The only other people on the German plane were several shady-looking KGB fellows and a plump perspiring man selling Bibles. On arrival at Minsk airport, I was escorted into a little dim plywood room, lit with one bare light bulb hanging from a wire, where a skinny, young, pale soldier with bad skin and wearing a short, thick, blue, woollen coat, adorned with one red star on its breast pocket, asked to see my passport. He read it carefully and then his face brightened, showing a few gold teeth, and he asked me one question: “You know famous hockey player Wayne Gretzky?”