“Without a trial? What if he’s not the one responsible?”
“He didn’t deny it.”
Filip tried to push his way closer. Part of him wanted an eye for an eye, a life for a life, but he could already imagine Kral’s argument against lynching. The legion was supposed to remain neutral, and punishing a murderer wasn’t within their jurisdiction. Anger didn’t negate the need for a trial or a hearing. Filip had to stop the escalation.
Men from both trains had rushed into the growing melee. Shouts echoed between the trains as fists swung and connected. In the press of brawling soldiers, someone knocked Filip back, and he stayed on his feet only because Dalek held him upright. A discordant yell filled his ears, and the scent of sour bodies brushed his nose. A Hungarian pulled his fist back and glared at Filip, who worked in a quick uppercut before the man could complete his swing.
A whistle sounded, and heavy footsteps pounded along the platforms as the red guard arrived.
“Come on, break it up.” Filip grabbed the shoulder of the nearest Czech and pulled him from the fracas. “The Soviets are here. They’ll take care of it.”
Between Filip, the sergeant, and the arriving red guards, the crowd was soon separated, the Czechs and Slovaks in front of their trains and the Hungarians in front of theirs. The man who had thrown the hunk of metal lay on the ground between them, unmoving.
Dalek stepped closer and bent to check the man’s pulse. Dalek had a cut above his left eye, and half the men on both sides had something similar: bloody noses, swollen eyelids, burst lips.
Dalek met Filip’s eyes and shook his head.
Dead.
The man probably deserved it. He’d committed manslaughter—and then laughed about it. But what kind of hornet’s nest had they just stirred up?
The red guard rounded up some of the Hungarians and the ten legionnaires closest to the body, including Dalek. Filip made to follow, but Dalek waved him off.
“Tell Kral,” he mouthed.
***
Like most towns along the Trans-Siberian Railroad, Chelyabinsk was composed of two parts: the original settlement and a newer district built up around the station. Dalek had found Chelyabinsk unimpressive from the depot. As the red guard marched him and the others into the older part of town, he thought it even worse. The dirt streets were wide but choked with weeds, and Russian winters had turned the wooden boards on most buildings a dull gray. Businesses were boarded up, and the streets were almost deserted. Where were the peasants selling their vegetables and the craftsmen hawking their goods?
One of the other Czechs noticed Dalek’s gaze. “The Reds are running the town. No one trusts them not to steal whatever they’re trying to sell, so just about everyone has closed shop.”
“How does anyone eat?”
The other man shrugged.
Tension between the Hungarians and the Czechs was palpable. One red guardsman looked ready to shoot the lot of them. A second seemed to be bracing for another fight to break out. So far, the Soviets they’d met hadn’t been hostile; they’d just delayed trains and resented the legion for using so many engines. But in most past encounters, the legion had outnumbered the Soviets, at least on a local level. What would happen when the numbers were reversed?
The red guardsman guided them to a street with buildings of stone instead of wood. In the distance, onion-domed church spires hovered in the skyline. The guardsmen herded the group into a building with a white facade, and two Soviet officials waited within. One was tall, with a neatly trimmed mustache and slouched shoulders—probably an army man. The other looked like a slovenly peasant who’d been shoved into a too-small uniform.
“What seems to be the problem?”
The guards, the Hungarians, and the Czechs all gave their version of the double deaths at the train station.
“You agree that one of your comrades threw a piece of metal from the train?” the taller of the two officials asked the Hungarians.
“Yes. Malik said he hoped to kill one of the traitors before we left.”
That brought a murmur of whispers. A more serious level of malice was involved on the Hungarian’s part. The man beside Dalek grabbed his arm. “But that’s a Czech name.”
Dalek ground his teeth in anger. The man responsible was at least partially Czech, one who’d stayed loyal to the Hapsburgs and killed a brother who hadn’t.
“So Malik threw a piece of metal and hit Ducháček, killing him. Then a mob of legionnaires beat Malik to death.” The Soviet official held his hands behind his back and turned toward a window to ponder what he’d heard. When he faced them again a few minutes later, he pointed first at the Hungarian contingent. “You may leave.” Then he turned to the Czechs. “The rest of you are under arrest.”
***
Filip paced up and down the train platform while Kral stood calmly to the side. Filip hadn’t been able to relax, not since the Reds had marched Dalek off that morning. Filip’s anxiety had jumped when the Hungarian train had pulled from the station that evening and the captured Czechs had remained missing.
Kral straightened and clicked his heels together. Filip imitated Kral when he recognized Colonel Voitsekhovsky, a Russian officer with the contingent of Czechoslovaks currently stalled around Chelyabinsk. He wasn’t yet forty, but something about his presence demanded respect.
“They’ve been arrested. I’m going to meet with the local officials, offer to do our own investigation. We can’t allow mob rule, but we ought to be in charge of discipline for our own men.”
“Arrested?” As recently as a year ago, Filip wouldn’t have dared address a colonel. But things were more relaxed now, at least in the legion. “My friend was taken, but he didn’t attack anyone. He was trying to break up the fight when the red guard showed up.”
“You were there?”
Filip nodded. “Yes, Brother Colonel. I saw Ducháček fall.”
“And then our men stopped the train, found the man responsible, and beat him to death?” Voitsekhovsky spoke with neither condemnation nor approval.
“Emotions were high. They killed one of our men. And they were laughing.” Filip couldn’t let go of that resentment—Hungarian laughter over Czech tragedy.
Voitsekhovsky frowned. “Kral, come with me. I want our men free.”
“May I come, Brother Colonel?” Filip could testify to Dalek’s innocence. He’d thrown a few punches, but who hadn’t in that crowd? Dalek was no murderer.
Voitsekhovsky glanced at Kral.
“He’s a veteran of the Družina since 1915. Recruited half my men while convalescing after the Battle of Zborov.”
“Very well. We might need a messenger.”
Filip followed behind the two of them, listening to their talk of fair trials and mixed tribunals but not adding to the discussion. He was, after all, only a lowly corporal.
When they arrived at militia headquarters, Kral turned to Filip. “Stay outside. Let us know if anything out of the ordinary heads our way.”
Filip waited. And waited. And waited some more. He paced the wooden boards of the sidewalk and pondered the fate of the prisoners.
An orderly left the building and paused when he saw Filip. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll trot right back to the depot.”
“Why’s that?”
“The last Czechs who went inside were arrested and added to the list.”
“What list?”
“Men to be executed tomorrow at dawn. Ten from earlier. Then two officers who showed up this evening.”
Filip followed the man’s advice. He wasn’t about to let Dalek or Kral be executed, but this was the type of problem that needed more than one person to solve.
Chapter Thirteen
Smoke and creosote scented the train depot where a group of Czech and Slovak soldiers had gathered. “We’re low on weapons,” one said. “Had to surrender them at almost every depot we passed.”
Filip nodded. “Us too. Every station had a new demand. We hid some, but our trains are farther east. They’re of no use to us tonight, and those men are slated for execution at dawn.”