Quieting themselves, they took their seats. — Iliad 2

On good roads – though the concept of good roads may have been foreign in the northcountry – the front should only have been about three hours from Iiloskova. I checked my watch and discovered that we had been traveling for nearly six. I did not want to seem an impatient child by asking how long before we reach our destination, but I could tell nothing from our young driver's demeanor. It had not changed throughout the trip. He continued to stare straight ahead at the rutted white road, his lower lip slightly agape. He only changed position and expression for an instant as we encountered an especially deep pot hole.

"To whom will we be reporting?" I finally asked, reaching a compromise with myself.

Smenov roused himself from the road's enthrallment to answer. "The commander." He blinked at the white road as if aware for the first time of its brightness.

"And who would that be?" I felt myself becoming irritated at his idiotic response.

Smenov looked to the snow and ice for an answer, then: "Commander Zlavik."

"Commander Zlavik himself." There had been surprisingly few reports about the supreme commander of the army, Anton Zlavik. I did not know how to take this fact, as an indication that he was a man who valued his privacy, or as some sort of government subterfuge. I was about to inquire about Zlavik, the man, when my eye caught something strange on the horizon, which had become blue-white. It seemed to be a farm of some sort. Even though it was some distance – the snow made gauging nearly impossible – I could discern a tall house, probably two levels; and a large barn with a conical roof. There also appeared to be several smaller structures around both the house and barn. Who would live out here ... virtually on the rim of the Arctic continent? And what could one farm? Fields of summer tundra and herds of minks to care for in winter? I dubbed the place "Mink Farm." We passed by the tiny settlement, which appeared to be cut off by the snow. I was surprised the army had not taken it over as an outpost of some sort. As I took one last glimpse of Mink Farm I discovered there were wisps of smoke coming from the house's chimney, so it was not abandoned. The hearty Mink Farmers were still hard at work.

My mind wandered, my thoughts like ghosts cavorting on the snowfields beyond the truck's frosty window glass. I wondered about Helena's and my friends left behind at the pension on Division Street, about Tasha and even about Mezenskov back home ("home" seemed to be becoming a meaningless abstraction), and I thought about the Prince of Ithaka, imagined him trudging through the snow – traveling, forever traveling, he said. I glanced out my side window believing for an instant I would see him there along the road. Of course I did not. The unabated white was affecting my reason. I had heard of "snow madness"; now I was starting to understand it.

My thoughts were interrupted by Smenov braking the truck. There were two sentries in the road. A sawhorse barricade painted in red and black stripes stood between the soldiers, who carried long rifles – P57s, I believe the model was called. The "P" was for Pachrov, the gun's inventor; I was not sure about the "57" – perhaps it was Pachrov's fifty-seventh version. The barricade was a mere prop. It was of so little substance it would have snapped like a twig under the truck's tires. The army was apparently unconcerned about a rear attack. The sentries themselves appeared to be twins: ill-kept beards on sunken cheeks, eyes wild from the wind and ceaseless white. I suspected their frames were skeletal but it was impossible to say because of their layers of army clothes. Instead of hoods, they wore strips of green-gray cloth wrapped around their heads, like an infidel's turban. The headgear was no doubt fashioned from discarded pants and shirts.

Smenov opened his door to speak with the soldier who came forward, his P57 held casually in his gloved hands. "Supplies," said Smenov nebulously. The soldier was about to routinely nod when he realized the driver was not alone. At first he saw me next to Smenov (I smiled ridiculously), then his ice-bitten eyes noticed Helena in the back half-seat.

Smenov, a boy of few words, said, "Journalists," as if that made it all perfectly clear. And he shut his door with a rusty and impatient-sounding crunch. The sentry signaled his twin to move the old sawhorse aside. Smenov found his gear and we rolled ahead. After a minute or two we rounded a bend in the road and the army encampment appeared before us, a collection of crudely constructed shelters – all part tent, lean-to, and shack in varying degrees. The structures were all of white canvas, like sailcloth; or of wood that had been washed white – so, spread among the thin forest of spruce trees, the makeshift shelters appeared ghostly domiciles materialized in the northern wilderness. I imagined that if I blinked and cleared my vision, the shelters would vanish like mirages.

I expected there to be more soldiers milling about but only a few figures, dressed in brown or dark green or gray, could be seen. Perhaps their inconspicuous color scheme was working and I could not discern them in the forest of spruce. Smenov maneuvered the big truck among the spectral tents and brought it to a halt next to two other similar vehicles. "Here we are," he said, cutting the truck's laboring engine.

