Men of Winter

Chapter II

'Lend me a hand, friends, for I am alone and afraid.' — Iliad 13

The pension seemed quite perfect for my needs. My room had a comfortable chair, a sturdy table for writing and eating, a coal-burner, and a large bed whose springs were not too noisy. It was on the second floor, so it was the beneficiary of the little heat rising from the building's lower half. Its only window, double-paned, looked across a narrow alley to a featureless gray wall. The pension's landlord guaranteed me a scuttle of coal every other day; of course, I could obtain more for an additional cost. He was a short fellow, but muscular, with unkempt mustaches that covered his mouth even when he spoke. I assured him I would make do with the basic allotment. An electric light fixture hung from a black cord in more or less the center of the room; however, I was told not to depend on electricity. There was an oil lamp on the table, along with an assorted handful of stubby candles. More were available from the landlord – for an additional cost.

I had picked up a small metal pail of turnip soup from the landlord's skinny wife, and I immediately placed it on top of the coal-burner, as some warmth would no doubt improve the soup.

The pension was a twenty-minute walk from the railway station, toward Iiloskova's central business district – what remained of it. The offices that once handled money and valuable commodities of trade now dealt in basic necessities: used clothing, alcohol, and pharmaceuticals. Or they were vacant altogether. At the rail station I had opened my suitcase and took out my fur hat and my heavy gloves. I wound my scarf about my neck and hefted the suitcase to my side. With it and my valise, my hands were quite full.

In spite of the cold, the air seemed stale. Frost formed on my mustaches, which felt as stiff as pig bristles. Snowflakes descended erratically, but I could not tell if they came from the leaden sky or were merely blown off the severely slanted rooftops. Great piles of snow, some twenty and thirty feet high, stood at every street corner, where they had been doggedly shoveled, scraped and swept by the citizens in an attempt to stay winter's steady avalanche. On my way to the pension I stopped at a store selling alcohol. Its front windows were nearly black with soot. I needed a break from my burden so I stepped inside and immediately placed my heavy suitcase on the floor. There was a man behind a glass display counter. He was probably close to my age but appeared older. He was mostly bald and had long gray side whiskers, giving his face a thin, protracted look. He wore a black horse-hair vest over a heavy fisherman's sweater.

"Hello, friend," I said. "What do you have for the cold?" Wooden crates were littered about the room, some open, many not. Straw and glass bottles protruded from the open crates; straw also lay in clumps on the filthy floor. The shelves and display cases were somewhat ornate. The molding which ran along the high ceiling was hand-carved wood. This place had probably once been an apothecary. Well-to-do businessmen, physicians and litigators were no doubt among its heyday patrons.

"Nothing for the cold like mother's milk, friend." He set a small bottle of vodka on the greasy glass counter. He wore black wool gloves with half-fingers. The tips of his nails were as black as the wool.

"Of course. I will take it." The price he asked was too high but I did not feel like haggling. I slid the bottle in the pocket of my big coat and took up my suitcase. I was quite certain that if I had asked for something more potent, I would have been supplied accordingly from the back of the store.

In my room at the pension I sipped the grainy vodka and held my hands near the coal-burner. I was beginning to feel warmer. My mustaches had thawed and I used my jacket sleeve to wipe at the moisture. Having no tableware, I drank the turnip soup. It was bland but probably nutritious.