Men of Winter

Chapter XIII

Quieting themselves, they took their seats. — Iliad 2

On good roads – though the concept of good roads may have been foreign in the northcountry – the front should only have been about three hours from Iiloskova. I checked my watch and discovered that we had been traveling for nearly six. I did not want to seem an impatient child by asking how long before we reach our destination, but I could tell nothing from our young driver's demeanor. It had not changed throughout the trip. He continued to stare straight ahead at the rutted white road, his lower lip slightly agape. He only changed position and expression for an instant as we encountered an especially deep pot hole.

"To whom will we be reporting?" I finally asked, reaching a compromise with myself.

Smenov roused himself from the road's enthrallment to answer. "The commander." He blinked at the white road as if aware for the first time of its brightness.

"And who would that be?" I felt myself becoming irritated at his idiotic response.

Smenov looked to the snow and ice for an answer, then: "Commander Zlavik."

"Commander Zlavik himself." There had been surprisingly few reports about the supreme commander of the army, Anton Zlavik. I did not know how to take this fact, as an indication that he was a man who valued his privacy, or as some sort of government subterfuge. I was about to inquire about Zlavik, the man, when my eye caught something strange on the horizon, which had become blue-white. It seemed to be a farm of some sort. Even though it was some distance – the snow made gauging nearly impossible – I could discern a tall house, probably two levels; and a large barn with a conical roof. There also appeared to be several smaller structures around both the house and barn. Who would live out here ... virtually on the rim of the Arctic continent? And what could one farm? Fields of summer tundra and herds of minks to care for in winter? I dubbed the place "Mink Farm." We passed by the tiny settlement, which appeared to be cut off by the snow. I was surprised the army had not taken it over as an outpost of some sort. As I took one last glimpse of Mink Farm I discovered there were wisps of smoke coming from the house's chimney, so it was not abandoned. The hearty Mink Farmers were still hard at work.

My mind wandered, my thoughts like ghosts cavorting on the snowfields beyond the truck's frosty window glass. I wondered about Helena's and my friends left behind at the pension on Division Street, about Tasha and even about Mezenskov back home ("home" seemed to be becoming a meaningless abstraction), and I thought about the Prince of Ithaka, imagined him trudging through the snow – traveling, forever traveling, he said. I glanced out my side window believing for an instant I would see him there along the road. Of course I did not. The unabated white was affecting my reason. I had heard of "snow madness"; now I was starting to understand it.

My thoughts were interrupted by Smenov braking the truck. There were two sentries in the road. A sawhorse barricade painted in red and black stripes stood between the soldiers, who carried long rifles – P57s, I believe the model was called. The "P" was for Pachrov, the gun's inventor; I was not sure about the "57" – perhaps it was Pachrov's fifty-seventh version. The barricade was a mere prop. It was of so little substance it would have snapped like a twig under the truck's tires. The army was apparently unconcerned about a rear attack. The sentries themselves appeared to be twins: ill-kept beards on sunken cheeks, eyes wild from the wind and ceaseless white. I suspected their frames were skeletal but it was impossible to say because of their layers of army clothes. Instead of hoods, they wore strips of green-gray cloth wrapped around their heads, like an infidel's turban. The headgear was no doubt fashioned from discarded pants and shirts.