The Long Beginning

Chapter 97 The Long Beginning

When Loran woke up, it was already broad daylight.

The curtains outside the window weren't fully drawn, and a narrow ray of sunlight slanted into the room, illuminating the dust particles in the air clearly. He lay there for a few seconds, listening intently. There was no sound of gunfire or explosions, only the howling wind outside the window. This silence was more unsettling than any commotion.

He sat up, put on his coat, walked to the window, and drew back the curtains.

The mornings in Moscow are bitterly cold. The streets are deserted, not a soul in sight, only withered yellow leaves swirling in the wind and rolling on the asphalt.

The tea on the table had long since gone cold, but he didn't even touch it. He took out the unfinished letter from his suitcase, added a few more lines, folded it up, and stuffed it back into the envelope.

He left the room and walked down the red-carpeted staircase. The corridor was quiet, the wall lamps dim, casting a heavy, oppressive atmosphere. At the doorway on the first floor, he saw Karl. Karl held a newspaper in his hand, his expression serious.

"You're awake," Carl said.

"I'm awake," Loran replied briefly.

Carl handed him the newspaper. Lorraine glanced at the front page and caught a few keywords: "National Defense Committee," "martial law." He handed the newspaper back, turned, went upstairs, and knocked on Sir Cripps' door.

"Come in."

Kripps sat behind his desk, looking exhausted with heavy bags under his eyes. He stubbed out his cigarette and looked at Loran listlessly.

"Mozhaisk is lost," Kripps said hoarsely. "The Germans can push to the western outskirts of Moscow within three days."

"I know," Lorraine said calmly.

"Stalin has established the National Defense Committee. From today onwards, Moscow is under full martial law." Kripps spoke quickly. "All factories, schools, and theaters must be converted into fortifications; all those who can carry a gun, regardless of age or gender, must be incorporated into the militia; food, fuel, and medicine will all be rationed; those who disobey orders will be executed on the spot."

Loran remained silent.

Kripps took a piece of paper from the drawer, scribbled a few lines, and handed it to Loran. "This is a special pass from the British Embassy. Your task is clear: record how Moscow is defended, how the Germans are fighting in the city, the condition of the city's inhabitants, and then write a report for London."

Lorraine took the pass, folded it, and put it in his inner pocket. He walked out of the embassy and stood in the cold wind. The wind was strong and as cold as knives. He turned up his coat collar and put his hands in his pockets. There were two pieces of paper there, one from Stalin and one from Cripps. He felt around to make sure they were both there, then walked west along the main street.

People started appearing on the streets. Though few, their scattered figures made the city less desolate. Some were walking briskly, some were running, and some stood by the wall staring at the newly posted notice. The notice, printed in black and white, bore the order of the National Defense Committee. Loran glanced at it as he passed by and sensed the tense atmosphere.

After walking for about twenty minutes, he arrived at the entrance of a subway station.

A long queue stretched out, with men, women, and children carrying heavy sandbags. Two men, one carrying a sandbag, trudged along, piling it up at the subway entrance, gradually forming a low wall. A young woman squatted beside the sandbag pile, needle and thread in hand, rapidly sewing up the openings of the sandbags. Her hands were skillful; each stitch was practiced and mechanical.

Loran walked over, knelt down, and asked, "Do you need any help?"

The girl looked up, revealing a pair of grey-blue eyes, and gave him a cold look: "Can you sew?"

"Won't."

"Then you can hand me the sandbag."

Lorraine stood up and began moving sandbags. He handed the heavy sandbags to the girl one by one; she took them, sealed them, and piled them up. Half an hour later, Lorraine's arms ached so much he could barely lift them, and the girl stopped to rub her eyes.

"Are you a foreigner?" she asked.

"Yes," Loran replied.

The girl nodded, said nothing more, and continued with her work. Loran rested for a while, then continued westward.

An hour later, he entered the factory area.

The chimneys here spewed black smoke, which dispersed into a hazy gray mist in the wind. A long line stretched out at the factory gate, people waiting to receive their rifles, their faces expressionless. One man received his rifle, slung it over his shoulder, and silently walked eastward. Then another man followed suit.

Loran stopped a young man who had just received a gun: "Where are you going?"

The young man glanced at him, his eyes vacant: "Go dig trenches. West of the city."

After saying that, he shouldered his gun and left. Loran continued westward, and after about two hours, he finally arrived at the western part of the city.

