“We’ve not much time, miss.”
She gripped the rungs a little harder and forced herself to move. She slipped and struggled, but finally, they reached the loft. Dima came up after her and rushed to the side of the barn. He tore back several loose boards.
“Out here. The stables border the wall. Climb down and run.”
“And then what?” Her family was dead, she had no friends, and she had no money.
Dima seemed to notice her torn blouse. “Take this.” He took off his threadbare jacket and handed it to her.
It was a peasant’s coat and smelled of horses, but she took it with gratitude. “Thank you. But . . . they’re dead.”
His eyes locked with hers. “They would want you to escape. Run. Those men will have a hard time finding you in the dark. Go far away, and don’t look back. Find work, or go abroad and find one of your father’s friends. Don’t use the Linsky name anymore. Make up a new one. And hurry.”
“What about you?”
Dima glanced back at the unconscious Bolshevik. “I’ll walk along the wall to the back of the house, and then I’ll do my best to start over. You’ll have to start over too.”
Someone beat on the stable door. “It’s time to share, comrade!”
Dima climbed out first and helped her onto the wall. The cold air bit into her neck. She should have taken the Bolshevik’s hat. His coat too; it looked warmer than Dima’s, but there wasn’t time for that now.
“Lower yourself down and jump. You’ll manage. Then run. And may God have mercy on you.”
She had always believed in God, but it was hard to believe He cared about her or her family, not when both her brothers lay dead on distant battlefields and both her parents lay dead in the courtyard. But the groom cared. He had helped. “Thank you, Dima.”
Nadia got on her knees, then lowered herself till she hung from the top of the wall by her hands. She dropped onto the snow-covered ground. They’d be able to see her footprints, wouldn’t they? She almost crumpled up there and waited. They’d find her. They’d kill her. And even if they didn’t, she had no idea what to do without her family. But Dima’s words repeated in her head. They would want you to escape.
She turned her back on the regal estate, turned her back on the unburied bodies of her parents and her aunt, turned her back on twenty years of life as an aristocrat.
And then she ran.
Chapter Four
Nadia’s feet were blistered, and her fingers numb when she reached Piryatin the next morning. She’d put her hands in the pockets of Dima’s jacket, but it wasn’t thick enough to keep out the chill. Did he wear a thin coat because he was always working and, therefore, always warm? Or was he unable to afford a better one? Surely her aunt had paid him sufficiently . . . but then again, maybe not. He was a good worker, but he was also crippled. It would be easy to justify a lower wage.
Nadia sighed as she passed villagers and peasants setting out their wares for market day. Was Dima always cold because his wages were low? The setting of wages was probably a steward’s decision, not her aunt’s. But had her aunt never noticed? And why hadn’t Nadia seen Dima’s need?
She was exhausted, but fear drove away all thoughts of slumber. She kept her eyes moving, watching for the Cheka agents. Perhaps they’d given up. Her father might have earned their resentment, but maybe Nadia wasn’t important enough to pursue.
Her stomach rumbled as the scent of bread tempted her nose. She hadn’t eaten since teatime the day before. She had no money. The only jewelry she wore was a small brooch that, by some miracle, hadn’t been lost in the stables when Kuznetsov had torn her blouse.
She looked for jewelry among the market stalls, hoping to find a buyer for the brooch of aquamarine set in gold. It should fetch enough for a train ticket and food. The night before, after she’d run as far as she could and taken to walking instead, she’d thought through her options. She needed to leave the Ukraine before the Cheka found her. She could go back to Russia, but she couldn’t stay while the Bolsheviks held power.
They might lose. The Bolsheviks had few allies abroad, except maybe the Germans and the Austrians. Papa didn’t think the Bolsheviks were strong enough to rule an empire. But he might have been wrong. He’d been wrong before, when he’d thought General Kornilov would gain power over Kerensky. And now her beloved father was dead. She took a deep breath, pushing away the pain. Papa would tell her to make a plan and carry it out. Wallowing in her losses, no matter how heavy, wouldn’t solve her problems.
She checked Dima’s pockets again. It almost felt like stealing, but he’d given her the jacket, and that included everything that came with it. A handkerchief, matches, and five cigarettes. She lifted one cigarette to her nose. Machorka tobacco. The cheap kind. When she’d volunteered at a Petrograd hospital, the doctors had encouraged the nurses to smoke often so they could stay alert through longer shifts. She’d left the habit behind—Mama considered smoking an atrocious vice for a young woman of noble birth—but perhaps the cigarettes would prove useful for something other than long nursing shifts.
The scent outside the bakery enticed her in. Once through the door, commotion nearly overwhelmed her.
“The Ukrainian Front has collapsed. The Germans will waltz right in.”
“Good. The Germans will save us from the Bolsheviks.”
“Hardly. They’ll take our grain to feed their people. We’ll starve.”
“What of the Czechs?”
“Withdrawing. Better buy enough bread to last a few days. Otherwise, the Czechs will buy it all.”
The last comment, spoken by a woman with dark hair peeping out from under a kerchief, spurred Nadia to the counter.
The baker gave Nadia a curious look as he took stock of her appearance. Her boots were well-made but in need of a polish. Her skirt was high quality but caked in mud and blood, and the jacket she wore was cheap. She didn’t want to think about how dirty her face might be or how disheveled her hair was.
She feigned confidence and met the baker’s eyes. “Would you trade bread for a cigarette?”
The baker continued to stare.
Nadia showed him two of the cigarettes. He took one and smelled it.
“Both of them for this.” He held up a small, dark roll.
She had hoped for more. The roll didn’t look very filling. But she was desperate, so she nodded. She left the cigarettes on the counter and reached for the bread.
Outside again, she took small bites. Mama had always encouraged dainty table manners. Eating while walking didn’t count as proper manners, but this was an emergency.
People at the market bartered for their purchases as she passed. She swallowed the last of her bread and felt empty inside. Was she supposed to barter? Would the baker have given her a better deal if she’d only asked?
Servants had always bought the food. Nadia had purchased gloves and hats but had never been the one to exchange money. She would have to do better when it came time to sell her brooch.
A train whistle pierced the air. She needed a train ticket.
She wasn’t sure where she would go. Moscow or Petrograd were poor choices—the Bolsheviks were strongest there. The White Army was gathering in Novocherkassk near the Sea of Azov. Friends of her father would be there, men who could protect her or give her work as a nurse. Or she could leave Russia and find work as a governess elsewhere in Europe. Money would be a problem, but perhaps her fellow refugees would lend her something until she was settled. Surely someone would show her kindness. Unlike those foul Bolsheviks or the greedy baker.
Another option was Oleg Petrov, her unofficial intended. His family had risen not by service to the tsar but through profitable business ventures. That made them less of a target—they were rich, true, but they weren’t connected to the Romanov dynasty. A year had passed since his last letter, but his family’s connections had broad reach. They’d help, if she could find them.