Sowards A.L.

A Waltz with Traitors

Front cover images: Historical Steam Train in Snow © Jaroslaw Blaminsky, Trevillion Images; Beautiful Woman with Fur Hat © Media Trading Ltd., istockphoto.com

Back cover images: Morse Code & Telegraph © Montes-Bradley, istockphoto.com

Maps copyright © 2023 by Briana Shawcroft

Frontispiece: Nadia & Filip copyright © 2023 by Melanie Bateman

Cover design by Julie Olson

Cover design copyright © 2023 by Covenant Communications, Inc.

Published by Covenant Communications, Inc.

American Fork, Utah

Copyright © 2023 by A. L. Sowards

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any format or in any medium without the written permission of the publisher, Covenant Communications, Inc., PO Box 416, American Fork, UT 84003. The views expressed within this work are the sole responsibility of the author and do not necessarily reflect the position of Covenant Communications, Inc., or any other entity.

This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are either products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real, or are used fictitiously.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Name: A. L. Sowards

Title: A Waltz with Traitors / A. L. Sowards

Description: American Fork, UT : Covenant Communications, Inc. [2023]

Identifiers: Library of Congress Control Number 2022941840 | ISBN: 978-1-52442-114-4

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022941840

Praise for A. L. Sowards

“A Waltz With Traitors by A. L. Sowards is different from anything I have read so far. I loved meeting these characters and seeing this time in history from a different perspective! I had not heard of the Czechoslovak Legion before reading this book, and seeing a bit of their outlook on the events of the war and their journey to independence in this setting was both enlightening and fascinating! I loved Filip and Nadia from the moment they met, but I quickly fell in love with so many of these characters, and from the opening pages, I knew I had found something special! This book is an emotional and heart-warming tale that is immensely entertaining and well researched concerning this powerful and revolutionary time in history.”

—Readers’ Favorite five-star review

“Once again, A. L. Sowards knocks it out of the park with a wonderful story filled with suspense, amazing research, and unforgettable characters in a fascinating setting. A Waltz With Traitors is un-put-down-able.”

—Jennifer Moore, best-selling author of The Blue Orchid Society series

“This historical fiction was beyond thrilling and captivating. . . . Seeing these brave individuals not only survive but thrive was beyond satisfying. This isn’t a tale for the faint-hearted, but it is one that should definitely be read. An inspiring read.”

—Charissa Stastny, author of Love Notes and Of Sky and Stone

“A well-researched and moving story about a little-known chapter of World War I. The story primarily revolves around Nadia, a Russian aristocrat running for her life, and Filip, a Czech soldier who defected to join the Czechoslovakian Legion. Filip offers Nadia a sham marriage so she can join their company. Over the months, they grow to love one another and make the marriage real. But life in a war zone is perilous, and they are pulled apart. Terrible things happen (mostly off page), and those things are never gratuitous. A beautiful and resilient love story in one of the darkest times.”

—Samantha Hastings, historical author of Secret of the Sonnets

“A.L. Sowards has become a masterful author of historical fiction. Her talent shines in her new novel, A Waltz with Traitors. She weaves together little-known facts regarding World War I and what happened with those fighting for independence and hoping to create their own country of Czechoslovakia. Strong characters, such as Filip Sadlák and Nadia Linskaya, touch your heart as they struggle to find love during war. If you want to get lost in a wonderful story, I highly recommend this book.”

—Kathi Oram Peterson, author of Shifting Sands

“A.L. Sowards has written a masterpiece in A Waltz With Traitors. This well-researched book carries the reader into an overwhelming world of war and chaos after the Russian tsar falls. Soward does a brilliant job of keeping the story moving while relating the history of the Czechoslavakian Legion. Amid this tumult, the reader is anchored to the two main characters—Nadia and Filip. The pain and trauma they nobly survive leaves the reader caring deeply about their finding peace and a better life.”

—Laura Ruppe, author of Nora and the Sacred Stones

“Throughout the book, we are met with beautiful reminders and themes of love, hope, family, friendship, and a longing for a better future. I loved meeting Filip and his friends and getting to know Nadia as well! The tone and atmospheric writing used in the story are absolutely breathtaking, and I loved it for this story! It fit the themes and era so well and kept me reading late into the night!”

—Goodreads review

For Joseph

Thank you for all the times you’ve made dinner or distracted the kids

while I have tried to get just one more chapter written or edited.

A note about content

The following novel contains depictions of warfare, war injuries, disease, miscarriage, kidnapping, off-page sexual assault, executions, and implied intimacy between married couples.

A note about spelling

Many of the locations included in this story have more than one possible spelling. Spelling chosen for use in this novel is based on the most common usage at the time of the story and is not meant to form a political statement about current usage and spelling.

Glossary and Historical Background

Ataman: A term for a Cossack leader.

Bolsheviks: The majority wing of the Russian Communist Party, led by Vladimir Lenin, committed to the extremes of Communist ideology, including the creation of a Soviet state by violent revolution.

Bourgeoisie: In Marxist philosophy, the social class that owns the means of production, including land and business owners motivated by property rights and capitalism. Seen as oppressors of the lower class or proletariat.

Cheka: The All-Russian Extraordinary Commission to Combat Counterrevolution and Sabotage, a secret police organization established in 1917 to combat opponents of the Communist Revolution. The Cheka had power to arrest, torture, and execute counterrevolutionaries and class enemies without trial.

Czechoslovak Legion: A military unit formed of Czechs and Slovaks aligned with the Allied Powers of World War One, including Britain, France, Russia, and the United States. Though Czechs and Slovaks were subjects of the Austro-Hungarian Empire at the war’s beginning, the legion sought the creation of an independent Czechoslovakia out of Austro-Hungarian territory. As Austro-Hungarian subjects fighting alongside the empire’s enemies, they were considered traitors by their former rulers. Most members were Czechs and Slovaks who had been captured by or who had defected to the Allied side during the war, though émigrés were also included in the ranks.

Dokha: A fur overcoat, often made from Samoyed dog skin.

Družina: A military unit created in 1914 from Czech and Slovak émigrés and war prisoners in Russia. They were incorporated into the Russian Imperial Army and specialized in reconnaissance work against Austro-Hungarian and German forces.

Kopeck: Subunit of the Russian ruble, similar to a cent in U.S. currency.

Mensheviks: A minority wing of the Russian Communist Party. They were in favor of a gradual development of a Soviet society through democratic legislation rather than through violent revolution.

Naida: A type of slow-burning log fire used by Siberian prospectors.

Proletariat: In Marxist philosophy, the social class whose only asset is its ability to labor and is thus regularly oppressed by the bourgeoisie.

Reds: A term for Communists, especially during the Russian Civil War.

Revkom: Bolshevik Revolutionary Committee. A group that held power in Irkutsk for a time in early 1920.

Ruble: Basic Russian monetary unit. After the fall of Imperial Russia, rubles were printed by the various successor states.

Sokol: A network of clubs and societies built around sports and cultural activities. The movement began with Czechs but spread to other Slavic peoples.

Soviet: A government council in a communist country. At the beginning of this novel, most Soviets were local and decentralized. Centralization increased rapidly during the years this novel covers, as the Bolsheviks consolidated and expanded their power.

Steppe: A geographic area dominated by grasslands and few trees other than those near bodies of water. Similar to a prairie or savannah.

Taiga: A term used to describe the boreal forest covering much of Siberia. Dominated by pine, larch, and spruce.

Teplushka: A train boxcar that offered the most basic passenger service. The Czechoslovak Legion turned them into portable barracks.

Ushanka: A fur cap with flaps for the ears that can be tied up or used to shield more of the wearer’s face from the cold.

Whites: A term for those opposing the Reds during the Russian Civil War. The group included monarchists, militarists, and other groups fighting against the Communists.

Zemlanky: An earthen dugout used as a barrack or as housing for prisoners.

Prologue

All we wanted was to go home.

Most of us hadn’t seen our fatherland since war had broken out in 1914 and we were conscripted into the Austro-Hungarian Army. As Czechs and Slovaks, we felt more brotherhood for our Russian opponents than for our imperial officers, so we hadn’t always fought well. Some of us had been stuck in POW camps in Russia for months, some for years. We longed to go back to our families, our homeland, and peace.

We couldn’t go west because a war was in the way. History called it the Eastern Front, but it was far to the west of places we came to know, towns like Chelyabinsk and Yekaterinburg, Irkutsk and Vladivostok. We never intended to take over the Trans-Siberian railway, prolong a civil war, spark the most infamous tsaricide in history, or end up in charge of the Russian Imperial Treasury.

We just wanted to go home. The rest was forced on us.

But one thing wasn’t an accident. After three hundred years of Hapsburg subjugation, we wanted a country of our own. And this is the story of how we got it, fighting for it half a world away along six thousand miles of snow-covered rail line.

Chapter One

The Ukraine, March 1918

Nadia Ilyinichna Linskaya held her horse steady and strained to hear the Russian officer conversing with her from the overcrowded train carriage. The thrumming of the engine made it difficult to hear, so she leaned as far forward as her sidesaddle would allow.

“Yes, I was in the Eleventh Cavalry Division, but with the Dragoons.”

“Did you, by chance, know Captain Nikolai Linsky of the Hussars?”

He shook his head. “Sorry, miss, I can’t help you.”

The train whistle shrieked, and Konstantin flinched beneath her. Nadia gathered the reins and riding crop in her right hand and patted her horse’s neck with her left. “I see. Good day.” She hadn’t meant her words to be so curt, but a combination of smoke, steam, and disappointment choked her throat.

The train crept forward, and Nadia turned Konstantin away, back to her aunt’s manor. She’d been foolish. A maid had said an officer with the Eleventh Cavalry was passing through, and Nadia had ridden out to search for him. But what had she expected? Even if the man had known her brother, he wasn’t likely to still be carrying around Nikolai’s things, not eighteen months after his death. Any last epistles or personal effects would have already arrived, or they were lost forever.

She glanced back a final time. The officer had disappeared. Other soldiers filled the windows, rode on the roof, and clung to the buffers. All hurrying home now that the Russian Army had collapsed and made peace with the Germans. None of them wanted to be left out of the land redistribution. But if they were from Tambov Oblast, they were too late. The peasants there had chased Nadia’s family off the previous autumn and had long ago divided the stolen land for themselves.

Russia was falling to pieces. The tsar and his family had disappeared, the army was in mutiny, and the provisional government had lost power to a pack of insane men who called themselves Bolsheviks. Nadia’s father mourned the lawlessness spreading throughout the former empire. His fears and his prior service to the tsar meant their family rarely left her aunt’s estate, where they’d taken refuge after the peasants had chased them from Lavanda Selo. But hope for some piece of Nikolai—a friend’s memory or more information about how he died—had been enough to lure Nadia out.

It had all seemed so perfect. A report of an officer from Nikolai’s division on what would have been Nikolai’s twenty-fourth birthday. Papa leaving the manor for the first time in a month, so he hadn’t been around to stop her from riding out. And she’d actually found a man who matched the maid’s description of the scarred cheek and spiky mustache, even after he’d boarded the train. It had felt like a miracle, but it hadn’t mattered, because the dragoon officer hadn’t known her brother.

She’d left to find news of Nikolai, but escaping the manor had been something she’d longed to do anyway. She’d spent too much time hiding away, too much time worrying instead of living. “And you’ve got to feel just as cooped up as I do,” she said to Konstantin. “Since we’re out, we may as well make the most of it.”

She gripped the saddle’s double pommels with her legs and urged Konstantin on, away from the train track and across a wide Ukrainian field. A gallop across the countryside wouldn’t completely assuage her disappointment, but it might help.

The wind pulled at her clothing, and the scent of snow melting into farmland tickled her nose as they rode faster and faster. For a moment, she imagined both her dead brothers beside her, astride their own horses, laughing and urging her to keep up. And after they rode, they’d return to Lavanda Selo for tea and freshly baked black bread smothered in butter and currant jam.

“Fly, Konstantin!”

The horse did his best to obey. Perhaps he understood that all too soon they would return to the stifling confines of her aunt’s estate. For now, his smooth stride seemed to outrun all Nadia’s grief and disappointment, and she felt as carefree as she had in the prewar days, before events had irrevocably altered her life, her family, and her class. Konstantin galloped across one field, then another. Nadia had never explored this part of the countryside, but they were heading in the correct direction, and Konstantin knew the way back.

A whistle of an undulating pitch rang in her ear. What was that? Artillery? The whine ended in an explosion of fire, dirt, and feather grass. Konstantin reared in alarm and swerved into a ditch. Then, despite her best efforts to hold on, Nadia was flying.

And falling.

She woke with a roaring headache and a view of five half-shaved men standing over her. Half-shaved wasn’t entirely accurate. One had only a bit of shaving lather on his chin, two had it spread across their entire cheeks and jaws, and the remainder had taken but a swipe or so at their cheeks before they’d been interrupted. All wore uniforms with an unfamiliar badge on their left arms. Nadia squinted so their collar patches would come into better focus. They weren’t officers.

“Are you all right, miss?” The words were Russian, polite enough but not polished.

The warm boots and charcoal-gray riding habit she wore failed to stop the winter chill from seeping through her skin, but the weather was the least of her worries. She needed to find Konstantin.

Then there was the problem of the men. They didn’t look menacing, but Nadia wasn’t so ignorant as to not recognize the extreme vulnerability of her position. She was all alone, far from manor or village, surrounded by five soldiers.

“Miss, can we help you?” The man who spoke had curly brown hair and a face hidden by shaving lather. “Some of the artillery lads were testing one of their pieces. I’m sure they didn’t mean to frighten your horse.”

She ought to have paid better attention. She hadn’t meant to ride into the path of a field gun. Smoke circled skyward to the west—the explosion hadn’t been close enough to harm her, but the fall had left pain gripping her head and each of her limbs. The hatless man with the curly hair waited for her answer, and her governess’s oft-repeated advice about dealing with the unrefined elements of society came to Nadia’s mind: be polite, but display no warmth. Showing fear would make them bolder, so she would have to look brave. From her position in the dirt and snow, she did her best to straighten her shoulders. Movement accelerated the pace of the thumping in her head. “I need my horse.”

The man nodded. “I’ll find it.”

“Plan to ride it again?” Another man asked. He’d almost finished shaving the stubble along his jaw but not the blond mustache, and a bit of shaving lather still dotted his chin.

“Naturally.”

He held a hand out, and she accepted his help back to her feet. She squeezed her eyes shut as her vision swirled. Perhaps staying on the ground would have been wiser.

The blond man grasped her elbow to help her balance. “Perhaps you should sit again. That was a hard fall. I daresay you knocked your head soundly enough to earn a rest.”

“I’m quite all right.” Nadia absolutely would not lounge about with a group of enlisted men. “But I do need my horse.” Would they steal Konstantin? It wouldn’t be the first horse her family had lost to theft, but it would be a long walk back.

“Filip will find it. He’s our best scout.”

“I thank you for your assistance, Mr. . . .”

He tugged at the brim of his cap. “Dalek Pokorný. At your service, miss.”

The others spoke their names as well, far too quickly for her to remember them all, but any questions about their nationality disappeared. “You’re Czechs?” According to Papa, the Czechoslovak Legion was the best fighting unit in the Ukraine. Everyone else was demoralized or torn between old loyalties to the tsar and new loyalties to myriad other factions. The Czechs, on the other hand, were united in their goal to overthrow the Austro-Hungarian Empire they’d once been part of.

Two of the remaining men nodded. The third, a man with fair skin, wavy brown hair, and a cut on his jaw, didn’t. “I’m a Slovak. And I spent a year assisting a doctor in a camp for war prisoners, so I’d be happy to examine your head.”

Nadia lifted a hand to the coiffure below the brim of her riding hat where several smooth strands of hair had escaped the hairpins. The Slovak had undoubtedly picked things up from the doctor in the prison camp the same way she’d learned from the doctors in the Petrograd hospital where she’d volunteered as a nurse, but her injury wasn’t serious. “I’m sure that isn’t necessary. I must be on my way.”

“You’re barely standing straight. How do you expect to ride?” That was the blond one.

Nadia repositioned her feet. He was right—she was in no condition to ride, but if she didn’t return home before Papa, he’d scold her for going out alone, no matter what her intentions had been. She shouldn’t have ventured out, not if the steady ache in her head and the nervous anticipation in her chest were to be believed. “I’ll be missed if I don’t go home at once.”

“Would you like us to see you safely there? These aren’t exactly calm times.” He gestured toward the fields. “You might run into Bolsheviks, and they might mistake you for one of the grand duchesses.”

Bolsheviks, Mensheviks, Ukrainian Nationalists, and a dozen other groups harbored resentment toward former Russian aristocracy. Nadia shared a birthday with the Grand Duchess Tatiana, and both were descendants of Peter the Great, but too much Tatar blood flowed in Nadia’s veins for anyone to mistake her for a Romanov. “I doubt anyone would think me a grand duchess. The tsar’s daughters all have brown hair, and I have black.”

