Truth Beyond the Tundra
A massive metals factory. A sight of man-made industry, a horror to his grandparents, lovers of open fields and blue skies.
It was here that traditions lived and survived in the hearts of the family. It was there that times never felt simpler, yet hardships never felt more real. And it was then people knew their neighbors, except all this had changed for truth. The truth that existed beyond the tundra in the USSR. Because The Nephew knew this much, his uncle would not abandon their homeland, Mongolia, train rides away. In these Soviet times, identity became replaced with communism, such as with The Nephew, once Mongolian, now comrade, a member of the proletariat, a worker. He grunts as the passenger train makes a loud screech and rumbles to a sudden halt, which jolts all the workers inside, some of whom bump against one another or the train's cold, metal walls.
Heavy, serious footsteps at the train's front exit capture his attention. A work supervisor wearing all the bearings of Soviet authority takes out a clipboard with, most likely, a list of names. The men speak to one another in various languages, languages The Nephew never knew existed, though some speak his language, and once he meets their worry, they offer a comforting nod. The supervisor states in Russian, a difficult language for The Nephew to understand, even if he has learned it through community and schooling, what will be expected of all aboard the train. Once finished, he calls out names and points them to the train's back exit. One by one, able-bodied men like himself depart the train, directed in the cold outside to register somewhere.
His name soon gets called, so without any hesitancy or delay, The Nephew stands, staring at the supervisor, and makes his way outside of the train, into his new life. Once outside, where cold winds and low temperatures cause him to shiver, he sees his future. A massive metals factory. A sight of man-made industry, a horror to his grandparents, lovers of open fields and blue skies. His parents, however, toiled away in industry, just like he will, for the good of their thin and anemic community, as all those able-bodied like himself have left for polluted pastures. He sees fire and smoke burn from the chimneys, pumping out endless amounts of toxic fumes into the sky. But his view changes to a registration center, waiting in line to be registered as a factory worker.
Soon, his turn approaches, and the questions carry no emotion or warmth within them. They sound direct, specific, and meant to be documented in some files, as with all the others. Once answered, he gets directed elsewhere into a group of nervous, mumbling men who seem like the herds of sheep that wander the Mongolian steppes. They then get directed into the factory's living quarters. Once inside this concrete, grey devilry, walking across steel walkway bridges that clunk or clatter with any footstep, a factory worker gives him a number. His bed. Atop it looks to be fresh factory clothes, almost like prison attire, with shoes, a towel, and basic toiletries. It makes him exhale sharply, yet someone bumps into him, someone who looks like him and someone who speaks the same native language as him, Mongolian. Another supervisor then enters and barks at them all in Russian to clean up, eat supper, and sleep before their early shift.
The men silently obey, and as the supervisor leaves, the men ready themselves for tomorrow, but The Nephew continues chatting with this other Mongolian, sleeping in the top bunk. He comes from Ulaanbaatar, the capital of Mongolia, a city slowly turning into a polluted geyser of industry. All his family works across the Soviet Union, mainly as laborers and some farmers, but he knows, as The Nephew knows too, that many choose to remain in Mongolia and take their chances with work. Like The Nephew’s uncle, a professor who works in Ulaanbaatar, teaching Mongolian history to his students. The Nephew recalls the mighty, sweeping power of the Mongols and mentions this to that fellow Mongolian, who grins, showing black teeth. He tells The Nephew that times have changed, as now, the Russians rule the world. They then see a packet of cigarettes.
A Russian comes by, offering some. He insists. He tells them they work in a factory, not a gulag.
