5.

But Sasha … was from Russia where the sunsets are longer, the dawns less sudden, and sentences often left unfinished from doubt as to how best to end them.

Virginia Woolf, Orlando

Star City, 12 September 2010

It’s a moment I’ve been looking forward to: at the end of our basic training we’re about to start a two-month course on the Russian segment of the Space Station and an introduction to operations on the Soyuz vehicle. Nikolai, a man with very white hair and a sweet smile, has come to collect us from the airport in Domodedovo and, having struggled through the slow and messy traffic on the ring road around Moscow, he drives the little ESA van onto less congested roads flanked by birch and fir trees. After more than two hours of travelling, a block of white stone decorated with a large four-pointed star appears at the side of the road. On top, carved in relief, sits the word Zvezdnyj. We’re close by now: nestling, almost hidden in these majestic woods 25 kilometres or so north of Moscow is Zvezdny Gorodok, Star City. The place is legendary, a site where the history of humans in space has been written for half a century. Once a secret military citadel, today it’s a hub in the web of international collaboration that keeps the ISS going. It’s here that Yuri Gagarin and Valentina Tereshkova prepared, here that Space Station crews train today for everything concerning Russian components and, naturally, the Soyuz vehicle. At moments like these, I still feel like I’m living in a fairy tale. Only nine years ago, I left a Moscow that was much less rich and modern, with my dissertation in my computer and, in my pocket, the summons to the Air Force Academy for a short internship, the final phase in the admissions process.

Our van slows down, bringing me back to the present. The road ends in a large open area walled on two sides. We’ve stopped in front of the only open crossing, a checkpoint manned by two lazy guards in military uniform. They exchange a few words with Nikolai in that brusque, dry tone which isn’t considered rude in Russia, and, having verified his pass, they move aside to permit access. We drive down a straight and narrow road with trees on one side and a stone wall on the other. Many years of reading science fiction make me feel like I’m travelling down a tunnel into another dimension. Behind us, the frenetic twenty-first century in Moscow; ahead, a mythical place that seems protected and suspended in time. There was no arrogance in taking away space from nature: there’s still forest everywhere and in the small lake we see reflected the bright colours of what the Russians call ‘golden autumn’. There’s nothing to make you think that any significant changes have taken place since the time when you could easily have bumped into the young pioneers of space exploration criss-crossing the woods on cross-country skis. Chaika – Tereshkova’s callsign on Vostok 6 – never actually left. Though she’s become an important public figure, actually a member of the Duma, she still has a house here, and it’s said she often attends the parties and celebrations held by the cosmonaut community.fn1 Gagarin, who died a few years after his historic flight, is also present in his own way. His stern statue guards the access road: in typical Soviet style, he’s portrayed not in his cosmonaut suit but in his ordinary work clothes, lightly outlined, holding a flower in one hand behind his back.

I am increasingly impatient to explore this place I’ve so often imagined, but right now there’s a more immediate issue: we’re late for supper. As it happens, Scott Kelly and Ron Garan, two NASA astronauts whom I got to know a few weeks ago at the EAC, have offered to have a bite to eat ready and are waiting for our arrival. So we quickly leave our baggage in our simple but comfortable rooms and we’re assigned bicycles that, starting tomorrow, will be our means of local transport. We then ask Nikolai to drive us to Cottage 3, where we are expected.

We’ve all heard about these cottages: a bizarre architectural witness to the American presence here since the 1990s, when several NASA astronauts flew on the Russian Space Station MIR. Most of the residents of Star City live in poky apartments situated in austere and imposing concrete blocks from the Soviet era, their windows tiny and their balconies merely decorative. European astronauts are housed on the second floor of the so-called Profilaktorium, a reasonably welcoming structure where cosmonauts spend a period of quarantine post-flight. NASA astronauts, on the other hand, live in three two-storey wooden cottages painted white. Between a characterless, unfinished residential block and a recent Orthodox church painted bright blue sits a little piece of North America – complete with waste disposals in the sinks and 110V electrical plugs.

