chsdbacks Chapter 371 Fire Under the Snow
Chapter 371 Fire Under the Snow
The Hermitage Museum's reception office doesn't really get busy until after 9 a.m.
The heating in the room wasn't bad, but because the window frames were old and in disrepair, the table near the window always felt a bit cold. The sky outside was still overcast, and the cold wind blowing from the direction of the Neva River kept seeping in through the cracks in the glass.
Lyudmila, the typist on duty, sat there, her fingers stiff from the cold. She placed a carbon paper into the typewriter, straightened the edges, and glanced down at the list that had just been delivered next to her.
A small reception today.
Location: Inside the Winter Palace, in a side hall.
There were quite a few people there.
Anatoly Alexandrovich Sobchak, Chairman of the Leningrad City Soviet.
Anatoly Borisovich Chubais, Director of the City Economic Reform Commission.
Two associate professors have arrived at the Economics Department of Leningrad University.
The person from the Municipal Infrastructure Management Bureau was a section chief.
The person on the food supply committee is a deputy director.
Then, the port management personnel...
When Lyudmila dialed the number for "port management personnel," her finger paused for a moment.
She read the line of text twice.
The port officials did not specify their exact positions—either it was inconvenient to write their names down in advance, or it was not yet decided who would attend.
She continued hitting.
The foreign guest was Shuichi Saionji, representative of the Saionji Group.
Saionji Satsuki, advisor to the Saionji Group.
The names of several attendants followed, their Japanese names transliterated into Cyrillic script, which looked somewhat awkward.
Lyudmila wasn't familiar with the Japanese; she only knew that a batch of humanitarian supplies had arrived in Moscow a few days prior. She had also heard that these Japanese had been housed on Kamine Island.
...Camyan Island? That's not a place for ordinary foreign tourists to stay.
After she finished typing a line, she stopped and looked at the words "port management personnel" again.
Why do the Winter Palace receptions need porters?
She didn't think much of it.
Or rather, she has no right to think about it.
She needed to make three copies of this list. One for the reception area of the consulate, one for the security coordination office, and one for the translation office.
Another handwritten summary will be sent to the Friendship Association branch, where arrangements will be made for the arrival time of the motorcade and the access channel for foreign guests.
She continued typing. After finishing, she put the three documents into separate envelopes, labeled them with numbers, and handed them to the neighbor next door.
At noon, Lyudmila sat in a corner with a bowl of cabbage soup. The soup was not very oily, and the potato chunks were pitifully small.
Her colleague was complaining that the store near her home was out of butter again, and halfway through her complaint, she suddenly brought up today's reception.
"You know those Japanese people, right? The ones who donated a lot of stuff in Moscow last week."
"Um."
"Another cultural exchange?"
Lyudmila stirred the soup in the bowl with a spoon.
"Maybe," she said, "but there are people from the port on the list."
Her colleague looked up and glanced at her.
"Are people from the port coming too?"
Lyudmila moved the list to the side a little, as if afraid of soup splashing on it.
The woman opposite her looked up at her.
"Since when did the Winter Palace start handling unloading?"
"Who knows?" She put the spoon back in the bowl. "We're short of everything right now. Even people who look at paintings might also be watching the warehouse."
The woman opposite him smiled.
"Don't talk nonsense."
"I'm not making this up," Lyudmila lowered her head, her voice softer. "It's written on the list."
After saying this, the two of them fell silent for a brief moment.
After a while, Lyudmila, as if trying to suppress her earlier unease, added softly:
"That Japanese man seems to have come to see the Winter Palace more than just."
puff.
The seed of fire was quietly planted in the snow.
When she said those words, she probably never imagined how they would turn out.
It simply floated from one table to another.
At another table sat a young man who had come to collect documents for the deputy director of the museum.
He didn't interrupt, but simply finished the last sip of soup, picked up his hat and folder, and left the office.
An hour later, on the other side of Leningrad, in the back room of an old bookstore, someone heard a second version of the story.
"The Japanese are going to the Winter Palace."
The room was small, and the light bulbs were dim. Apart from a few stacks of history books piled against the wall, there was only a religious icon in the corner.
There were no candles lit next to the icon; only a small piece of black bread was placed in front of it.
A dozen or so young people were gathered around the table.
Some of them wore black overcoats, some wore old military boots, some looked like students, and some looked like idle young people who came from factories or docks.
They don't belong to any strict organization; they usually get together to read old books and write flyers.
They criticized liberals, and also those foreigners who described the Soviet Union as "backward".
Someone finished recounting the news they had just heard.
"Sobchak is here too."
A thin young man at the table looked up.
"Sobchak is here, of course. That guy wants to get involved in everything now."
"And that Chubais."
"who is he?"
"Those who carry out economic reforms."
Several people let out a disdainful laugh.
