Soviet Union

Chapter 77 Soviet Union

The plane began to taxi. The runway rushed past the window—green grass, gray concrete, and then nothing more—only the sky and the sea. The plane lurched, lifted off the ground, and flew towards the hazy clouds. Loran leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. He thought of the road from Dakar to Brazzaville, of the road from Brazzaville to Wadi Rum, and of the road from Wadi Rum to Agairah.

Every journey is a beginning, and every beginning is a farewell. This time, he was saying goodbye to England, to London, and to those he had just met but had to leave.

The plane pierced through the clouds, and sunlight suddenly flooded in, so bright it stung his eyes. He squinted, looking out at the golden sea of ​​clouds. Above the clouds was another world, free from rain, fog, and war, only sunshine—boundless sunshine—shining on the undulating cloud hills as if on a frozen snowfield.

He stared at it for a long time, until his eyes started to sting, before finally looking down.

He opened his suitcase, took out the document Churchill had given him, and turned to the last page. There was a line of handwritten words, in Churchill's handwriting, hasty but forceful: "Tell Stalin that Britain will not surrender. Tell Stalin that France has not surrendered either. Tell him that he is not fighting this war alone."

Lorraine closed the file and stuffed it back into his suitcase. He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. The plane continued north, over the Irish Sea, over the Atlantic Ocean, towards the land he had never set foot on before.

Iceland. Reykjavik.

It was almost dark when the plane landed. The runway was short, only a few hundred meters, and the pilot practically skimmed the coastline as he landed. Through the porthole, Loran saw a stretch of black volcanic rock, sparsely covered with grayish-green moss, as if it hadn't rained in a long time. In the distance were a few low houses with red roofs, their chimneys emitting white smoke that was quickly dispersed by the wind.

The plane came to a stop at the end of the runway, its engines shut down. The pilot leaned out of the cockpit.

"It takes an hour to refuel. You can go for a walk, but don't go too far. It's windy in Iceland, and you'll get a headache if you stay in the wind for too long."

Loran jumped off the plane and stood on the black volcanic rock. The wind was indeed strong, so strong that he could barely stand.

He turned up his coat collar and walked towards the red-roofed houses. The houses were the airport terminal; they were small, just one room with a few tables, chairs, and a stove making coffee. An Icelandic woman stood behind the stove, wearing a thick sweater, her face bearing the distinctive expression of someone living in the Arctic…

A blush brought out by the wind.

"Coffee?" she asked in English.

Loran nodded. She poured him a cup and handed it to him. The coffee was strong, bitter, and scalding hot. He held the cup, sat down in the chair, and looked out the window at the gray-black wasteland. The wind howled through the cracks in the window, like something crying outside. He took a sip of coffee; the bitterness spread on his tongue, reminding him of the desert, of those nights spent sitting around a campfire drinking cheap coffee.

An hour later, the plane was fully fueled. Lorraine returned to the cabin and continued flying east. This time, the plane flew very high, so high that the sea was no longer visible, only the clouds, an endless expanse of clouds shimmering silvery-white in the moonlight. He leaned back in his seat and drifted off to sleep.

In his dream, he stood on a snow-covered plain. There was nothing around him but snow, white and endless, shimmering blindingly in the sunlight. In the distance, a dark shadow moved, small and far away, like a person.

He wanted to chase after him, but his legs wouldn't obey him; with each step, he sank into the snow, unable to pull himself out. He called out, and the dark figure stopped and turned around. He saw a face, very pale and thin, with bright eyes and a thick beard. The man wore a dark military overcoat, carried a marshal's baton on his shoulder, and held a pipe in his hand. He looked at Loran, his lips moving as if he were saying something. Loran couldn't hear him and called out again. The man turned around and continued walking, getting farther and farther away, smaller and smaller, until he disappeared behind the horizon.

Loran suddenly opened his eyes.

The plane was bumping. Outside the window was a hazy gray sky, without clouds, only fog, so thick it looked like you could cup it in your hands. The pilot leaned out of the cockpit.

"We're almost at Murmansk. There's fog below, so we might not be able to land. If we can't land, we'll have to turn back."

Loran didn't speak. He looked out the window, trying to find a trace of land in the thick fog. There was nothing. Only fog, grayish-white and dense, like a huge curtain hung outside the window.

