Afraid of Others Dying

Chapter 84 Afraid of Others Dying

When Lorraine woke up in his room at the embassy, ​​it was still dark.

The sky outside the window was a greyish-blue, devoid of stars. He lay there for a while, listening to the gurgling sound of water flowing in the radiator, like something breathing in the pipes. Then he sat up, put on his clothes, and went to the window. Moscow was still asleep. The streetlights were still on, casting a dim, yellow glow on the wet cobblestones. In the distance, the Kremlin's spires revealed their indistinct outlines in the darkness, a red star shining atop them, a dark crimson, like a flame about to go out.

He returned from Zhukov's camp yesterday, covered in mud and exhausted. Zhukov had assigned him to the rear of Mozhaisk to observe the troops' retreat. He watched all day. Soldiers marched in from the west, some carrying rifles, some empty-handed, some supporting the wounded. No one spoke, only the rustling of footsteps, like crunching on fallen leaves. They were so tired, too tired even to look at him. He walked past them, and no one looked up.

In fact, Loran could understand this arrangement; the Soviet Union's strength could support Zhukov's arrogance, especially his arrogance towards the Western countries. Although Loran didn't agree with this approach, having more allies was always a good thing.

He turned away from the window, walked to the table, and sat down. On the table lay yesterday's newspaper, *Pravda*, with Stalin's speech on the front page in large, dark print. He couldn't read Russian, but he could make out the headline; there was only one word he recognized: victory. He turned the newspaper over; the back was blank. He picked up a pencil and wrote a few lines in the blank space.

It was a letter to de Gaulle. He wrote a little every day, and once he had enough, he would send it out. The letter didn't describe the actual situation on the front lines, only what he had seen. He wrote that the streets of Moscow were wide, the buildings were tall, and the people were silent. He wrote that Anna's mother worked sixteen hours a day in the factory, the machine tools were very noisy, but she never took off her earplugs. He wrote that Zhukov was very tired, with deep dark circles under his eyes, but he never sat down.

He wrote slowly because he had to look up Russian words and revise each paragraph several times. He wrote for about half an hour, then put down his pencil, folded the letter, and stuffed it into his suitcase.

Someone knocked on the door.

He went over and opened the door. Carl stood in the doorway, holding a tray with a cup of tea and a few slices of dark bread on it.

"You're awake," Carl said.

"woke up."

Karl placed the tray on the table and stepped back. "Sir Cripps says you have no plans for today. He asked if you would like to go for a walk in town."

Loran thought for a moment. "Okay."

He drank tea and ate bread. The bread was hard and crunchy when he chewed it, but he was used to it. He put on his coat and left the room. The corridor was quiet, except for the sound of his footsteps, which were swallowed up on the carpet. He went down the stairs and out of the embassy.

It was cold outside. The wind blew in from the north, carrying a damp, snowy scent. He turned up his coat collar and put his hands in his pockets. There was a piece of paper in his pocket—Stalin's pass. He felt around to make sure it was still there, then walked east along the main street.

There weren't many people on the street. A few women were queuing to buy bread; the line was long, stretching from the shop entrance all the way to the street corner. They wore cotton-padded coats, headscarves, and carried cloth bags. No one spoke; only the wind made their headscarves flutter. Lorraine walked past the line, and a woman glanced at him before turning away. Her eyes were bright, a grey-blue, like light reflecting off a frozen lake in winter.

He walked for about twenty minutes until he reached the small square with the Lenin statue. A person was sitting on the bench beneath the statue. It was Anna.

Today she was wearing a dark blue cotton coat and a gray headscarf, revealing a few strands of light brown hair.

She was looking down, reading a book. The book was thick, with a red cover and worn edges, as if it had been read many times. Her canvas bag lay at her feet, flat, unlike the bulging one she had last time.

Loran walked over and stood in front of her. She looked up, saw him, paused for a moment, and then smiled. Her smile was brief, like a flash of light that disappeared in an instant, but her eyes brightened.

"Mark," she said.

Anna.

She closed the book and placed it on her lap. "What are you doing here?"

"Let's go for a walk," Loran said. "What about you?"

"Read a book." She held up the book; the words on the cover were in Russian, which Loren couldn't understand. "It's Tolstoy. *War and Peace*."

"What are you talking about?"

Anna thought for a moment. "Talk about war, talk about peace, talk about how people survive in war."

She placed the book on the chair and patted the empty seat next to her. "Sit down."

Loran sat down. The chair was stone, cool, and the chill seeped in through his trousers. He looked at the bronze statue; Lenin stood on the pedestal, one hand in his pocket, the other pointing into the distance. His face was bronze, weathered and greened by wind and rain, but his eyes still shone, as if alive.

"Has your brother left?" Lorraine asked.

Anna nodded. "She left the day before yesterday."

