quiet “skate” took place at the beginning of every Lokomotiv home game, to honor the fallen team. Then a ballad began to play, and images of the dead players flashed across the Jumbotron with a message: “The team that will always be in our hearts.”
    . . .
    T HE CIRCUMSTANCES surrounding that 2011 plane crash remain murky. The season was just beginning, and Lokomotiv was ready to fly out of town for its first game of the season. Shortly after take-off in Yaroslavl, the plane went down, killing all but one aboard. Officially pilot error was blamed. But the timing was odd. There was an international economic summit taking place in the city, and Russian prime minister