Juri Levchenko
I shuffle into the market as the sky starts to glow a faint orange, the kind of dawn that promises no warmth. My reindeer fur jacket creaks with every step; the frost has stiffened it overnight. Around me, Yakutsk, Russia, begins its daily ritual, a city alive even in the most brutal cold. Exhaust fumes linger in the air, swirling around bundled-up pedestrians like restless spirits.
I’ve been working here for years—46 now, a lifetime in the cold. The fish market feels like my second home. My stand is modest but reliable, brimming with frozen crucian carp and nelma. The fish are stacked upright like stiff soldiers, their silvery bodies catching the weak sunlight.
I stomp my elk-fur boots to keep my toes alive. The trick isn’t just layers; it’s movement. Stillness invites the cold to creep into your bones, and once it does, it’s hard to shake.
The first customers arrive, faces swathed in scarves, voices muffled by frost. A woman gestures to a bundle of carp. “Two kilos,” she says, her breath forming little clouds. I weigh the fish with a practiced hand and exchange it for rubles that feel like brittle leaves in my gloves.
A German tourist approaches, his face as red as a reindeer’s nose. He’s wrapped in down jackets that look new and expensive, but his eyes are wide, overwhelmed by the sheer bite of the cold. “Excuse me,” he says in halting Russian, pointing at the frozen fish.
“You’re crazy, coming here in this weather,” I tell him, half-joking.
He grins. “I wanted to feel the coldest place on Earth.”
I hand him a nelma. “Hold this. You’ll feel it better.” The fish freezes to his glove, and he laughs nervously.
By noon, the sun is high but still powerless, casting long shadows over the market. A stray dog trots by, its thick fur dusted with frost, sniffing at a forgotten piece of meat.
When the last customer leaves, I pack up, my hands aching despite the fur-lined gloves. The cold has its teeth in me now, but it doesn’t bother me much. This is home. At 46, I know this life—the market, the frost, the rhythm of survival. For all its harshness, I wouldn’t trade it for anywhere else.