Chapter 7: Simple Souls (Please Add to Your Collection!)

Songjiang Daily, the largest Russian-language newspaper in the Ice City, had a subscription even in Zhou Sen’s household. In the memories of the original host, Old Anthony read Songjiang Daily every day before going to work at his own company.

In this era, newspapers were among the most direct channels through which people accessed and understood information from the outside world—the only other option was the radio. But radios weren’t items ordinary folk could easily procure; not only were they expensive, but purchasing one required registration, and the Japanese strictly controlled the sale of radios and electronic components.

Thus, newspapers became all the more significant in daily life. Through them, the common people of Ice City could learn about local news, perhaps extending as far as the puppet state’s borders; anything beyond that depended entirely on whether the Japanese permitted you to know. Information was blocked, news was censored, history was distorted, the use of language was restricted, and thought was tamed—these suffocating conditions were felt everywhere in Ice City.

This sense of stifling oppression made Zhou Sen feel as though he could hardly breathe. Perhaps it was only because he had just arrived that the feeling was so intense; those who had long since surrendered seemed utterly numb.

Should he follow their example, hide away, endure for just six or seven years…?

His own editor had been murdered, yet today’s edition of Songjiang Daily contained not a single mention—not even an obituary. It was simply… Zhou Sen couldn’t even find the words to describe this newspaper: not caring about the life or death of their own staff was astonishingly strange.

Songjiang Daily’s office was located on the main street of Daoli District. Zhou Sen and the tall Wuen each rode a bicycle to get there. As a mere patrol officer, Zhou Sen wasn’t entitled to a car as a means of transport; with his family’s wealth, it wasn’t impossible, but it would be too conspicuous and invite trouble.

Typically, bicycles were the most common means of transport for patrolmen, followed by trams and horse-drawn carriages. Ice City was unlike Xinjing (Changchun) or Fengtian (Shenyang), which had many rickshaws; here, horse-drawn carriages were prevalent, divided into large and small types—the large ones operated by White Russians, the small ones by Chinese, their roles clearly separated.

Ice City’s winters were long, with outside temperatures hovering around minus twenty or thirty degrees; in such cold, relying on human power to pull a cart was truly life-threatening.

They locked their bicycles—lest, upon returning, they found them stolen, for Ice City’s thieves were notoriously skilled. Not even the police, nor the Japanese, were immune from theft.

The Songjiang Daily office was a small three-story brick-and-concrete building, its yellow facade in the style of eclecticism. Above the main entrance hung a black signboard inscribed in both Chinese and Russian: Ice City Songjiang Daily Newspaper Office.

After identifying themselves, Zhou Sen was escorted upstairs by a staff member to the editorial reception room on the second floor.

“Officer Zhou, Officer Wuen, please wait here.”

“Mm.” Zhou Sen, entering the Songjiang Daily building for the first time, found it quite unlike the bustling, busy newsroom he had imagined. Instead, it was quiet; everyone kept their heads down, engrossed in their own tasks, barely exchanging words with those around them.

Most of the staff here were White Russians, with only a few faces of Eastern descent, though their conversations were in Russian or Japanese.

There was little doubt—most of them were Japanese. Judging by the attitudes of the White Russians, the Japanese held far higher status within the paper. It felt less like a newspaper office and more like a tightly disciplined government agency.

Given the Japanese control over public opinion in Ice City, it was inconceivable that such a large Russian-language newspaper would escape their grasp. Judging by the status of the Japanese employees, this Russian paper was likely just another tool for Japanese propaganda.

It was no surprise, then, that after the editor was murdered at home, agents from the Police Department’s Special Operations Section appeared.

…

Third floor, the president’s office.

Daize Jun, in his forties, short in stature, wore gold-rimmed glasses, giving him the air of a cultured man. In truth, he was a high-ranking member of the Japanese espionage agency in Ice City, once involved in planning the “Mukden Incident,” his hands stained with the blood of countless Chinese civilians.

Yet, in Ice City, few knew of his past.

A corpulent White Russian, with a prominent nose and wearing a suspenders suit, knocked and entered, bowing slightly. “President Daize.”

“Orenikov, please sit.” Daize Jun stood and gestured.

Orenikov thanked him and took a seat before Daize Jun’s desk. “President, the editorial staff are all discussing Editor Sheerkin’s death; many suspect it’s related to his involvement in reporting the ‘Lake Khasan’ incident.”

Daize Jun’s eyes narrowed slightly. “The ‘Lake Khasan’ incident is long past, and follow-up reports ceased as well. If Soviet agents are behind this, it would be a troublesome affair.”

“Indeed, if that’s the case, anyone involved in reporting the ‘Lake Khasan’ incident is in danger…” Deep worry and a trace of fear appeared on Orenikov’s face.