This place has become a huge construction site. Everywhere you look, there are people digging trenches—men, women, children, and even kids.

Their hands were blistered and bleeding from their gloves, but no one stopped. An old woman knelt on the ground, hammering the frozen earth with a pickaxe. Each strike required all her strength.

Loran walked over and squatted down next to her: "Let me help you."

The old woman looked at him and asked, "Do you know how to dig?"

"No, but I have the strength."

He took the pickaxe and smashed it down. Once, twice, three times. The soil was too hard, the impact making his hand go numb, cracking open and drawing blood.

The old woman crawled inside to try it out, then nodded: "That's enough."

Lorraine returned the pickaxe to her. She wiped his hand with her sleeve and whispered, "Thank you."

Loran stood up and continued walking west. Half an hour later, he reached the western edge of the city. There was a highway leading west, deserted. On both sides of the highway were newly dug trenches, the furrows like scars on the earth.

Loran stood there, gazing westward. It seemed the battle hadn't even begun yet, but that very feeling was the most terrifying.

By the time he returned to the city, it was almost dark. The streetlights came on, their dim yellow glow swaying in the cold wind. The streets were less crowded, and there were no more cars; only the whistling of the wind could be heard. He returned to the embassy entrance, where Karl was still standing.

"You're back," Carl said.

Loran nodded and went upstairs to his room. He took off his coat, which was covered in dust, and the opening at the collar was wider, revealing the cotton wadding inside. He sat down at the table, picked up a pen, and wrote on the letter: Moscow is preparing for war. People are digging trenches, piling sandbags, and getting guns. The whole nation is digging, their hands are blistered.

After finishing writing, he folded the letter, stuffed it into his suitcase, and lay down on the bed. The crack in the ceiling was still there; he stared at it and closed his eyes.

The next morning, Lorraine went to Red Square.

Red Square is vast, its cobblestones polished smooth by countless feet. Lenin's Mausoleum stands in the center of the square, its gray stone appearing austere and solemn. Two guards stand at the entrance, rifles at the ready, motionless like statues.

The square was packed with people, but not tourists; they were soldiers. They were lined up, ready to depart. Truck after truck stopped at the edge of the square, and the soldiers squeezed into the truck beds, huddled together, the atmosphere oppressively suffocating. An officer stood beside a truck, reading names from a list. Soldiers whose names were called boarded, while those whose names weren't called continued to wait.

Loran stood to the side, watching the young faces. Most of them were only eighteen or nineteen, with just a fuzzy beard growing on their lips. Their military overcoats were brand new but too big, the sleeves extending too far. Their rifles were old, the stocks worn smooth and shiny.

A young soldier walked past Loran, carrying a canvas bag. He had a round face and large, grey-blue eyes. Loran called out to him, "What's your name?"

Ivan gave him a questioning look but didn't make any further moves.

Lorraine watched his figure disappear into the truck bed. The doors closed, the engines started, and one truck after another drove out of Red Square, heading west. The wheels rolled over the cobblestones with a dull thud. Lorraine stood there until the truck disappeared around the street corner.

Then he turned and walked toward the Kremlin.

The Kremlin walls were high and thick, a dark red color. Many people stood outside the walls looking at the notices. They were newly posted orders, written in black and white. Loran squeezed through the crowd; the words "Martial Law," "National Defense Committee," and "Stalin" were written on them. An old man nearby read them aloud to those around him in a hoarse voice.

The gist is: Moscow is under martial law, a curfew is imposed, all transportation and food supplies are requisitioned, and everyone who can carry a gun must register. Those who disobey will be charged with treason and executed on the spot.

The crowd was quiet. No one spoke, except for the occasional sigh.

Why do people hurt each other? Lorraine felt a deep sense of powerlessness in the face of this inevitability.

Loran walked halfway around the wall. Behind the wall was the Alexander Garden, its trees bare, their branches swaying in the wind. The garden was deserted, except for a few sappers laying mines. The lead sapper saw Loran and approached, warning, "You can't go here; there's a minefield ahead."

Loran nodded. He knew a little about landmines, but it wasn't appropriate for him to offer advice in this situation.

He walked to the banks of the Moscow River. The river was wide and flowed slowly, its surface a deathly gray-black. An ancient stone bridge spanned the river, its surface narrow. Sandbags were piled up at the bridgehead, and several machine guns were mounted on it. Several soldiers hid behind the sandbags, vigilantly watching the opposite bank. The opposite bank was empty, with only trees and houses standing silently in the cold wind. Lorin stood at the bridgehead for a while, then a soldier approached with a gun, scrutinizing him from head to toe.

