12 January, 1940
Ilya sat against the bank, his chest heaving against the scratchy wool tunic tugging at his neck; a thin barrier against the frigid air. His trouser seat was sticking to the snow and the cold began to rise up through his body by degrees. He shifted every few moments and curled his fingers in their mittens, tapped his boots together to knock life back into his toes. It wasn’t working. Every minute he lingered a little warmth would flee him. His nose ran but it froze just below his nostril. He was like a scrappy child with a dirty face. He wondered if his constant shaking was from the creeping hypothermia or the violence.
The still and peaceful silence of the waning evening belied what had recently occurred. Ilya had been sitting here for nearly an hour and soon the sun would set and he would be alone among the dead. And if he remained here when night fell he would soon join them in sleep.