“Even so, there are bandits about. And peasants who think revolution means the freedom to rob at will.”

“Which is why I require my horse. He’s quite fast. I thank you for your help, and I apologize for interrupting both your shave and the artillery test.”

The blond, Dalek, if she remembered correctly, motioned behind her. “There’s Filip with your horse.”

She turned. Her bay gelding cooperated with the soldier who held his reins. He’d wiped away his shaving lather since leaving to find her horse, revealing a jawline darkened with thick stubble. She took a few tentative steps toward Konstantin, keeping her head high and her shoulders back. She managed to walk in a straight line, so the fall must not have hurt her too badly. “Thank you for retrieving my horse.”

Filip nodded. “Happy to help, miss. Are you hurt?” His Russian, though accented, flowed easily from his tongue, and his voice had a pleasant timbre.

“I am well, thank you.”

He raised an eyebrow as if he wasn’t sure he believed her. “I imagine the explosion is the reason the horse threw you, but he also has a loose shoe. We have a farrier back at camp who could shoe him for you.”

If she went to their camp, she’d most certainly be late. And though the man had kind honey-colored eyes, she didn’t trust him or his friends. Maybe she was spending too much time with her father lately—it was hard to trust anyone. She scanned Konstantin’s hooves. None of the shoes looked off to her, but she’d never shod a horse before. “Is the horse injured?”

“Not that I could tell, but I’m infantry, not cavalry. That was no small crash.”

“It must have looked worse than it was.”

“If you say so, miss.”

Goodness, he was polite, but something in the twist of his lips suggested he wasn’t convinced. His expression revealed no hostility, and she was stretching the truth, so she wouldn’t hold his skepticism against him. Her head swirled and throbbed, but she was well enough to stay on her horse, assuming nothing else spooked him.

Filip scanned the ground and bent to pick up a rock. A flash of panic churned in her chest, and she took a step back. But he hadn’t picked up the rock to attack her. He took Konstantin’s right front fetlock and pulled it up, balanced the hoof on his knee, and used the rock to pound the horseshoe back into place.

“That should get you home, but I’d recommend seeing a farrier as soon as you can. And I wouldn’t gallop on that shoe, even if you weren’t recovering from a crash.”

Her hand went to the back of her head again. Her hair was no longer flawless but was not disarrayed enough to reveal just how much her head ached. She wondered what they’d seen. Memory of her fall was like smoke. She couldn’t quite grasp it, no matter how hard she tried to hold it.

Filip checked Konstantin’s bridle. “I’ll see you home.”

“That isn’t necessary.” The likelihood of Papa returning to the manor before she did grew with each passing minute, and if he saw a foreign soldier accompanying her—an enlisted man, no less—he would assume she’d been in far more danger than what had come with an unauthorized ride on his favorite horse.

“Perhaps you misunderstand me, miss. You’ve ridden into the middle of several wars. You’re injured, your horse cannot ride at full speed, and you’re all alone. I’ll accompany you to safety.” He motioned, and the man named Dalek came over to join him. “We can remain out of sight, if you wish, but we will see you home.”

Did he think he could order her around just because she was a woman and dizzy and alone? She didn’t dare provoke him with an outright refusal. She’d seen how changeable men could be: one day humble sycophants hoping to earn her papa’s favor, the next day denouncing the family and threatening murder. “How will you ensure my safety if you can’t see me?”

“I didn’t mean we wouldn’t see you. But you might not see us.” He glanced back at the other men. “Some of them haven’t fought in a real unit for years. Escorting you home while remaining invisible will be good training. We would be most grateful for your cooperation.”

Maybe she would take Konstantin and gallop off anyway. But if his shoe wasn’t secure, she might end up exactly where she’d started, on the ground with a gaggle of Czech and Slovak soldiers looking down at her. Or something worse might befall her. She’d purposely worn no jewelry so as not to attract attention. Robbing aristocrats was practically a national sport nowadays. But jewelry wasn’t the only thing someone could take from an unescorted young woman. “I suppose if it will assist in your training.” She patted her gelding’s forelock. “And prevent Konstantin from being forcibly enlisted into an army of Ukrainian Bolsheviks or Ukrainian Nationalists.”

He checked the saddle’s straps and girths. “May I help you mount?”

“Yes, thank you.”

He bent to offer his gripped hands as a platform of sorts, and as she sprang up, he guided her into the saddle. He was almost as handy as her normal groom, though Filip was stronger. Poor Dima walked with a limp, a result of the war, and he was so thin Nadia sometimes thought a strong gust of wind might blow him away. She looked at the man in front of her. Healthy, in his midtwenties, a pleasant sort of face. Had he been wearing a proper officer’s uniform with shiny boots and a freshly shaved face, he might have been handsome enough to merit more of her attention.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Will you want this, miss?” Dalek held up her broken crop.

She took it but doubted it would be of much use for keeping balance or guiding the horse. “I suppose it is just as well that I’m limited to a walk. Thank you for your assistance.” She gave the men a cautious smile and adjusted her reins. She guided Konstantin to the nearest road, and when she looked behind her, the half-shaved Czech and Slovak soldiers were gone.

Perhaps they weren’t going to follow her home after all. Just as well. She didn’t want her parents or her aunt to see them.

Tussocks of grass and bits of bushes peeked from beneath the half-melted snow. She took in the open expanse, wanting her eyes to drink their fill before she was again confined. Pity her bit of freedom had ended in a headache and a broken riding crop, with no word on her brother.

A half hour later, she rode through her aunt’s main gate and steered Konstantin toward the mounting block. She glanced back and saw no sign of the soldiers, but Dima appeared at once.

“Is my father back?”

“No, miss.”

Nadia nodded with relief, and the motion gave her an unfortunate reminder of her injured head. “I prefer that he not hear of my ride.”

“As you wish.” Dima assisted her from the horse.

“He’s had some trouble with his front shoe. The right one.” She handed Dima her broken crop, and he led Konstantin away.

She paused before going inside to search the road for any sign of Papa’s carriage. If he saw her in her riding habit, he’d suspect she’d been out. She’d turn twenty-one in the coming summer, but she still had to obey. The war had stopped time, at least in some ways.

The war. If the war hadn’t come, her two brothers would still be alive, Mama wouldn’t be gripped with melancholy, and rides on Konstantin would not be such a rare occurrence. She might have a niece or a nephew, might have a husband. She and Oleg had been too young for a formal engagement before the war, but both families still assumed they would marry one day.

She glanced across the open land. She would have liked to have her liberty a little longer that morning. More than that, she would have liked to learn more of Nikolai, but that errand had been more hope than logic.

Near the pillars marking the gate, something caught her eye. Two men. The Czechs. Filip gave her a salute, and then he and Dalek turned to leave.

They had followed her after all. She’d looked for them. How had she not seen them? She hurried inside, unsure which was more unsettling: her pounding head or the invisible Czech soldiers.

Chapter Two

A few legionnaires patrolled the garrison near Piryatin, but nearly everyone else had gone inside, away from the chill, leaving the central parade ground empty. Filip Sedlák and the potential recruit he spoke with turned up the collars of their greatcoats against the biting wind.

Filip recognized hope in the brightness of Emil Horák’s eyes and worry in the tension of his mouth. Filip had felt that same mix of emotions before, on the day his father had been released from prison and Filip hadn’t been sure if having a father again would be a blessing or a challenge. But Filip’s emotions weren’t mixed when it came to the Czechoslovak Legion. Their brotherhood and their aim to win a country of their own—that was unequivocally the most important goal any of them could ever work toward.

Emil, however, wasn’t yet convinced. “It’s just that I joined an army once—not by choice. It was miserable. The trenches were wet and cold, the food was awful . . . when we had it. And to top it all off, people kept shooting at me. I’m not sure I want to volunteer for a different army.”

Filip had spent months recruiting for the legion among the Czechs and Slovaks being held in Russian camps as war prisoners, so he’d heard all Emil’s excuses, and he knew exactly how to make the scrawny soldier see the light. “The legion is different. We won’t be fighting for an empire we hate. We’ll be fighting for ourselves.”

“But we don’t have a country.”

“Not yet. But we do have an army, and that’s a start. Things are changing. The Austro-Hungarian Empire is falling apart. If we seize this chance now, we’ll have a say at the negotiation table. A chance to break away from the empire and have an independent country.”

Emil glanced back toward the train station as if weighing the danger of joining the legion against the danger of wandering the Ukraine alone now that he was free of his POW camp. “Nobody cares about the Czechs or the Slovaks. They won’t remember little people like us, will they?”

“Our actions will show so much valor, so much daring, that it will be impossible for them to forget us.”

Emil nodded thoughtfully.

“How old are you, Emil?” He looked about seventeen. Filip had probably looked that young when he’d left his grandfather’s workshop to dutifully serve the three-year term of conscription required of all Austro-Hungarian subjects, but by the time the war had started almost four years ago, Filip had been twenty-two.

“Nineteen.”

That was young but not too young. “You’re sick of Austrian rule, aren’t you, Emil?”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean I want to join an army allied with their enemies. Desertion’s a capital offense. So is treason.”

Desertion was such an ugly word. Technically, it was a crime Filip was guilty of, but he found no shame in refusing to fight for an oppressive empire and instead fighting with his Slavic brothers. “Only if they catch us. And only if we lose the war.”

Emil still hesitated.

“Imagine victory. Picture going home to a land where no one looks down on you just because you’re Czech. Think about liberty, about finally having a voice.”

The lines of Emil’s mouth relaxed, almost into a smile.

“You’d return home a war hero.”

That changed Emil’s expression into an unambiguous grin, though he hid it quickly. He nodded. Filip took that as agreement. He held out his hand, and Emil shook it.

“Welcome to the legion, brother. I’ll show you the barracks.”

Hope still lit Emil’s eyes as he studied the encampment. Zemlanky-style barracks surrounded the parade ground, built mostly underground with only their thatched roofs visible.

“They don’t look like much,” Filip said, “but they keep in the warmth. And we won’t be here much longer.”

“When do I get a rifle?” Emil asked.

“We’re a bit short on weapons at the moment. But the French will supply us once we get to France.”

“Why would the French give us weapons?”

“The French will supply anyone who’s willing to fight the Germans.” And the Czechs and Slovaks were eager to battle Germans because defeating the German and Austro-Hungarian Empires was the only way they’d get a country of their own. Filip led Emil down the stairs into the cold, dimly lit barrack.

Emil studied the wooden bunks and rough tables. “How will we get to France? The Central Powers are in the way, and I don’t imagine they’ll give us safe passage through the front lines so we can fight them from the west instead of from the east.”

“That’s yet to be determined.” The latest plans involved traveling by rail to Arkhangelsk or Vladivostok, then traveling by ship. It was a roundabout way to get to France—some routes had them circumnavigating most of the globe—but as long as they got there, as long as they saw the end of the Austro-Hungarian Empire and the beginning of an independent Czechoslovakia, Filip was willing to travel as many miles as needed.

Filip introduced Emil to the rest of his squad. He excused himself when a sober-looking Dalek Pokorný ran down the steps and motioned Filip over.

“What is it?”

“The Ukrainians have just declared themselves an independent country.”

“Good for them. I hope we’ll soon join them in having a country of our own.” Ukrainian independence didn’t seem troubling, so Filip waited for a longer explanation.

“They’re negotiating with the Germans.”

“Ah.” Filip folded his arms across his chest. That complicated things. The Ukrainians were pleasant enough hosts while the legion assembled and organized new recruits for their journey to France. Most legionnaires were former war prisoners captured by the Russians, but the group included Czech émigrés and outright defectors as well. If the Ukrainians came to some sort of agreement with the Germans, their host’s new allies could cause problems . . . “What type of negotiations?”

“Help against the Bolsheviks.”

The zemlanky’s temperature seemed to drop several degrees. “They’ll ask the Germans in?”

“That’s the rumor.”

Emil’s fears, and those of every other legionnaire, would be significantly more potent if the Germans entered the Ukraine. In German eyes, the legionnaires were traitors. Filip ran a finger under his collar. “Do they hang traitors or shoot them?”

“Both.” Dalek’s voice sounded far too lighthearted, given the subject. “But they might reserve a little extra brutality for men who defected and joined the Družina as early as you did.”

Filip glanced at the men but kept his voice down. “I think it’s about time we left the Ukraine.”

“Yes, we’ll withdraw soon.” Lieutenant Kral had slipped down the stairs. He’d been born in Russia to Czech émigrés, but if he was captured, Filip doubted that fact would secure Kral any mercy.

“Do you have orders, Brother Lieutenant?” Filip was still getting used to the new way of addressing officers. He liked Brother far better than Excellency, but old habits took time to fade.

Kral spread a map across a nearby table, and Filip and several others crowded around for a better view. “Some of the regiments are heading east for Penza. But the First Division is still on the front, fighting the Austrians. The Russian forces on either side of them are now at peace with the enemy, but the legion is not, so they have to withdraw. We’re to keep the rail line open for them. I expect the Germans will try to cut them off.” Kral tapped a small town where several red lines converged. “The tracks running east join at Bakhmach. German forces are coming from the west and the northwest, so we’ll have to split our forces and hold them back until all our men make it through the depot.”

“I imagine the Germans will be well-motivated to stop us.” Filip studied the map. Bakhmach, Ukraine to Penza, Russia. Over six hundred miles.

“Our stated goal is to fight them in France, so I expect they’ll try to destroy us.” Kral’s words held not a hint of fear, but Filip wasn’t surprised. He’d known Kral since 1915. The man didn’t know how to be frightened. “We’ll need to evacuate every last legionnaire from the Ukraine.”

“Is the First Division on its way?” Filip was all in favor of fighting the Germans, but he preferred to do it in France, as planned. The legion was only two divisions strong. They were vastly outnumbered here. Better to fight from the west, surrounded by allies.

“Yes. And so are the Germans. Word is they’re trying to encircle us. At first light, we’ll start gathering boxcars for the evacuation.” Kral rolled up his map and left.

“He seems rather calm about the fact that a German army is trying to encircle and annihilate us.” Dalek sat on the table and swung one booted foot. “If I get killed by the Germans, I’m not sure I can forgive you for dragging me into this.”

“Blame His Imperial and Royal Apostolic Majesty Franz Joseph I. He’s the one who forced you away from Prague and into a war.”

“Yes, but he’s dead, and I don’t plan on wading through fire and brimstone to give him a piece of my mind.” Dalek wagged a finger at Filip. “You, on the other hand, convinced me to leave a perfectly acceptable camp for war prisoners, and now I’m about to get shot at again.”

“Perfectly acceptable?” Filip huffed. He’d visited Dalek’s camp last fall as part of his recruiting drive. Filip had been convalescing from a shrapnel wound received during the Battle of Zborov, and he’d been shocked to find his best friend in a camp surrounded by a twelve-foot-high barbed-wire fence and crowded with unwashed, lice-infested prisoners. “You were starving.”

“Not quite.”

“Close enough. And had you stayed, it would have gotten worse. The Russians can’t even feed their own soldiers. How long do you think they’ll keep feeding their prisoners?”

Dalek grunted, his standard way of avoiding arguments since the two of them had been children practicing gymnastics in one of Prague’s Sokol clubs. “Very well, off we go to see the world, if we can fight our way out of the Ukraine.”

Jakub Zeman sat on one of the creaky chairs. “I wish we were staying longer. That woman we saw today—I wouldn’t mind seeing her again.”

Dalek chuckled. “The grand duchess who rode across the proving grounds? You might see her, but I doubt a peacock like that would deign to converse with someone like you unless she were desperate and injured again.”

Zeman frowned. “She seemed to have a few words for Sedlák.”

Filip shook his head. If he closed his eyes, he could still picture the exquisite woman’s smooth black hair, clear gray eyes, and warm amber skin. “I was acting the part of groom. Trust me, she didn’t like me, but good breeding kept her polite.”

“Good breeding?” Zeman snorted. “The Bolsheviks are right. The aristocracy should be eliminated. The people who till the land should own it, and the people who work in the factories should get the profits.”

“Marxism?” Dalek’s lips pulled into a humorless line, almost hidden by his mustache. “A republic. That’s what we need. No monarchy. And certainly no Marxism.”

Zeman scowled. “A republic? We need a country first.”

Filip stepped in before the conversation became heated. “Yes, we still need a country. But we have an army. And to ensure that the Germans don’t decimate our little army without a country, we need coaches, teplushkas, wagons, and boxcars.”

Zeman looked around the barracks. “Where’s Tothova?”

Dalek raised an eyebrow. “He’s no doubt exactly where I’d be if my wife were here instead of nine hundred miles away.”

“Zeman, it’s probably best if you wait till morning to find him.” The Germans were coming, but they could afford to let Anton enjoy his night. In the meantime, Filip wanted to make sure young Emil was settled.

***

Anton wrapped an arm around his wife as she snuggled next to him on their straw mattress.

“It’s so cold,” Veronika whispered.