"Is he afraid?"

"I'm not afraid," Anna said. "He was smiling when he left. He said he was going to fight the Germans and drive them out."

He said he would come back.

She looked down at her hands. They were thin, with short nails and slightly red knuckles, probably from the cold.

"He will come back," Lorraine said.

Anna glanced at him. "You believe me?"

"believe."

Anna didn't say anything. She stood up, stuffed the book into the canvas bag, and picked up the bag.

"Let's go."

"Where to?"

"The factory. Mom said the machine broke down again today and we need help."

They walked west along the main street. The street was more crowded; there were soldiers, workers, the elderly, and children. A young soldier squatted by the roadside, polishing his boots. His rifle leaned against the wall, buttocks on the ground, muzzle pointing upwards. He had a thin face, high cheekbones, and a wisp of fine hair just beginning to grow on his lips. He saw Anna and nodded. Anna nodded back, without saying a word.

"Do you know him?" Lorraine asked.

"My neighbor," Anna said, "his name is Kolya. He's going to join the army too. He's leaving next week."

Loran looked at the young soldier. He was still polishing his boots, very carefully, with a rag, stroke by stroke. His boots were old, the leather cracked in several places, but he polished them until they shone, as if he wanted to make them new.

They walked through two streets and turned into a narrower alley. On either side of the alley were old, two-story buildings with weathered walls and small windows. An old woman stood in a doorway, holding a broom and sweeping the steps. She swept slowly, going over each step several times. Seeing Anna, she stopped and nodded.

"Anna, how is your mother?"

"It's alright," Anna said.

"Tell her to come over for dinner tonight. I made some soup."

Anna nodded. The old woman continued sweeping the steps.

They reached the factory gate. The light was still on, even during the day, casting a dim, yellowish glow on a small patch of light. The old man in overalls was still standing at the gate, holding a flashlight and smoking. He nodded when he saw Anna.

"Is the part broken again?" he asked.

"It's broken again," Anna said.

The old man looked at Loran, then at Anna. "Your friend has come to help again."

"Yes," Anna said.

The old man opened the iron gate and stepped aside.

They went inside. The yard was piled with steel and wooden crates, and the ground was stained with oil. The air smelled strongly of rust and machine oil. Anna pushed open the iron gate and went inside. Lorraine followed behind.

The workshop was still dark. Several machine tools were running, humming and vibrating, making the floor shake. Workers stood beside the machines; some were operating them, some were moving parts, and some were looking down at blueprints. No one spoke. Anna's mother stood beside the stopped machine tool, disassembling a part. Her hands and face were covered in grease, and a few strands of hair slipped out from under her headscarf, falling across her forehead. She saw Anna, nodded, and then glanced at Lorraine.

"Here we go again," she said.

"Here we go again," said Loran.

She handed the part to Anna. "Take this to Workshop Two and let Ivanov see if he can fix it."

Anna took the parts, turned, and left. Lorraine stood there, unsure what to do. Anna's mother glanced at him and pointed to a wooden crate nearby.

"sit."

Loran sat down. There was a hard, old cloth cushion on the wooden crate. He sat there, watching Anna's mother work. Her hands were quick and precise, each movement as if she had done it countless times. She disassembled a part, inspected it, put it down, and disassembled the next. Her face was expressionless, only focused.

Anna's mother always seemed indifferent to other things.

Why did you come to the Soviet Union?

"Let's see how you fight this war."

"Watch how we fight?" She looked up at him. His eyes were very similar to Anna's—bright, grey-blue. "What did you see?"

"I can see you're suffering."

She lowered her head and continued disassembling the parts. "Suffering is nothing. As long as I'm alive, that's enough."

Anna returned. She went to her mother and handed her what she was carrying. It was a new part, larger than the original, and a different color. Her mother took it, looked at it, and nodded.

"Ivanov said this will work," Anna said.

The mother installed the new part, tightened the screws, and then pressed the switch. The machine made a loud but steady sound. She listened for a few seconds, then turned it off and turned away.

"Okay," she said.

Anna smiled. The smile was longer than last time, and her eyes curved into two crescent moons.

"Thank you, Mark," she said.

"You're welcome."

The mother looked at Loran, and something in her deep gray-blue eyes changed, like an owl in the forest.

"Stay for dinner," she said.

Loran paused for a moment. "No need—"

"Stay here," she interrupted him, her tone leaving no room for negotiation.

Anna tugged at his sleeve. "Stay here, Mom's made some soup."

Loran nodded.

They left the workshop, crossed the yard, and walked to a row of low houses at the back of the factory. These houses were workers' dormitories, with gray walls, tin roofs, narrow doors, and small windows. Anna pushed open a door and went inside. Lorraine followed behind.

