“Volunteering might have started as vanity, but I enjoyed nursing. And I’m not good at anything else. Maybe I could earn my keep this way.”
“Are you so scared of learning to wash clothes?”
She laughed. He’d never heard her laugh before, and the melodious sound did something not entirely unpleasant to his rib cage. “If I remember right, you’re the one who postponed the laundry lessons. I don’t find soap or dirty clothing the least bit frightening.”
Just like that, the tension was broken. He ran a finger across the knuckles of her hand. The skin was warm and smooth. “That’s because you haven’t been introduced to lye soap yet.”
She held up the hand he’d touched. “What’s so scary about lye soap?”
“It dries your skin.”
“Is that all?”
He’d assumed she cared about her skin. Wasn’t that something noblewomen fussed over? “I suppose if your knuckles crack too badly, I can get you some oil to rub into them.”
“As long as you don’t have to trade another family heirloom for it.” Was she teasing him? From the tone of her voice, he suspected the affirmative, but something in her eyes suggested grief, not mirth.
“Does it make you sad?”
She seemed flustered for a moment. “I just wish I had something other than memories left of my family. You said you weren’t sentimental about the pocket watch, but it must have meant something to you, or you wouldn’t have kept it so long. I don’t want you to have to give up anything else for me.”
He hadn’t wanted to part with the pocket watch, but his grandfather would have approved. Nadia was worth it. “If you could have any object to remind you of your family, what would it be?”
She was reticent for a few more questions, but before long, she was telling him about the pearls her mother had worn the first time her parents had taken her to the opera, her father’s collection of books, her brother Alexander’s Kodak Brownie camera, and her brother Nikolai’s penknife. Their time together became more pleasant and less awkward, but it also seemed to speed up until far too quickly it was time for him to escort her back to the women’s coach and report for his shift of guard duty.
“Good night, Nadia.”
She smiled her goodbye, and he no longer felt quite so inadequate. Most of his words had come out wrong that night, but in the end, he’d made her smile.
***
Anton pulled Veronika closer as they neared the crowd. The alternating cheers and boos drowned out the words of the man speaking to the throng from atop an overturned crate, but the audience was captivated. The vitality and wildness of the crowd formed a stark contrast to the reverent atmosphere of the church they’d just left.
Only as they stepped past the edge of the group did Anton recognize the language as German rather than Russian. He stopped to listen. It took only seconds to pinpoint the man as a Bolshevik agitator. Who was he appealing to in German?
The crowd wore mismatched hats, and some had blankets pulled around them for warmth. But underneath, they wore faded, threadbare uniforms of pike gray, the same color Anton had once worn. They had to be war prisoners. The sunken cheekbones and old uniforms made that clear. Since Russia was now at peace with their governments, they would have been released, but that didn’t explain why they were listening so raptly to a Bolshevik orator.
The man continued. “Join us! Join us in creating a new world where everyone is equal! Where factory owners no longer destroy the health of their workers and keep the profits for themselves, where peasants eat the food they grow instead of starving while their landlords feast. It is time for us to take what is rightfully ours! Today, we remake Russia. Tomorrow, the world!”
The crowd burst into shouts of approval. Veronika gripped Anton’s hand. “What’s happening?” She spoke Czech and Russian but not German.
“He’s recruiting war prisoners for the Red Army.”
A few nearby men studied Anton with narrowed eyes. To them, he was a traitor.
“Come on.” He pulled Veronika along until they were clear of the crowd. “I don’t think we’re going to be shipped to Vladivostok anytime soon.”
“Why not?”
“The same reason those men aren’t going to make it home anytime soon either. The longer the Bolsheviks hold us here, the more recruits they’ll gain.”
“They look hungry.”
Anton nodded. “And the Red Army is offering them a full belly, plus two hundred rubles a month.”
“Weapons too. Look, Anton.” Veronika pointed. Along the front of a brick building, a line of former prisoners had formed. In a nearby courtyard, a Red Army officer drilled men still in the threadbare uniforms of the Hapsburg monarchy. Their rifles were mismatched, as if they’d been scrounged. Was the Red Army taking weapons from the legion and giving them to its enemies?
“The Central Powers want their men back so they can throw them on the Western Front,” Anton said. All the warring nations were desperate for trained men.
Veronika nibbled on her lip. “Then maybe it’s good they’re joining the Red Army. They’ll stay in Russia, and we’ll go to France.”
Anton nodded, but he wasn’t convinced. Having the legion and their former comrades in close proximity was tense enough. The Red Army would only complicate things. Add in a spark, and flames would erupt. He hurried his wife along. He didn’t want her anywhere near the crowds if that spark came in Penza.
The next day, Anton’s group moved east. But when they arrived in Samara, the local Soviet stopped them and demanded more weapons.
Anton stood near Kral, who glowered at the local official. “We made an agreement with the Soviet in Penza. The Soviet in Moscow confirmed it.”
The plump Russian widened his stance. “This is Samara. We don’t care what agreement you made in Penza, and Moscow’s authority doesn’t extend this far. If you want an engine, we’ll need thirty rifles as payment.”
Kral, Filip, and Anton stepped away from the officials to discuss their options. Storm clouds threatened rain, and Anton hunched his shoulders to protect his neck from a chill wind. Thunder rumbled in the distance.
“We could shoot our way through,” Filip said.
“The next station will hear of it and set up an ambush.” Kral folded his arms. “We’re just one train. They’ve got us spread so thin that we’re weak. And we need that engine. But thirty rifles!”
No one wanted to part with their weapons. Without them, they’d be at the mercy of the Soviets. Thirty weapons might buy them peace in Samara, but what would happen beyond that? Every local communist council seemed to have their own demands, regardless of agreements prior Soviets had made with the legion.
Filip eyed the Soviet officials. Anton nudged him with his elbow. If Filip kept it up, he’d provoke a fistfight or, worse, a firefight. Filip shifted his gaze. He’d been in an incendiary mood since leaving Penza. Anton supposed it was because Kral hadn’t been able to get rid of Commissar Orlov. Asking had raised suspicion, and pressing it might have caused problems.
“We have orders to maintain friendly relations with the Bolsheviks, and the longer we’re here, the stronger the tension grows. Let’s give them the weapons and get through quickly.” Kral frowned. He’d made his decision, but he wasn’t happy about it.
“At least ask if they’ll settle for twenty.” Filip put a hand in his pocket, probably on his pistol. That one was small enough that the Soviets were unlikely to see or demand it.
They ended up trading thirty rifles for an engine.
When they pulled into Ufa a few days later, they were met with much the same demand. If they wanted to pass, they would have to surrender more rifles.
The same thing happened at Zlatoust and at the station after that.
“We’re not going to have anything left at this rate.” Filip sat beside Anton on the edge of the train platform. “Nothing to protect ourselves with.”
Every time they surrendered a weapon, they were even more susceptible to the next Bolshevik official lusting after their rifles. The French were supposed to arm them eventually, but promises of equipment in France would do them little good if they were arrested by the Bolsheviks or ambushed in Siberia.