I was sixteen years old. Hungry and cold, I rode atop the train carriage, bound for the Lenin state farm, a mere five miles from dthe distant Kurgannaya station. Initially, when the train departed Aksai station, I stood on the carriage step with three others, making us a quartet. No admittance was granted to those without tickets. At Kayala station, two disembarked, leaving me ona steps with a well-dressed girl. She clutched her purse in one hand and gripped the railing with the other.
At every stop, we leaped from the steps, allowing departing passengers passage before the conductor admitted ticketed travelers and sealed the door. We scanned for police, wary of being ousted and stranded at an unfamiliar stop. Rostov con artists lurked, preying on hapless fare dodgers. I knew nothing of the girl's identity or destination; time didn't permit such inquiries. Miscreants circled her, drawn by the scent of homemade sausage emanating from her purse. Two boys flanked her, one questioning the contents of her bag. She claimed bread and sausage, but suspicion lingered.
I recognized their schemes; they aimed to rob her. Amidst their charade, I precociously ascended to the train's roof. A call for help and a piercing scream followed, and the girl's knitted scarf fluttered as she tumbled down the embankment. Pity surged within me, yet I knew she'd likely escape unscathed. As darkness descended, I huddled for warmth, attempting to ward off the chilling fear. The theaves' presence loomed, but my empty bag deterred them. They vanished into the night, leaving me to drift into uneasy slumber.