Page 9 of The Fire Beneath the Frost

I gave the man my best polite smile, the kind I’d practiced during inspections and checkpoints.“It’s a pleasure.”

“Dimitri, I’m Boris Fyodorovich Korovin,” the man said, pumping my hand.“You can call me Boris Fyodorovich, or Comrade Korovin, if you prefer.We’re very lucky to have you here at Factory 121.”

“Thank you, Comrade Korovin.”

He beamed, then clapped Papa on the shoulder with a familiarity that felt a little too familiar.“Ivan, you old bastard—how long’s it been since we had a proper drink together?You need to bring your boy by this weekend.We’ll crack open a bottle and toast to the motherland!”

Papa let out a bark of laughter, louder than necessary.“It would be an honor, Boris Fyodorovich.”

And just like that, he transformed.His back straightened, his face lit up with performative cheer.He slapped Boris on the back and made some joke about Party rations I couldn’t quite hear.They both laughed.Big, fake laughs.

I stood there, stunned.

Papa fakes it.

All of it.

The thought came sharp and fast, like a pin pushed into my skull.I’d seen my father stone-faced at the kitchen table, slumped over in his chair like gravity weighed more on him than the rest of us.I’d watched him move through life like it was a punishment.But now, here, with his “friend,” he was a new man.Jovial.Confident.Lying through his teeth.

Was this who he used to be?Or was this the mask he wore to survive?

My gut twisted.

Boris gestured to a door near the office.“Before you get your hands dirty, Dimitri, there’s a bit of paperwork to fill out.Standard bureaucratic nonsense.And after that, you’ll be joining a short orientation for new hires.Just a little introduction to our operations and—of course—a brief refresher on Party principles.Nothing too heavy.”

I nodded, even as something inside me winced.A “refresher” meant two hours of red-scarfed nonsense and a speech from someone with a laminated Lenin quote in their breast pocket.

But I smiled, like I was thrilled.“I look forward to it.”

Boris slapped my back.“That’s the spirit!”

Papa turned toward the exit, the lines at his mouth already tightening again.“He’s in excellent hands, Boris.”

“You know it.”

Papa looked at me, nodded once.“Do well.”

“I will, Papa.”

And then he left, back out into the cold gray world.I watched him go, his back a little more hunched than when we’d come in.As the factory door hissed shut behind him, I wondered who the real man was—my father, or the ghost of a man who’d learned to smile on cue?

* * *

I sat in a metal chair that squeaked every time I shifted, trying not to sigh too loudly as the redheaded woman at the front of the room launched into yet another impassioned monologue about the Party’s core values.This was the fifth or sixth mention of “duty to the collective,” and I was wondering if she’d memorized the entire Workers’ Charter just to torture us.

There were five of us in orientation—six, if you counted the sleepy guy in the corner who kept nodding off and jerking awake like a fish on a dock.The rest looked about as thrilled as I felt.But the woman—Vera, she’d introduced herself as—seemed genuinely excited to be telling us all about textile quotas and proper workplace comportment, like she was unveiling the secrets of the universe.

She wasn’t bad to look at, either.Bright red hair twisted into a neat braid, freckles like she’d been caught in a spray of cinnamon, and a smile that suggested she really wanted us to love the Soviet Union as much as she did.

Her enthusiasm was strange, almost contagious.Not enough to make the words interesting, but enough that I stopped thinking about the drafty room or the faint smell of boiled cabbage coming through the vent.

After a final bit about punctuality and patriotic pride, she clapped her hands together.

“Very good, comrades.That concludes the orientation.”She scanned the room, eyes landing on me.“Which one of you is Dimitri Morozov?”

I raised my hand.Everyone turned to look, like I’d been caught stealing from the ration bin.

Vera nodded.“The rest of you, please report to Supervisor Antonova in Section D for your assignments.”She turned her smile on me, a little brighter now.“Comrade Morozov, you’ll be training with my husband.”

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