They’d both become proficient at speaking softly, because only a curtain separated them from the next couple squeezed into the recessed barracks. When they’d first arrived, everything had been covered in fleas. It was cleaner now but not much warmer. It certainly wasn’t the home he wanted for his bride. But someday the war would end, and they’d find a place of their own in Slovakia.

He moved Veronika’s hair and kissed the back of her neck. “You’re always cold.”

“Not always. Summers in Taganrog were lovely. Hot even, in the factory.”

“Do you regret it? Leaving the factory and coming with me?”

She turned to face him and ran gentle fingers through his hair, both assuring and relaxing him. “Regret marrying the brilliant man who will take me to France and win a Czechoslovakia? Of course not. Now that your hair and skin are back to their normal color, I think you’re the handsomest, smartest man in the whole legion.”

Work in the munitions factory had left their skin and hair yellow. Anton traced Veronika’s eyebrows. They were her most striking feature: thick, with a perfect shape, and dark again now, after leaving Taganrog. “I still can’t believe you said yes.”

She kissed him. “I would have said yes a year ago, you silly, wonderful man. It took you forever to ask me.”

Anton might never have asked her to marry him if Filip Sedlák hadn’t come along and talked him into joining the legion. Now he was a soldier again, able to support a wife. Before, he’d been only a prisoner. After his capture by the Russians in 1915, he’d spent a year in a prison camp before being offered the chance to work at a factory. The work had been long, and as a Slovak prisoner, he hadn’t been paid as much as the Russians. Still, he’d had enough food to eat, a place to sleep, a church to pray in. And there had been that pretty girl with the delicate nose and full eyebrows who he had seen from time to time. “I couldn’t offer you anything when I was a prisoner.”

“You could have offered me yourself. That’s what I wanted.” Veronika leaned her forehead against his chest. “Do you think the baby will be yellow? It happened sometimes, with the other factory workers, but they worked until their babies came.”

“Did they stay yellow?”

“I don’t think so, not forever.”

“Then I’m sure ours won’t stay yellow either.”

“Do you want a boy or a girl?”

Whenever he imagined their baby, it was a boy, but saying so might set himself up for disappointment. And he didn’t want to hurt Veronika’s feelings. “If it’s a daughter, then we’ll have a son the next time. And if it’s a son, we’ll have a daughter the next time.”

Her laugh was more movement than sound, all warm breath and fluttering hair on his bare chest. “How many children are we to have?”

“I’m not sure.” He kissed her ear. “If we succeed in getting a new country, we’ll need to populate it with a great many Czecho-Slovak children. And since I’m planning to be desperately in love with you forever . . .”

A gust of cold wind ruffled the curtain separating them from Petr and Larisa. Someone must have opened the barracks door.

“Tothova!”

Anton groaned, just loud enough that Veronika could hear. “Coming.” That was a little louder. What was so important that it couldn’t wait until morning? He wasn’t supposed to have guard duty until the following night. He pulled his trousers on, then stepped to the other side of the curtain.

Jakub Zeman waited at the door. At least he hadn’t barged into their section of the barracks.

“Yes, Brother Corporal?”

“We’re to scrounge as many train cars as we can tomorrow morning. Starting at seven. We’ll offer to buy, but if people won’t sell, we’ll take them at gunpoint.”

“Do you need anything tonight?”

“No. But I didn’t want to have to find you in the morning.” Zeman turned and left, letting in another gust of cold winter air that left goose bumps on Anton’s exposed skin.

“What is it?” Veronika asked as he crawled back into bed.

“An assignment for tomorrow. I don’t know why it couldn’t have waited until morning.”

“Because he’s jealous. You’re happy, and he likes to interrupt that as often as he can.”

Anton kept his laughter soft. Veronika had Jakub Zeman figured out completely. “I am happy. And cold.” He wrapped Veronika in his arms and pulled her closer.

Chapter Three

Nadia stood before her aunt’s drawing room window, looking out, wishing she could ride off on Konstantin again. Her taste of freedom had whetted her appetite, and she wanted more.

Mama cleared her throat. “Nadia? Have you nothing to say?”

She turned to her parents, seated for tea with her aunt. “I’m sorry. My mind was elsewhere.”

Papa gave her a serious look. “In Switzerland, I hope.”

“Switzerland?” Why was he talking about Switzerland?

“Haven’t you been listening?” Mama, as ever, retained her polite, almost bored tone. Emotional displays at tea time were a sign of poor upbringing, and Mama would never do anything that might allow others to question her upbringing.

Sometimes when Nadia’s mind wandered, she could get by with appropriate nods and murmurs, but this wasn’t one of those times. “I apologize. What about Switzerland?”

Papa stood and joined Nadia at the window. “Switzerland, America, France. Wherever I can convince your mother to go.”

“Go? Why?”

Nadia’s aunt, her father’s sister, placed her teacup on her saucer and set it next to the samovar on the low table before her. “Your father believes the Ukraine is no longer safe. He doesn’t think Russia is safe either, so emigration is our best option.”

“I don’t think we should abandon our homeland.” Mama kept her voice calm but firm.

Papa gazed out the window. “This is no longer our homeland. The Bolsheviks signed away a third of our people and a third of our farmland—including the Ukraine. It’s a disgrace. The tsars of the past must be turning in their graves.”

“If it is shameful to sign such a humiliating treaty, surely it is also shameful for us to flee when you have spent your whole life in devoted service to the empire.”

Nadia had never seen her parents argue before, though this wasn’t really an argument. Neither raised their voices, and no flush appeared on Papa’s pale cheeks nor on Mama’s olive skin. And yet, they were clearly divided.

“Would you lose our last child to the war?” Papa asked. “See the end of our family line?”

“Russia is out of the war now.”

Papa paced to the hearth. “We are no longer in Russia. We are in the Ukraine, and the Ukraine has just opened the door to the German Army. They will strip the land of every last kernel of grain, and their presence will intensify the civil war between the Nationalists and the Bolsheviks. I’ve heard rumors, Anna, of what happened to people like us who stayed in Petrograd. We should leave while we can.”

Painful silence filled the room. They’d found safety in the Ukraine, but they couldn’t stay forever. They no longer received rents from their peasants, the Bolsheviks had seized all their bank assets, and their properties in Petrograd, Moscow, and Tambov Oblast had been requisitioned. Nadia didn’t want to leave Russia behind forever, but the things she loved most about her motherland—the balls, the music, the ballet—those things had already been taken from her. If the German Army was coming, surely it was time to leave.

“I’ve heard lovely things about Paris,” Nadia said.

Papa smiled. “That’s my girl. We’ll start a new life in France.”

Her father spent the next two hours convincing his wife and his sister to emigrate to France, at least until the Bolsheviks lost power.

Mama gave in, finally. “I suppose, if it will keep our little Nadia safe.”

“I’m not so little anymore, Mama.”

Mama smiled. Her smile held so much beauty, as always, but since the deaths of Alexander and Nikolai, it also held a permanent sadness. “No. But you’re all we have left. I can live knowing we’ve lost Lavanda Selo and our jewels and our paintings. But I don’t think I could live knowing I’d lost my last child.”

***

Nadia was about to dress for supper that night when loud bangs shook the house. She’d heard knocks like that before, in Petrograd, when the Bolsheviks had come to arrest her father. The family had sneaked out through the servants’ quarters and fled to Lavanda Selo, then fled again to the Ukraine. The fear still chased them.

Several heartbeats passed before Nadia moved. The noise came from the front of the manor, so Nadia headed for the back.

The cook rushed through the hall toward her. “It’s the Cheka. Run!”

The secret police, here? Despite the numerous hearths and stoves heating the manor, it suddenly felt very cold. Nadia followed the cook until she heard her mother scream.

“Mama?” Nadia glanced at the hallway leading to safety, but she couldn’t leave her mother. “I have to find Mama.”

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll run.” The cook shooed her toward the servants’ staircase, but Nadia rushed the other way. She ran down the main staircase and reached the ground floor just as two men hauled Papa from his study. One of them pointed a revolver at her.

Nadia inhaled a breath full of fear. Would he shoot? She said a silent prayer, pleading for mercy. The man jerked his head toward the front entrance, and she joined her father and walked outside.

Her mother, aunt, and most of the servants stood in the center of the cold courtyard. Nadia dashed to her mother and took her hand. Mama had already dressed for supper in an evening gown of scarlet, and light from the windows revealed goose bumps on her arms.

Five menacing men flanked them. The one in charge wore a long coat of black leather and spoke with a crisp, cool voice. “The staff is free to leave unharmed with their belongings. The former Baron and his family are to stay.”

The servants hurried away, a few with backward glances. Then it was just Nadia, her parents, her aunt, and the five armed Chekists. She should have listened to the cook and run.

“Did you think you could escape justice, former Baron Linsky?” The lead agent stood directly in front of them. “You and your class are like the large apples harvested in fall, grown fat only because the other apples have been plucked off and left to rot, just like the Russian working classes. Discarded and forgotten. Until now.”

Papa didn’t answer. Not even a glare broke the calm of his face. It was as if he were bored, waiting for his troika to arrive. The agents weren’t worthy of attention. Nadia tried to follow his example, but she trembled. From cold or from fear.

“You lived in luxury while your peasants—including my family—starved. You were heartless, but now I will see justice.” He walked to Mama. “Former baroness, you are as lovely as I remember. If only your beauty were paired with something other than indifference for your fellowmen.” Then he stood before Nadia. “And you are much like the Fabergé eggs the aristocrats waste so much money on: beautiful, extravagant, useless.”

Nadia followed the lead of her parents and tried to mask any response. She wasn’t useless. Was she?

“Like weeds, the aristocrats must be plucked out and destroyed. The Linsky family is charged with counterrevolutionary activities, continued loyalty to the criminal, former Tsar Nicholas II, and countless crimes against the people of Russia.”

“What right have you to judge us?” Papa’s voice was controlled and polished. He showed none of the fear that Nadia felt growing with each pronouncement.

“As a member of the All-Russian Extraordinary Commission to Combat Counterrevolution and Sabotage, I have been tasked with removing enemies of the revolution. I doubt you remember, but you evicted my family in the dead of winter. My mother died, and a sister. My father brought my brother and me to the city, where they both caught typhus. I am all that remains of my family because you could think only of your rents. We worked that land for generations! It was ours by right!”

“Not by law.” Nadia’s father maintained his composure.

“We’ve a new law now. And according to our law, you are sentenced to death. As is your family.”

A startled cry escaped Mama’s lips, but she quickly clenched her jaw and stood more erect than before.

Nadia could barely breathe. Death? Just because she’d been born rich? She gripped her mother’s hand and then her aunt’s.

Papa glanced at them, then back at the Cheka agent. “The Ukraine is now a sovereign country. You and your revolution have no jurisdiction here.”

The agent huffed. “Tell that to the bullets. Revolutions are meaningless without firing squads.” He motioned to his men. “Bind their hands.”

There had to be some mistake. He didn’t really mean to execute them, did he? Nadia’s parents and her aunt kept all emotions hidden as the agents tied their hands behind their backs. Didn’t her family realize what was about to happen? They’d all been condemned to death.

The Cheka agent frowned. “Where are the sons? I remember Alexander and Nikolai galloping through the fields with no concern for the crops they ruined, no thought of how many people toiled from sunup to sundown so that they could feast every night and squander their days with amusement. Arrogant, useless boys. I imagine they’ve grown into arrogant, useless men.”

Nadia’s cheeks burned. Alexander and Nikolai had been neither arrogant nor useless. She remembered them riding through the crops once or twice, but she also remembered Papa reprimanding them. They hadn’t done it again.

Papa lifted his chin in defiance. “Rittmeister Alexander Ilych Linsky perished in service of tsar and country in 1915. Cornet Nikolai Ilych Linsky did the same in 1916. They were heroes of the empire.”

“They were oppressors of the proletariat, fighting in a bourgeoisie war.”

“You can insult me and shoot me, but you will not dishonor the memory of my valiant sons.” There, at last, was a hint of anger from her father.

The agent didn’t bother arguing. “The former baron first.”

Two of the agents grabbed her father’s arms. He struggled for a moment, straining to kiss his wife. The agent raised a hand, apparently to grant that small concession.

“Goodbye, my dear,” her father whispered to her mother. Then the men moved him to the courtyard wall.

Mama had been stoic until then, but now a whimper escaped her mouth.

Nadia rushed forward and threw herself before the Chekist’s feet. Her knees hit the ground with a painful jolt. “Please, your grace, please have mercy. My father is old, and he has already lost both his sons. Exile us. Don’t kill us. Please.”

The agent spoke to one of his men. “The exquisite daughter of a baron, prostrate before me, calling me your grace. It’s almost enough to weaken my resolve.” He looked at the paper in his hands. “But I have my orders. Nothing is more important than the revolution. Make ready.”

While Nadia continued to beg, the agents straightened their line and drew their revolvers.

“Aim.” The men pointed their weapons at Nadia’s father.

“Fire.”

The cracks echoed around the courtyard, and the acrid smell of cordite assaulted Nadia’s nostrils. Through tears, she saw Papa fall to the ground. It had been difficult to lose her brothers, but this . . . To witness the moment of death brought the grief to an entirely new level of agony.

Her mother and aunt sobbed.

Nadia was still at the agent’s feet. Papa hadn’t deserved execution, but he had served the tsar. Maybe his death would be enough to assuage the Cheka’s bloodlust. “Please, spare my mother and my aunt. They never worked for the tsar. They’re no danger to your revolution.” She choked back her tears so they wouldn’t muddle her voice.

The man looked through his orders again.

“The entire family is to die.” The agent with dark hair and a lantern jaw wasn’t the man in charge, but his statement sounded like an order. Would he convince his superior to kill the rest of them?

“Please have mercy,” Nadia pleaded. “We’ll leave Russia and never return.”

The leader met her eyes for a moment. “I suppose it’s not really their fault that they were raised in luxury. They’re more ornaments than tools of oppression.”

The other agent snorted. “Anyone with either a brain or a heart should have seen that it was wrong to dance in jewels at the Winter Palace, feasting on caviar and champagne, while those around them wore rags and starved. Besides, even in exile, they might sour opinion against us.”

“You care what the capitalist pigs think?” The agent shoved the orders into his pocket.

“No. But the revolution is new, still vulnerable to economic or diplomatic sanctions.”

Nadia sensed the man in charge was wavering but leaning toward cruelty. “We’ll take a vow of silence if you’ll just let us go.”

The second agent huffed. “You’d trust them?”

The man in charge made a motion with his hands. First Nadia’s mother and then her aunt were dragged to the wall and shot, leaving gaping holes in Nadia’s soul.

She stopped begging after her aunt was shot. It obviously would do no good. One of the agents hauled her to her feet and pushed her toward the wall. She couldn’t obscure her emotions as well as her parents had, but she gritted her teeth and straightened her spine, trying to summon a modicum of courage with which to greet the bullets.

“Wait.” That was the second man again, the one who had argued against mercy.

“Have you something to say, Comrade Kuznetsov?” the lead agent asked.

“A request.”

Nadia pulled at the sash binding her wrists while the Bolsheviks spoke. One tug loosened the tie, and then she pulled a wrist free.

She still hoped she would wake up and realize it was all a horrible nightmare. They were going to escape to Paris. They weren’t supposed to be executed in her aunt’s courtyard. But the wind cut into her face, and the murmur of men’s voices pierced her ears, and the smell of gunpowder bit her nose. This was real. How could this have happened? Her parents and her aunt, dead, shot like traitors or criminals. There were no three people she cared for more than those three lying dead in the courtyard.

Maybe . . . Could any of them still be alive? She went to her knees and crawled toward them. Her father was clearly dead, but her mother or her aunt? No. Neither of their chests moved. The only movement came from the Cheka agents.

She would be next. Would it hurt? The physical pain couldn’t be any worse than the crushing grief she already felt. Time was short. Soon they would stand her up and aim their pistols at her. She would try to die bravely, like Papa. She would show these miserable Bolsheviks what noble blood could bear. But first, she would pay her respects to the bodies.

She closed her father’s eyes, ignoring the ghastly wound to his face. “I’m sorry, Papa. Be waiting for me, please? And have Alexander and Nikolai come see me, won’t you? It will be like before the war—we’ll all be together.”

Mama’s face was unmarred. Nadia pulled her mother’s eyelids down and straightened her arms across her chest. “Poor Mama. You are still beautiful, even in death.” Nadia kissed her mother’s forehead. “I will see you again soon.”

Nadia turned to her aunt, but a pair of Cheka agents yanked her to her feet before she could touch the body. Her legs would barely hold her. Face them, just like Papa. She wanted to, but her body trembled, and she worried she would faint. A true noble could endure anything, so why was it so hard to look at the men who had murdered her family?

The man in charge slipped into the manor, disappearing from view. One of the other agents, Kuznetsov, motioned to the two men holding her, and they led her toward the stables.