Soviet agents were elusive in Ice City; they operated in the shadows while these men were exposed. Who could say—the next victim might well be oneself. How could one not be afraid?

“I doubt it. The Soviet spy network in Ice City was only recently destroyed by us; they’re severely weakened now, probably unable even to send messages home.” Daize Jun frowned.

“President, if this was caused by a personal grudge, it would be much simpler, but if not, then Sheerkin isn’t the only one in danger…”

At this, a knock interrupted their conversation.

“Come in.”

“President, two police officers are here to inquire about Editor Sheerkin’s murder.” It was Daize Jun’s secretary.

“The police—are they from the Ice City Police Department?”

“No, they seem to be from the Nangang Police Station.”

“This is Daoli District; what are Nangang police doing here?” Daize Jun asked, displeased.

“President, Sheerkin’s home is on Gogol Street, which falls under Nangang’s jurisdiction,” Orenikov quickly explained. “He died at home, and the station is likely just following procedure, asking some routine questions.”

“Mm. In that case, you handle it. Best not to let them meddle too much.” Daize Jun nodded, instructing.

Orenikov immediately rose. “Understood, President. I’ll take care of it.”

…

The tea before Zhou Sen was nearly finished when he finally met one of the newspaper’s senior staff, Vice Editor Orenikov.

After a brief introduction and polite exchange, Zhou Sen requested to meet the president of Songjiang Daily, but Orenikov refused outright.

Seeing the man’s arrogance, Zhou Sen realized that this visit to the newspaper would yield little useful information. He had no intention of solving the case anyway, and thus wasn’t inclined to press further.

He asked only about Sheerkin’s work situation and his relations with colleagues.

Since the case had been handed back from the Police Department’s Special Operations Section, Zhou Sen’s investigation focused on two directions: “revenge killing” and “crime of passion.”

There were no signs of forced entry at Sheerkin’s home, nor any apparent loss of valuables so far; the scene didn’t fit a robbery-homicide.

Reportedly, Sheerkin had a terrible temper. If subordinates failed to meet his expectations, he would curse them out; many disliked working with him. Such a personality naturally provoked resentment.

Moreover, Sheerkin was notoriously lecherous, frequenting brothels and showing a particular preference for very young girls.

In sum, from Orenikov’s account, apart from his roles as journalist and editor, he was simply a despicable man.

…

“President.”

“Have those two police officers left?” Daize Jun stood at the window, hands behind his back, his voice distant, clearly preoccupied.

“Yes, they just came to ask a few questions, routine procedure. Orders from above—if they didn’t come, they couldn’t report back.” Orenikov bowed his head and shoulders. “As you instructed, I sent them away.”

“What did you tell them?” Daize Jun asked.

“I spoke about Sheerkin’s volatile temper, his poor relationships with colleagues and subordinates, and some issues with his personal conduct…”

“Foolish!” Daize Jun turned, snorting coldly.

Orenikov jumped, hurriedly lowering his head, sweat forming on his brow, unsure where he had erred.

Daize Jun’s eyes narrowed, then he waved his hand. “Never mind. Since you’ve already said it, leave it at that. Let’s not complicate matters further.”

“Yes, President. What about Sheerkin’s death benefit?”

“He’s dead. First issue an obituary, then inquire at the police department. Sheerkin has no relatives in Ice City; the newspaper will handle his affairs. Retrieve the body and arrange burial as soon as possible.” Daize Jun instructed.

“Understood, I’ll see to it immediately.”

…

Wuen’s greatest virtue was his lack of doubts—he always did whatever he thought was right.

For instance, ensuring Zhou Sen’s safety.

“Wuen, where were you the night before last?” Zhou Sen asked. Wuen usually stayed close to the original host, but after Zhou Sen spent the night at the Fragrant Pavilion, he hadn’t seen him the next morning.

Instead, Ye San had found the Fragrant Pavilion first.

“I waited all night at the phone booth outside the Fragrant Pavilion,” Wuen explained.

“What? You waited outside all night? But it was minus thirty degrees…” Zhou Sen was shocked. Could someone really be that straightforward?

“Old Six gave me two bottles of spirits, a roast chicken, and a big bag of peanuts. I didn’t starve, nor freeze.” Wuen grinned. “If Brother Ye San hadn’t come looking for me the next day, I wouldn’t have known you’d already gone home.”

What a simpleton!

But such pure-hearted people were a treasure. Zhou Sen suddenly felt a twinge of guilt; the original host had taken it all for granted, but Zhou Sen did not. Why should someone stand outside in the dead of winter, risking frostbite, just to keep watch? After all, everyone was born equal.

“Come on, Wuen, let’s go eat out,” Zhou Sen said, moved.