There are two decent ways to do this, thought Turgenev. One is blending in with the other passengers and the other is not being seen at all. He thought the other was the better of the two.
Thus, currently, Mokrenko and Shukhov, the engineer, were off at the marshalling yard, trying to bribe the group passage aboard one of the freight cars.
And the downside of that, thought Turgenev, is that freight cars are generally unheated. Oh, well, we brought plenty of blankets…
The Russian running the rail yard was accompanied by two Russian-speaking soldiers, one Austrian, one German. The Austrian was senior, which Mokrenko took for a good sign, since they were almost always easier to deal with the than far more anal-retentive Huns were.
“What I don’t understand,” said the Austrian, a Major Leitner, beefy and florid-faced, but friendly enough, “is why don’t you just book a normal set of passenger seats and enjoy the ride. Do you know how cold those freight cars can be?”
“Once we get past your lines, Major,” Mokrenko said, “we’re getting into the beginnings of a civil war. Both sides may well be conscripting whoever they can get their hands on. Frankly, we’ve already all been conscripted for one war more than we cared to be in, in the first place. We just want to hide until we get close to home, and then disappear to our villages and towns.”
Leitner looked at the Russian.
“I don’t mind giving some discharged soldiers a hand getting home,” the Russian said. “And they’re right about the civil war that’s coming, even though nobody’s interfering with the movement of trains. But I’m going to have to bribe the passenger section to forget about their lost revenue.”
“We got a decent discharge pay,” Mokrenko lied. He was normally quite honest, but mission took priority when it was a mission of this importance. “We’ll gladly pay the difference.”
“All right,” said the Russian. “How many did you say there were?”
“Eleven,” Mokrenko replied, “but one’s not a soldier, just a girl who lost her parents and who’s got relatives in Tsaritsyn. She’s had a pretty hard time of it, the last few months, and just sort of attached herself to us as a better—above all, safer—bet than any other she’d seen.”
The Russian yard master pointed, asking, “See that car over there? Fourth one from the rear of that group?”
“The group with the locomotive backing up to it?” asked Mokrenko.
“That one, yes. Get your friends and meet me there. I’ll smooth things over.
“By the way,” said the yard master, “when you get to Tsaritsyn? Last we’ve heard here, the Reds own that. If you don’t want to be drafted again, I’d stay under cover until nightfall.”
The steady clack-clack-clacking of the train over steel tracks whispered of progress, and, for a change, at some speed.
Turgenev and the others were somewhat surprised that there wasn’t so much as a single stop and search between Rostov-on-Don and Tsaritsyn. The rail line, after all, was crossing what should have been the front line between hostile armies.
Lieutenant Babin, who had decided to join the group and commit himself to its mission, had the answer to that, when Turgenev brought it up. “Our army has collapsed completely. There are no security checks because there is no front line. Indeed, the most powerful non-Bolshevik Russian military organization within thirty or forty versta is probably us. It may be different once we get to Tsaritsyn.
“Until we do, though, and if we don’t want to freeze to death, I strongly suggest we bundle up.”
Railroad station, Tsaritsyn, Russia
“I have never,” whispered Sarnof, the signaler, “not ever in my life, been so fucking cold.”
Natalya Sorokina nodded vigorous agreement. At least it allowed her to quietly move a couple of muscles to generate a tiny bit of extra body heat.
“Okay,” Lieutenant Turgenev said, “I’m going to go out and do a little bit of reconnaissance… Sergeant Mokrenko—”
“No, sir.”
“What?”
“Sir, you’re the worst possible candidate to send out alone—and it will be worse in company—to recon a Red-held area. Every move you make proclaims your aristocratic background. You couldn’t act like a peasant if your life depended on it, which, in this case, it does. Ours do, too. Moreover, if you take someone with you, the habits of a lifetime will show. He’ll defer and you’ll act like you expect that deference.
“So, in short, if you have two brain cells to rub together, you’ll stay right here. I’ll go.”
“Am I that obvious, really?” Turgenev asked, before admitting, “Oh, I suppose I am. Fine, Sergeant, you go and take two men with you. Let me dig you out some money; maybe you can get us some more clothes if it looks like they’ll be useful. Hmmm… you might have to stay out overnight, so a bit for an inn, too.”
“What if I can openly buy tickets?” Mokrenko asked.
“Good point, let me dig you out some gold rubles and more paper…”
The station was an early version of, perhaps even a predecessor of, Belle Epoch architecture, with onion domes compressed into octagons bedecking the roof and replete with pilasters on all sides.
The first thing Mokrenko discovered, on passing into the station, was, We’ll blend in better in our uniforms, provided we make them look scruffy, than we would in any civilian clothes. And we can be armed, as well, without inciting any curiosity. Now the question is, should we put on those red armbands some of the men are sporting or not?
Leaving his two escorts, Shukhov and Timashuk, the medic, he walked up to one uniformed sort, a rather young and fierce looking man, and introduced himself, receiving, in reply, “Pavel Nadimovich Khlynin, at your service. You look to be a soldier, but from a worker’s or peasant’s background, yes?”
“Even so,” Mokrenko agreed. “I’m just back from the front, such as it is, Pavel Nadimovich. I need to get back home to Yekaterinburg. I’ve got a few friends with me, too, from the same area. Once I’ve made sure my mother and father are alive and well, I hope to be joining the Red Guards.”
A measure of the fierceness disappeared to be replaced by a warm smile. “A noble ambition that is, Rostislav Alexandrovich, and Yekaterinburg would be a good place to do it, since it is, by all accounts, firmly in the hand of the revolution.”
“That is excellent news,” Mokrenko replied, “most excellent.” He made a show of looking around, then more closely at Khlynin’s armband, and asked, “The armbands; are they just a show of support or a sign of enlistment in the revolution?”
“Good question, Comrade. Frankly, it’s not entirely clear to me which is the case. I see my comrades in the Red Guards sporting them. I see filthy capitalist and aristocratic robbers sporting them. I see people I am pretty sure just want to be left alone sporting them. I see people who support the revolution sporting them. And I see people who do not support the revolution sporting them. At this point, all they really mean is, ‘I am not an active enemy of the revolution, so don’t shoot me.’”
“I see,” said Mokrenko. “Well… is there a good place to buy some?”
Khlynin pointed in the direction across the street from the station, then let his fingers paint a simple map in the air. “Over there, take a left and around the corner; you can’t miss it.”