Our supper is cheerful and informal. The others have already eaten, and we’re invited to help ourselves from pots kept warm on the hob. Excited and in good spirits, we try to participate in the conversation, interjecting a clever line here and there in hopes of eliciting a laugh. But mostly we listen, fascinated. There are astronauts currently in training here, the doctor stationed in Star City and various NASA support staff. Some of the exchanges are incomprehensible to us: there are too many terms and acronyms that we don’t know as yet, too many names of people we’ve not yet met. Now and again we ask a question, and now and again someone offers an explanation. Those who’ve already eaten and feel they’ve made an honest contribution by washing up or helping to clean the kitchen are disappearing into the basement. We’re invited too. We go down a little stairway and find ourselves in Shep’s Bar.

‘Shep’ is Bill Shepherd, originally a US Navy Seal, then a NASA astronaut, and finally commander of the first expedition on the ISS. Ten years ago, he, Yuri Gidzenko and Sergei Krikalev reached an embryonic ISS, then composed of only three modules, and from that time on there has never been a single day when humans have not been in space. To prepare for that historic mission, which was postponed several times, Shep spent long periods of time here in Star City, and one day he had the idea of transforming the basement of Cottage 3 into a place to relax and socialize. In addition to the bar, a battered sofa, a ping-pong table, a pool table and a huge television, there are dozens of objects and knick-knacks I imagine have accumulated over the years: pennants, trophies, photos, and autographs of people who’ve passed through, some more famous than others … Moscow’s nightlife is one of the most vibrant in the world, but perhaps the most exclusive venue of all is found in a humble basement in Star City.

The evening ends early, and we walk back towards our rooms. The Profilaktorium is very close to the cottages, just on the other side of a wide court, but because there are five of us here at the same time, we’re in a sort of guesthouse about a ten-minute walk away. It’s a pleasant stroll on dirt paths beside the lake. We don’t meet a soul, other than a few stray dogs, and we have to use our pocket torches as there are no roadside lamps and the Moon has already set. My impressions of the day are settling down in me, and all around reign calm and silence, ideal companions for savouring this evening’s happiness.

—

It’s easy to explain why our small group of apprentice astronauts was so enthusiastic about Star City and its warm welcome. After nearly a year of basic training, we had acquired a great deal of knowledge and skills, but we’d had little contact with the international human spaceflight community, and especially with non-European astronauts. It’s true that in the spring of that year we’d spent a week at the Johnson Space Center (JSC) in Houston, but our trip had been too brief and our activities too isolated for us to feel more than short-term visitors. We had only brushed up against that complex world, bustling with activity, and it had barely registered our existence.

We had, however, begun to forge friendly links with our parallel class, the Chumps, i.e. the American, Canadian and Japanese astronauts, who, like us, had been recruited the previous year and were now busy with their basic training at JSC. These links were strengthened when they came to Cologne later that year, thanks to a now-legendary party at Andy’s house.

That evening in late July, we uncorked a bottle of spumante to celebrate Luca’s assignment on Space Station Expedition 36/37, with a launch scheduled for spring 2013. This was a flight opportunity available to ASI, the Italian Space Agency, and as such it could only be offered to Luca or me. We’d discussed it often and openly, neither of us hiding the fact that we both wanted it unequivocally. Whoever was assigned would transition seamlessly from basic training to pre-mission prep and would reach the launchpad in less than three intense and challenging years. The other person, though, would languish in that state of pent-up frustration and anxiety typical of most astronauts who are waiting for their first spaceflight, and naturally uncertain whether the coveted opportunity will ever materialize.

It was no surprise when Luca was chosen. If I had been the highest-ranking officer at the time, it probably would have been me. This criterion was objective and indisputable, and it allowed ASI, at the suggestion of the Air Force, to make an otherwise difficult choice, since there were two of us apprentice astronauts, both of us equally prepared and chomping at the bit. Nevertheless, it was a great disappointment. Of course, there’d be a second ASI flight a couple of years later – that’s why two Italians had been recruited into the Shenanigans in the first place. But you can’t take anything for granted where space missions are concerned, and there were many unknowns. The only thing I could count on was that there would be years of agonizing uncertainty ahead.