Dare she hope for mercy? Perhaps they would spare her but insist she muck out the stables first and let her go after they’d humiliated her. Did they think an indignity like that would matter after she’d witnessed the execution of her parents? The servants had been able to leave in peace with their belongings. Maybe Nadia would be given the same chance. She just needed a few things: warm clothing, a skirt not covered in her parents’ blood, the coat she’d sewn her jewels into. She glanced back at the prone figures of her family. Even if she were spared, what would she do without them?

She blinked away tears and looked more closely at the men. Not a shred of mercy showed on their faces. They were not planning to deliver her.

“What are you doing with me?” she asked.

Kuznetsov spoke. “A slight delay. We’ll execute you after we enjoy the fine supper your servants prepared. And you will slake a different type of hunger. You may be an enemy of the revolution, but you’re still beautiful.”

As they reached the stables, he pushed her inside. Then he turned to his comrades. “I’ll let you know when it’s your turn.” He chuckled and closed the stable door, leaving the two of them alone with the horses.

Then she knew. No mercy. Just a different kind of horror.

“No.” Her voice was barely a whisper the first time she spoke, but it was louder the second. “No!”

The agent threw her into the wall. As she banged into the wooden beams, pain shot through her shoulders and head.

“You’re an enemy of the state, condemned to die. I can do whatever I like.”

She’d been prepared to die nobly in front of a firing squad. She wasn’t prepared for this. She tried to rush past the man, but he grabbed her and forced her to the floor. Fabric ripped, and she screamed.

A thunk echoed through the stable, and then the man’s weight pressed down on her, unmoving.

“Hurry, miss.”

Nadia wriggled from underneath the Bolshevik to see the groom. Dima had saved her with the swing of a shovel. But the other agents were still nearby, two on the other side of the stable door. Her parents were dead, her blouse was torn, and the Cheka would soon be searching for her. Terror and grief engulfed her, closing her throat and making it hard to speak. “What am I to do?”

Dima took her by the hand and pulled her to her feet. “Come on.”

“They shot my parents, Dima.”

“I know. And I’m sorry for it. I couldn’t do anything for them, but you can escape. Climb to the loft.”

Nadia tried to follow his instructions, but her limbs shook so much that he had to help her along.

“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.

She ducked into an alley to remove her brooch, then buttoned Dima’s jacket again. It wouldn’t do for anyone to see her ripped blouse or, worse, the torn chemise underneath. She kept the brooch inside her hand and kept her hand in the jacket pocket.

A man with a variety of watches and jewelry occupied a stall a block away. None of the items seemed new, nor of as high a quality as her piece.

“Excuse me, sir. Do you also buy secondhand items?”

“Sometimes.”

“How much would you give me for this?” Nadia showed him the brooch.

The man took it, examined it from multiple angles, and weighed it in his hands. “Sixty kopecks.”

Sixty kopecks? The brooch was worth rubles, not kopecks. She wasn’t going to be cheated out of her brooch the way she’d been cheated out of two cigarettes. She wanted—needed—its full value. She held out her hand. “I think I’ll look for a better offer.”

The man ran his thumb over the stone. “Eighty kopecks.”

Eighty still wasn’t enough, not for a gem of that size.

“This is real gold and a real aquamarine.”

“One ruble. That’s my final offer. Who would I find to buy something like this? It would never sell for its full value.”

Nadia reached for it. The man returned it with a hint of regret in his pursed lips. There had to be other merchants she could try. Or she could solicit a well-to-do woman directly. Would they think her a thief in her current clothing? That couldn’t be helped. She needed money, and she needed it soon, before the Bolsheviks found her.

“Excuse me, miss?”

Nadia turned.

A tall man in a wool frock coat and a fur ushanka stood nearby. “I couldn’t help overhearing. I’m in need of a gift for my wife, and nothing I’ve seen will do. Perhaps we could come to a mutually beneficial agreement about the brooch you’re hawking?”

Finally, something was working in her favor. “This would be a lovely gift for your wife.” Nadia held out the brooch and allowed the man to examine it.

“Would you accept twenty rubles for it?”

“Yes.” Her mother no doubt spent more than twenty rubles on it, but it wasn’t new, so the price seemed fair. Twenty rubles ought to get her to the Black Sea.

The man dug in his pocket with one hand.

Someone yanked on Nadia’s left sleeve. She turned to see a small boy with sandy blond hair peeping from his knitted cap.

“Yes?” she said.

“Do you have any change, miss? I’m lost, and I haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

The poor boy. His clothing was worn, and she doubted it kept out the winter chill. She was hungry and cold herself, so she understood. “Here. You can trade these.” She handed him the rest of Dima’s cigarettes. It wasn’t much, but a wise trade could fill his belly. A boy like that was probably better at bargaining than she was and would undoubtedly get more than one small roll.

“Thank you, miss.” The boy smiled, revealing crooked teeth, and then rushed off.

Nadia turned back to the man needing a gift for his wife. But he wasn’t there. The man—and her brooch—were gone.

Chapter Five

Nadia searched for the man, rushing through the market and exploring every alley. She looked for the boy, too, as suspicion that he had been part of the theft grew. She’d wanted so badly for someone to step in and offer her a way forward, some type of escape. That desire had blinded her common sense, and she’d fallen for their con.

Now she had no brooch, no cigarettes, and no money.

She walked along a street lined with wooden homes, almost ready to give up the search. Even if she found the man, she was unlikely to get her brooch back unless someone of authority was with her, and she didn’t dare approach anyone like that for fear they worked with the Cheka.

Her steps halted. Not five houses down were two of the men who had shot her parents. Her hand flew to her mouth, and she spun around, gasping as grief and fear tightened her chest. She was walking too fast; she’d attract their attention. But if she didn’t run, they might catch her.

She had to be sensible. Long strides, steady pace. Like someone rushing to get out of the cold. She’d escaped the night before; she could do it again. They weren’t looking for someone in a groom’s well-worn jacket, nor someone with such untidy hair. It had been dark in the courtyard. She doubted they’d remember if her skirt was black or gray or navy.

She prayed for divine aid. Prayers hadn’t helped her the day before, but she was desperate, and Mama said God was always there, even when it was too dark to see Him. Nadia turned one corner, then another. When she looked back, she didn’t recognize anyone. She kept up her pace for another block, and before her lay the train depot.

Swarms of soldiers moved about. Civilians too, but they were the minority. A group of armed men marched past. Those ribbons on their caps—they were part of the Czechoslovak Legion.

The women in the bakery had said the Czechs and Slovaks were withdrawing. If Nadia could somehow get a ride with them . . .

It was so strange to be a beggar. No money, no family. She was completely dependent on the generosity of others, and so far that day, she’d seen little kindness. But the soldiers she’d met when she’d fallen off Konstantin had been decent men. Probably low-born, ill-educated, and poor, but willing to help. Would they offer help again? Passage out of the Ukraine was a significantly larger favor than help back onto a horse.

She pushed into the crowd. Even if she couldn’t find help, it would be hard for the Bolsheviks to see her among the commotion of the train depot. The Czechs and Slovaks had discipline, making the tumult orderly. They reminded her of a guards unit, but elite Russian units like that had all but disappeared, destroyed by a war, a pair of revolutions, and a series of mass desertions.

Luck was with her—Dalek Pokorný stood before a short, powerfully built man with dark eyes and dark hair. Dalek nodded and then marched off. He hadn’t saluted, but something about the motion suggested he was following orders. She peered more closely at the man with the dark features: strong jaw, upright bearing, and a no-nonsense appearance. A typical gymnastyorka-style tunic with a Sam Browne belt. Polished boots. An officer, unless the silver chevrons on his sleeve were lying.

She ran a hand over her hair, smoothing it so she’d be more presentable. The officer called to another man, who came to him, listened, nodded, and also walked off. Then another man spoke with him.

Nadia glanced around, scanning faces, hoping she wouldn’t see the Cheka agents. While in Piryatin, she would live in terror. She needed to get out. She waited while the officer spoke with yet another man, then she stepped forward. “Excuse me, sir.”

“Yes?” His dark eyes turned on her.

“How might one secure passage with your army to Russia? I’m anxious to leave, and though my skills are modest, I am willing to do whatever is asked.” That wasn’t entirely true. There were some things she wouldn’t do, but she was desperate enough to offer menial labor. And she had useful abilities. “I’m a trained nurse.” As a volunteer, she’d received a shortened course of instruction, but she’d proven herself valuable in a Petrograd hospital for wounded officers.

The man looked past her, annoyance on his face. “I have an entire army to evacuate, part of which is still engaged with the enemy, and I have very few trains with which to do it. I also have a very large, very formidable German Army bearing down on me. I barely have space for members of the Czechoslovak Legion and their families. I don’t have room for anyone else.”

“But you don’t understand. The Bolsheviks killed my parents. They almost killed me. They will if they catch me. And I’ve done nothing wrong.” Nadia hated to beg, but more than that, she dreaded falling into the Cheka’s hands again. “Please.”

The officer’s stern look softened, then another man ran up to him, and the officer’s attention shifted away from her.

“Excuse me, miss.”

Nadia turned to the new voice. The man seemed familiar—one of the soldiers who’d been shaving when she’d been thrown from her horse. “Yes?”

He motioned her away from the thickest part of the crowd and pulled at the brim of his cap. “Corporal Jakub Zeman, at your service. I don’t suppose you remember, but—”

“I do remember you, Corporal.” She hadn’t remembered his name among all the others thrown at her that day, but he didn’t need to know that. She would remember it now.

“I overheard your conversation with Lieutenant Kral. And I have a proposal.”

She waited. Would Corporal Zeman show her mercy? Hide her in one of the trains?

“Kral will only take members of the legion and their families. So marry me. Become my family.”

Had she heard him right? “But I don’t know you.”

He shrugged. “You can stay here, then. I don’t suppose the Bolsheviks will offer you a better deal, but perhaps the German Army will show mercy. Doubtful, but it’s your choice. You want a ticket out of here. I want someone to wash my clothes and cook my food and warm my bed. Seems to me like it’s a match.”

Nadia took a step back. He wanted her to marry him? To sleep with him? She didn’t mind the idea of cooking and washing in exchange for passage—she didn’t know how to cook or clean, but she was willing to learn—but the rest? He wasn’t ugly, but he wasn’t particularly refined either. Nadia Ilyinichna Linskaya, married to a lowly enlisted man? Her father would turn in his grave, if he were buried. But that was the problem: Papa was dead, and that left her with nothing. Which was worse: marrying a stranger or falling into the hands of the Cheka? There was another option: she could set off on foot. But with no money and few skills, she doubted she’d get far.

If the Bolsheviks caught her, she could expect death. If she set out on her own, the result would likely be the same. Zeman offered an alternative, but he didn’t offer her a chance to be a wife. He offered her a chance to be a slave. And yet, if the choice was between death and slavery, was slavery so bad? Her father and her mother had been willing to leave Russia to save her life, to preserve a future for their family line. She owed it to them to honor their wishes and live, even if it involved a distasteful marriage.

Corporal Zeman narrowed his eyes at something behind her. “What are you looking at, Sedlák? She wants out of the Ukraine, and Kral doesn’t have room for anyone but family. I’m giving her a way out.”

Nadia turned and recognized the man who’d found Konstantin for her. Apparently, that day hadn’t been the only time something had prevented Filip Sedlák from shaving, because his cheeks were again covered in stubble.

Zeman continued. “You’re just jealous because I thought of it first. I remember that day. We all agreed she’s pleasant on the eyes.”

“I remember commenting that she rode a fine horse. I don’t recall saying anything about the physical appearance of our grand duchess.”

Grand duchess? She’d told them quite clearly she was not a grand duchess. Yet the playful tone suggested Filip wasn’t serious, nor did it sound as if he were mocking her.

Zeman rolled his eyes. “For a sharpshooter, you have extremely poor vision. Or extremely poor taste.”

Filip stared down Zeman and motioned toward the officer. “Kral wants you. A problem with one of the engines.”

Zeman frowned, then took Nadia by the shoulders. His grasp was firm and possessive, and it reminded her of the man who’d attacked her. “Think it over. I doubt you’ll get a better offer. If I were you, I’d not let me out of your sight.” He left then, weaving his way among the crowd.

Nadia watched him go. He would be better than the men who’d killed her parents. But she could never love someone who would race into marriage with so little forethought and so much greed. Marrying him would get her out of the Ukraine, but then she’d be his wife until one of them died. It would save her life and doom it, all with one ceremony.

“He’s not always as bad as he seems,” Filip said. “He’s a skilled mechanic. We have 6,000 miles ahead of us, so he’ll be in high demand.”

In so much demand that he’d never bed his wife? No, that was too much to hope for. “So you suggest I marry him?” She turned to face Filip. He wasn’t any handsomer than Corporal Zeman, but something about him made him seem less intimidating, like a falcon instead of a vulture.

“No.” Filip hesitated, then spoke softly. “If you need a husband to escape, you could marry me instead.”

“And why should I choose you instead of him?” He didn’t make her as nervous as Zeman did, but that was hardly grounds for marriage.

“Well, I won’t make you my slave. I’ll expect you to pull your own weight, but if you need out, we can marry, and when we get to Vladivostok or Paris or wherever it is you want to go, we can get an annulment. You’ll have your escape, and then you’ll have your life.”

A temporary marriage. “Would we be able to get an annulment?”

“I imagine so. Are you Christian?”

“Yes.” Her Tatar ancestors had converted centuries ago.

“Orthodox, I assume?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Catholic. If we never consummate the marriage, then I imagine the annulment will be a simple matter.”

He wouldn’t expect her to—how had Zeman put it?—warm his bed? She wasn’t experienced when it came to marital relations, and the attack last night had left her wary in the extreme. Filip Sedlák suddenly sounded like a far better choice than Jakub Zeman.

“Why would you help me?”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes looked past her, not focused on the here and now. “Because Corporal Zeman reminds me of my sister’s husband, and he’s brought her very little happiness. No woman deserves a marriage like that.”

He seemed sincere, and she was desperate. “If I agreed, what would be expected of me?”

“What are your skills?”

“Well, I’m not an accomplished cook. And I don’t have much experience with laundry or cleaning.” She’d never even tried. “But I speak several languages: Russian, French, English, and German. I can read and write in all of them, of course. And I was a volunteer Sister of Mercy most of the war.”

“That could be useful.” His thumb rubbed against the muzzle of the rifle he carried. “Are you willing to learn the rest? The cooking and the cleaning?”

“I am.”

“I imagine you’re accustomed to others serving you. You’ll have to give that up. I won’t expect you to do my work for me, but I can’t do yours for you either.”

Her former life was gone; she knew that down to her bones. “If you will be patient with me, I will strive to do my share.”

He nodded. “That’s good enough for me.”

“And . . .” Dare she bring it up? Better to make it clear than to leave it vague. “You won’t expect me to warm your bed?”

“No. It will be a perfect sham marriage. Lasting only as long as you want it to. There aren’t enough train carriages for couples to have their own space, so you’ll sleep in a car full of women, and I’ll sleep in a car full of men.”

She studied his face. It was pleasant enough. He seemed honest, but could she trust her instincts and rely on him? He’d followed her home . . . to protect her? He claimed his current offer was one of kindness. Surely he would expect something in return. But if he kept his word, she would scrub his shirts and learn to cook his favorite meals and do everything she could to ensure he didn’t regret his charity. “Then I will accept your offer, with gratitude.”

His lips relaxed into a smile. “My unit is marching out soon, so I suggest we find a priest and a few witnesses.”

That nervous worry returned. Was he manipulating her? But the depot had gone crazy with men rushing here and there, moving equipment and organizing themselves into ranks. Of course he would have duties—he was a soldier, a corporal. As much as she would have preferred time to prepare, speed was necessary.

For years, she had planned to marry Oleg Petrov, an officer in the Imperial Russian Army, with an established family, a thorough education, and a promising future. Instead, she would marry a corporal from Bohemia or Moravia or some other faraway, insignificant place. She knew nothing about his past or the prospects for his future. She certainly hadn’t expected to wear a blouse torn by an attacking lowlife to the ceremony. Nor had she expected to marry a scruffy man she’d seen only twice.

“My name is Nadia.” She almost gave her full name, but Dima’s warning stopped her. She couldn’t use Linskaya anymore, so she gave him the first surname she thought of. “Nadia Petrova.”

“I’m Filip Sedlák.”

“So my name will be Nadia Sedláková.”

“For as long as you like.”

It wasn’t ideal. But it seemed the best of her options.

Chapter Six

“He just met her. It’s insane!” Veronika stood with Anton outside the church where Filip and his new wife had just been married. “How can you support something that makes a mockery of marriage?”

“He’s my friend, and I trust his judgment.” Anton had married a woman he adored, so he understood Veronika’s sentiment, but he’d never seen Filip do something without good reason. Surely this was no exception.

The hard lines of Veronika’s face softened. “I feel like we’ve been witnesses to something blasphemous.”

“Give them time.”

Veronika shook her head. Her indignation seemed to have disappeared, but that didn’t mean she agreed. “You don’t have to fall in line with him on everything, especially not when he goes and does something like this. He tells you to join the legion, so you do. He tells you to witness his marriage to a stranger, so you do. Where will it end, Anton?”

