Across the room, two doughboys of the 339th and two young peasants were having a religious discussion. The fact that neither nationality spoke the other’s language was mitigated by heroic amounts of peevo. There was a great deal of pointing at the crosses that all four of them wore, and then hand gestures indicating slashes of the throat, arrows in the chest, scalding lead thrown in the eyes.

The Americans were trying to explain that saints only meant well, they forgave, were so generous they might even bake cookies for you (or so their pantomime seemed to indicate). The Russians were puzzled, then frightened that the Americans were missing an important piece of information: a saint was a horrifying, terrifying, all-powerful spirit who would skin you as soon as look at you. They were reminding their new American friends of—for instance—merciless St. Cassian, whose feast day was February 29, a day so dangerous that no one dared leave the house.

In return, the Americans were sure there was just a small misunderstanding that could be worked out if they spoke openly for long enough. And the Russians were similarly sure. There were still smiles, but also sideways glances, faltering gestures, more drinking of peevo, longer silences.

Hugo finished his cigarette. He displaced the goat, who had fallen asleep on him again. He stretched and yawned. The music was suited for two o’clock in the morning, slow and dirgelike, just the accordion playing a desperate folksong, “Dark Eyes.” The peasants knew the words and moaned along.

Hugo stood by the door. He had a bundle of film canisters in a canvas knapsack that he held in one hand. His crossbow was on his back. He looked inside. The fires had gone low, and the household retired to their straw mats to hug brothers, sisters, or livestock and to settle in for a few hours of rest, and the soldiers of the 339th were moved to wonder when they were going home. Lieutenant Gordon, asked to address them, mumbled a few phrases about loyalty and then burst into tears.

When the accordion was finished, Hugo said goodbye and left. Before he’d even closed the door, the remaining men of the 339th began to sing the most miserable song in the world.

As Hugo dropped his film canisters onto his sled and pulled it into the evening blast of shocking Arctic cold, he could hear voices behind him singing their version of “Auld Lang Syne.”

We’re here because we’re here because
We’re here because we’re here
We’re here because we’re here because
We’re here because we’re here

The house was smaller and smaller behind him; the voices were like a choir at first, but quickly shimmering, as if—like the smoke— even the sound of human singing did not want to go into the black vast wilderness.