Page 8 of The Fire Beneath the Frost

Papa finished his tea and pushed his chair back with a scrape.“Come on, I’ll take you to the factory.I want to introduce you to the man in charge.He’s an old friend—used to drink with him when we were younger.”

I swallowed the last of my kasha and stood.“Alright.”

Mama kissed my cheek, warm hands cupping my face like I was still ten.“Don’t let them work you too hard today.And be polite, even if the others aren’t.”

“I will.”

“And eat the lunch I packed.”

“Every bite, Mama.”

She hugged me, hard.I hugged her back and held on for an extra second before pulling away.

Then Papa and I were out the door and heading into the gray, slushy morning, boots crunching over dirty snow, neither of us saying a word.

The car ride was quiet.

Not a peaceful quiet, but the kind that presses against your chest and makes you feel like you should say something, even if you don’t know what.

I stared out the window as Papa drove.Leningrad in winter was always half-asleep.Buildings loomed like frozen statues, their facades chipped and tired.People shuffled to work with hunched shoulders and red noses, bundled in coats that all looked the same—brown, black, military green.The snow at the curbs was crusted with soot and tire grease.Even the air felt worn out.

I reached forward and flicked on the radio.The dashboard groaned in protest, but the speaker crackled to life.

“…and today, our beloved General Secretary, Comrade Gorbachev, embarks upon a historic journey to the imperialist West, where he will represent the glorious strength of the Soviet people in a diplomatic summit with American President Ronald Reagan.In this unprecedented meeting of ideological opposites, our Comrade Gorbachev will extend the hand of peace, while reaffirming the unshakable values of socialism and the triumph of the working class…”

It went on like that—praising the Party, the strength of the people, the moral rot of capitalism.Standard fare.I half-listened while watching a trolley clatter by, its windows fogged with breath.

Then, out of nowhere, Papa reached over and switched it off.

“I’m tired of hearing the same words,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the road.

I turned toward him, blinking.“What?”

He didn’t look at me.Just kept driving, his jaw tight.

It was a thing someone might say if they’d had a bad day, if they were annoyed at the cold, or tired of getting up before dawn.But that wasn’t what he meant, and I knew it.

Papa never talked like that.Not once in my life had I heard him say a critical word about the government.It wasn’t just uncommon—it was dangerous.Nobody is tired of the Party.You were grateful and proud.You repeated what you were told with a smile and your hand over your heart.

To hear him say that—however quietly—set something uneasy moving in my gut.

I didn’t ask questions.Just stared out the window as the blanket factory came into view, a long concrete block squatting behind a fence of iron bars.The snow outside of it was the color of ash.Smokestacks rose like fingers from the rooftops, coughing into the sky.

Papa pulled into a small side lot and killed the engine.

“Let’s go,” he said.

We stepped out into the freezing wind, our breath trailing behind us in twin clouds.I zipped my coat to my chin and followed him toward the gate, wondering who the hell my father really was.

The air inside the factory hit me like a wall—warm and damp, tinged with machine oil and damp wool.I followed Papa past rows of humming looms and conveyor belts that carried endless bolts of military-green fabric.The sound was relentless: a clattering, grinding roar that echoed off the high ceilings.

Papa walked like he belonged there—shoulders squared, pace brisk.I had to hurry to keep up.

At the end of the corridor, we reached a glass-walled office where a heavyset man with slicked-back hair and a bushy mustache stood grinning at us like we were old friends.He wore a thick wool suit, his lapel dotted with Party pins, and he smelled like cheap cologne and cigarettes.There was a bottle of mineral water on his desk, though I’d bet money it was actually vodka.

“Ah!Comrade Ivanov!”the man called out, opening his arms as if Papa were a long-lost brother.“And this must be the boy.Look at you—you’ve grown into a real man, haven’t you?”

“This is my son, Dimitri,” Papa said.His voice was firmer than usual, almost proud.“He just finished his military service.Strong as an ox and twice as stubborn.”

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