It was bone-chillingly cold even for the Russian, Illya Kuryakin, who waited for his extraction. His mission had been a success, but his return had been hindered by a sudden snowstorm that took on blizzard proportions; trapping him in an old cabin in the remote northwest United States.
He had firewood, and a fireplace that help to ward of the cold as the winds were blowing through every crack and crevice of the cabin.
Most likely used by hunters in the warmer months, its upkeep was minimal. The floor was covered with dirt and dried leaves, cobwebs clung to the rafters. Still it was dry, and more than enough protection from the raging storm.
He'd found a moth-eaten woolen blanket and there were some stores of canned goods, mostly beans.
Opening them with his large hunting knife was easy enough, and warming them, still in the can over the fire worked well.
There were no utensils so the blade of his knife served to scoop the beans out for him to eat. He had his canteen, but once that water ran out, he'd have to melt some snow.
All in all he'd been in worse places under worse conditions.
Finally bored; he was tired of looking out the window, watching the snowfall. He wasn't in the mood to sleep and started to daydream, thinking about when he was a child, trapped in a snowstorm such as this.
During the war, he hid in his secret place, a room not visible to anyone. He'd covered the entrance to look like it had been bombed out, and hanging heavy drapes across it, inside to protect himself from the cold of the brutal Soviet winter, he remained alone.
Though he was only eight years old, he'd been taught well to survive by his father. He'd scavenged potatoes, turnips and stale breads from abandoned larders and vodka was easy to find if you knew where to look.
As the winter raged, he learned to catch rats and make a stew of sorts with the vegetables, adding the vodka for some zest. When the rats were gone, the wild dogs that hunted him finally became his prey, and their meat kept him alive.
He'd filled up his hiding place with blankets bedding, food, sundries and books he'd looted throughout his forays amongst the ruins of Kyiv, all while avoiding the occupying Nazis.
There he spent hour after with his books, teaching himself, retaining nearly everything he read and practicing his mathematics.*
Kuryakin got up from the floor of the hunting cabin, throwing another log on the fire. What he wouldn't give for a book to read right now?
He wandered over to one corner where a pile of newspapers lay to use for kindling, and thinking he could read them, though outdated they were better than nothing...he lifted a few pages.
To his surprise beneath them lay several books. One, a hardcover entitled 'Dawn' by a man named Elie Wiesel. He recognized the author's name as one who crusaded for the victims of the holocaust.
The other, was a colorfully illustrated children's book.
He looked the back of the book sleeve where it described story by Wiesel.
"Elisha is a young Jewish man, a Holocaust survivor, and an Israeli freedom fighter in British-controlled Palestine; John Dawson is the captured English officer he will murder at dawn in retribution for the British execution of a fellow freedom fighter. The night-long wait for morning and death provides Dawn, Caught between the manifold horrors of the past and the troubling dilemmas of the present, Elisha wrestles with guilt, ghosts, and ultimately God as he waits for the appointed hour and his act of assassination. Dawn is an eloquent meditation on the compromises, justifications, and sacrifices that human beings make when they murder other human beings."
How such a book came to be in this cabin was beyond him, and it so coincidental to his memories of the war years, He too had survived the dangers of a concentration camp, and now he was in the business of death, though for a good cause. Illya knew he wrestled with his own demons, his guilt and ghosts.
He opened the book and read the first sentence aloud, canting his head to one side.
"No you do not need to revisit such things," he said and he closed the book. It was hitting too close to home, and bringing back memories he shouldn't revisit, not here.
He picked up the other book, though a much smaller one and read the description. "Fire Cat", written by a woman named Esther Averill.
It was the story of a young cat named Pickles who has big paws and wishes to do big things with them.
'When he's adopted by the local firehouse, Pickles works hard to be a good fire cat. He learns to jump on a fire truck. He learns to help put out a fire, and he even helps out in a rescue! Pickles gets his wish and finds something big to do with his paws.'
The hard as nails UNCLE agent, former member of the Soviet Military intelligence and spy extraordinaire...smiled. He wished he'd had a few books such as this while in his confinement in Kyiv so long ago. Still he leaned a lot from the textbooks he had there, but a book such as this would have at least helped him hold onto some of his childhood.
Still he was glad he had the book now and chuckled to himself as he read the first page aloud.
His communicator suddenly chirped, interrupting his reading.
"Kuryakin here."
"Hello there, how's it going partner mine? Just checking in to see how you're doing twiddling your thumbs."
"Actually I am fine. I have fire, food, a blanket and I found some books discarded in a pile of kindling and paper, so I am quite content and occupied reading at the moment."
"You're kidding? Only you could find a book to read in the middle of nowhere during a blizzard. Don't tell me, a book on science, right?"
"Why Napoleon how ever did you know that?"
"Past experience chum and intuition. So the meteorologists are saying the storm is subsiding. We may be able to get a chopper in to rescue you by this afternoon. Keep warm and happy reading. Solo Out."
"Happy reading indeed. Kuryakin out."
* ref. to "Beginnings"- Illya's backstory as a child in Kiev during the war as well as his post war life in a Moscow orphanage.