"Home sweet home," I added before looking back at Helena, who was gazing through the truck's dirty side window. I climbed down from the truck then helped Helena do the same. Bags in hand, we went to the rear of the truck where Smenov was undoing the knotted straps that secured the canvas flap. The boy-soldier was engrossed in his occupation and paid no attention to Helena and me. After a moment of standing there in the packed snow I said, "Thank you for the ride, corporal. Where can we find the commanding officer?"

He gestured to his right, not taking his eyes from the Oriental-puzzle straps, and said, "Command is about a quarter mile." I noticed that the effort to untie the straps had bloodied his raw fingers.

Helena and I began following a footpath in the snow that seemed to lead more or less in the direction Smenov indicated. There was an array of intersecting paths, like the workings of a net – or like Helena's intricately braided hair, which was now hidden beneath a hat of black wool. The day had grown cold. The tall spruce and a gauzy layer of clouds blocked the sunlight. Plus, I reminded myself, we were farther north. Farther north than Iiloskova! It did not seem possible: Iiloskova had always marked the end of the world for me, for everyone, except perhaps the Iiloskovites. I was in the fairyland, but there was no pixie dust and no magic – unless it was a dark magic.

Helena and I approached a group of soldiers going in the opposite direction. Their heads were down but they noticed us and stared strangely. No doubt they were not used to civilian visitors, yet they said nothing as we passed each other on the path of ice. Beyond their earshot, I said to Helena, "I feel the foreigner for certain."

"I always 'feel the foreigner,' as you say it." She did not look up from the path.

It reminded me of how little I knew this woman with whom I had entered the war zone. Perhaps I should have refused her and come to the front alone. But that would have been impossible; she had a strange power over me. Over everyone it seemed. I wondered briefly what they were doing at the pension on Division Street. I suspected, in general, they were missing Helena.

Helena touched my sleeve. "I am just thinking: our friends are having their afternoon tea and playing games."

The queer timing of Helena's observation unnerved me and I did not know what to say. Fortunately I lost my footing on the path for a second and it altered the course of the conversation as Helena advised me, mother-hen-like, to be careful. "Yes," I said, "a sprained ankle would not do out here." I realized that I had not known what to expect out here, at the front, but this was not it so far. Where is the fighting? Where does it take place? Where is the enemy? Where are the wounded? I supposed all would be clear in due course.

We had been walking for what seemed to me an appropriate distance to reach Command, yet no structure presented itself as such. A soldier happened by, a boy looking not much older than Smenov, and I asked for directions. Without speaking, he waved his hand, wrapped in strips of brown wool, at a tent-shack of modest size tucked between two giant spruce. We thanked the young soldier, who continued dumbly on his way. The path dipped a bit, making it difficult to keep our footing, as we completed our walk to Command. It occurred to me: all the stories I read about the war, all the rumors I heard – and some that I helped spread – originated, in a sense, from this one haphazardly erected structure in the snow. All that was the war and the front and death and deprivation resided in this tent-shack, whose angled white roof I could see now was speckled with spruce needles that tinted it blue. Perhaps the meager daylight, filtered through the living needles on the trees, added to the effect: For the more I looked at the structure the more it seemed to emit a bluish glow, an almost otherworldly radiance. No doubt some optical trickery of the snow contributed to the effect as well.

I glanced at Helena to say something about the phenomenon but held my tongue when I saw that her face had taken on the bluish cast too. I tried to clear my vision but her corpselike complexion remained. She noticed my gaze of course. I just smiled and said, "Almost there" as I returned my sight forward.

I imagined there would be guards posted in front of Command or at least the bustle of officers in and out but it was as lifeless as Bushkov's newspaper bureau. We reached the structure and I was surprised to find a heavy and ornately carved door at its entrance. I wondered that the flimsy framework could even support the ponderous door. A fishing scene was depicted in the carved wood. First the sea, the rippling waves rendered in two dimensions, then men launching a boat. My eyes skimmed over the wooden tableau ... no, not a fishing scene ... whaling. The creature they hunted dwarfed the fishing boat. Water erupted from its blowhole in a shape that, carved by itself, might have evoked the full bloom of a snapdragon. I recalled a book from America, something about a gigantic white-colored whale. Chapters had appeared erratically in the literary papers, submitted by an amateur translator, probably a language student at the university. The basic plot of the whaling story was of interest but the poorly done translation made the narrative plodding and almost scientific sounding.

