THE RUSSIAN WINTER
By LEON KIRIL
WHEN I am asked what the Russian winter is really like, I answer that it is not so bad if you know how to deal with it. If I had to spend a Russian winter in the open country, I would much prefer the Arctic forests to the Southern steppes. One can stand very low temperatures without inconvenience when the air is still ; when the wind blows it cuts through warm clothing like a knife, although the thermometer may stand at a mere to or 15 below zero (that is zero Fahrenheit). In still, sunny weather north of the Arctic circle, such as prevails from the middle or end of January, I have skied on the White Sea ice in 70 degrees of frost and found a fur coat oppressive.
But if life in the Arctic forests or frozen plains of Russia can be tolerable, even stimulating and enjuyable in favourable circumstances, it is far otherwise in war. Then posts must be manned though blizzards rage and weapons must be handled when the 'bare skin freezes to metal with results almost identical with contact with red-hot iron. That is Why in the natural economy of Northern Russia the use of iron and steel is reduced to a minimum. No doubt the Germans have profited from their experience last winter, but with all the adjuncts and appliances provided by science, men with a mainly urban and mechanised upbringing must remain at a disadvantage when opposed to those in their native environment who know all the answers to the tricks the hardest winter climate can play. Science can do much to mitigate the effects of living in conditions of extreme cold, but it cannot, for example, teach bush- craft in such conditions.
When the whole countryside is covered with deep snow it is surprisingly easy to lose one's way, although even in the blackest moonless night it is never really dark. Distances become deceptive. The black line of the forest edge may be a few hundred yards away or a couple of miles, and if snow is falling no landmarks whatever can be distinguished and one's sense of direction just vanishes. I remember once taking a comparatively short skiing excursion with a companion in the Northern forests towards the end of April, starting soon after midnight. It was a clear, still, starlit night, and the Northern Lights were weaving their gossamer curtains across the zenith. It seemed a shame to go to bed, so we slid into our skis instead. After travelling for three or four hours in any direction the spirit moved us, we decided it was time to turn round and go home for breakfast. He thought we ought to make in that direction, my guess was the diametrical opposite. The sun was just rising, making a ruddy glow through the trees, and I judged that our general course had been to the west, so we decided to head for the sunrise and soon found ourselves in country we recognised. But had the morning been overcast the story might have ended quite differently.
The Russian peasants mark their tracks with branches stuck upright in the snow at quite short intervals. If the track crosses an open space only a few hundred yards across they mark it, when to the uninitiated it would seem impossible to lose the way in such a small area. In a real blizzard it is quite easy to get hopelessly astray going from one cottage to another less than too yards away.
Snow varies enormously. Sometimes a hard crust forms on which skis slip and skid, but which just does not support the foot and to try walking means breaking through up to the knees at each stride. In other places the Snow may be so soft and powdery that skis sink right down and at each stride must be lifted to clear the upturned tips, which refuse to skim the surface. These conditions are generally found only where the trees grow thickly, in the open country the snow packs down just firm enough to give skis the necessary grip without hindering progress.
The important thing is to keep clothing dry. Damp gloves and socks cause frostbite quicker than anything else. So when the Russian comes indoors he shakes his gloves and knocks all the snow off his outer garments, and especially his felt boots, the famous Russian valenki, with a tiny birch twig broom. The peasant usually goes about indoors with bare feet to avoid making his valenki damp with sweat, and instead of socks he often wears foot clouts, which
when one gets the knack of folding them round the foot are far more comfortable than socks.
The log hut of North Russia, built with fir butts dovetailed into one another and closely stuffed with tow or moss, is warmer than
brick walls, if the cracks have been properly packed. But if the stuffing leaves the tiniest gap the cold creeps in against which a red- hot stove fights a losing battle. The windows are double, and at •
the beginning of winter the frames are puttied up or more probably smeared with clay to make them absolutely air-tight. The entrance is guarded by two doors forming a sort of airlock, the outer one is quilted with hay or tow covered by sacking. It fits tight to the door-frame and both doors are never opened together. The stove, made of bricks or more primitively of loam stiffened with cow manure, burns wood and is built with a flat top on which the family can sleep. For the Russian peasant instinctively knows that it is more important to sleep warm below than under any amount of top coverings.
In the steppe lands cottages are made of adobe and roofed with thatch of straw or reeds. If the walls are thick enough and kept in good repair these are as warm as the log huts of the North. But heating is a far more difficult problem. Wood is not to be had and straw is a bad substitute. 4n some districts the peasants used to fill a sack full of chaff and cut a small hole at the bottom. The sack was hung over the opening in the stove, and as the chaff sifted out in a thin stream it was caught by the draught of the fire and consumed as it flew through the flue. I must confess that I have never actually seen this in operation. But mostly the fuel of the steppe consists of kisiak, cattle manure mixed with straw and puddled into a plastic mass, then moulded into bricks and dried in the sun. It is an art to manufacture and still more of an art to burn. The technique is, I believe, somewhat similar to the technique of burning peat.
Frost-bite is serious only if neglected and allowed to go too far. It is easily diagnosed by sight, if not by sense, for a frost-bitten member has no feeling. It is when the sense of cold leaves the limb that one takes alarm, though the inexperienced are apt to think that because their hands or feet no longer feel cold they are all right. Frost-bitten flesh looks like putty and feels like putty, it loSes all resilience. The worse it is the more gradual must be the thawing. In mild cases rubbing with vodka for a few minutes restores circulation, in 'bad cases the frozen limb must be rubbed with snow for a long time. And when the blood begins to flow again it is agonising ; I Would describe it like being pricked with thousands of needles on raw flesh. And afterwards the skin peels off, and for days it hurts to handle a knife and fork or button a collar if it was the fingers that suffered.
We are sure to hear of wolves intervening in the winter campaign. Most wolf stories are gross exaggerations. Wolves are cowardly animals, but very inquisitive. Tales of packs chasing sleighs are founded on the fact that wolves will follow anything they cannot quite understand to find out what it is. That a pack of wolves would in reality attack a horse-sleigh with ttiro or three people aboard is, if not entirely incredible, so improbable that it would need several absolutely trustworthy witnesses to make me believe it. And, anyhow, wolves do not go about in packs numbering scores. In the South of Russia a party of four or five is the largest " pack " ever met with. In the northern forests a greater number may in hard winters join forces to hunt together, but a dozen or so seems by all reliable accounts to be the maximum.
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