siberia: not to be learned from books

I opened my eyes, looked over my dawn-filled hut, and was immediately struck with fear. I jolted up from bed and bumped my head into an…upper bunk? I grabbed my head to rub out the pain and right when I was about to unleash a string of curse words I became distracted in remembering if I even had an upper bunk. A pestilential reek also lingered about of which I failed in pinpointing its yesterday and, as all my senses were now regrettably stimulated, I failed to remember where I was, or even where I laid my head the night before.

I saw cobwebs of hoarfrost hanging in the ceiling corners and a broken window near the bed. The window had a build-up of ice a few fingers thick and the pane was so old that its rough splintery surface could have looked like iron filings standing on a magnet’s end. The window’s shutter was at the wind’s mercy beating violently against the pane, permitting a shrilly, gelid draught to enter and circulate the hut. The draught blew in some flakes of snow. For some reason, this reminded me of man named, Anton. I didn’t know who Anton was, but somehow, Anton’s words stuck in my conscience from a conversation in a cafeteria line-up…

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