I knocked on the door but I suspected my rap was lost in its ornate thickness – in essence, blown about and dissipated on the oaken sea. No one responded of course. I suppose I might have sought the commander elsewhere – there had to be a dining hall, for instance – but Helena simply pulled back the door and we stepped inside. It was not well lighted and therefore seeing was difficult, especially since my eyes had been dazzled by the snowcountry for so long on the road, if our path of conveyance could be honorably called a "road." Moreover, the queer blue light outside was further filtered indoors by the white sailcloth stretched over the structure's skeleton. I had the sense of being underwater. I forced my lungs to inhale at that instant to make sure I could breathe.

"Hello," I called out to the empty corners of the tent. We set our bags down, glad for a rest from that burden. I had little in the way of extra clothes but my papers and writing utensils were weighty. I wondered that I should have left them on Division Street; meanwhile, I surveyed the interior of Command. There were three trestle tables set up in a horseshoe shape. Maps and books and stacks of papers covered the tables in orderly rectangles. There were also pencils and compasses and rulers – the cartographer's tools – and of course pens and glass bottles of ink. The ink took on a different hue in the weird light – more purple than black, like blood drained from royalty is supposed to look. The color of privilege and superiority. There were also wooden chairs placed here and there on the uneven planked floor, and three army cots with small pillows and woolen blankets folded on them.

"Nobody home," said Helena, stating the obvious for emphasis.

I nodded and went to the middle table. I picked a book from one of the stacks. I expected it to be about tactics of war or a code book or about techniques of interrogation. But the title surprised me. I did my best to pronounce the German: Kalypso, Bedeutungs Geschichtliche Untersuchungen auf dem Gebiet der Indogermanischen Sprache.

"Kalypso," said Helena, "Investigations into the history of meaning in the area of Indo-Germanic languages, or Indo-European." She added, "It sounds very ... dry."

I had the impression I had stumbled onto an encampment of the Naturalists' Youth Club, or "Wilderness Scouts" as they were called informally. Perhaps further poking around may locate boxes of homemade cookies sent by some of the Scouts' mothers. Indeed, only the maps here and there, some spread out and others rolled up and standing upright in what seemed an overlarge umbrella stand, gave Command a military look at all.

"Do you think we should wait, Hektr?"

Helena interrupted my reverie of snooping. "I am not sure what else to do. I – " The sound of footsteps crunching in the snow interrupted me. I replaced the books and stepped away from the table and stood erect, something like a soldier myself, though I had no military training whatsoever. My stance was more an attempt at mimicry.

The ornate door swung open and white light replaced the blue. An officer and a young soldier entered the tent structure. They must have been somewhat snowblind and were not expecting us, so nearly walked into Helena standing with our bags.

"The devil ..." said the officer, stopping just short of Helena. He was around my age but a head taller and with a neat black beard dotted with white (now blue as the door swung closed). He wore the falcon insignia of a commander on his coat and the rank's eight-pointed gold star on his fur-trimmed cap.

"I am Hektr Pastrovich ..." I fumbled my coat open pawing for the letters of introduction Mezenskov and Bushkov had provided me. I found them with my gloved hand and offered them to the commander somewhat crumpled, especially Mezenskov's. He read each quickly, after unfolding them by holding an upper corner and snapping downward.

The commander looked to Helena.

"My assistant," I said, "Helena...."

She offered her hand to the commander, who received it and identified himself as Zlavik. He politely removed his cap, revealing thick black hair with brushstrokes of white over each ear. I tried to read his expression, which retained a mixture of surprise and annoyance from his stumbling onto us in his tent. But there was something else too: disbelief that I had brought a woman into a war zone? a military man's natural distrust of journalists?

Zlavik nodded to the young officer and motioned toward the stove in the tent. The whey-faced lieutenant went to the cast-iron wreck, pulled back its door and began stoking the embers in its black belly. Meantime, Zlavik continued, "I am afraid we have little in the way of amenities. We receive few guests as you can imagine." He began undoing the gold-tinted buttons on his coat as if the tent was already becoming warm. "The mess sergeant has space in his pantry – that may be the best place to put you. There is ample room; supplies are quite short. Perhaps, Mr. Pastrovich, you could begin by writing that."

I did not know if the commander was completely serious; I did not know if I should get out my pad and pencils and make a note of it.

