The Sixth Regiment left Omsk the next day. The Fifth Regiment was the rearguard now, along with the Polish Legion. The train huffed slowly, despondently. Their pack of wild dogs ran beside the train for a bit, howling mournfully. Maybe they knew the legion was leaving them for good.
Filip felt like joining them in their wail of sorrow. His wife was missing, and he didn’t know why she’d disappeared or where to begin his search.
Siberia had never before seemed so vast.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Nadia lost track of the streams they forded, the villages they slipped past, and the forests they traversed. But she would never forget the destruction she’d seen, nor the collections of bodies strung up in trees, hanged by the Bolsheviks for unspecified crimes. Hanging wasn’t the only method of execution the Bolsheviks used, but it was one of the more visible.
Their group had no money, but the peasants were generous, and Fedorov was good at trapping rabbits, so they hadn’t starved. Sokolov led, Fedorov found food, Tanya cooked it, and Nadia checked limbs for frostbite. She’d fallen into the rhythm of their group easily enough—following Sokolov wasn’t so different from obeying the doctors in the Petrograd hospital. It was easier, perhaps, because his orders were fair and given with respect. Fedorov held a lower rank than Sokolov, so he fell in line naturally. And even Tanya, despite her anarchist leanings, cooperated in their shared goal of flight from the Bolsheviks.
Sokolov bent to examine an abandoned campfire. The field was full of them, and the wind hadn’t yet covered them with snow. “Still warm.”
“Do you think it’s the White Army?” Nadia joined Sokolov. The heat in the scorched wood was barely there, but she could feel it. If it wasn’t the White Army, it might be a group of Bolshevik partisans. Or just as bad, a Red Army unit that they’d failed to stay ahead of.
“I’m not sure.”
They searched the camp, finding empty cans that had once contained food, a few spent cartridges, and discarded bandages—bloody and tattered. Tanya straightened when Nadia approached, her jaw chewing on something. They’d agreed to share any food they found, but Nadia let it go, though she couldn’t stop her stomach from growling.
Sokolov motioned them forward. “We’ll follow and approach with caution.”
Their march was cold, like always. Nadia’s boots had long ago developed holes. She made do by wrapping old sacking around them. The coats she’d taken from the bandits last winter still provided protection, as did an ushanka and several layers of threadbare clothing underneath. The blisters on her feet never had enough of a break to heal, and she was never really warm. But she was alive, and she was moving east. East to freedom.
Tanya walked beside her. “I hope it’s the White Army, and I hope they have food.”
People who were starving often reached a point where right and wrong no longer mattered. Not as much as food did anyhow. Tanya wasn’t there yet. Nadia hoped they would find the White Army before Tanya slipped further. Or maybe she’d been sneaking food all along and Nadia had only just noticed. Or maybe Nadia’s hunger had made her paranoid. She didn’t want to doubt her friend, not over a few scraps of food, but most days it was hard to keep her mind focused on anything other than how to ease her hunger pangs.
They slowed as night fell and visibility faded.
“Halt!”
Nadia stopped in her tracks as the end of a bayonet poked her coat.
They’d stumbled into a picket. But who did the sentry serve? His sheepskin coat was in tatters, and his feet were covered in birch-bark shoes instead of boots. No insignia, and what was left of his uniform was so faded that she couldn’t tell its origin.
Sokolov raised his hands and stepped closer to Nadia. “I’m Polkovnik Kirill Sokolov. And I want to fight the Bolsheviks.”
The sentry pulled his bayonet away from Nadia. He didn’t lower it, but his lips pulled into a grin. “You’ve come to the right place.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
When the legion’s train pulled into the station, it was met with angry shouts and threatening glares.
“Tcheko-Sobaki!” someone yelled. Czech dogs.
Dalek made sure his rifle was conspicuous as he marched to the telegraph office. The population of Siberia had turned against them, but at least the legion was armed. Had the population been like this during the summer of 1918, the legion wouldn’t have made it very far. They’d all be slaves in work camps or conscripts in the Red Army. That still might happen if their trains were delayed too long. The Red Army had grown in size and in power, and they were moving east at a steady rate.
A telegraph clerk looked up when Filip entered. He was Russian, but if he was hostile, he didn’t show it. “If you have official messages to send, I can assist you.”
A snowball splattered against the outside window. Dalek and the clerk both jerked their heads toward it.
The clerk frowned. “I don’t think it’s the legion they hate. It’s Kolchak. He’s surrounded himself with former tsarist officials and made pacts with bandits of the worst sort. Monarchists and murderers. Doesn’t please the peasants.”
“Yes, and since we aren’t openly opposed to him, that hatred spreads to us.” Dalek moved closer to the stove. His fingers were frozen. “Believe me, we would have rather left last year.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
“Because it’s too long of a swim, and we don’t have our own ships. The British, French, and Americans have them, and they wanted us to open up the Eastern Front again.” Dalek shook his head. “We were supposed to be fighting the Germans, not the Bolsheviks.”
“You were pawns.”
Dalek gave a grim chuckle. “I like your candor. Perhaps I can recruit you for our national council. You can tell General Janin and all the rest of the Allies exactly how things sit in Siberia. No more politics. Just straight talk and an immediate exit for the legion.”
Kral dusted snow from his hat as he and a railroad official came into the office. “We don’t need to wait for an engine. Ours is working. Just send us on before our cars freeze to the tracks.” No trains were moving west, leaving both lines available for eastward travel, but every station seemed to bring a delay of one sort or another.
The official adjusted his scarf. “No, your engine has to go back to the last station and bring the next train forward. You’ll have to wait for its return before it can take you farther east. Unless you have mechanics with you who can fix one of the broken engines.”
Dalek looked to the clerk and kept his voice quiet so as not to interrupt the other conversation. “How many broken engines are there?”
“Twenty here. Probably about the same everywhere else. Winter is rough on engines anyway, and they’ve been taking hard use. There aren’t enough mechanics to keep them running.”
Kral finished and caught Dalek’s attention. “Pokorný, stay here until relieved. It seems we won’t be going forward for some time.”
“Yes, Brother Major.”
The telegraph clerk motioned to a chair. Dalek sat, and the clerk promptly turned his focus to a pile of paperwork. Waiting in the telegraph office was boring, but so was patrol duty. At least in the office, Dalek didn’t have to worry about the Bolsheviks shooting him. And he was warm.
The boredom didn’t last. “I’ll get it,” Dalek said when a transmission started coming through. It was in code, so he spent the next hour trying to break it. When he finished, he sat back in his seat.
“You say the people hate Kolchak?” he asked the telegraph clerk.
“Most of them. Maybe not a year ago, but he’s soured his welcome.”
“Well, I officially hate him too.” Dalek grabbed the sheet he’d written the message on and went to find Kral.