“He also told me to marry you, so I did.”

Veronika’s beautifully curved eyebrows scrunched up in confusion. “He told you to marry me?”

“When he came to Taganrog, I told him I wasn’t sure I wanted to join the legion. I wasn’t eager to jump into the war again, and besides, I had a decent job in a munitions factory that paid three rubles a month, and I was seeing a pretty little Czech girl who I wasn’t sure I wanted to leave. So he told me to ‘marry the girl and bring her with us.’ I doubt I would’ve worked up the courage to ask you otherwise.”

Veronika put her dainty hand on his elbow. “Well, I suppose if Filip’s responsible for that, I can overlook his unusual choice for matrimony.”

“Do you think you could also help the new Mrs. Sedláková get settled into the women’s train?”

Veronika nibbled her bottom lip, and her eyes told him she didn’t want to.

“She’ll need a friend, Veronika.”

“She won’t want me. Look at her. She may be penniless, but she’s still an aristocrat. What will she think of me—the daughter of poor Czech immigrants? My Russian is clumsy, and I know nothing of high society. She’ll think me a backward peasant.”

Ire rose in Anton’s chest. How dare anyone insult his sweet, beautiful Veronika. But Filip’s wife hadn’t insulted her; Veronika was just worried that she might. “These are new times. Birth doesn’t matter as much now. And you are as fine a woman as any I’ve ever seen.”

Her lips softened.

Anton led her farther down the street, toward the train station. “If she gives you anything other than courtesy, you’re under no obligation to help her. But will you give it a try, for Filip’s sake?”

She squeezed his hand. “No. But I’ll give it a try for your sake.”

He kissed her cheek. He wanted to kiss her lips, too, but that would make a scene, and neither of them would like the attention. “Thank you.”

“Be careful, wherever Kral is sending you. I’ll keep you in my prayers.”

“And I’ll keep you in mine.” He watched her walk to the women’s car. He’d had six months as her husband and was beginning to think he’d need six lifetimes.

Anton waited until Filip had shown his bride to the train coach. He couldn’t hear the words, but he saw Veronika greet the former aristocrat. She was brave, his Veronika, willing to risk ridicule to help the friend of a friend.

“Felicitations on your wedding day,” Anton said when Filip joined him and the women disappeared from view.

Filip’s lips moved into something like a frown. “I hope I haven’t made a mistake.”

“I’ve heard of people falling in love instantly. Some might scoff, but I believe it’s possible. My father claims he felt that for my mother, fell in love with her the day their parents arranged the marriage.”

“In my case, I wouldn’t call it love. More an insane urge to help someone.”

Anton looked back at the train. “Why exactly did you just get married?”

“Her father was part of the tsar’s regime. Some of his enemies attacked, killed both her parents, tried to kill her. She needed an escape. Kral said he only had room for the legion and its families, so Zeman offered to marry her. His idea of marriage sounded a lot like slavery. I couldn’t let him take advantage of her like that.”

“So you offered to marry her yourself?”

“Yes. With promise of an annulment when she wants one.”

Veronika’s talk of blasphemy was more on point than Anton had realized. “So it’s not a real marriage?”

“No.”

“You’re just helping her get away from the Bolsheviks? That’s the only reason you married her?”

Filip shrugged. “Kral said the Germans are trying to encircle Bakhmach. If they cut off the First Division’s escape route, they’ll slaughter them. Those are the men I fought with in the Družina. I’d still be with them if I hadn’t been wounded at Zborov.”

Anton let his friend change the subject. He’d never been part of the Družina, a Czech reconnaissance unit in the Russian army, but their exploits had earned his respect. “I doubt I know more than a handful of men in the First Division. But they’re my brothers. We all feel that way. We’ll fight to save them.”

Filip clapped Anton on the shoulder. “Off to Bakhmach, then. We’ve got to keep that train depot open.”

***

“You dirty thief.”

Filip hadn’t expected Jakub Zeman to welcome news of his marriage, but he’d been hoping to delay any confrontation. He didn’t want an argument. Especially not while approaching Bakhmach in an open-top ore car. “She wasn’t yours, so I wasn’t really stealing her, was I?”

Zeman cursed. “It was my idea. You distracted me and ruined my plan. Had she been some pretty peasant, I might forgive you. But a woman like that—goodness, I’ve never seen a woman so exquisite. It’s like she’s from a different world. And I almost had her for my own. Don’t think I’ll forget this.”

“That’s the thing, Zeman. I wasn’t thinking about you and what you want. I was thinking about her and what she might want.”

Dalek cleared his throat. “And that is why she married Filip instead of Jakub. A useful lesson for anyone who is still in search of a wife.”

Zeman glared and stalked to the other side of the car. He leaned on a sandbag and looked away.

Filip sighed. He hadn’t meant to cause discord. That was the last thing they needed when facing a German Army intent on cutting them off and annihilating them.

Maybe he should have let Zeman marry Nadia. Filip felt responsible for her now, and he didn’t need the extra burden. But he might have felt responsible for her anyway had she been forced to marry Zeman. It would have been too much like his sister, Eliška, all over again. Filip had gone off to war with a black eye after confronting her brute of a husband, and he may have only made her situation worse. Had he made things worse for Nadia too?

Nadia, his wife, if only for a month or two. Zeman was right. She was exquisite. What would it be like to touch that smooth skin, warm as honey and flawless as new silk? Her hair, her eyes, her lips, her neck. He could stare at beauty like that for hours, the way one watched the ripples of a river or the flames of a fire.

And like with a river or a fire, if he wasn’t careful, he’d end up drowned or burned. Having a pretty wife wasn’t a blessing when she thought her husband little better than the mulch on a stable floor.

The train slowed to a crawl. Their car was open to the elements, so the reduced speed converted the wind from a biting blast to a mild chill. Lieutenant Kral climbed inside, and all the men stood to face him.

“We’ll arrive soon. Bakhmach Station is where the lines from the west merge, then go east into Russia. Red guardsmen are holding one of the lines open. I’ve received mixed reports of their reliability, but for now, they’re working with us. Most of the German Army is to the west, but reports have come through of advance units already reaching Bakhmach. We can’t get the station by radio, so we’re not sure who has it. Our job is to keep the trains moving and throw out anyone not willing to cooperate.”

“For how long?” Dalek asked.

“Until the entire legion is evacuated.”

“What do we know of the First Division?” Filip asked.

“Communication has been sporadic. There was a battle in Kiev, with our men trying to hold the bridge over the Dnieper and the Germans trying to take it. We took some losses, but so did they.”

“Enough to stop them?” Dalek asked, a hopeful tone to his voice.

“As I said, communication has been off and on. But I expect the Germans are still at their heels.”

Dalek leaned against the stack of sandbags. “So the First Division is pulling back from Kiev toward Bakhmach, moving east. We’re going to Bakhmach, moving west. And the Germans are everywhere.”

“Add in the Bolsheviks fighting the Ukrainian Nationalists, and that about sums it up.” Kral looked around. “We’re unlikely to get more information until we reach Bakhmach. Stay together and follow orders. If something happens and you get separated, make for Russia—Kursk or Penza. We’ll try to gather stragglers here, but it will be easier to do in Russia, without the German Army to contend with.” Kral paused for questions, but there were none. “Sedlák, take a patrol to the left. See what you find and report back. Zeman, you take the rest and go right.”

The engine slowed further. Filip checked his Mosin-Nagant rifle. Not all the men had firearms, but most at least had grenades. And sometimes the eyes were the most valuable weapon. Everyone had those.

“I’ve never fought in a town before.” Anton stood next to Filip, checking the bolt of his rifle.

“You’ll be behind walls instead of inside a trench. Keep out of sight as much as possible. Don’t walk in the middle of the street because then they can shoot you from both sides. And don’t stop moving unless you’re sheltered.”

Anton nodded. He didn’t say much, not normally. Filip couldn’t tell if he was nervous or just clarifying tactics.

Filip was nervous. He’d done scout work before—that was the Družina’s specialty—but he usually went in quietly. He’d fought in battles before too, but always with a more thorough briefing. This time he was blind and exposed.

The train halted completely. They were on the outskirts of town, rather than at the station. He didn’t see anyone, which didn’t guarantee no one could see him, but they would have to risk it. “Come on.”

Filip climbed from the ore car and dropped to the ground, then made for the nearest shelter, some type of warehouse. Bits of gravel and rock crunched behind him as the other men followed. The sky was cloudy and dark, threatening rain or snow. He paused behind a wooden building and checked his men. Seven of them. “I assume the train station is that way.” He pointed along the track toward the center of town. “We’ll get the most important information there. Best if we observe first, then coordinate with the others if we need to attack. Dalek, Emil, get to the roof and observe from there. You have field glasses?”

Dalek nodded.

“Good. Watch yourselves. Don’t make silhouettes. You three”—he pointed to Petr and two recruits recently released from camps for Slavic war prisoners—“keep to the edge of town, note where the civilians are, and come back if you run into anything military. But find out who.” The Germans would want them dead, but the Ukrainians or the Russians might cooperate. “Use our standard small-group tactics. Two of you cover while the other moves.”

“Just like when we were tailing the grand duchess.” One of the new recruits chuckled. “But we’ll be avoiding bullets instead of glares.”

Filip almost laughed until it hit him that the grand duchess was Nadia, his wife in name only, and that they hadn’t delivered her to safety as they’d intended. The manor had become the Cheka’s killing ground the very next day, and Nadia had barely escaped.

He’d left everything behind once, except his pack and his rifle. He supposed that was something he and Nadia had in common. Maybe the only thing. But he’d crept away rather than run for his life, and his parents hadn’t been murdered. He’d deserted to the Družina and trusted them to look past his uniform and give him a chance to fight for something he didn’t despise. Nadia had fled to the Czechoslovak Legion for a chance to live. He’d found brotherhood and purpose. Only time could tell what Nadia would find.

Dalek and Emil disappeared behind a door with crooked hinges, and Petr’s group rushed ahead.

“You want me with you?” Anton asked.

“Yes. We’re taking a more direct route to the train station.”

Filip led Anton around the building and through a narrow alley. Had Dalek been the one following him, he would have made some quip about how “more direct” sounded a lot like “more dangerous,” but Anton didn’t seem to believe in unnecessary chatter. Unless it involved his wife. The two of them had plenty to say to each other, which didn’t at all ease the weight Filip felt from being assigned to lead this patrol. Anton and Veronika were happy. They wouldn’t be happy anymore if Filip fouled up and Anton ended up dead.

Of course, the lovebirds also wouldn’t be happy if the Germans captured Anton and shot him as a traitor. Technically, he was. Like Filip, Anton was a subject of Austria-Hungary. Or he had been in 1914; things were less clear now. Anton hadn’t voluntarily crossed the lines the way Filip had. When in a hopeless position, his unit had been captured by the Russians and made war prisoners. But regardless of whether defection or defeat had brought Anton to Russia, joining the Czechoslovak Legion would earn him a death sentence if caught.

“They’re up.”

Filip turned at Anton’s remark and caught sight of Dalek and Emil on the roof of the warehouse. In other circumstances, he would have waited for them to make their observations and report, but Kral was desperate for news. They didn’t have time for in-depth planning. They would have to rely on boldness instead.

Filip and Anton moved forward, doing their best to stay out of sight. The town was quiet—too quiet. If life in the town hadn’t been somehow interrupted, people would be going about their business as usual, selling, buying, cleaning, living. Instead, the streets were deserted.

“Hold up here and cover me.” Filip approached a house surrounded by a fence and sheltered by pine and hornbeam.

No one answered his knock. He pushed the door open, leading with his bayonet, then took a deep breath and rushed in. The room was abandoned. No one at the wooden table or beside the stove, but the stove still emitted warmth, and the air smelled of smoke. He moved aside a curtain that partitioned the room; no one was in the bed either.

He went back outside. Instinct made him pull his rifle to his shoulder as a man ran toward them. “Anton, get down! Never mind, it’s Dalek.” He lowered his weapon.

At the false alarm, a sly grin appeared briefly on Anton’s face before fading into his normal placid expression. “No one inside?”

“No. But it hasn’t been empty for long.”

Dalek hopped a fence and joined them.

“What is it?” Filip asked.

Dalek pointed toward the town center. “There’s a machine gun at the station, about two blocks from here. Manned by German soldiers.”

“We should let Kral know.” Filip looked toward the train they’d left behind. “Who wants to go back and tell him?”

Dalek chuckled. “You’re the corporal, so you can order. But neither of us is foolish enough to volunteer when we can wait here behind a sturdy stone wall instead.”

“Why did Kral put you under me? You’re as bad as the Bolsheviks. No respect for the chain of command.” Even if Dalek had been different, it would have been challenging for Filip to command someone he’d known since they were boys learning the pommel horse and the vault. There hadn’t been any rank back then, just friendship, and a taste for mischief and adventure.

“You don’t think the Bolsheviks have a hierarchy?” Dalek asked. “They may preach equality, but so far, that just seems like an excuse to steal from anyone who has more than they do.”

“I’ll go.” Filip glanced up and down the street. “You two can wait here. It’s as good a place as any. Kral needs to know what he’s up against.”

As if it knew it was under discussion, the machine gun went into action. Filip ducked, even though he knew it wasn’t aimed at him.

“Change of plans, brothers. It sounds like Zeman’s group just ran into that gun.” Filip looked back to the warehouse. “Is Emil still there?”

“Unless he’s been shot.” Dalek had moved closer to the ground, too, in response to the gunfire.

“See if he can signal Petr’s group. I think we’ll need all of us. Anton and I will move closer, and I want the rest of our group to join us.”

Dalek ran off, back to the warehouse.

“You’ve known each other long?” Anton asked as they moved forward, hunched over and hugging the sides of the buildings.

“Since we were seven.”

“Has he changed much since then?”

“Well, he’s taller, and he’s gotten better at the parallel bars, but no, not much has changed. He still can’t decide if he’s a comedian or a cynic. I suppose both are useful at times.” Filip held up a hand, and the two men slowed. A shadow passed in front of a second-story window across the street. Filip aimed his rifle but held his fire. The shadow could be anyone—a child, a woman, or a sniper.

“Can you tell if it’s a soldier?” Filip asked.

“No.” Anton squinted.

They waited until Petr’s group approached from the west. The figure in the window moved again, revealing a flash of field-gray uniform. Filip fired. The German soldier slumped forward, and his rifle fell, clattering into the dirt below.

“I’ll fetch it.” Anton ran across the road to pick up the Gewehr 98. Everyone in their group was armed, but plenty of men in the legion weren’t. If they could collect a few more rifles, they’d be better able to fight their way into Russia.

Dalek and all the others arrived, and after hearing their reports, Filip led the group forward. He kept the point position, and the rest of the squad fanned out, covering each other’s movements as they flitted among deserted houses and shops. The rat-tat-tat of the machine gun sounded off and on. Either Zeman’s group was still alive and probing, or Kral had sent in reinforcements.

According to Emil, the machine gun was positioned to cover anyone approaching from the tracks. That was undoubtedly what Zeman’s group had done, so Filip would attack from the other direction.

The machine gun lulled right as Filip reached one of the station’s windows. He waited. He wanted the gun’s noise to cover the sound of breaking glass, but he didn’t want to wait too long. The Germans would have lookouts.

The instant the machine gun fired again, Filip smashed the glass with the butt of his rifle and went through the window. Emil and Anton ran to join him, then followed him inside. They weren’t in the main part of the station yet, which gave them time. They ducked under the ticket counters and waited for the others to join them.

“Who has grenades?”

Dalek, Emil, and Petr raised their hands. Filip nodded, then peeked over the counter. The Germans had set the machine gun in a window. It was a good position. Anyone approaching it from outside would have a devil of a time trying to get close enough to lob a grenade or shoot the gunners.

Filip pointed. “Dalek, there’s your target.” He didn’t know how well Petr or Emil could aim, but Dalek had been good at hitting carriages carrying government bureaucrats when they were younger. He assumed that talent hadn’t disappeared and that throwing a grenade would be much the same as hurling rocks or rotten eggs.

Dalek slipped closer. “You’ll cover me?”

“Of course.”

Dalek nodded.

“Now.” Filip popped up, Dalek with him. Dalek heaved the grenade while Filip shot the first man who turned to them. He ejected his casing and aimed again. Then the grenade went off, and there were no more targets.

“Come on!” Filip kicked open the half-door that separated the ticket counter from the rest of the station and ran toward the gun. One of the fallen soldiers stretched, trying to reach his rifle. Filip shot him. The rest of the men secured the gun emplacement.

“Does it still work?” Filip asked as Anton inspected the machine gun, a Maxim.

“It should.”

Filip crept closer to the windows to look at the tracks. Wind slipped through the broken glass to grab at his face. A few bodies lay on the ground—members of the legion who the Germans had caught while in the open. “Zeman?”

The reply came from across the tracks. “Sedlák?”