Zlavik went on, "I will have the lieutenant here show you to the mess. After that, you can move about as you will. Remember, however, this is a war zone. I cannot be responsible for your safety."

"Of course," I said.

"Join me this evening, in my quarters. You can dine with myself and other officers."

"Thank you, Commander. You are most hospitable." Helena and I took up our bags and followed the lieutenant out into the snow-bright day. I listened for the sound of artillery or of rifle fire but heard nothing, save for our crunching footsteps. The lieutenant was slightly ahead of me. I looked down at his boots and they were well worn. In fact, one sole was loose and his heel flopped a bit as he walked. For that matter, his green-gray uniform coat was ripped and hastily sewn in three places I could see. It also was too big for him. Only the tips of his gloved fingers appeared below his coat cuffs. I thought of the shabby dress of the Prince of Ithaca, of his oversized shoes, one with a hole in the toecap.

We had left the aura of bluish light and the day was white again. Indeed, through the roof of the spruce forest patches of sky were white – as white as the snow beneath our feet. Perhaps I was only tired and anxious but for a moment I seemed to lose my orientation, my sense of up and down, which it must be like for someone twisting through the sky in an aeroplane on such a day, not certain at all what is above and what is below. I looked toward the tree tops thinking I just might see a flying-machine but it was an irrational idea. Maybe in the skies over Paris or Brussels or Berlin (the Germans love their machinery!), and one day soon Moskow or Saint Petersburg....

It seemed we had passed the dining tent on our way to Command. Perhaps because it was so small – for a dining hall – that I did not recognize it as such. A rectangular structure, of course, with a blackened tin chimney to one side disturbing its symmetry and releasing greasy gray smoke into the cold air. The lieutenant opened the tent's weightless door – something more in keeping with the style of the tent city – and we stepped inside. The "mess" was vacant except for one man at a bench scraping an enormous iron frying pan, large enough it appeared to cook a small child. Rows of tables and benches, more or less in order, filled most of the space, save one quarter where cooking and serving equipment had been erected.

"Ah, Botkin, there you are," said the young officer. Botkin went on scraping uninterrupted. Botkin had long dirty-looking mustaches and matching side whiskers. There was a sergeant's special insignia on his sleeve. His rank allowed him to feed troops but not to lead them in battle. "Botkin," continued the lieutenant, "do you still have cots in the pantry?"

He continued to scrape intensely; we had come close enough to see the charred black matter that he chipped at, like the topography of an unwelcoming beach. The black crumbs fell onto a cloth on the table. "Who's asking?" he said at last. I noted the area covered by the charred crumbs was greater by far than the surface of the cloth he had put down.

"Commander Zlavik wants room for these two visitors." I heard annoyance in the lieutenant's voice, perhaps at the lack of respect shown by his supposed underling.

Botkin ceased his scraping and looked up at us all. He studied Helena and me for an uncomfortably long while – as if more discerning than the supreme commander of the army. "The cots are there."

"Please show us," said the lieutenant.

Botkin set his pan down in the circular pile of scrapings and led us through another door to a medium-size tent. On the door to this tent – "the pantry," Zlavik called it – was a padlock but it was not latched. Botkin offered, as if an explanation for the slipshod security, "Not much worth stealing these days."

A half-sour, half-rotten smell greeted us as soon as he opened up the pantry. I expected a rat or some other vermin to come scurrying out of the dark. We followed Botkin inside; he appeared oblivious to the stench. The sergeant lighted a lantern hanging on a pole. There were several rows of shelves but very little on them. There were open crates and empty canning jars collected here and there. Straw and other grime covered the planked floor. Botkin went to some cots that were stored on their sides. He set them upright and slapped them a few times to disturb the dust. He picked some blankets from a pile on the floor. They were old and tattered (and probably soiled) but I suspected tonight I would not mind.

Botkin inspected a stove. "It'll work," he declared. "I'll fetch some wood – that's the one thing we have plenty of."

I found it hard to believe this was the best Zlavik could do for us. Perhaps it was because of Helena – he could not very well have her stay with the troops. For a moment I was irritated that she had insisted on coming but it was a selfish notion and I put it out of my head.

Sergeant Botkin exited the pantry and the lieutenant prepared to the do the same. He said, "The commander dines at six; I shall retrieve you here fifteen minutes before." He bowed slightly then left us alone. The lieutenant's exactness further irritated me but it was no doubt what made him a good choice for the commander's aide.