When the train started, the frost flowers on the glass were dripping down.
I hold today’s note in my hand: twenty-seven pieces of bread, nine servings of meat, and only enough coal to burn until tomorrow noon. Outside the window is the snow of Siberia, which is so white that there is nothing, only two railway tracks crawling forward. The train has to stop every few hours, and people have to go down to find firewood, or cut some food on the frozen bear.
There are ninety-seven people sitting in the car. The man on the stretcher hummed. The mother held the child who didn’t cry, and the old man stared at the pocket watch and looked at the second hand. My job is very simple: let these ninety-seven people continue to gasp in the snow until the next stop, which may not be at all.
The first person to die was a young man. Pneumonia, there is no medicine. When the train passed through the pine forest at night, we wrapped him in a blanket and gently put him in the snow. The train didn’t stop and drove by like this. When I walked back to the carriage, everyone bowed their heads. I know what they are thinking.
From now on, you have to make choices every day. Who should be sent to find the way? Ivan’s eyesight was good, but his brother’s fingers were just frozen black. Martha said she would go, but she was the only one we could bandage. Finally, I asked old Peter to go. He said that his feet were not afraid of cold. When he came back, he couldn’t take off his boots. We baked around the fire until midnight before the ice meted.
It is the most difficult thing to divide the food. The bread should be cut into the same sige, and the diced meat in the soup should be counted clearly. Should the injured person be given an extra spoonful? Some people push for half a piece of bread, and some people secretly pour their own bowl of porridge into other people’s bowls.
On the coldest day, the axle was broken. The parts are in the abandoned station five miles away, and the snowstorm is coming soon. I ordered the names of three people. They didn’t say anything. They tightened their coats and jumped into the snow. I stood by the car door and watched. They turned into three black dots, and then the black dots were invisible.
The car suddenly became quiet. Everyone pretended to be busy with their own affairs, but their ears were turned in the direction of their departure. Three hours later, the light of the flashlight flickered in the snow curtain. I don’t know who breathed a sigh of relief first, and then everyone moved — boiling water, spreading hay, and vacating the place closest to the fire. They brought back not only parts, but also a small bag of tea. That night, ninety-seven people shared a pot of tea that was too faint to taste, but everyone held the cup and drank slowly.
We passed the burning village and rushed over before the bridge collapsed. Outside the window is the world of war, and in the window are ninety-seven people learning to continue to be human in the tin box.
On the last uphill road, the train was as slow as coughing. Everyone crowded to the window to see a little green in the distant mountain pass. No one shouted, just watching. The woman holding the child began to hum in a very soft tone. Slowly, the others also hummed.
I went back to the driver’s cab, and there was a note on the table that said: zero bread, zero meat, and only three hours of coal. But there was the first pine tree outside the window that was not buried in the snow.
I suddenly understood. This bus never taught me how to count things. It is to teach me what else people can count on when everything is about to become zero. Relying on the pause when dising a bowl of soup, relying on the sound of humming out of tune together, and relying on the quiet few minutes when looking out of the window at the same time.
And the so-called survival with everyone may be when there is only the last bit of breadcrumb left in the pocket, you still remember the ninety-seven faces, whose eyes need to see this sweetness most today.