“We’ve secured the station, and we’re going out for the wounded. Don’t shoot us, eh?”

Chapter Seven

Nadia woke the next morning unsure where she was. It took her a moment to remember the boxcar and all the events that had led her there. Terror, tragedy, and a bargain with Filip.

The women around her were already moving. About forty of them shared the boxcar, and they’d slept on bunks stacked three high. Light from the cracked door showed a dozen of them washing their faces with cloths moistened in a bucket. A few soft giggles floated up to her.

“That one—sleeping the day away!”

Were they talking about her? She’d retired early and was only now waking up, but she’d spent the night before running for her life. Was it any surprise she needed extra rest? She didn’t want the other women to think she was lazy, but she didn’t want to explain what had happened either. Her parents’ deaths were still too raw. Mama had often spoken of how the Lord would bear their griefs and carry their sorrows, but that morning, both grief and sorrow were heavy enough to crush.

Nadia lay on the top tier of the bunks. She looked below to make sure she wouldn’t kick anyone, then climbed down. She didn’t have a rag, but she had Dima’s handkerchief. She fished it from her pocket and glanced at it, but the dim light made it difficult to judge its cleanliness. Regardless, it would have to do.

She slid next to Veronika and held a hand out to the bucket. “May I use some?”

“Of course. We all take turns with the fetch and carry.” Veronika smiled, and Nadia relaxed a bit. The Czech woman had been kind to her the night before, helping her find a bunk and lending her a blanket.

Nadia washed her face and neck. She would normally wash far more than that but not in front of so many others, nor in an unheated boxcar during winter. She wasn’t sure how clean the water was anyway, with so many people sharing it. She felt her hair. Half of it had come loose, so she pulled the few hairpins that remained from the tangles. She tried to fix it with her fingers.

“I don’t suppose the Bolsheviks let you pack a brush?” Veronica asked.

“No.”

“Throw it into a braid, and we’ll go eat.”

Nadia had never done her own hair before. Maids had arranged it, or Mama. If she’d known how to do it herself, she would have braided it before bed, and it wouldn’t have grown so tangled. She fingered the ends, long enough to reach her navel. “How exactly does one braid hair?”

Veronika’s eyes widened. Another woman snickered and turned away. Nadia’s face grew warm at yet another reminder of how woefully unprepared she was for life on her own.

Veronika glanced at the laughing woman and nibbled her lip. “I’ll show you.” Veronika undid her own hair, which had been braided and wrapped around her head like a crown. Then she braided it again.

When Nadia tried to follow her example, it was an utter mess. She couldn’t see what she was doing, and strands kept slipping through her fingers.

“Here.” Veronika undid her hair yet again. “It’s easier to learn on someone else. Practice on me.”

Nadia took a deep breath and divided Veronika’s hair into three parts. “Your husband is a Slovak?”

“Yes.”

Nadia tried to remember all Anton had said that day she’d fallen from her horse. “And he worked with a doctor for a time?”

Veronika moved her head a bit as if to turn and chat, then stopped. “Yes. While he was in a camp for war prisoners. He wants to become a doctor. Before the war, he hadn’t a hope of getting into school as a Slovak. But maybe things will be different once the war ends.”

“A doctor. You must be proud.” Nadia was managing to keep the bits of hair straight, but she hadn’t divided it evenly. The braid wasn’t anywhere near as neat or as tight as Veronika’s previous one.

“I am proud of him, but going to Pressburg is more hope than certainty. He’s not from the city, but that’s where he’d study.”

“Are you from Pressburg?”

“No. I was born in Russia to Czech parents. And you? Where are you from?”

Nadia wove another strand of hair into place. “Well, we usually wintered in Saint Petersburg—Petrograd. I don’t know that I’ll ever get used to calling it that. We stayed there until Easter, then we’d go to our estate in the country, in Tambov Oblast. We had a home in Moscow, too, of course.”

Most of the other women had already left the boxcar. Those who remained suddenly showed less than friendly expressions on their faces. Had she said something wrong? Then she understood. Her simple answer had sounded like bragging. Before the revolution, it had all seemed so normal to her, winters in the city, summers in the country, a townhome here, a manor there. Her family and most of their associates had lived that way. But to the women in the boxcar, who had grown up with far less, it must have sounded grand and wasteful. Her face heated again as she scrambled for something else to say. “Will you follow your husband to France and then to his home?”

“Yes. It’s exciting, isn’t it? We might get to see Paris. A little frightening too. They took the station at Bakhmach yesterday, but the Germans are still all around, trying to cut us off.”

“Are we in danger of capture?” Nadia’s hand trembled for a moment at the thought of the Germans catching them. Would they be any kinder than the Bolsheviks? Nikolai had fallen in battle against the Germans. She feared and hated them.

“No, they sent us ahead, along with the wounded and most of the supplies they’re finding.”

That was a relief. Nadia finished the braid and examined her work. “Mrs. Tothova, I’m afraid I’ve done a horrible job with your hair.”

“You can call me Veronika. And you’ll get better with experience.” Veronika reached back and put her hand on Nadia’s. “I’ll redo it, and then I’ll do yours, and then we’ll have breakfast. We’ll have plenty of time to practice when we start moving again.”

Veronika undid her hair and began braiding it properly. “Have you ever been to France?”

“No.” But she and her parents had almost fled there. If they’d only left before the Cheka had found them . . . Now her family was dead, and she was married to a stranger. “Veronika, how well do you know Filip Sedlák?”

“He is my husband’s friend.”

“Is he a good sort of man?”

Veronika didn’t answer right away. She finished her hair, and as she turned to Nadia, she nibbled on her lip again. “Why would you marry someone if you didn’t already know the answer to that question?”

***

The blast of a German grenade nearly knocked Filip from his feet. It made his ears ring and rocked the barricade of torn-up rail lines, tree trunks, and furniture that he and his squad were manning from a shallow trench.

At least it gave him an excuse to feel off balance.

Marriage. Surely he could have found a less complicated way of extending charity.

But he’d sensed Nadia’s helplessness, and Filip knew all about helplessness. He’d felt it when his father had alternated between depression and drunkenness, felt it when his sister’s marriage had turned oppressive and unhappy, felt it when he had been called to fight for an emperor he loathed. His time on the battlefield had taken his helplessness to a new extreme. He hadn’t wanted to leave Nadia to that, not when it was within his power to provide a way out.

The Sixth Regiment, Kral’s group among them, had captured and held the station at Bakhmach. They’d even worked out an agreement with the Bolsheviks to cooperate against the German onslaught. Now they were on the outskirts of Doch, keeping a much larger German force away from the evacuations at Bakhmach.

“Can we pull back yet?” Dalek peered over a log and fired at a German soldier who had crept far from safety to hurl his grenade.

“Not till Kral says.” Filip found a target, lined up his sights, and shot. He ejected the casing and found another enemy to aim at as the cool breeze softened the acrid scent of gunpowder.

Anton scurried over to them and grabbed a handful of clips. “I think they’re serious this time.”

A barrage of bullets thumped into the barricade in front of them. The men ducked farther into the trench, huddling next to the damp earthen walls.

Dalek grunted. “I don’t think we can stop them.”

“We don’t have to stop them.” Filip shot at the lead man in a group of five trying to sneak past a warehouse. He fell, and the rest of the soldiers scattered. “We just need to slow them.”

“We’ve already delayed them for two days. Isn’t that enough?”

Filip didn’t mind Dalek’s complaints as long as he kept hitting his targets. “We’re supposed to coordinate with the Bolsheviks when we pull back.” The retreat would come soon, Filip could feel it. The enemy’s current efforts to breach the legion’s lines were more threatening than any of the previous ones.

“You trust the Reds?” Dalek looked away from the advancing German soldiers for an instant and met Filip’s eyes.

“No.” Filip was grateful for their assistance—the legion needed all the help it could get—but that didn’t mean he trusted them, so he’d sent Petr to monitor their every move.

“And you, Anton, do you trust them?” Dalek asked.

Anton glanced toward the Bolshevik positions. “I don’t agree with their politics or with what they’re doing to the Russian church. And yesterday, they ran. So, no, I don’t trust them. But Jakub Zeman is eating up every word they say. Some of the others too.”

“Jakub Zeman, letting the Reds recruit from his squad. Imagine that.” Dalek grunted and aimed his rifle again.

“Didn’t the Bolsheviks make peace with the Germans?” Anton asked. “Why are they helping us?”

“Maybe they don’t want to lose the Ukraine.” Dalek scowled. “Besides, we were allies as recently as last month.”

Another German soldier appeared. This time, Emil opened up on him with the Maxim model 1910 they’d captured in Bakhmach. He’d been a machine gunner in the Austro-Hungarian Army before he’d been captured by the Russians, but he was under strict orders to conserve ammunition.

Petr barreled toward the barricade not long after. Was that why Emil had fired? To give Petr cover?

Petr gasped for breath. “The Bolsheviks are pulling back. Kral said we’re to pull back too.”

Filip nodded. He’d gotten little sleep since Bakhmach. He was unlikely to get any more if they withdrew, but at least he’d get a break from the German bullets screeching over his head. “Right. Help Emil get the Maxim. We’ll want it the next time we need to stall them.”

“We’re not going back to Bakhmach?” A frown pulled at Dalek’s lips.

Bakhmach meant evacuation to Russia and a temporary end to fighting an enemy that dramatically outnumbered them. “Not until the rest of the legion makes it through the train depot.”

Petr went to help Emil with the machine gun, but a burst of enemy fire ripped into the mud mere inches from his boots. Petr dove behind the Maxim’s sandbag barrier. If anyone on the gun crew tried to move beyond their shelters, the enemy gun would cut them to pieces.

Dalek swore. “Unless the Germans give up, we’ll have to leave behind our gun and half our squad.”

Filip didn’t want to accept losses like that. He motioned for Dalek and Anton to follow him along the trench toward a row of wooden buildings.

“We built this lovely barrier to stop all manner of German bullets.” Dalek raised an eyebrow. “And now you want to leave it?”

“We need to take out that German machine gun. And you two are among the few who have rifles.” Filip had his rifle and a pistol too, a compact Beholla they’d found on one of the dead Germans at Bakhmach. Filip couldn’t even get all his fingers on the grip, so he was holding out hope for a Luger P08 instead.

Dalek groaned but followed. Anton followed, too, in silence. Filip led them the length of the trench, keeping them sheltered. “I don’t want to leave Doch without Emil and the others. And there’s the matter of the Maxim. We earned it. So first we take out the German gun, then we gather our Maxim and the rest of our squad, and then we pull back. Follow me, but keep a few paces apart.”

Filip rushed behind the nearest building. He paused at the far edge and looked around the corner. He couldn’t see anyone, and between the building and the wide road was a hedge, so it was unlikely anyone could see him. He couldn’t let the Germans spot him, or they’d take better cover, so Filip got to his belly and slithered to the next building through cold, sticky mud. When he was safe behind the building, he stood and tried to scrape off as much of the goop as he could.

“Mud baths?” Dalek joined him, just as muddy as Filip. “This is turning into quite the adventure.”

“You never minded when we were boys.”

“Yes, but the prospects for a bath with clean water and soap weren’t quite so distant in Prague.”

Anton joined them, and Filip handed him his rifle. He looked from the roofline to Dalek. “Boost me up.”

Dalek threaded his hands together to make a foothold and practically threw Filip onto the building’s thatched roof. Filip motioned for his rifle, and once he had it, he crawled forward. The German machine gun would be to the south. He scanned the cluster of buildings that made up Doch. There. He could just make out the muzzle. A flash as the machine gun went into action confirmed it. But Filip didn’t have a clear shot. If he could get a little higher and a bit more to the east . . .

Doch was not a large town, and the Germans had already seized the tallest of the buildings. But a mature oak tree stood in about the right position.

Filip edged his way back, then dropped from the roof.

“Well?” Dalek asked. He and Anton stood guard at opposite ends of the house.

“I can see it, but I don’t have a clear shot. I’m going to try from that tree.”

They made their way to the oak by three separate routes. Dalek boosted Filip to one of the lower branches, and then Filip climbed. He moved slowly, not wanting his rifle to catch a tree limb or the Germans to see him. He was slightly behind the machine-gun nest, but the tree didn’t have its spring foliage yet. He’d be easy to spot if they looked.

Anton and Dalek kept vigil below. Their words drifted up.

“The two of you are either acrobats or monkeys,” Anton said.

Dalek chuckled. “Just avid members of a Prague Sokol club.”

“I thought the Sokols were just covers for Czech Nationalists to get together.”

“That’s what the imperial government said when they banned them in 1915, but we still learned gymnastics.”

Filip smiled to himself and reached for another tree limb. His arms weren’t as limber as they’d been during his Sokol days. The shrapnel that had torn into his shoulder at Zborov had seen to that. But of the three of them, he was the best shot, and he’d had time to sight in his Mosin-Nagant rifle. One more branch and the German machine gun crew would be within view. He removed a glove and held a finger out to test the wind. Barely there, blowing from the south. The range was just under 500 meters. He balanced, aimed, adjusted for wind and distance, and squeezed the trigger.

He ejected the casing and aimed again. His next target was a German soldier who had flung himself to the ground at the first shot. The man must not have known Filip’s position, or he would have found a better place to hide.

Filip had hit two of them, and enemy soldiers would now be looking for a sniper. Filip began the climb down. If Emil and Petr weren’t taking advantage of the distraction he’d caused, they deserved to be abandoned at Doch.

A pair of soldiers ran to the German gun and began turning it toward the tree.

“Get out of there!” Dalek shouted.

Filip tossed his rifle to his friend. He made it down one more branch, and then the machine gun was in position. He was still fifteen feet up.

He was a gymnast, accustomed to falls. He grabbed a branch and swung out, away from the bulk of the oak’s branches, then let go, falling, tucking, then splaying out in time to land hard. He stumbled back, then ran for cover as bullets tore into the branches of the oak tree and shards of wood pelted down all around him.

Behind the wall of a nearby home, Dalek slapped him on the shoulder and handed him his rifle. “Nice shooting. But I would have stuck the landing. Let’s collect our gun and the rest of our squad.”

The withdrawal fell into a pattern after Doch: retreat to cover, wait for the Germans, repulse the Germans, repulse them again, then tear up the tracks and retreat once more. And though the work was dangerous, it was also effective. The mighty German Army advanced but not nearly as fast as it wanted to.

They fought for five days, until the evacuation was almost complete. Then they tore up a few hundred feet of rail line and boarded trains at Bakhmach station. They pulled away at night, heading east.

Filip sincerely hoped that the next time he met the Germans, it would be in France.

Chapter Eight

When the men caught up to them, Nadia felt both relief and anxiety. She wanted Filip to be safe, but how did one act around a temporary husband? She was still learning how to braid Veronika’s hair and cooperate with the other women in the train. Adding Filip, and whatever expectations he might have, made everything more complicated. Would he want more from their relationship than she’d bargained on?

He greeted her with a smile. “How are you?”

“Well, thank you.” She still lived, and that was thanks to the Czechoslovak Legion and Filip Sedlák. What was more, they were on the Russian side of the border. The Cheka had even greater authority here, but local agents wouldn’t be looking for her.

“You’ve had enough food? A place to sleep?”

“Yes.”

He relaxed his stance slightly. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make sure you were taken care of myself. It just happened so fast and . . .”

“You’re a soldier. I understand. Both my brothers served in the Imperial Russian Army.” Of course, they’d been officers. In a similar situation, they could have asked an orderly to see to a temporary wife’s needs, but Filip didn’t have such resources. He was escaping too; the whole legion was, more than seventy trains of them. “I’m grateful for your help.”

“Where are your brothers now? With the White Army? Or the Red?”

“Alexander died near Przemyśl. Nikolai died during the Brusilov Offensive.”

Lines of sympathy formed around his mouth. “So between the war and the revolution, you’ve lost your entire family?”

“Yes.” Nadia hoped he wouldn’t ask any more questions about her family because emotion already tightened her throat.

“I’m sorry.” Maybe he could tell she didn’t want to speak about Alexander and Nikolai just then, because he changed the subject. “Some of the other men and I have something for the car. We’re going to install a stove.”

A bone-gripping chill penetrated the train at nights, leaving Nadia to shiver in her coat and single blanket. She missed the warmth of her family’s homes, where servants always kept the rooms a comfortable temperature. “That sounds lovely.”

“It will probably make the center of the car hot and leave the corners freezing, but somewhere in the middle, it should be pleasant.”

Anton and another soldier appeared then, carrying a secondhand stove. Veronika walked with her husband, a smile lighting her face. Larisa laughed at something the other man said. Nadia assumed he was her husband.

Veronika stayed with Anton, and none of the other women would want Nadia around, so she watched the installation from just outside the boxcar. Filip climbed to the roof and sawed a hole for the stovepipe. It was too small, so he made it larger while Anton and the other soldier worked on the stove itself, bolting it to the floor of the boxcar and fitting the pieces of pipe together.