The plane began its descent. The altimeter needle was dropping, the fog was thickening and getting closer, as if it were about to pour in through the windows. Loran gripped the armrest of his seat tightly, his knuckles turning white. The engine sound changed, from a steady roar to intermittent panting, as if the plane itself was tense.

Then, the fog dissipated.

It was as if someone had lifted a corner of the curtain, and the world outside the window suddenly became clear. Loran saw land.

Gray, low-lying, covered with patches of snow. I saw a forest, a dense coniferous forest, like swords thrust upside down into the ground. I saw a river, wide and gray, winding through the forest.

I saw houses, wooden, short, with smoke billowing from their chimneys. I saw people, very small and dark, crawling like ants in the snow.

The plane taxied on the runway, bounced a few times, and then came to a stop. Loran unbuckled his seatbelt, stood up, and looked out the window. Outside was a gray-white world: the sky was gray, the earth was white, the houses were gray, the trees were green, only people's faces were red—the kind of red from being frozen.

He picked up his suitcase and got off the plane.

Cold. That was his first feeling upon setting foot on Soviet soil. Not the damp cold of London, not the windy cold of Iceland, but a cold he had never experienced before, a cold that seeped into his bones, as if someone had stuffed an entire iceberg into his chest. He exhaled, and his breath condensed into a white mist in the air, lingering for a long time.

A man in a military overcoat walked towards him. The man was tall, broad-shouldered, and had an old scar running from his forehead to his chin. He stopped in front of Loran and saluted.

"Mr. Loran?" he asked in English, with a heavy Russian accent.

"Yes."

"I am Major Mikhail Ivanovich Korolev, liaison officer of the General Staff of the Soviet Red Army."

Sir Cripps sent me to pick you up. The car is outside.

Loran followed him toward the airport exit. The snow was thick, crunching underfoot, each step sinking him in, pulling him out, only to sink in again. He walked slowly, as if his legs were strapped with sandbags. Korolev walked ahead of him, fast and steady, as if accustomed to this kind of path.

They walked out of the airport and got into a black sedan. The car was old, rusty, and the leather seats were torn in several places, but the engine sounded steady and it drove smoothly. Korolev sat in the driver's seat, and Loran sat in the back. The car drove slowly, inching along the snow-covered road.

"We'll go to Murmansk city first, stay overnight, and then take the train to Moscow tomorrow," Korolev said, looking ahead at the road. "The train journey will take two days and two nights. We might encounter German planes along the way, but it won't be a big problem. The railway is open."

Loran nodded. He looked out the window at the snow-covered wasteland. Occasionally, a few wooden houses would flash by, low and dark, with white smoke billowing from their chimneys. Occasionally, a few pedestrians would pass by, wrapped in thick cotton coats, heads down, walking quickly. Occasionally, a military truck would drive by, carrying soldiers in gray overcoats and cotton caps with ear flaps, rifles clutched to their chests, their faces red from the cold.

"Major Korolev," Loran said.

"exist."

How did the Soviets view this war?

Korolev glanced at him in the rearview mirror. "You want to hear the truth?"

"The truth."

Korolev was silent for a few seconds. He gripped the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles turning white from the force.

"I'm afraid," he said, "but not afraid of dying. I'm afraid of losing. We lost the first time, and we don't want to lose a second time."

Loran didn't speak. He leaned against the car window, looking at the gray-white sky. It was getting dark. Murmansk is inside the Arctic Circle; the days are long in summer, but it gets dark early on cloudy days. In the distance, a dark red light burned a thin line on the horizon, as if someone had set a fire in the distance.

The car drove into Murmansk. The city wasn't large; most of the houses were made of wood, low and crammed together, like piles of trash blown by the wind. The streets were narrow, and snow piled up on the roadside, blackened by footsteps. Occasionally, a few streetlights shone, casting a dim, yellowish light that shone on the snow like puddles of melted butter.

The car stopped in front of a gray building. Korolev turned off the engine and turned around.

"This is our guesthouse. You'll stay here tonight. I'll pick you up at seven o'clock tomorrow morning and take you to the train station."

Lorraine picked up his suitcase and got out of the car. A cold wind hit him, cutting his face like a knife. He turned up his coat collar and walked into the building.

