Under the Ice

The storm hit Murmansk right at the start of the late afternoon rush hour. Already overcrowded with trucks, buses, and automobiles, the icy streets were gridlocked. In this weather, the expedient commuter moved by foot, though even this means of transport had its hazards. Blinded by blowing snow, and forced to pick their way around the already gathering drifts, thousands of scurrying pedestrians left their places of work and madly scrambled to get home before the snow made even walking impossible.

When Sergei Markova and his six-year-old daughter Sasha left their apartment, only a few scattered flurries were falling. By the time they had finished their shopping, the blizzard had struck in all its fury.

Fortunately, Sergei’s wife had made them bundle up properly before leaving home. An avid follower of the weather forecast, Lara had been anticipating this storm, and though it had hit earlier than expected, she’d made certain her family was sufficiently clothed.

With his right hand holding the large mesh bag in which their recently purchased treasures were stored, the thirty-seven-year-old submarine captain prepared to leave the bakery, their last stop of the day. Comfortably dressed in a red nylon, down-filled ski jacket that he had picked up while on shore leave in Gdansk, Sergei turned to see what was keeping his daughter.

As he expected, the precocious youngster was still standing beside a bakery rack, munching away on a freshly baked cookie. She looked like a little marshmallow in her long white fur coat with the matching hat, mittens, and boots, and her proud father couldn’t help but grin as he called out to his only child.

“Come now, Sasha. It’s time that we got going.

We’ve been gone long enough, and Mommy’s going to be worried. Besides, you don’t want to miss Uncle Viktor and Aunt Tanya’s visit, do you?”

Eyeing the rack of freshly baked cookies that had just come out of the oven, the youngster excitedly replied.

“Oh, Poppy, can’t I have just one cookie before I go? They’re my very favorites!”

Lev, the white-haired baker, heard this request and briefly caught Sergei’s gaze and winked. Without another word said, he put several of the cookies in a small sack, bent over, and handed them to Sasha, who was one of his favorite customers.

“Here you go. Now be a good girl and give the package to your father so that he can put it in his parcel.”

“But I want one now!” the stubborn six-year-old demanded.

The potbellied baker had five children of his own so he knew how to deal with her.

“You’ve already had two whole cookies, young lady. And with supper time rapidly approaching, you won’t have any room for that cake that your father just bought you for dessert.”

Having already forgotten about this anticipated treat, Sasha weighed the likeable baker’s words. Then with the brown paper sack holding the cookies clutched tightly in one mittened hand, she bid the baker farewell.

“Goodbye, Comrade Lev. Thank you for the cookies.”

As he guided the youngster to her father’s side, the baker responded.

“And goodbye to you, Sasha Markova. Enjoy your treats and don’t eat too much and get a bellyache.”

Admiring the manner in which the red-cheeked proprietor handled his headstrong daughter, Sergei safely stashed away Sasha’s prized cookies and addressed the portly figure who had baked them.

“Good day to you. Comrade Petrofsky. And thank you again for taking such good care of my family while I’m out at sea.”

“Nonsense, Captain,” retorted the baker.

“It’s you who deserve all the thanks. All of us can sleep just a bit more soundly at night knowing that our shores are protected from the advance of any enemy.”

The two men exchanged a warm handshake as a howling gust of wind sounded from outside the glassed-in storefront. Through the steamed-up windows, the blowing blanket of snow that accompanied these gusts could be seen.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to give you a lift home. Captain?” the baker offered.

“My truck is parked right in the back lot.”

Sergei Markova shook his head.

“That’s most kind of you, Comrade. But I imagine that the going will be just as fast on foot. And besides, we don’t have far to go, and my wife made absolutely certain that we were dressed warmly enough for a polar expedition.”

The baker chuckled at this and escorted them to the door.

“Walk carefully, my friends,” he said as he opened the door and watched them duck out into the thickly falling snow.

Outside, Sergei found the brisk air invigorating.

His daughter seemed oblivious to the cold, and was already scraping the snow off the bakery’s window ledge and compacting it in a tight ball.

“Let’s have a snowball fight. Poppy!”

Before he could answer her, she let loose the powdery snowball that struck Sergei on his right thigh.

“Now hold on a minute, young lady!” he responded, practically shouting to be heard over the howling wind.

“Since I’m carrying all the packages, I can’t defend myself. You could at least wait until we get home and I stash away our goodies. Then I’ll take you on.”