None of this dampened my excitement about the prospect of two months’ training at Zvezdnyj Gorodok. For everyone who lives and works there, it’s just Zvezdnyj. Not all of the several thousand residents these days work in the field of space. Most of them walk each morning on the narrow road that leads from the main gate through the woods to the Tsiolkovsky stop, two simple platforms partially protected by shelters. From there, an elektrichka, the Spartan yet reliable electric train that connects Moscow to the smaller outlying towns, takes them to Yaroslavsky station in a little more than an hour. Then the extensive network of the Moscow metro gets them to their places of work and the universities. Some make the journey in reverse, and once they’ve entered Star City, they go through a second guarded gate to find themselves in the so-called technical zone. These are the specialists at the Yuri Gagarin cosmonaut training centre. Many of them are old enough to have known Yuri in person, while others are so young they don’t even remember the Soviet Union. Because of the social and economic upheavals of the last twenty years, the generations in between aren’t very well represented.

In Star City, it’s not uncommon to run into someone you’ve read about in history books. If you hang around after working out in the cosmonauts’ gym, maybe relaxing in the sauna, you may just discover that some of your more elderly companions flew on the first Soviet Space Stations in the 1970s, the Salyuts. In fact, many of the older cosmonauts still live here, in the apartments assigned to them in the Soviet era. And even if they’ve moved away, they still show up regularly. By chance, one day I ran into Vladimir Titov, well known for having experienced the only launchpad emergency escape ever, back in 1983. After Titov’s rocket caught fire, thanks to the flight controllers’ quick reactions and the impeccable escape system, his Soyuz capsule was separated from the launcher with an acceleration of 15 Gs, enough to save him and his crew. Another time, I passed an older lady who was walking to work in the technical zone. ‘One of Tereshkova’s back-ups for Vostok 6,’ a Russian colleague explained matter-of-factly. Sometimes it seems like no one ever leaves Star City.

The main objective of those weeks of training was to become certified as ‘users’ of the Russian modules, which make up about one-third of the habitable volume on the Space Station. Users have the most basic qualification level: they must demonstrate generic familiarity with the on-board systems, know how to use the emergency equipment and be able to carry out everyday procedures, such as operating the electric switches and plugs, water dispensers and communication systems. Combining classroom theory, practical sessions in the mock-up and the incessant repetition typical of the Russian teaching philosophy, our instructors ensured that we became familiar with places none of us would visit for years to come. Even today, despite never having repeated these courses, I would still be able to find every one of the ten 10V sockets on board the Service Module with my eyes closed.

While most of our time was dedicated to the Russian segment of the Space Station, we mostly looked forward to sitting in the simulator for the Soyuz, the small spaceship that would one day take us to the International Space Station. I was thrilled to realize that we were studying how to operate the vehicle directly from the procedure checklists actually used by crew members, which you are not even allowed to take out of Russia. And I felt deeply emotional when I put on the Sokol: it was uncomfortable and too big for me, but I was instantly in love. I was looking out on the world for the first time through the helmet of a spacesuit.

The Soyuz simulator hall was large and full of light, with high ceilings and large windows. At regular intervals along its length four simulators protruded like lone mushrooms, each one a spherical orbital module sitting above a bell-shaped descent module. There were steps leading to an opening in the side of the descent module, and you could climb down through that onto the seats. This access does not exist in the real space vehicle, and the only way of getting into the descent module is through the orbital module. But it wouldn’t be practical or safe to have to lower yourself from above during daily training in conditions of normal Earth gravity.

