“No.”
“Throw it into a braid, and we’ll go eat.”
Nadia had never done her own hair before. Maids had arranged it, or Mama. If she’d known how to do it herself, she would have braided it before bed, and it wouldn’t have grown so tangled. She fingered the ends, long enough to reach her navel. “How exactly does one braid hair?”
Veronika’s eyes widened. Another woman snickered and turned away. Nadia’s face grew warm at yet another reminder of how woefully unprepared she was for life on her own.
Veronika glanced at the laughing woman and nibbled her lip. “I’ll show you.” Veronika undid her own hair, which had been braided and wrapped around her head like a crown. Then she braided it again.
When Nadia tried to follow her example, it was an utter mess. She couldn’t see what she was doing, and strands kept slipping through her fingers.
“Here.” Veronika undid her hair yet again. “It’s easier to learn on someone else. Practice on me.”
Nadia took a deep breath and divided Veronika’s hair into three parts. “Your husband is a Slovak?”
“Yes.”
Nadia tried to remember all Anton had said that day she’d fallen from her horse. “And he worked with a doctor for a time?”
Veronika moved her head a bit as if to turn and chat, then stopped. “Yes. While he was in a camp for war prisoners. He wants to become a doctor. Before the war, he hadn’t a hope of getting into school as a Slovak. But maybe things will be different once the war ends.”
“A doctor. You must be proud.” Nadia was managing to keep the bits of hair straight, but she hadn’t divided it evenly. The braid wasn’t anywhere near as neat or as tight as Veronika’s previous one.
“I am proud of him, but going to Pressburg is more hope than certainty. He’s not from the city, but that’s where he’d study.”
“Are you from Pressburg?”
“No. I was born in Russia to Czech parents. And you? Where are you from?”
Nadia wove another strand of hair into place. “Well, we usually wintered in Saint Petersburg—Petrograd. I don’t know that I’ll ever get used to calling it that. We stayed there until Easter, then we’d go to our estate in the country, in Tambov Oblast. We had a home in Moscow, too, of course.”
Most of the other women had already left the boxcar. Those who remained suddenly showed less than friendly expressions on their faces. Had she said something wrong? Then she understood. Her simple answer had sounded like bragging. Before the revolution, it had all seemed so normal to her, winters in the city, summers in the country, a townhome here, a manor there. Her family and most of their associates had lived that way. But to the women in the boxcar, who had grown up with far less, it must have sounded grand and wasteful. Her face heated again as she scrambled for something else to say. “Will you follow your husband to France and then to his home?”
“Yes. It’s exciting, isn’t it? We might get to see Paris. A little frightening too. They took the station at Bakhmach yesterday, but the Germans are still all around, trying to cut us off.”
“Are we in danger of capture?” Nadia’s hand trembled for a moment at the thought of the Germans catching them. Would they be any kinder than the Bolsheviks? Nikolai had fallen in battle against the Germans. She feared and hated them.
“No, they sent us ahead, along with the wounded and most of the supplies they’re finding.”
That was a relief. Nadia finished the braid and examined her work. “Mrs. Tothova, I’m afraid I’ve done a horrible job with your hair.”
“You can call me Veronika. And you’ll get better with experience.” Veronika reached back and put her hand on Nadia’s. “I’ll redo it, and then I’ll do yours, and then we’ll have breakfast. We’ll have plenty of time to practice when we start moving again.”
Veronika undid her hair and began braiding it properly. “Have you ever been to France?”
“No.” But she and her parents had almost fled there. If they’d only left before the Cheka had found them . . . Now her family was dead, and she was married to a stranger. “Veronika, how well do you know Filip Sedlák?”
“He is my husband’s friend.”
“Is he a good sort of man?”
Veronika didn’t answer right away. She finished her hair, and as she turned to Nadia, she nibbled on her lip again. “Why would you marry someone if you didn’t already know the answer to that question?”
***
The blast of a German grenade nearly knocked Filip from his feet. It made his ears ring and rocked the barricade of torn-up rail lines, tree trunks, and furniture that he and his squad were manning from a shallow trench.
At least it gave him an excuse to feel off balance.
Marriage. Surely he could have found a less complicated way of extending charity.
But he’d sensed Nadia’s helplessness, and Filip knew all about helplessness. He’d felt it when his father had alternated between depression and drunkenness, felt it when his sister’s marriage had turned oppressive and unhappy, felt it when he had been called to fight for an emperor he loathed. His time on the battlefield had taken his helplessness to a new extreme. He hadn’t wanted to leave Nadia to that, not when it was within his power to provide a way out.
The Sixth Regiment, Kral’s group among them, had captured and held the station at Bakhmach. They’d even worked out an agreement with the Bolsheviks to cooperate against the German onslaught. Now they were on the outskirts of Doch, keeping a much larger German force away from the evacuations at Bakhmach.
“Can we pull back yet?” Dalek peered over a log and fired at a German soldier who had crept far from safety to hurl his grenade.
“Not till Kral says.” Filip found a target, lined up his sights, and shot. He ejected the casing and found another enemy to aim at as the cool breeze softened the acrid scent of gunpowder.
Anton scurried over to them and grabbed a handful of clips. “I think they’re serious this time.”
A barrage of bullets thumped into the barricade in front of them. The men ducked farther into the trench, huddling next to the damp earthen walls.
Dalek grunted. “I don’t think we can stop them.”
“We don’t have to stop them.” Filip shot at the lead man in a group of five trying to sneak past a warehouse. He fell, and the rest of the soldiers scattered. “We just need to slow them.”
“We’ve already delayed them for two days. Isn’t that enough?”
Filip didn’t mind Dalek’s complaints as long as he kept hitting his targets. “We’re supposed to coordinate with the Bolsheviks when we pull back.” The retreat would come soon, Filip could feel it. The enemy’s current efforts to breach the legion’s lines were more threatening than any of the previous ones.
“You trust the Reds?” Dalek looked away from the advancing German soldiers for an instant and met Filip’s eyes.
“No.” Filip was grateful for their assistance—the legion needed all the help it could get—but that didn’t mean he trusted them, so he’d sent Petr to monitor their every move.
“And you, Anton, do you trust them?” Dalek asked.
Anton glanced toward the Bolshevik positions. “I don’t agree with their politics or with what they’re doing to the Russian church. And yesterday, they ran. So, no, I don’t trust them. But Jakub Zeman is eating up every word they say. Some of the others too.”
“Jakub Zeman, letting the Reds recruit from his squad. Imagine that.” Dalek grunted and aimed his rifle again.
“Didn’t the Bolsheviks make peace with the Germans?” Anton asked. “Why are they helping us?”
“Maybe they don’t want to lose the Ukraine.” Dalek scowled. “Besides, we were allies as recently as last month.”
Another German soldier appeared. This time, Emil opened up on him with the Maxim model 1910 they’d captured in Bakhmach. He’d been a machine gunner in the Austro-Hungarian Army before he’d been captured by the Russians, but he was under strict orders to conserve ammunition.