The guesthouse was small, only three stories high. The corridors were narrow, the lighting dim, and the floor was covered with faded carpet that felt soft and spongy underfoot, like walking on cotton. A Russian woman in uniform led him up to the third floor and opened a door. The room contained a bed, a table, a chair, and a wardrobe. On the wall hung a portrait of Lenin—bald, with a small mustache, and large eyes that seemed to be staring at him.

Loran placed the suitcase at the foot of the bed, walked to the window, and drew back the curtains. Outside lay the night view of Murmansk, hazy and dark, with only a few streetlights illuminating the distance like a few nearly blind eyes. He stood there, looking at the unfamiliar night, a strange feeling suddenly welling up inside him.

The guesthouse room was very quiet. So quiet that you could hear the water flowing in the radiator, gurgling and bubbling, like something breathing in the pipes.

He turned and sat down on the bed. The mattress was hard; the springs had lost their elasticity, offering almost no cushioning. He took off his coat, draped it over the back of the chair, and lay down, staring at the ceiling. There was a crack in the ceiling, running from the corner to the light fixture, like a dried-up river. The light fixture contained no bulb; only a bare wire hung there.

He closed his eyes.

His mind, however, remained restless. Churchill's words, De Gaulle's words, and Korolev's quote, "Fear. Not fear of death. Fear of losing," swirled in his head. He turned over and buried his face in the pillow. The pillow was thin, so thin that he could feel the buckwheat hulls inside, one by one, digging into his cheeks.

He suddenly remembered something Moshead had said back in Agailah. They had crouched on the edge of the salt flats, waiting for the German tanks to emerge from the fog. Moshead, smoking, the glow of his cigarette dancing on his face, illuminating the scar that ran from his forehead to his chin. He had said, "Lorraine, what do you think the world will be like after this war?" Lorraine hadn't answered then. He didn't know if he didn't want to say it, or if he didn't know how to say it. Now, lying in a cold guesthouse in Murmansk, he suddenly remembered that question.

What will the world become?

He didn't know. He only knew that the world was changing. A world he had never seen before. The Germans had invaded the Soviet Union, the British were holding out desperately, the Americans were watching from the sidelines, and the remnants of Free France were scattered in the African desert like seeds blown away by the wind. And he was lying on this land he had never set foot on, waiting to board the train to Moscow the next morning to complete a mission he had never imagined.

He lay back down on the bed, staring at the crack in the ceiling. It was almost invisible in the darkness, but he knew it was there. Just as he knew that countless unseen things awaited him in this strange land: unseen enemies, unseen dangers, an unseen future.

He closed his eyes.

At seven o'clock the next morning, Korolev appeared at the guesthouse entrance on time. Loran walked out of the building carrying his suitcase. A cold wind hit him in the face, like an icy knife, cutting his cheeks painfully. It was already daylight, but the sun had not yet risen. Only a layer of grayish-white light leaked through the gaps in the clouds, shining on the snow and reflecting a dazzling white.

Korolev stood beside the car, wearing a heavy military overcoat with the collar turned up and the brim of his hat pulled low, revealing only a pair of gray eyes. He looked at Loran, nodded, and then opened the car door.

"Get on the train. The train station isn't far."

Loran got into the car, and Korolev started the engine. The car drove out of the guesthouse courtyard and merged into the sparse traffic of Murmansk in the morning. There weren't many people on the streets; occasionally, a few pedestrians, bundled up in thick cotton coats, hurried past with their heads down. Some vendors had set up stalls along the roadside, selling dark bread, pickled cucumbers, and hot tea in tin cans. Steam rose from the spouts of the tea canisters, condensing into a white mist in the cold air before being quickly dispersed by the wind.

The train station was larger than Loran had imagined. A greyish-white stone building, its facade supported by several thick columns, each topped with the Soviet coat of arms—a hammer and sickle—looking particularly heavy against the hazy sky. The plaza in front of the station was crowded with people: soldiers, civilians, the elderly, and children, all staring blankly at the passing crowds. A young woman crouched beside a column, holding a crying baby, gently rocking it and humming a song whose lyrics were indistinct. An old man sat on the steps, clutching a yellowed train ticket, his eyes fixed on the ticket gate, motionless.

Loran followed Korolev into the station. The hall was even more chaotic than outside. There were people everywhere, and sounds everywhere, all mixed together, echoing under the huge dome like a pot of boiling porridge.

