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

(now president) Vladimir Putin was in town. Many local residents refuse to believe that his presence was not somehow related. Was Putin actually the target of a terrorist plot that somehow went awry? Did Putin actually order the crash to bring the nation together after a tragedy, just as he was running to become president again? These seem like far-fetched conspiracy theories, but they do point to the deep suspicions many Russians have about their leadership—and in particular, Putin.
    More than twenty thousand fans were silent during the emotional tribute. Then came the cue that it was okay to start cheering. A loud train whistle blasted in the arena, and the new Lokomotiv team took the ice, to the delight of their wild fans. The game was close and intense, as fans urged the hometown team on, yelling, “ Shaibu! Shaibu! ” which translates literally as “Puck! Puck!” but translates among hockey devotees as “Goal! Goal!”
    Lokomotiv lost in the end, but that may have been because they had already clinched a spot in the upcoming playoffs and weren’t playing their hardest.
    After the game Sergei and I caught up with Dima, who agreed to chat for a few minutes before going to meet his girlfriend—who, it turns out, was one of the cheerleaders dancing near our seats. Dima, Sergei, and I stood near one of the concession stands as fans streamed out of the arena behind us. He explained that the plane crash was especially hard for him, since he knew all the players. “I trained with them. I grew up and lived with them.” He dismissed all the theories about how the crash was anything but an accident. “Only God decided that something like that would happen.” Dima spoke quietly, thinking about every question I asked. Sergei somberly translated for me. I asked Dima about his plans for the future, and he revealed an inner conflict I found in many younger, more educated Russians with enough money to consider their options. “I live in this city, and I love this city,” he explained. “But I want to play in the NHL. It’s my dream. Because life is better in countries like the USA and Canada. My girlfriend, she is twenty-one. I am twenty-one. And we will be married in two months. The laws are better in those other countries. People are more helpful. Everything is more comfortable. Why can’t we have that here?”
    For many young Russians like Dima, there is a desire to leave and see the world, but it comes with guilt and a nagging sense that a Russian should stay and endure rather than escape. This view of the world was summed up perfectly by a woman named Ella Stroganova, the curator of the Yaroslavl City Museum, whom I met on my first train trip across the country. I had asked her why Russians responded to harsh experiences with determined fortitude and a feeling of inevitability, rather than being spurred into action to find solutions and make things better. Looking for answers, or doing something, she explained, was simply un-Russian. It was an admission of vulnerability that Russians see elsewhere in the world. “Progress makes a person absolutely weak,” she told me. “He loses his strength because he no longer needs to think how to survive.” Some in Russia’s younger generation, like Dima, are escaping this thinking and dreaming of new things and different places. But as I would learn on this trip, not all young people feel as Dima does.
    Sergei and I walked out of the arena, into a light snow. I looked back at the arena, where a huge portrait of the fallen players hung on the outside wall. I had not seen it going in, since we were in such a rush. Under the portraits were the words “Our team. Forever.” One of those portraits was of a young fallen star, Nikita Klyukin.
    S ERGEI AND I leave our indulgent digs at the Hotel Rybinsk and find a taxi to go visit Nikita’s parents. Like many Russian cities Rybinsk is a factory town, built around its industrial fortress—an aging behemoth that for years has