Spring 2024 - Recrudescence

“Mrs. Vogel Doesn’t Need a Visa”

hand. Another, older, official was with him. Seating himself in the passport control booth, the second one looked over at Ernst.

Speaking in Polish, he asked, “What is the purpose of your

visit to Ukraine?”

“Sorry, I don’t understand,” Ernst said in English.

“Oh, bloody hell,” the official said in Ukrainian. “He doesn’t speak Polish, doesn’t speak Ukrainian. He’s talking something there, but what ... who knows?” “Well, it’s probably German. Can’t you see? He’s German. Tell Yurko to make a good sweep of his “beemer,” what he’s driving there, and then he can go to hell.” One border guard remained seated in the booth, and the other one went off somewhere with Ernst’s passport, gesturing sideways at the foreigner in a way that was probably meant to encourage him to drive forward, to free up a space in front of the booth for other cars. After all, what more could they want with Ernst? After five minutes, a customs officer appeared with a German police dog on a leash. He was a heavy-set man who considered Ernst with interest. Asking something, and receiving from Ernst the answer, “Sorry, I don’t understand,” he motioned for the car door to be opened. He said something to the dog, who quickly sniffed through every corner of the vehicle, and afterward stood calmly next to its master. The customs official indicated a bag that lay in the trunk. Ernst opened it, the customs official began to sort through its contents, and, removing one of four packages of coffee, said in Ukrainian:

“You are allowed to bring only 500 grams, and here you have

a whole kilogram.”

Ernst did not understand, and so the official demonstrated 59