The room was small. There was a table, two chairs, a wardrobe, and a bed. Several newspapers were pasted on the wall, along with a photograph of a young man in military uniform and cap, smiling broadly. Loran looked at the photograph, and Anna followed his gaze.

"Father," she said.

Lorraine didn't speak. He sat down in the chair. Anna's mother took several bowls from the cupboard and placed them on the table. She took a pot off the stove, lifted the lid, and steam billowed out, carrying the aroma of vegetables. She ladled soup into bowls.

The soup was a vegetable soup with potatoes, carrots, onions, and some other things Lorraine didn't recognize. It was thin and not very oily, but it was piping hot, and it warmed her stomach. Anna's mother broke the bread into pieces and placed them on the table. The bread was dark and hard, but it seemed fresher than the bread Lorraine had eaten at the embassy.

They drank their soup in silence, no one spoke. The only sound was the soft clinking of spoons against bowls.

Anna's mother drank slowly, blowing on each sip to cool it down. Her fingers were rough, with stubborn grease embedded in her nails. Her fingers trembled slightly as she held the bowl, but the bowl remained steady and didn't wobble.

"Mark," she said.

"exist."

"What did you see on the front lines?"

Loran was silent for a few seconds. He looked at the soup in the bowl; the potatoes were overcooked, but the carrots were still hard.

"I saw a lot of people retreating," he said, "retreating from west to east."

Anna's mother nodded. "Where to retreat to?"

"Retreat to Mozhaisk. Then retreat eastward from Mozhaisk."

Will it be refunded?

Loran looked up at her. There was no fear, no anger, only a deep...

It was a calmness as if one had already accepted everything.

"I don't know," he said.

She nodded and continued drinking her soup.

Anna didn't speak. She broke the bread into small pieces, soaked them in the soup, and waited for the bread to soften before eating. She ate very slowly, chewing each bite for a long time.

After finishing her soup, Anna's mother stood up, took the bowl away, and put it in an iron basin. She poured some water and began to wash the dishes. Her hands were soaking in the cold water, making her knuckles even redder.

"Mark." She had her back to him and didn't turn around.

"exist."

"Have you seen Zhukov at the front?"

"I saw it."

"How is he?"

Loran thought for a moment. "Very tired. Dark circles under my eyes. I smoke a lot."

Anna's mother nodded. "He's tired because he's holding on. Holding on without giving up. If he doesn't give up, no one else will dare to."

She finished washing the dishes, dried them with a rag, and put them in the cupboard. Then she turned around and looked at Lorraine.

"Go back and tell him that the people of Moscow will not retreat. The factories will not stop. The machines will not stop. We will not lose."

Loran looked at her and nodded.

Anna stood up and picked up the canvas bag. "I'll take this to you."

They left the dormitory, crossed the courtyard, and exited the factory gate. It was almost dark; the streetlights came on, casting a dim, yellowish glow. The wind grew colder, making the branches whistle. Anna walked beside him, her headscarf billowing in the wind, which she reached out to hold down.

"Mark," she said.

"Um."

Are you coming again tomorrow?

Loran thought for a moment. "Come."

Anna smiled. It was a brief but radiant smile.

They walked to the small square with the Lenin statue. The bench beneath the statue was empty. Anna stopped and turned around.

Let's stop here.

"it is good."

Anna looked at him; her grey-blue eyes shone brightly in the streetlight.

"Thank you for helping me," she said.

"You're welcome."

She reached out her hand. Lorraine took it. The hand was thin and cold, but her grip was tight.

"See you tomorrow," she said.

"See you tomorrow."

She let go of his hand, turned around, and walked back the way she came. Her figure was small and thin, growing smaller and smaller under the dim streetlights until she finally disappeared into the darkness.

Lorraine stood there, watching for a long time. Then he turned and walked towards the embassy.

The street was empty, with only him there, his footsteps echoing in the deserted street.

He walked to the embassy entrance, where Karl was still standing, holding a cup of tea.

"You're back," Carl said.

"I'm back."

Loran walked up the steps, pushed open the door, and entered the hallway. The hallway was quiet; the carpet was still so red, and the wall lamps were still so dim. He went up to the third floor, entered his room, and closed the door.

He took off his coat, hung it on the hanger, walked to the table, and sat down. He took out the letter and continued writing. He wrote that he had seen Anna that day, her mother, and the factory workers. He wrote that they were suffering, but no one stopped. He wrote that they drank thin soup and ate hard bread, but no one complained. He wrote that they didn't complain because they didn't have time to complain. They were busy living.

He finished writing, folded the letter, and stuffed it into his suitcase. Then he stood up and walked to the window. Outside, the Moscow night was dark, without stars. Only the red star atop the Kremlin spire shone, a dark red, like a flame about to go out.

He stood there and watched.

Then he turned around, walked to the bedside, and lay down.

The crack in the ceiling was still there, stretching from the corner of the wall all the way to the light fixture.