"Reform." Someone stubbed out their cigarette in the tin box. "What else can they talk about besides reform?"
The young man in the corner remained silent until someone added:
"I heard that people from the port will also go."
The room fell silent for a moment.
"port?"
The young man finally stood up.
"Discussing ports in the Winter Palace?"
"I've only heard about it."
"I've heard," he repeated, his eyes turning cold, "that they always start by 'hearing' before they sell anything."
Someone frowned.
"Watch your mouth."
"Why should I be careful?" The young man pointed out the window. "The Germans are here, the French are here, and now the Japanese are here too. Yesterday they were talking about cultural exchange, today they're talking about ports. In a few days, will even the windows Peter the Great opened for Russia have price tags in foreign languages?"
Someone at the table whispered:
"Perhaps it's just a visit."
"We need to stay on Cammané Island to visit?" he scoffed. "They're treating us like idiots."
He pulled a rough piece of white paper from the table, picked up a pencil, and wrote down a line.
Don't betray Russia.
Someone took a look.
"Too mild."
Another person took the pencil and added a sentence below.
The Winter Palace was not a capitalist's reception room.
Someone inside the room cheered softly.
The young man standing in the corner didn't smile. He took a small bottle out of his old military bag and placed it on the table.
The black ink sloshed around in the glass bottle.
Someone saw it and frowned.
"What are you going to do?"
"They're holding up signs, but they can't see them from inside their cars."
"Then shout it out."
"They can't hear me even when I shout."
He pushed the bottle towards the center of the table.
"There's something they'll see."
No one responded immediately.
Outside, the snow was still falling.
At the same time, another piece of news was spreading in the shipyard's canteen.
There are no icons here, nor any old imperial dreams.
This place consists of tall windows, long tables, enamel plates, and hands red from the cold.
Petrov sat against the wall and slowly broke the bread apart.
He was a veteran worker in the workshop. In his youth, he had been to Moscow and attended the conference of advanced producers. He once believed that as long as the machines in the factory were still running, things wouldn't get too bad.
The machine is still running.
But the salary has already been delayed once.
There was no official notification for the second time, but everyone understood.
"Uncle Petrov."
A young worker sat down opposite him with a plate in his hand.
Have you heard?
"What did you hear?"
"The Japanese have arrived at the Winter Palace."
Petrov did not look up.
"What does the arrival of the Japanese at the Winter Palace have to do with us?"
"Chubasi is also here."
The name drew the attention of several people nearby.
The young worker lowered his voice.
"They say they're going to discuss enterprise reform, and people from the port will also be there."
Another young worker put down his spoon.
"Who said that?"
"Old Andrei, the district committee secretary, still has acquaintances in the municipal Soviet."
Another person threw the spoon into the plate.
"Reform, reform, and more reform."
No one spoke at the table.
"The reforms they talk about are just selling our products to foreigners."
"Last time they said they'd make adjustments, and the night shift allowance was gone. The time before that, they said they'd optimize, and the workshop was missing half the materials. What are they taking this time?"
"Don't talk nonsense," Petrov whispered.
"I'm talking nonsense?" The young worker's eyes reddened. "Then tell me, why were they talking about the company while drinking tea in the Winter Palace? Have they even seen our workshop? Do they know how long it's been since the No. 4 machine tool had its parts replaced? Do they know my wife queued for three hours and only got half a bag of potatoes?"
It became quieter around the table.
An older worker whispered:
"I still need to pay for my son's daycare next month."
This statement carries a heavier weight than any insult.
Petrov put down the bread he was holding.
After a long while, he picked up a piece of cardboard from the side. The pencil tip landed on the paper, but remained motionless for a long time.
The young worker looked at him.
"Write what?"
Petrov did not answer.
Finally, he wrote down stroke by stroke:
Don't decide for us.
The young worker glanced at it and frowned.
"It's too soft."
Petrov held the cardboard down.
"We're not going there to fight."
"Then what are you going to do?"
"Go show them."
He looked up, but there was nothing in his eyes.
"Let them see that there are still people in the factory."
"We workers aren't all dead yet."
In a small office near the port, the third type of news took on a third form.
The curtains were drawn inside, and the smell of smoke was strong.
Several cardboard boxes were piled up against the wall, containing imported canned goods, medicine packaging, and some small commodities of dubious origin. On the table sat an old camera, next to a gleaming foreign watch.
The man in the leather jacket sat in a chair, pried open a can of food with a knife, glanced at what was inside, and then put it aside without much appetite.
He didn't care about Sobchak, nor did he care about Chubais.
He only cares about the door.
There are doors everywhere in Leningrad.
Back door of the shop, back door of the warehouse, back door of the port, back door of the hospital.
As long as there's still a queue at the front door, there will still be prices at the back door.
In the past two years, the shortage of supplies has become increasingly serious. Things that cannot be obtained through formal channels are distributed through him.
