The story of the night on the convoy to Ukraine. The delegations settle in the bunks, diplomats, journalists, staff. It’s after ten, the train is moving
FROM THE SENT. In Medyka, the night has just covered the Polish countryside. The walking distance is only a few hundred meters in a corridor of men and women, soldiers and policemen. Under the lights of the street lamps, the train seems to be waiting lazily for its passengers, as if it were any journey, any night. At the foot of the stairs there are the hostesses. They wait with a sign in hand. Everyone has a different flag. French, Italian, German. The cell phone signal tells us that we are already inside Ukraine. In reality we are still ten kilometers from the border. Soon after, on paper, we would no longer be in Europe.
The delegations settle in the bunks, diplomats, journalists, staff. It’s after ten, the train is moving. Mario Draghi is in the first car, in the lead. Shortly after, the intelligence men accompany him into the wagon in the middle of the convoy where Emmanuel Macron awaits him and Olaf Scholz. The photographers are made to arrive, for a shot that erases all doubts. Germany, Italy and France are traveling together to Ukraine, in the country raped by Vladimir Putin. On the table are the folders of the dossiers prepared by the councilors, three glasses of water with ice, a bottle of disinfectant liquid. The clothing is informal. Draghi is dressed in a sweater, Macron in a white shirt and Scholz in a black short-sleeved shirt. I don’t agree on everything. But here I am, in a train called Europa that crosses the darkness of Ukraine, looking for a line that is as common as possible. An answer for Volodymyr Zelensky. On wheat, on weapons, on EU entry. They argue for over two and a half hours. Arriving at Lviv station, they say goodbye. Outside, the sky is already beginning to brighten, it seems to prepare for dawn. There are still seven hours to go before arriving in Kiev. The border begins to move away. The train continues to drive noisy through the night. As soon as we entered Ukraine, a few hours earlier, the train was stopped for passport control. A Ukrainian army soldier goes up to examine the carriages. He greets with a handshake one by one the men of the GIS carabinieri corps in charge of the president’s security. A soldier asks for the documents. She doesn’t speak English. “Slava Ukraini”, someone says to her. She smiles, a small nod of a smile that she smacks of gratitude and pride, and she replies, in her language: “Glory to the heroes.” Someone will have told you that on this train, in a room a few meters further, three men, three leaders of Europe, are discussing you, Zelensky, the resistance of a people who are fighting so that no one feels entitled to dismember the his land.
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