In the same simulator hall where we apprentice astronauts were just starting to get to know the Soyuz, a crew were taking their final exam, only a few weeks before their actual launch from the Baikonur cosmodrome in Kazakhstan. It was Yuri Petrovich who suggested that we sit in on the first part of the exam early in the morning, before we began our classes. We’d only met him a few days before, but it was already clear that he was our guardian angel. Equally esteemed by Russians, Americans and Europeans, who always respectfully called him by his first name and patronymic, he’d been managing the ESA office in Star City for a few years and had a reputation for solving every conceivable problem efficiently, and with meticulous attention to detail.

By eight in the morning a small crowd had gathered in the simulator hall. The three crew members, including NASA astronaut Scott Kelly, came in through a side room, where they’d put on their Sokol space suits. The suits are designed for the foetal position you assume in the Soyuz seats, definitely not for standing up, so the crew members were forced to walk awkwardly and bent forward. They proceeded towards the examining committee, half a dozen elegantly dressed officials lined up behind a small wooden table, on which lay sealed envelopes. The commander chose one of the envelopes, and all three of them signed it without having seen its contents. As Yuri Petrovich patiently explained to us in his usual gentle yet authoritative tone, the envelopes contained possible exam scenarios, each one describing a different sequence of malfunctions and emergency situations the crew would have to face. Responsibility would fall chiefly on the two cosmonauts, the commander and the flight engineer, respectively. Scott, who would be commander of the Space Station, would be carrying out a support role on the Soyuz and had received much less in-depth training than his Russian colleagues. Sitting in the right seat, he would not have direct access to the telemetry or the controls. In any case, Scott already had a fantastic career. As a naval aviator with more than 8,000 flight hours, he was about to embark on his third spaceflight after having served first as pilot and then as commander of the Space Shuttle.

When I went back to the simulator room late that afternoon following my classes, the exam was already in its final phase: in the simulation, Soyuz had undocked from the ISS, and the crew were preparing to re-enter the atmosphere. The simulator control room was chock-a-block; anyone who could possibly attend was there. Not a soul wanted to miss it. Instructors, teachers, cosmonauts and astronauts: all were watching, evaluating and discussing. I didn’t yet have the knowledge I needed to really follow the exam, but going by the instructors’ proud comments, it seemed that the crew were doing very well.

Suddenly the measured tone of the conversation gave way to buzzing chatter and the commotion of people rising from their seats: the exam was over, the crew left the simulator to go and change and the committee retired to the adjoining room to consider the results. I was very curious and wanted to attend the debriefing, the discussion and analysis session that always follows a drill and today would include an evaluation of the astronauts’ performance. I’d heard that the crew members are encouraged to discuss and to defend their decisions and actions with the committee in order to get a better score, and these discussions were rumoured to be very animated. But not this time. The crew, under the guidance of an expert commander, had acted more or less impeccably, and the few observations made by the committee were accepted without objection.

It was time to celebrate. Following tradition, the crew offered refreshments in the building next door, and we all – instructors, translators, doctors, cosmonauts and astronauts, friends and families of those celebrating – assembled around a groaning table. On behalf of the Shenanigans, I proposed a toast, the first of many that punctuated my time as an apprentice astronaut and would end years later, when a rocket sat waiting to launch me into space. Living in Star City, I’d quickly learned that making a toast is a deadly serious matter, and it’s unforgivably careless not to be ready to propose one at the drop of a hat. Russian toasts run the gamut from witty anecdotes to sagacious, philosophical disquisitions, and consist of elaborate homages to courage, devotion to duty, friendship, love and family. It’s not originality they value, but a heartfelt eloquence, so much so that, months later, you might still be complimented on an especially clever or moving toast. Above all else, a Russian toast is never short. Listeners wait patiently, in courteous silence and growing, but contained enthusiasm which finally explodes – after the traditional exhortation tri … četyre (three … four …) – in a thundering ‘Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!’

I was to discover that final exams are only one of the many events that mark the passage of time in Star City, a place that breathes with the cycle and rhythm of the space missions. Following rituals observed for decades, the small local community gathers joyfully around the crew as they set off for space and reassembles to celebrate their return. When you come back, even after a period of some years away, it’s easy to get back into sync, and there’s a friendly greeting from familiar faces, as if you had been absent only for a short holiday.