"Identifications," the soldier said coldly.

Loran pulled out the two passes. The soldier glanced at them and handed them back to him: "Go."

Loran crossed the bridge and arrived at the south bank of the Moscow River. This was also a residential area; the buildings were low, their greyish-white walls riddled with bullet holes. Some windows were shattered, haphazardly boarded up. The streets were deserted, save for the wind swirling withered leaves. He walked street after street until he reached a market. The market was empty; shelves had collapsed, stalls were scattered, and the ground was littered with rotten vegetable leaves and broken glass. A gaunt dog crouched in a corner.

In the afternoon, he went to a recruitment station. It was located inside a school, and there was a long line at the entrance.

He stopped a young man who had just come out: "Where were you assigned?"

"Dig trenches in the west of the city," the young man replied, and hurried away.

Loran stopped another middle-aged man: "And you?"

"Militia, 3rd Regiment, report for duty the day after tomorrow," the middle-aged man replied, and then left.

Lorraine stood there, watching the queue. The baby was still crying, and the women were still waiting in line.

As darkness fell, Loran returned to the embassy. Karl was still standing at the door.

"Sir Cripps asks if you are going out again tomorrow?"

"go out."

He went upstairs, returned to his room, sat down, and wrote a letter. The whole of Moscow was on high alert, and everyone was tense.

On the third day, he went to the hospital. The battle had also started that day, and the sound was so loud that the whole city could hear it. Many people died.

The hospital was in the east of the city, a four-story gray-white building. Several trucks were parked at the entrance, carrying wounded people; some were groaning, some were shouting, and some were silent. Nurses ran between the trucks, carrying stretchers, giving injections, and bandaging wounds. A young nurse ran past carrying a blood-soaked gauze, her face pale and her forehead sweating, seemingly never having seen so many wounded people before.

Lorraine entered the hospital. The corridor was crowded with people—the wounded, doctors, and nurses. The air was thick with the stench of blood, so strong that even the air felt warm, despite it being autumn.

The nurse opened the window in the corridor, and a gust of cold wind blew in. Loran looked blankly in that direction and shivered.

He suddenly remembered a very important event.

"On December 5, 1941, Zhukov launched a counter-offensive. The German army suffered its first defeat since the start of the war at the gates of Moscow. Thirty-eight divisions were routed, and countless soldiers froze to death or suffered frostbite. The myth of Blitzkrieg was shattered by the harsh Soviet winter and the will of the Soviet people and army."

Those were words he had read, cold and impersonal, printed on paper, even the punctuation seemed rational. But now, smelling blood, hearing the sound of cannons, and watching those mutilated bodies being carried in, he realized how ephemeral those words truly were.

He remembered the timeline of that history. In early October, the German army launched Operation Typhoon, targeting Moscow. They thought they could take the city before winter, just as they had taken Paris, Warsaw, and Brussels. But they were wrong. The Soviet army retreated to the outskirts of Moscow and then stopped. Stalin remained in Moscow, vowing to fight to the death. The Red Square parade proceeded as scheduled, and soldiers marched directly from the parade ground to the front lines, beginning a long defensive war. In December, reinforcements arrived from Siberia, wearing white camouflage uniforms, and launched a counter-offensive in temperatures of minus forty degrees Celsius. The German army lacked winter gear; tanks wouldn't start, machine guns wouldn't fire, and tens of thousands of soldiers froze to death or suffered frostbite. The Great Patriotic War ended, and the Soviet Union began its counter-offensive.

Lorraine once read in a book a set of figures: In the Battle of Moscow, the German army suffered more than 500,000 casualties, of which hundreds of thousands died from frostbite or freezing to death. The Soviet army suffered more than twice as many casualties as the German army, but they won.

He closed his eyes, then opened them again. Stretchers continued to move back and forth in the corridor; a young soldier was carried over, his leg wrapped in bandages, the bandages red, blood dripping down. He suddenly remembered Lefebvre, the young man who died in his arms in Stoney. Also seventeen, also just growing a beard. He remembered Moshead, firing a revolver at a tank in Agaira. He remembered Andrei, in Mozhaisk, with that unlit cigarette dangling from his lips, saying he would never retreat again.

They all died. But the places where they died became insurmountable obstacles for the German army. There would be many more like them in the Soviet Union, and they would eventually become the German army's nightmare.