Korolev walked ahead, pushing his way through the crowd with his shoulders and elbows. Lorraine followed behind, gripping the handle of his suitcase tightly, afraid of being separated by the throng. They crossed the waiting hall, passed through a dimly lit corridor, and finally arrived at the platform. A dark green train stood on the tracks, its carriages stretching almost to the horizon. The steam locomotive hissed and puffed out white smoke.

Korolev stopped and turned around.

"Your carriage is over there," he pointed to a carriage in the middle of the train. "I've already spoken to the conductor. You have a private compartment. The journey will take about two days and two nights, with several stops along the way. Don't get off the train unnecessarily, don't talk to strangers, and don't reveal your identity. Someone will meet you when you arrive in Moscow."

He stretched out his hand.

Lorraine grasped it. The hand was rough, with large knuckles and thick calluses on the palm, and he gripped it tightly.

"Thank you, Major," Lorraine said.

Korolev released his grip and took a step back.

"Take care, Mr. Loran. The Soviet Union is different from Britain. Everything here is different."

He saluted, turned, and left. His figure quickly disappeared into the crowd. Loran stood there, looking in that direction for a few seconds, then picked up his suitcase and walked towards the carriage.

A woman in uniform, in her forties, stood at the carriage door. She had a round, rosy face, the kind of red that comes from being blown by the wind. She looked at Loran's ticket, nodded, and stepped aside to let him in.

The private room was small. Two narrow beds were placed facing each other, with a window between them. The window was double-glazed, with a thin layer of frost on the glass; looking out through the frost, only blurry shadows could be seen. A small table was fixed under the window, with a faded tablecloth on it, and an enamel mug and an iron teapot on it.

Loran stuffed his suitcase under the bed and sat down on the bed by the window. The mattress was harder than the one in the guesthouse; sitting on it felt like sitting on a wooden plank. He leaned against the wall, looking at the blurry scenery outside the window. A young soldier stood outside the carriage, holding a girl's hand in his. The girl was crying, and the soldier was laughing, but tears glistened in his smiling eyes.

The whistle sounded.

The train slowly started moving. The platform began to recede, the faces of those people began to blur, and the sounds began to fade into the distance.

Loran looked out the window, watching the greyish-white buildings of Murmansk flash by, the low wooden houses, the snow-covered streets, the telephone poles swaying in the wind. Then, the city disappeared, replaced by a forest. Dense coniferous forests surged in from both sides of the train window, like two green walls sandwiching the railway tracks.

Loran leaned against the wall and closed his eyes.

He remembered the journey from Dakar to Brazzaville. He had been sitting in a dilapidated truck, with Leclerc and Bernard beside him, along with soldiers recruited from the desert. The road was bumpy, the truck was old, and everyone was exhausted, but no one complained. Bernard sat next to him, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, silent. Lorraine asked him, "What are you thinking about?" Bernard replied, "Paris." Lorraine asked, "What's Paris like?" Bernard was silent for a moment, then said, "Beautiful. But you can't go back."

He recalled the journey from Brazzaville to Wadi Rum. He'd been sitting in a jeep, clutching a hand-drawn map marking German supply lines and outposts. Leclerc sat beside him, a revolver in hand, constantly checking the magazine, as if counting the remaining bullets. Lorraine asked, "Are you nervous?" Leclerc replied, "No. I'm just thinking, if I die here, who will tell my mother?" Lorraine said, "You won't die." Leclerc glanced at him and smiled. "You're not God."

He remembered the journey from Wadi Rum to Agairah. He had been sitting in a Matilda tank, with Campbell and Moshead beside him. The tank jolted across the desert, its tracks screeching over the gravel. Moshead leaned against the turret, his eyes closed, seemingly asleep, but Loran knew he wasn't. His lips were moving, muttering something. Loran leaned closer to listen and heard him mutter a name: Margaret.

The sound of the train wheels rolling over the tracks suddenly changed. Loran opened her eyes and found the train was slowing down. Outside the window, the forest had vanished, replaced by a desolate wasteland. It was greyish-white, stretching as far as the eye could see, covered with patches of snow. In the distance was a small station, with a wooden platform, a wooden waiting room, and a wooden flagpole. A red flag hung on the flagpole, fluttering in the wind.