Scott’s crew had a week off after the final exam. Russians wisely allow this post-training break so that astronauts can recuperate and tie up matters pertaining to daily life on Earth before a long absence from the planet. The week over, we all got together again for a feast, this time first thing in the morning, the traditional goodbye breakfast held for the crew leaving for Baikonur. Time was short on this occasion. There were a few obligatory toasts before we were asked to quickly take our seats – despite the fact that there weren’t enough chairs for everyone. Whether you sat on the windowsill or on your neighbour’s knees, the important thing was for everyone to be seated for at least a few seconds before leaving, which was an essential part of wishing the departing crew a safe journey. No one touched their food. Barely twenty minutes later, with the crew on a bus headed for the airport, we Shenanigans, innocent novices that we were, returned to the breakfast room, intending to do the breakfast justice. But the table was completely bare. It seems this is the custom, and even now, years later, I still haven’t solved the mystery of what happens to that feast.

Scott and his crew left for the Space Station a few weeks later, as planned, and I was surprised to find myself following the activities of the ISS particularly closely since, for the first time, one of the crew members was someone I knew. What I couldn’t know then was that I would one day be welcoming Scott back to space for his final flight.

And Scott was the one to send me my first present from the Space Station a few weeks later: a lovely photo of Italy he’d just taken from the Cupola. It was on the occasion of our having completed our basic training. To celebrate, there was a simple ceremony in Cologne, upon our return from Russia, where we were presented with large diplomas certifying our official status as European Space Agency astronauts. It was a great moment for celebrating with our families, though not particularly emotional, because your feelings are much more intense when you’ve struggled hard to reach a goal, and I don’t think anyone found the course that difficult, a testament to ESA’s well-conceived astronaut selection. We might not have been the best – it’s not reasonable to believe that such a long and complex process resulted in the perfect selection – but all things considered, it seemed we were good enough.

With our basic training at an end, we Shenanigans began to go our separate ways. Luca had already begun preparing for his mission, which would be named Volare, and the next ESA flight, which eventually became the Blue Dot mission, was intended for a German astronaut, so we knew Alex would be assigned soon. For Thomas, Tim, Andy and me, the prospects were much less certain.

I soon began to feel restless. An astronaut who hasn’t yet been to space wants only one thing, and with every fibre of her being: assignment on her first mission. Though I knew my time would not come up for another couple of years at the earliest, I wanted to keep preparing if nothing else, training as much as I could as soon as I could. Around that time I learned that there was a way of beginning proper pre-mission training without a definite assignment, and that was to become ESA’s reserve astronaut. The reserve astronaut would receive roughly the first year of the ISS training and would be able to replace a colleague from the same agency if they had to bow out of the flight in that first phase of preparation. It was an extremely remote possibility, but that mattered little to me. Above all, it represented the chance to train like an assigned astronaut, to qualify for spacewalks and for flying the robotic arm, to get to know about more of the Space Station beyond the European and Russian modules. And, last but not least, I would feel like I was genuinely part of the international astronaut community, with its centres of gravity in Houston and Star City. I volunteered without the least hesitation.

While I was waiting for the decision, I did a lot of public outreach. From Catania to Berlin, Milan to Paris, I travelled to over twenty European cities, mostly to speak in schools, though occasionally to participate in institutional events or TV programmes. As the months slowly passed, I felt increasingly impatient. Of course, outreach is an important duty for an astronaut, and it’s normal for this to assume centre stage at times, but I found it difficult to cope with a situation in which I was talking about my past – my basic training – and my future – my flight on the Space Station – without knowing when my present would once again be interesting and challenging. Until at last one day, which was really no different from any other, there was a final signature, a final form, or maybe just a final agreement – and I was ESA’s reserve astronaut.

I had no idea how steep and tortuous the road would be, or how long, but at least I was moving. I was now on my way towards a space mission.