The next day, he went to that small square again.

Anna was already sitting on the bench, still wearing that dark blue cotton coat and that gray headscarf. She was holding a copy of "War and Peace" and reading it. When she saw Lorraine, she closed the book and smiled.

"You've come," she said.

"They're here."

They sat on a bench, looking at the statue of Lenin. Sunlight filtered through the clouds, illuminating the statue and Lenin's face. The face was still green, but the eyes shone brightly, as if alive.

"Where are we going today?" Lorraine asked.

Anna thought for a moment. "Let's go to the market. Mom said we need to buy salt."

They stood up and walked south along the main street. The market was on the banks of the Moscow River, a large open space with some sheds. Under the sheds were stalls selling vegetables, meat, fabric, and shoes. It was crowded and noisy. Some people were calling out prices, some were haggling, and some were arguing. A plump woman stood behind a meat stall, holding a knife and cutting meat. Her face was red, and her forehead was covered in sweat. When she saw Anna, she smiled.

"Anna, how is your mother?"

"It's alright," Anna said.

"The meat looks good today, let's buy some."

Anna shook her head. "Just salt."

The plump woman pointed to a stall next to her. "Over there. Ivan got some salt today."

They walked up to the stall. A thin old man stood behind it, wearing a dirty apron and holding a scale. He had a thin face, high cheekbones, and small eyes. He nodded when he saw Anna.

How much do you want?

"One jin (500 grams)."

The old man weighed out a pound of salt, poured it into a piece of paper, wrapped it up, and handed it to Anna. Anna took out a few bills from her pocket, counted them, and handed them over. The old man took the money, looked at it, and stuffed it into his pocket.

"Your brother is gone?" he asked.

"I'm gone."

The old man nodded without saying a word.

Anna stuffed the salt into the canvas bag and turned away.

"Let's go."

They squeezed out of the market and walked to the banks of the Moscow River. The river was wide, the current was slow, and it shimmered with a dark gray light in the sunlight.

Across the river stood a row of factory buildings with tall chimneys, but no smoke was billowing from them. Several children played by the river, running, shouting, and laughing.

Anna stood by the river, watching the children.

"I used to play here when I was a child," she said. "I swam in the summer and ice skated in the winter. The river was so clear back then that you could see the fish."

Lorraine stood beside her without saying a word.

"Mark," she said.

"Um.

"What do you think this place will be like after the war ends?"

Loran thought for a moment. "It will turn back to its original state."

Anna glanced at him. "The way it was before?"

It looks like a fish.

Anna smiled. The smile was longer than yesterday, and her eyes curved into two crescent moons.

They walked along the riverbank. A breeze blew by, carrying the scent of the river, damp and cool. Anna walked beside him, her steps light, her headscarf fluttering in the wind.

"mark."

"Um."

Have you ever fought in a war?

'

"I've fought with them."

Have you ever killed anyone?

Loran was silent for a few seconds. "Killed."

Anna didn't ask him how he killed them, nor how many he killed. She simply nodded and continued walking.

"Are you scared?" she asked.

"Afraid."

"What are you afraid of?"

"fear death."

Anna glanced at him. "Are you afraid of dying?"

"Afraid."

"Then why are you still fighting wars?"

Loran thought for a moment. "Because I'm afraid others will die."

Anna didn't speak. She walked for a while, then suddenly stopped, turned around, and looked at him. His grey-blue eyes were bright, like light reflecting off a frozen lake in winter.

"You're right," she said. "Wars are fought because people are afraid of dying."

She turned around and continued walking forward.

They walked for a long time until they reached a bridge over the river. The bridge was old, made of stone, with moss growing on the railings. Under the bridge, someone was fishing. An old man sat on a small stool, holding a fishing rod, motionless. Beside him was an iron bucket with several small fish swimming inside.

Anna stood on the bridge, looking at the old man.

“My father also likes fishing,” she said. “In the summer, he would bring Misha and me here. He would give us fishing rods and teach us how to cast and how to read the float. Misha could never sit still; she would run off after a while. I could sit there all day.”

She lowered her head and looked at the water below the bridge.

"He's been gone for two months. There's been no news."

Loran didn't speak. He stood there, looking at the water under the bridge, at the old man fishing, and at the few small fish still swimming in the iron bucket.

"He will come back," Lorraine said.

Anna looked at him. "You believe me?"

"believe."

Anna nodded. She turned and walked off the bridge.

"Let's go. It's time to go back."

They walked back the way they came. The sun was setting, its rays turning golden, shining on the gray-white buildings as if they were plated with copper. There were more people on the street; some were going home from get off work, some were queuing to buy bread, and some were sunbathing in the park.

They walked to the small square with the Lenin statue. Anna stopped.

"Are you coming again tomorrow?" she asked.

"Come."