It's kind of The Gulag out there and temperatures high enough for the work gangs. Imagine concrete would set and Ivan Ivanovich would be trudging through wet snow and mud toward the project, he'd have inadequate clothing, his boots would leak, his breakfast would have been lean, hard physical labor, his lips cracked, and his hands so cold he'd not feel the blisters.
The Commissar anxious for his reputation would be pressing upon his reluctant
disciples the need for progress, the importance of progress, the value of
progress and there'd be no progress without another ten yards of concrete mixed
and poured. And far away, six time zones away, there was pork on the table,
peeled potato and pickled cabbage for Lunch.