Medical supplies, canned food, electronic parts—as long as there's hard currency, you can get anything from Finland, and the price difference is considerable.
He already felt very uncomfortable when the Japanese brought medical supplies.
Now I hear they want to talk about food supplies and ports.
Then they didn't come to see the paintings.
Those people were planning to tear his door down.
His subordinates stood in front of the table.
"Should we send a few people over?"
The man in the leather jacket looked up.
"What did you do in the past?"
"Shout a few words to let them know this isn't Tokyo."
The man didn't speak immediately. He turned the can over, glanced at the production date, and tossed it back onto the table.
"You can shout, but don't use a knife."
His subordinates laughed.
"Are you still afraid of that?"
The man glanced at him.
"I'm afraid of idiots."
The room suddenly became quiet.
He opened the drawer, took out a camera, and pushed it to the side of the table.
"There's going to be some trouble at the Winter Palace tomorrow, so find someone with a steady hand."
His subordinate looked down at the camera.
"What are you filming?"
"The car, the license plate, the face, and the guard's hand," the man said. "Don't take pictures like tourist photos."
"If we could get footage of the Japanese bodyguards suppressing the Russian youth, that would be ideal. The whole city would know what Sobchak is doing the day after tomorrow."
His subordinates understood a bit.
"What if the Japanese get scared and run away?"
The man finally smiled.
"It would be best to scare them away. Even if they don't, we need to let them know that they didn't just walk through Leningrad's gates for nothing."
……
It wasn't until evening that the news reached a higher level.
Sergei Ilyich Volkov's office is on the second floor of a gray building.
He is fifty-eight years old this year and has spent his whole life in this system.
He oversees 4,200 workers, three production lines, a supporting technical school, and two family dormitories.
He wasn't an engineer by training; he rose through the ranks from the Youth League Committee. He knew what was useful in documents and what was useful in the hallway.
This afternoon, he received the news from an old friend.
My old friend works in the secretariat of the municipal Soviet. He's not a high-ranking official, but his position is clever—he's responsible for conveying decisions from above to those who carry them out.
The news was simple: Sobchak took Chubais to Camene Island and talked with the Japanese for nearly two hours. The port, food, and shipbuilding research institutes will all be going to the Winter Palace tomorrow.
Volkov didn't ask a second question after listening. He only asked one question: "What level of organization is the shipbuilding research institute at?"
"Deputy Director."
Volkov hung up the phone.
He stood by the window, looking at the old cars in the parking lot below, one of which, a gray Volga, belonged to him.
This old buddy's engine has been replaced twice, the odometer has gone off three times, and it's been sitting in this yard for eleven years.
Then, for the past eleven years, the factory has never gone a day without paying wages.
When he ran out of quotas, he called the ministries. When the ministries wouldn't answer, he went to Moscow. When Moscow didn't care, he figured out a way himself.
Because he knew the rules. The rules were: factories belonged to the state, workers belonged to the factories, and wages were determined by the government's budget.
As long as this chain remains, he will be the head of these 4,200 people.
But what if the chain breaks?
If someone walks in and says how much this factory is worth, how much this production line is worth, how much the labor of these workers is worth—
Today they talk about ports, tomorrow they'll talk about shipyards. The day after tomorrow they'll ask: How much do your engineers earn in a year?
Volkov turned and walked back to his desk. He picked up the phone and dialed a number.
It rang four times.
"Georgie, this is Volkov."
There was a pause on the other end of the phone.
"Comrade Secretary."
"There's an event at the Winter Palace tomorrow," Volkov said calmly. "People from foreign consortia will be there. Sobchak and Chubais will be there too. They're discussing the port, and it might also involve shipbuilding."
He paused for a moment.
"Sometimes I think that workers have the right to know their own fate."
Georgie was silent for a few seconds. "I understand."
"You didn't understand anything."
"Yes."
The phone hangs up.
Volkov pulled an old address book from the drawer and found another number.
This number is written on the last few pages, and the ink is lighter than the others, as if it was added later.
He dialed the number.
Fedorov.
"I am Volkov, from Northern Machinery."
"Um."
"Your people are in charge of security coordination for the event at the Winter Palace tomorrow, right?"
"What's wrong?"
"I heard that some workers might want to submit a petition, and there might be a few students as well."
"They're all young people, and they're getting emotional. I want to tell you not to be too nervous."
"What do you mean?"
"It means, let them go."
"Let Sobchak see for himself; Leningrad isn't just a place where he calls the shots."
There was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone.
"I see."
Volkov put down the phone, turned off the desk lamp, and left only the wall lamp on.
There's a photo hanging on the wall, taken eight years ago during the factory's anniversary celebration.
He and the factory director at the time stood in the front row, and behind them were the model workers in the workshop, each with a red flower pinned to their chest.
At that time, the sky in the photo was still very bright.