我们刚好在莫斯科近郊的小城谢尔普霍夫迎来了45年的春天。由保温货车组成的我们的列车,在白雪皑皑的俄罗斯辽阔的田野上颠簸了近一周之后,终于在一个暴风雪呼啸的二月的夜晚,在谢尔普霍夫一条岔道的终点停下来。各节车厢的缓冲器依次发出最后一次冷峻的响声,仿佛列车上运载着容易打碎的玻璃器皿。列车停下来了,开始听见干雪粒拍打车厢的板壁。站台上传来一声急促而冰冷的哨声,随即开始卸车。我们穿着内衣,蒙着被子被抬下来放到卡车上,沿着夜晚漆黑的街道驶去,上了冻的帆布车篷在风中啪啪作响。 We have just ushered in 45 years of spring in the small town of Serpukhov in the outskirts of Moscow. After nearly a week of bumpy snow-covered fields in Russia, our trains consisting of vans finally stopped at the end of a fork in Serpukhov on a snow-drifting February night. The cushions of the compartments, in turn, made the last solemn noise, as if the train was carrying fragile glassware. The train stopped and began to hear the dry snow flapping the siding walls. A sharp, cold whistle came from the platform and the truck was unloaded. We were wearing underwear, covered with quilts and carried down onto a truck, drove down the dark night of the street, and a canopy of frozen canvas popped in the wind.