Daglov, 1956, by Dr Viktor Krevdenski

On My Arrival;

The mining town of Daglov was characteristically uncharacteristic. Weathered buildings of grey brick and greyer wood, some homes, some places of work, always snowed under by at least three foot of snow. Ringed by pine trees for miles, the only way in or out of Daglov was by the railway that passed through on its way from Krazitsky.

It was on one of these trains, only coming monthly, that I arrived in the desolate town. I'd come in search of work, a friend had offered me a job opportunity and I would be staying at his house until I could afford to rent one of the many unused flats. Checking the address on the yellow, crumpled, torn and generally abused slip of paper that displayed his address, I shivered uncontrollably. The snow was falling heavily, and I had to find my friend's abode if I was to get any sort of warmth any time soon. Even my thick woollen trenchcoat was proving least effective, the long tails whipping about my calves in the frost bitten wind. Strangely, I realised as at last the train pulled away, no one had been on the platform to greet me. It would have been possible to get on the carriage before I left, but there was no real hurry. For a train that only came once a month, it wasn't unreasonable to assume that there would be a bigger turnout than myself. Shrugging, I made my way to the kiosk, to see about buying a packet of cigarettes, and perhaps a small bottle of vodka to warm me up. Curiously, the shop too was empty. I must have caught the town during a reverse siesta, I'd heard of such things happening in Europe, when it was too hot to go outside, let alone work. It could be like that here, only everyone was sheltering from the biting cold, as opposed to a blistering sun. After all, I was hardly accustomed to the practices the residents incorporated here.

Though the roads and streets alike were buried under a decent helping of snow, I managed to negotiate myself through the desolate streets to my friend's house. Identical to the rest, its only discernable feature was the striking red paper box nailed to his wall. But even that was being worn away by the buffeting wind and snow, and patches of flaky wood was showing beneath. On my way to my destination I had made note of a few important landmarks: The town hall, taller than te rest and with a slightly grander design, the market, currently a few abandoned stalls but no doubt bustling with life when the snow wasn't quite so deep, and the mine-lift winch, standing like a rusted skeletal spine against the thick white landscape.

I gave three sharp, punctual knocks on the door. Then three more after there was no answer. Trying the handle, I was surprised to no end when it clunked and the door opened. Swung open by the eager wind, I took its example and hurried inside. I cleared my throat loudly to announce my presence but that too heralded no response. Where could my friend have gone? It was hardly normal to leave the front door unlocked when you were out, especially in Russia. Kicking off my boots, I simply collapsed on the threadbare sofa, wincing as the springs gave, and settled to sleep, forcing the issue of the absence of human life to the corner of my mind for another day, most likely tomorrow. Within half an hour I had fallen into a troubled sleep.