A stove would mean warmer nights and hot water to wash with. She could make tea—her single cooking skill—for the other women . . . if they had tea, and if she could figure out how to use the stove. It couldn’t be that difficult, could it? Just put the wood in and strike a match. It sounded so simple but so had braiding hair.

Filip stayed on top of the boxcar while Anton started a fire in the newly installed stove to make sure it worked correctly. Smoke floated gracefully from the short chimney. “Is any leaking into the car?” Filip asked.

“No.” Larisa’s husband inspected the pipes. He banged on them to make sure they would hold and nodded his satisfaction. The project was complete.

Filip climbed down with impressive agility and approached Nadia with what seemed like caution. Perhaps he was just as nervous as she was.

She gave him a smile of gratitude. “Thank you. The stove is very welcome.”

“Do you need anything else? I’m off duty at present.”

Had she been in her family’s Petrograd manor or their country estate and had Filip been a servant, she would have given him an extensive list. But he wasn’t her servant and had already rescued her from the Bolsheviks and from a marriage to Jakub Zeman. Now he’d given her warmth. She couldn’t ask him for anything more. “No. Thank you.”

Larisa slipped an arm through her husband’s. “It might be quicker to list what she doesn’t need.”

Larisa and her husband left. Nadia didn’t know if Larisa had meant the statement as an insult or if she’d been trying to help, but regardless of the intentions, Nadia’s face went hot.

Veronika stepped in with a graceful smile. “Corporal Sedlák, she has nothing. She needs a new blouse or two, underclothing, a blanket, and a thicker coat.”

Filip watched Anton and Veronika rush off together, then turned to her. She hoped he wouldn’t be upset that she’d not been more forthright. “I don’t know exactly what to buy,” he said, “so, um, can you come with me, Miss . . . Mrs. What should I call you? Mrs. Sedláková?”

That was a good question. They barely knew each other, certainly not well enough to call one another by their Christian names. But she thought of him as Filip, not as Corporal or Mr. Sedlák. And they were married. “What should I call you?”

“Filip.”

“Then you should call me Nadia.”

“Nadia, then. Will you come with me?” His lips twisted in question. His face was striking, in its way. Eyes, eyebrows, and hair, all a warm brown against fair skin.

She had no objections to shopping with Filip, but going into a crowded marketplace gave her pause. Would anyone from the Cheka be there? And would they recognize her?

“It’s just that I know next to nothing about women’s clothing. And you’re the one who will wear it.” His face showed less hope now, more embarrassment. Did he think her reluctance had something to do with him?

“Will you take your rifle?” Not that one rifle could adequately protect her from a group of Bolsheviks. And if it came to a threat, would Filip consider her worth the risk? He’d already risked his reputation, but this was different.

His lips parted, and he seemed to understand. “No one will hurt you, I promise. There’ll be other legionnaires about. I wasn’t planning to bring my rifle, but I’ll bring this.” He patted his holstered handgun. “Will that do?”

She nodded. She’d been so foolhardy at her aunt’s estate, riding off on old Konstantin all by herself. Now she was scared to go to the market with an armed escort. She had to gather her courage. It wouldn’t do to live her life in fear.

“Wait here a moment.” Filip stepped over the coupling between two boxcars and disappeared for a minute. Nadia glanced around. She had to stop being so nervous every time she was left alone, but after the executions and the attack in the stables, hostility seemed to loom everywhere.

Filip returned and held out a head scarf. “Would you feel safer with this? It would make you harder to recognize. I doubt any of those men are here, but if it makes it easier to go out . . .”

She took the scarf from him. “Thank you.” Filip Sedlák was a rare man. He understood, but he didn’t judge. She wrapped the scarf over her head and accepted Filip’s arm when he offered it.

They took a few steps, and then she stopped. “Filip, I don’t have any money.”

“I know. I’ll take care of it.”

She should say something. But how could she ever adequately thank him? Did he have a lot of money? Or would buying a blouse for her mean he couldn’t buy things he needed for himself? The silence drew on, but she couldn’t find words to fill it, not the entire walk from the trains.

Each market in Russia was different, yet they were all similar enough to feel familiar. Stalls and shacks lined a frozen road. People came to shop, but more than that, they came to talk and debate, and groups of them congregated all around the market. Someone in the crowd wore a long black coat. Nadia stiffened before realizing it was wool, not leather. Just a normal person going about his business, not a member of the Cheka.

“I don’t know that we’ll find anything new.” Filip looked around. “The longer the war drags on, the harder it is to find new things.”

“I’m not in a position to be picky.”

“It’s just that you’re probably used to nice things, and I don’t think we’ll find them here. Even if we did . . .” Filip felt something in his pocket. His money? “What do you need most?”

Her face heated, but she had to say it. “Drawers and a chemise.” Having only one pair was a considerable problem, one that would get worse with time and warmer weather. She could do without a corset and a corset cover. Another petticoat would be useful for warmth, but she had one, and that was enough. “More stockings. A blouse or two. Mine is . . .” She hadn’t told him the details of her escape, just that Dima had helped her. “One of the Bolsheviks tore it. Veronika helped me stitch it, but the repair is obvious. I suppose it sounds vain, but . . .” It wasn’t so much the damaged blouse as the memory that came with it. She’d tried to wash it, but blood stained the cuffs. She didn’t want to look at her parents’ blood whenever she extended her wrists or remember Kuznetsov whenever she noticed the repair.

“I can get you another blouse.” His voice had an edge to it. He stood a little closer to her and eyed the crowd. At first, she thought him angry that she hadn’t told him the entire story. If he thought she’d been compromised . . . But he seemed more protective than upset.

Filip led her to one of the larger shacks full of secondhand clothing. “See if you can find something that will fit.”

She sorted through the items until she found a dress and two blouses.

“Would these work?” Filip handed her a wool skirt and another dress.

They looked about the right size. “Yes. Thank you.” She put the dress she’d picked out down. She didn’t want him to have to buy two, and maybe he preferred the one he’d selected. She didn’t care one way or the other. She loved neither. That would be the new normal. She’d once taken great pleasure in new clothing, but there would be no more dresses of damask or velvet in exquisite cuts and daring colors. Now she would blend in, wearing what was practical, warm, and tidy.

Filip stood before the merchant, somehow holding the dress she’d put aside. “I’ll need several pairs of stockings as well. And drawers and chemises.”

As the man presented the items, Filip felt the thickness and checked the ends of the stockings. He motioned her over and took the items she held. “See which of these will fit.” He nodded at the underthings.

There wasn’t a place to try anything on, so she did her best to hold them up and guess. One chemise was stained to a gray-yellow hue under the arms, so she put that one aside. “Any of these others will do.”

Filip put a pile of clothes on the counter. In addition to the skirt and dress he’d picked out, he had the two blouses and dress she’d chosen, a coat, two headscarves, a fur cap, a belt, a hairbrush, two blankets, and a leather attaché case. He added the stockings and underthings and motioned for the shopkeeper. “I’ll take all these, for this.” He held out a pocket watch.

The merchant took the watch and examined it skeptically. “You ask a great deal for one watch.”

“Yes, but it was made by the finest watchmaker in Prague. It keeps excellent time and has gold detailing. See?” Filip pointed to something, but Nadia was at the wrong angle to view the craftsmanship. “And look at the work here.” Filip opened the watch to show the inside.

The merchant considered it. “Yes, it’s a nice piece, but you’ve picked out a lot of clothes.”

“You’re getting the better deal, my friend. If I weren’t in a hurry, I’d sell the watch and go from stall to stall. And I’d get far more by doing it that way. But since you are so convenient, I’m willing to let you have it. It’s a wonderful watch. My grandfather gave it to me for my eighteenth birthday. See how well it’s held up?”

He was trading a watch from his grandfather? That was too much to ask. “Filip, I don’t want you to give up a present from your grandfather for me.” She would have treasured any keepsake from her family—knowledge that she’d allowed someone to steal her brooch still cut deeply, and that hadn’t been anything special.

Filip caught her eye. “I’m not sentimental about it. I just want to receive its full value.”

The merchant weighed the watch in his hand. “How old is it?”

“About eight years.”

“No scratches . . .”

“Hard to believe I carried it through the trenches, isn’t it? It’s extremely durable. Ought to last someone a lifetime.”

The man looked from the clothing to the watch. “The watch for these.” He separated the clothing into two piles and pointed to about two-thirds of the original amount. Nadia was inclined to accept the offer, grateful for anything. But she’d gotten her hopes up that she would have two dresses and two blouses, and a warmer coat. She could make do with less, so she forced her face into a neutral expression. She wouldn’t sully Filip’s generosity by showing disappointment.

Filip chuckled. “All of it, or the deal is off.”

The merchant hesitated. “I’ll give you the entire pile in exchange for your handgun.”

“Not a chance.” All mirth left Filip’s voice. “My weapons are not options for bartering.”

Slowly, the man shook his head. “Who would I sell a watch like this to?” It was the same complaint Nadia had heard in Piryatin when she’d tried to sell her brooch.

“Plenty of rich people are leaving, wanting items they can easily carry. You could get a noblewoman’s entire wardrobe for something like that watch. Or a few paintings stolen from a manor by an enterprising peasant. But if you don’t want to risk it, we’ll go elsewhere.” Filip’s expression suggested that he didn’t care one way or another. He held his hand out for the watch.

The merchant opened the watch again and traced the detail work with a delicate finger. “I’ll make the trade.”

“Good.” If Filip was relieved, he didn’t show it, but Nadia felt like applauding.

After the man wrapped the purchases in paper and tied them, they left.

“I don’t know how to thank you.” She needed the clothing, but she hated to think of the cost. “I’m sorry you had to give up the watch.”

“My grandfather is a watchmaker, and he made two watches for me. I prefer the one I wear on my wrist.”

“Your grandfather is a watchmaker?” She would have been grateful to him even if his family were the poorest of farmers or the lowest of factory workers, but she could more easily find something in common with a family of craftsmen.

“Yes. His father, too, and his father. I apprenticed with him. If I ever get back home, I’m to take over the business.”

“I thought the shopkeeper would say no. Is the watch really that valuable?”

Filip shrugged. “I doubt he paid much for the clothes. Probably stole them or bought them cheap from someone desperate for a little cash.”

Nadia nodded. She would have traded a trunk of her clothes, all of them far nicer than the ones they’d just purchased, for a train ticket or a few loaves of bread. “Is your father a watchmaker too?”

Filip opened his mouth, then shut it again. “Yes.”

It was a simple question, and he’d given a simple answer, but not without hesitation. “But you’re to take over your grandfather’s business, not your father’s?”

Filip’s steps slowed but only for a moment. “My father’s not . . . well, he . . . he’s not really up to it. He spent eight years in prison. Since then, he’s been good at drinking.”

Her father-in-law, at least in name, was a criminal and a drunk. She hadn’t expected that. Awkward silence stretched out between them, so she filled it. “What was his crime?” She wasn’t sure it was any of her business, but she was curious.

“Conspiracy against the crown.”

Maybe she and Filip weren’t so alike after all. Did he share his father’s beliefs, and had his father been doing in Austria what the Bolsheviks were now doing in Russia? “What are prisons like where you come from?”

“About as awful as they are here.”

“I’m sorry.” She meant for his father’s suffering but also for Filip’s apparent uneasiness about the subject and for all the wrongs the wealthy had inflicted on the rest of society. Some nobles inherited lands and vast fortunes. Nadia had inherited the revenge of the lower classes, a resentment built up over generations. She wished her remorse could somehow be sufficient restitution.

“I didn’t learn a lot about watchmaking from my father. But he taught me something important: it’s a tragedy to lose your life for a cause you believe in. It’s an even larger tragedy to survive and live with failure for the rest of your life.”

What a melancholy childhood her husband must have had. “Was your father a Marxist?”

“No. A Nationalist.”

“And you?” She hoped he wasn’t a Bolshevik. He’d proven himself far kinder than the men from the Cheka, but what if his beliefs grew more radical? She’d seen it happen before—a peasant who wanted his own land being whipped into a fury and wanting not only land but noble blood as well.

“Me? I’ll be happy to see the end of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. That’s why I joined the Družina. And why I’ve convinced a few hundred men to join the legion.”

Revolt. Revolution. They were closely tied. She was safer with the Czechoslovak Legion than she was with the Cheka, but she couldn’t relax. They might be her traveling companions, but they were not sympathetic allies.

The journey to Vladivostok would normally take eight days, but the legion was large, so it would move slowly. The Trans-Siberian Railroad had fallen into disrepair with the war, and she’d seen a portion of the motley collection of passenger coaches and freight wagons the legion had gathered so far. Most were old. The journey would take longer than usual. Significantly longer if any of the local authorities slowed them down. She would have to be vigilant until they reached the Pacific Ocean.

Penza and the surrounding villages were full of legionnaires gathering for the journey to France. The number of foreign troops must have made the Soviets nervous, because they’d set up a checkpoint manned with red guardsmen. She’d grown used to the Bolshevik soldiers, even if she didn’t feel at ease around them, but she stopped in her tracks when she noticed that the man commanding them wore a black coat—a leather one.

It was a Cheka agent. And she recognized him.

“What is it?” Filip asked as people behind them bumped into and brushed past them.

Nadia swallowed and managed a whisper. “That’s the man who killed my parents.”

Filip’s hand went to his pistol. “Is he the one who ripped your blouse?”

“No.” But the other man might be nearby.

“We’ve been ordered to stay neutral in Russian affairs. I can’t provoke him.”

“You aren’t going to turn me over to him, are you?”

“No! No, but I can’t confront him, not in a crowd.” Filip pulled her along toward the man. He shifted the packages into one arm and put his other arm around her shoulders. “If we move against the crowd, we’ll attract more attention, so we’ll have to go through. Pull your scarf down a bit and look at the ground.”

Nadia tugged on the fabric and kept her eyes away from the Chekist.

“Good, now hunch your shoulders like you grew up working in the fields. We’re just a couple returning to the trains. Try to relax your muscles a little.” His hand brushed her shoulder. “There, like that.”

Nadia’s chest felt tight. Her knees still bore bruises from kneeling before the agent and pleading for mercy. Not that it had done any good. The man had been absolutely merciless.

“Breathe,” Filip whispered.

She focused on that, filling her lungs with air and then emptying them. Now wasn’t the time to think of her parents’ desecrated bodies or of the man who’d attacked her in the stable. She had to trust Filip to get her through the checkpoint. Nadia moved closer to him, pretending they were a happy couple, just like Veronika and her husband or Larisa and hers.

“We’ll make it.” Filip handed her one of the packages. “And if not, I’ve got my pistol.”

“I thought you were supposed to stay neutral?”

“That changes if someone threatens my wife.”

It seemed she had acquired not just a husband but also a defender. Her money and her family had once protected her, but now they were gone. She never would have expected a Czech corporal to take up that role.

Filip’s arm relaxed on her shoulder. “We’re past.” With his words, Nadia felt relief and gratitude settle into the internal spots that had so recently been occupied by fear and worry.

***

Dalek had worked as a telegraph clerk in the Austro-Hungarian Army, so he wasn’t surprised when Kral sent him to the Penza telegraph office. “Any messages for the Sixth Regiment?” he asked when he arrived.

“No.” The Russian official didn’t even look up from his desk.

Dalek nodded and was about to leave when the equipment behind the man caught his eye. It looked brand-new, far better than anything he’d used before. The man at the desk wasn’t paying attention, so Dalek went to take a closer look. “May I?” he asked a clerk.

Excitement lit up the man’s pockmarked face. “We replaced the hammer just yesterday and shined up the wiring post. I’ll show you.” Then he frowned and placed a hand over the left side of his headphones. “In a minute.”

A blast of cold air swirled around the room as someone walked inside. Dalek looked over his shoulder to see a Cheka agent in a black leather greatcoat clicking his heels together and saluting.

“Comrade Abramov,” the Chekist said.

“At ease, Comrade Orlov.”

“I was told to report.”

“Yes. What would you suggest we do with the Czechs?”

Dalek forgot all about the fancy telegraph equipment and focused on the conversation going on behind him. He took his cap off so the red and white ribbon members of the legion wore wouldn’t be noticeable. The clerk was still writing out the incoming telegram, so Dalek grabbed another pair of headphones and pretended he worked there. The legion was clothed in surplus Russian uniforms, so if he kept his mouth shut and if Abramov forgot he’d come in asking about messages for the Sixth Regiment, he might get away with it.

The Cheka man took his time answering. “What would you suggest, comrade?”

Abramov chuckled. “Answering a question with a question?” Papers crackled. “The first orders we received said to get them out of the way as soon as possible. Free the railroads, remove a potential threat.”

“A threat?”

“There are a lot of them. And they have better training than most guardsmen.”

“Yes. Their discipline is admirable, something I wish more of my men had. There is wisdom in that order. Let them clog up the rail lines in Vladivostok or Arkhangelsk. We need local rails to function with speed.”

Dalek hoped that meant they’d be given the engines they needed soon.

