At the false alarm, a sly grin appeared briefly on Anton’s face before fading into his normal placid expression. “No one inside?”
“No. But it hasn’t been empty for long.”
Dalek hopped a fence and joined them.
“What is it?” Filip asked.
Dalek pointed toward the town center. “There’s a machine gun at the station, about two blocks from here. Manned by German soldiers.”
“We should let Kral know.” Filip looked toward the train they’d left behind. “Who wants to go back and tell him?”
Dalek chuckled. “You’re the corporal, so you can order. But neither of us is foolish enough to volunteer when we can wait here behind a sturdy stone wall instead.”
“Why did Kral put you under me? You’re as bad as the Bolsheviks. No respect for the chain of command.” Even if Dalek had been different, it would have been challenging for Filip to command someone he’d known since they were boys learning the pommel horse and the vault. There hadn’t been any rank back then, just friendship, and a taste for mischief and adventure.
“You don’t think the Bolsheviks have a hierarchy?” Dalek asked. “They may preach equality, but so far, that just seems like an excuse to steal from anyone who has more than they do.”
“I’ll go.” Filip glanced up and down the street. “You two can wait here. It’s as good a place as any. Kral needs to know what he’s up against.”
As if it knew it was under discussion, the machine gun went into action. Filip ducked, even though he knew it wasn’t aimed at him.
“Change of plans, brothers. It sounds like Zeman’s group just ran into that gun.” Filip looked back to the warehouse. “Is Emil still there?”
“Unless he’s been shot.” Dalek had moved closer to the ground, too, in response to the gunfire.
“See if he can signal Petr’s group. I think we’ll need all of us. Anton and I will move closer, and I want the rest of our group to join us.”
Dalek ran off, back to the warehouse.
“You’ve known each other long?” Anton asked as they moved forward, hunched over and hugging the sides of the buildings.
“Since we were seven.”
“Has he changed much since then?”
“Well, he’s taller, and he’s gotten better at the parallel bars, but no, not much has changed. He still can’t decide if he’s a comedian or a cynic. I suppose both are useful at times.” Filip held up a hand, and the two men slowed. A shadow passed in front of a second-story window across the street. Filip aimed his rifle but held his fire. The shadow could be anyone—a child, a woman, or a sniper.
“Can you tell if it’s a soldier?” Filip asked.
“No.” Anton squinted.
They waited until Petr’s group approached from the west. The figure in the window moved again, revealing a flash of field-gray uniform. Filip fired. The German soldier slumped forward, and his rifle fell, clattering into the dirt below.
“I’ll fetch it.” Anton ran across the road to pick up the Gewehr 98. Everyone in their group was armed, but plenty of men in the legion weren’t. If they could collect a few more rifles, they’d be better able to fight their way into Russia.
Dalek and all the others arrived, and after hearing their reports, Filip led the group forward. He kept the point position, and the rest of the squad fanned out, covering each other’s movements as they flitted among deserted houses and shops. The rat-tat-tat of the machine gun sounded off and on. Either Zeman’s group was still alive and probing, or Kral had sent in reinforcements.
According to Emil, the machine gun was positioned to cover anyone approaching from the tracks. That was undoubtedly what Zeman’s group had done, so Filip would attack from the other direction.
The machine gun lulled right as Filip reached one of the station’s windows. He waited. He wanted the gun’s noise to cover the sound of breaking glass, but he didn’t want to wait too long. The Germans would have lookouts.
The instant the machine gun fired again, Filip smashed the glass with the butt of his rifle and went through the window. Emil and Anton ran to join him, then followed him inside. They weren’t in the main part of the station yet, which gave them time. They ducked under the ticket counters and waited for the others to join them.
“Who has grenades?”
Dalek, Emil, and Petr raised their hands. Filip nodded, then peeked over the counter. The Germans had set the machine gun in a window. It was a good position. Anyone approaching it from outside would have a devil of a time trying to get close enough to lob a grenade or shoot the gunners.
Filip pointed. “Dalek, there’s your target.” He didn’t know how well Petr or Emil could aim, but Dalek had been good at hitting carriages carrying government bureaucrats when they were younger. He assumed that talent hadn’t disappeared and that throwing a grenade would be much the same as hurling rocks or rotten eggs.
Dalek slipped closer. “You’ll cover me?”
“Of course.”
Dalek nodded.
“Now.” Filip popped up, Dalek with him. Dalek heaved the grenade while Filip shot the first man who turned to them. He ejected his casing and aimed again. Then the grenade went off, and there were no more targets.
“Come on!” Filip kicked open the half-door that separated the ticket counter from the rest of the station and ran toward the gun. One of the fallen soldiers stretched, trying to reach his rifle. Filip shot him. The rest of the men secured the gun emplacement.
“Does it still work?” Filip asked as Anton inspected the machine gun, a Maxim.
“It should.”
Filip crept closer to the windows to look at the tracks. Wind slipped through the broken glass to grab at his face. A few bodies lay on the ground—members of the legion who the Germans had caught while in the open. “Zeman?”
The reply came from across the tracks. “Sedlák?”
“We’ve secured the station, and we’re going out for the wounded. Don’t shoot us, eh?”
Chapter Seven
Nadia woke the next morning unsure where she was. It took her a moment to remember the boxcar and all the events that had led her there. Terror, tragedy, and a bargain with Filip.
The women around her were already moving. About forty of them shared the boxcar, and they’d slept on bunks stacked three high. Light from the cracked door showed a dozen of them washing their faces with cloths moistened in a bucket. A few soft giggles floated up to her.
“That one—sleeping the day away!”
Were they talking about her? She’d retired early and was only now waking up, but she’d spent the night before running for her life. Was it any surprise she needed extra rest? She didn’t want the other women to think she was lazy, but she didn’t want to explain what had happened either. Her parents’ deaths were still too raw. Mama had often spoken of how the Lord would bear their griefs and carry their sorrows, but that morning, both grief and sorrow were heavy enough to crush.
Nadia lay on the top tier of the bunks. She looked below to make sure she wouldn’t kick anyone, then climbed down. She didn’t have a rag, but she had Dima’s handkerchief. She fished it from her pocket and glanced at it, but the dim light made it difficult to judge its cleanliness. Regardless, it would have to do.
She slid next to Veronika and held a hand out to the bucket. “May I use some?”
“Of course. We all take turns with the fetch and carry.” Veronika smiled, and Nadia relaxed a bit. The Czech woman had been kind to her the night before, helping her find a bunk and lending her a blanket.
Nadia washed her face and neck. She would normally wash far more than that but not in front of so many others, nor in an unheated boxcar during winter. She wasn’t sure how clean the water was anyway, with so many people sharing it. She felt her hair. Half of it had come loose, so she pulled the few hairpins that remained from the tangles. She tried to fix it with her fingers.
“I don’t suppose the Bolsheviks let you pack a brush?” Veronica asked.