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Chapter Three

Dimitri

T he radiator hissed like an angry cat and I rolled over in bed, blinking at the cracked ceiling. For a moment, I forgot where I was. No barracks. No shouting. Just the soft creak of floorboards and the muffled clatter of dishes coming from the kitchen.

Mama, always up before the sun.

By the time I dragged myself to the table, the smell of butter and hot milk had filled the flat.

She’d made grechnevaya kasha with cream and sugar, plus boiled eggs and black bread toasted in the pan.

There was even a dish of jam—apricot, my favorite.

A total feast by our standards. She’d spoiled me all weekend, as if she could fill in the last two years with bowls of porridge and careful smiles.

Papa sat across from me, already dressed in his work coat, sipping his tea like it was a punishment.

He hadn’t said much all weekend. Not that he ever did.

We’d exchanged more looks than words, but even those were stiff.

He’d ask how my boots fit or if I needed another pair of gloves.

Nothing personal. Nothing about the army or what it was like being back.

He didn’t want to know. Or maybe he already did.

He passed the sugar bowl to Mama without looking up. “Next time, don’t overcook the eggs.”

Her smile didn’t falter. “They’re fine.”

He didn’t argue, just kept stirring his tea like he’d said nothing at all. But I caught it—the flicker of regret in his eyes as he glanced at her. Quick and sharp, like a pulled muscle. She didn’t even look his way.

That was the other thing.

I hadn’t said a word about it, but I’d noticed Papa hadn’t slept in their bedroom once. All weekend, I’d heard the creak of the couch under him at night. The sighs. The quiet. They’d finally gotten their own room after years of sharing apartments with strangers, and he wasn’t using it.

Something had changed between them, though neither seemed in a hurry to explain it. Maybe it had always been like that and I just hadn’t noticed as a kid. Or maybe the years apart had stretched something too thin to repair.

Still, none of my business. Right?

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.”

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.”

I stood up, adjusting my ill-fitting work coat. “Yes, ma’am.”

She led me through the double doors and into the factory proper, where the sound hit me like a wave—mechanical groans, rhythmic clanking, and the roar of the looms spinning out the same olive-drab blankets I’d slept under since childhood.

The air was thick with machine oil and something damp, like old wool left out in the rain.

We passed rows of workers, heads bent over cloth, fingers nimble and fast. Vera didn’t speak as we walked, her heels clicking confidently on the concrete. We turned a corner, and there he was.

Petyr.

He stood with his sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms dusted with blonde hair and muscles taut from genuine work, not the kind you brag about at political youth camps.

He had one hand on a lever, the other steadying a blanket as it spooled out onto the conveyor belt.

When he saw us, he looked up—and grinned.

Not the polite, neutral smile you give a stranger. This one was open, disarming. Like he already knew me.

“You must be Dimitri,” he said, stepping forward and holding out his hand.

I took it. His grip was firm and warm, like the rest of him. Our eyes met for a second too long. Something flickered in my chest—something I didn’t have a name for.

I let go first.

“Welcome to the factory,” he said. “Hope you don’t mind a bit of noise.”

I opened my mouth, maybe to answer, maybe to breathe.

But all I could think was: Why did the world just get louder and quieter at the same time?