The clerk finished his message, put it aside, and motioned to the telegraph key. “Now this—” He stopped as another incoming message sounded, then he sighed and returned to his work, hunching over as if the new position might improve his hearing.

Behind them, Abramov rustled his papers. “The next instructions suggested we keep them nearby, on this side of the Urals, where there is plenty of bread. We could use them, should we wage war against the Germans again. Or against the White movement, for that matter. The local commissar is eager to recruit from their ranks.”

Dalek forced his hands to relax. The Reds wanted the legion to fight for them? Not a chance. The legion was just passing through Russia on its way to France. They weren’t here to fight the Bolsheviks’ opponents.

Orlov’s voice was quiet. “So that is what we will do. Use them to further the revolution.”

Another shuffle of papers, and Abramov’s voice again. “This one says to halt them here.”

Three different orders. Each more threatening than the last.

The clerk finished taking down the message and stood. Dalek watched as the clerk strode to Abramov. He feared the clerk would remind the official that a legionnaire was still in the office. Instead, he simply handed over the telegram.

Abramov shook his head after reading it. “This one says to disarm them.”

Disarmament? That would leave the legion vulnerable. He’d heard rumors about the bandits and warlords who roamed Siberia. The legion needed the ability to defend themselves when they were sent through that lawless mess. The Bolsheviks were either crazy, or they were becoming a serious threat to the legion’s survival.

“Shall I organize it, comrade?” Orlov’s voice carried a hint of enthusiasm.

“Not at this time,” Abramov said. “There are three thousand of them here, with more coming, and only two thousand of us. We have more artillery, but they have more cohesion. I prefer to avoid battle.”

“Yes, they were our allies in the past and could be our allies in the future.”

“We meet tomorrow to negotiate. We’re on friendly terms thus far, and I would like to continue that goodwill. The last thing we want is for them to turn against us and join the Whites. See what you can learn. Ask around, find out how many weapons they have and what their morale is like. And judge if they seem more inclined to support us or our rivals.”

“Yes, comrade.”

Another click of the heels, and then a blast of wind.

Dalek met the eyes of the clerk sitting beside him. The man’s smile suggested he knew exactly what Dalek had been doing. “Let me show you how the relay works.”

Dalek was no longer interested in telegraph equipment. Kral and the other officers would want to hear about the series of orders to the local Bolsheviks. But if the man was going to overlook Dalek’s eavesdropping, then Dalek was prepared to be a model of interest, no matter how mundane and detailed the man’s explanations were.

Chapter Nine

Filip led the men in calisthenics the morning after he and Nadia had seen the Cheka agent. He’d wanted to shoot the man. It was his duty as a husband to protect his wife. More than that, he was furious over what the agent had done. But revenge went both ways. Filip could punish the man for shooting Nadia’s family and letting one of his subordinates assault her, but what would that mean for the rest of the legion? They didn’t want to go to war against the Russians. The Russians were their Slavic brothers.

But Nadia. She’d been so frightened. And it was Filip’s fault. He’d asked her to go shopping, even when she’d been nervous. He’d never gain her trust if he couldn’t keep her safe.

As they finished their drills, Dalek made his way over. “His name is Vlad Orlov. He’s been poking around, asking questions.”

“You found that out already?” Filip had told Dalek about the Chekist and asked for information, but he hadn’t expected results so quickly.

Dalek shrugged. “He was the one in the telegraph office yesterday, so I asked my new friend, the clerk, all about him.”

“You say he’s poking around. What about?”

“Sounding out our morale and political leanings. And recruiting, indirectly.”

Filip huffed. “We’ve stated our neutrality in Russian affairs.” That was why Filip hadn’t already found and killed Orlov. “It would be nice if the Bolsheviks would give us the same courtesy.”

“That could explain the indirect part.”

“Anton heard they plan to send us to Arkhangelsk, stop the trains in the middle of nowhere, and preach the gospel of Bolshevism. If they get us hungry enough, it might start to sound appealing.”

“Appealing to you, Corporal Sedlák?” Kral stood nearby, his arms crossed. “Would you compromise your beliefs for a loaf of bread?”

It would take more than food to lure Filip to the Red cause, but that wasn’t the case with everyone. “Get a man hungry enough, and desperation will make just about anything palatable. Especially when he’s stranded on the single track to Arkhangelsk.”

“Well, we’re not going to Arkhangelsk. We’re going to Vladivostok, per a new agreement with the Soviets here and in Moscow. We’re allowed to travel unmolested as free citizens. We can keep one hundred sixty-eight rifles and one machine gun for every train to protect ourselves. The rest we’re to turn over.”

Give up all but a hundred and sixty-eight rifles per train? “But we’ve earned our rifles! Some of us had to take them from dead German soldiers! And the rest would have fallen into German hands if we hadn’t collected them.”

Kral nodded. “Make sure the Soviets don’t see more than the allotted amount, eh? They’re appointing commissars to accompany us, so hide them well.”

“Spies?” It was Dalek’s question, but Filip had thought the same thing.

The corners of Kral’s lips pulled in amusement. “Technically, they are to ensure our safe passage. But yes, I think the truth is closer to your statement, Pokorný. We’re to move in groups of six hundred men, supposedly to keep traffic manageable. What do you think of that last part?”

“If we’re in smaller groups, we’re weaker.” Dalek frowned. “Why did we agree to something like this?”

“Because that’s what our leaders in France said to do. And because we don’t want a battle in Russia. The Bolsheviks were friendly during the evacuation of the Ukraine, so we have reason to believe they’ll cooperate with us in Russia.”

Filip wasn’t sure he agreed. “They’re trying to recruit our men into the Red Army.”

“Keep the men near the trains, then. We’ve already lost some of our Russian officers. We don’t want to lose our men too.”

***

A knock on the wooden siding drew Nadia’s attention, and she turned to see Filip standing on the ground outside the boxcar’s doorway.

“Good morning, Filip.” There was something comforting about the man with a pleasant face and a generous nature. Like seeing a friend, and with her past life erased, there were few others she could give that title to.

“All alone?”

“Yes.” Veronika was with her husband, like most of the other women. Veronika was another unexpected friend. The other women had stopped snickering behind Nadia’s back, but she wouldn’t call them friendly.

“I forgot to give you this yesterday.” He handed up a piece of paper.

She took it and scanned the words.

. . . do solemnly swear that my marriage with Nadia Sedláková nee Petrova was never consummated and hereby state that I have no objection to an annulment. The marriage on March 8, 1918, between Filip Sedlák and Nadia Petrova should hereby be considered null and void.

“It’s not official, but it might be useful if I can’t be there to answer questions.” Filip looked away. “Anyway, I wanted you to have it in case you need it. I left the date blank, for you to fill in later. If you use black ink, it will match the rest of the document.”

It was witnessed by Anton Tothova and Dalek Pokorný.

“Thank you.” It was what they’d agreed upon, what she’d wanted. So why did she feel such gloom as she put the affidavit in the secondhand attaché case he’d bought her the day before? And why was his expression so sad?

“Are you busy now?” he asked.

“No.”

“Then I am at your service. At least until evening when I have guard duty.” He straightened as he spoke, as if reporting before a general.

“Perhaps you could show me my duties. I’ve a great deal to learn.”

“Such as?”

Where to start? “Could you teach me to wash clothes? I’ve never done it before.”

He nodded and reached out to assist her from the boxcar. Two rickety metal steps helped with the descent, but she was glad for his firm, balancing hand. “Let’s gather supplies first.”

She followed him over the tracks and around long trains sitting, waiting. “Will we be in Penza long?”

“I’m not sure. The local Soviet is split. The longer we stay, the longer we interrupt traffic. But the longer we stay, the more likely they are to recruit from among our ranks, and we have more training than the Red Army does.”

“Prime recruits.”

Filip scowled. “I convinced a lot of these men to fight for a new Czechoslovakia. I didn’t recruit them to fight for the Bolsheviks. And they aren’t content with stealing our men. They want our weapons too. We just want to leave in peace, but they want us to supply their equipment and their personnel. I might agree to surrendering our weapons when we reach Vladivostok, but to turn them over here, with all of Russia still to cross?” Frustration colored his voice and showed in the tense set of his shoulders and the way one of his hands squeezed into a fist. But paired with the frustration was a mildness she admired.

She almost didn’t say anything—any suggestion she had was unlikely to help—but she didn’t think Filip would laugh at her, no matter how naive her idea sounded. “Could you hide your weapons?”

“A few, here and there, but I hate to part with any of them.”

“What if you made a false wall in your car and hid your rifles behind it? I’ve seen dozens of broken boxcars around the station. You could use pieces of them to form your wall.”

Filip’s jaw shifted as he thought. “Nadia, I think that’s an excellent idea.”

Her step felt lighter at his compliment. “I can’t take credit for it. It’s how we hid our best paintings at the manor. Our footman’s idea. We wrapped them and hung them all on the same wall, then put a fake wall in front of it. I don’t suppose we’ll ever go back to retrieve them now.” Perhaps the footman would return and give her favorite Rembrandt a good home. Her father had predicted the Bolsheviks would lose power. If time proved him right, and if it was safe in a few years, would she return? Come back to reclaim her family’s lands even though her family was all gone?

“Would you mind if we postponed the laundry? I’d like to hide our weapons as soon as possible.”

“I don’t mind. You’re a soldier. Weapons should take priority.” Perhaps that was her dismissal. It would be a lonely day without Filip. She didn’t even have a book to read, just memories to haunt her. But he’d already done so much for her. He didn’t owe her entertainment.

“Come on.” Filip’s words were more invitation than order.

She hesitated only a moment before curiosity over what he would do and a desire to keep her mind occupied pushed her to follow him.

Filip asked Dalek and Emil to help. Dalek gave her an appraising look when Filip explained her idea. Had she done something wrong? Or had she actually managed to do something right?

The men gathered saws, hammers, and pry bars. While they took apart the end of a discarded boxcar, breaking it into a few easier-to-transport pieces, Nadia did her best to remove nails from another part of the car. Half of what she recovered were too bent to be useful again, and her skin burned where she’d held the hammer, but she had gathered a small pile of useful nails in the time they’d disassembled one of the sides.

As Dalek and Filip lowered the last section, Dalek whispered, “Did you tell her?”

Did Dalek mean her? She glanced up and caught Filip’s eye. He gave her an embarrassed smile. “Dalek found out the name of the agent we saw yesterday. Do you want to hear it?”

Icy footsteps of fear crept along her shoulders. Was it better to know the danger or to leave it unnamed? Papa wouldn’t hesitate. He believed in knowledge. “I’d like to know.”

Filip kept his gaze on her. “His name is Vlad Orlov.”

Orlov. An eagle. Was that why Filip planned to spend the day with her, to protect her? “Is he still in Penza?”

Filip looked to Dalek, who answered. “He’s one of the commissars assigned to escort us east.”

“You didn’t tell me that.” Filip looked as surprised as Nadia felt. Would she have to hide from Orlov all the way to Vladivostok?

“I just found out this morning. You were gone when I came back to the car.” Dalek studied Nadia, but his gaze wasn’t uncomfortable. “Can we make her look less . . . less like an aristocrat?”

Nadia looked at her dress, one Filip had bought her yesterday. It fit her poorly, and the cloth was rough and faded, hardly something an aristocrat would wear. She looked from Dalek to Filip. What on earth did they mean?

“It’s in how you carry yourself, I think.” Filip eyed her from head to toe.

“Should I walk differently?” She’d stopped paying attention to how she walked when her governess ceased harassing her about posture. Maybe she needed some type of reverse instructions.

Filip glanced at Dalek. “Has Orlov been assigned yet?”

“Sixth Regiment.”

Filip said something under his breath. It sounded like a curse, but it wasn’t Russian.

“I suppose you’re part of the Sixth Regiment?” It sounded as though Nadia had married the wrong man. It would have been better to stay in the Ukraine, begging if necessary. Instead, she’d taken the same path as her enemy.

“Yes.” Filip stepped nearer, not touching her, not even crowding her the way the people in the marketplace had the day before. Yet she was extremely aware of his presence before her. “Her clothes are different. Her hair is different too.”

She’d braided it that morning and pinned it the way Veronika had taught her. It wasn’t the neatest of braids, but it kept her hair out of her face.

“Still glossy and black.” Dalek crossed his arms and joined in Filip’s scrutiny.

Nadia fingered her braid. “Should I cut it?” She’d always worn it long, but some women cut their hair. They usually did it because of illness, but a disguise was an equally worthy reason.

Filip frowned. Dalek laughed, and Filip’s frown turned to a scowl. “She can wear a scarf over her hair. It’s not as if he knows she’s here. He won’t be looking for her.” Filip looked away. “I’ll talk to Kral as soon as we finish our weapons cache. See if our commissar can’t be reassigned.”

Nadia stayed with the men while they worked in their boxcar. The thud of hammers and the screech of wood being forced into place filled the air. The teplushka train car was smaller than the vast wall of her family’s manor, and the extra wall consisted of only three pieces, so the project took hours instead of the days it had taken the footman to hide the paintings.

When they finished, the interior of the boxcar was slightly smaller, but not enough for a searching Bolshevik to notice. Hidden behind the false wall were fifty rifles. They weren’t accessible in an instant, but in an emergency, Nadia imagined the soldiers could pull the wall down and have their weapons loaded in a matter of minutes.

“I’ll walk you back, Nadia, then I’ll talk to the lieutenant.” Filip dusted his hands off. “Will you come with me, Dalek? To see Kral?”

“Her carriage is the opposite direction from Kral’s.” Dalek folded his arms.

Filip cleared his throat. “A member of the Cheka has a warrant for her death. I don’t think she should wander the rail yards alone.”

“I can walk her back.” Emil gave Nadia a polite smile. “I barely know Kral, and I don’t know a thing about the Cheka. But I’ll see she arrives safely and that someone is there to be with her.”

Filip hesitated.

“The sooner we talk to Kral, the better chance we have of getting our commissar reassigned,” Dalek said.

“Nadia?” Filip looked to her to make the decision.

She was surprised he wanted her opinion and flustered to be the cause of such a fuss. She was more comfortable with Filip, but she didn’t want to be a nuisance. “I’m unspeakably grateful for all you’ve done for me. I would be happy to return to the women’s carriage with Mr. Horák if it makes it more likely that you can arrange to have Orlov moved elsewhere.”

Filip looked uncertain for a moment, then he nodded. “Right, we’ll go see Kral.” He jumped from the teplushka without using the steps and landed as easily as a cat might. Then he reached up to help her down. “I’m sorry we delayed the laundry. Thank you for the idea.” He nodded toward the boxcar.

“I’m glad I could help with something.” She couldn’t repay Filip’s kindness, but maybe her efforts would show how much she wished she could.

His face softened, and he offered a slight smile. She felt an urge to touch his lips or the stubble around them, but she kept her fingers safely at her side.

Dalek cleared his throat, and Filip’s expression turned impassive. He nodded his goodbye, and the two Czechs went to see their officer.

“I’m sorry to cause such trouble,” she told Emil. “But if the Cheka is nearby, I’m also grateful for your company.”

“I’m happy to help Corporal Sedlák or his wife.”

The two walked past several rail coaches full of soldiers. Some sang; others played cards. Several boxcars were painted with mountain scenes and forests, making a stroll along the train feel a bit like a walk through an art gallery.

“Have you known him long?” Filip was her husband, even if it was only for a few weeks, and she wanted to know more about him.

“Not any longer than you have. But he’s already managed to save my life. More than that, Corporal Sedlák gave me hope again. Not just for an end to war but for something better when peace comes. A country of our own. I don’t know if you can understand, but I grew up subject to German magistrates, always looked down on because I’m Slavic, constantly told my language and my culture were inferior. After that . . . well, Czechoslovakia is a vision worth fighting for.”

It seemed Nadia’s husband was an idealist with a gift for inspiring his men. “I’m surprised he’s been so kind to a former aristocrat.”

“I don’t think he minds that you were rich.” Emil chuckled. “Actually, I think he was frightened at the thought of you cutting your hair.”

Nadia’s hand went to her braid. Was Emil suggesting that her husband liked her hair? There was something satisfying in that, but it also made her worry. She’d trusted Filip’s judgment, but now she wasn’t so sure. Was it really safe for her to leave it long? Perhaps the scarf would be enough. She’d put one on the next time she left the women’s van.

A figure loomed in front of them, but he wore a normal Russian uniform with the legion’s ribbon, not the black leather of the Cheka. Jakub Zeman.

He sneered at her. “So, you married Sedlák, and now you’re the common property of his squad? Is that how it works?” His tone and the accompanying gestures hinted at something horrifyingly lewd.

Emil took a step toward Zeman, then planted his feet in a wide stance. He had to look up to Zeman, but that didn’t soften the hard expression on his face. “Everyone in our squad treats Mrs. Sedláková with the utmost respect, Corporal Zeman. I suggest you do the same.”

“It’s a new age. I don’t have to show respect to anyone who hasn’t earned it, and that includes Corporal Sedlák and his wife.”

“You’d be dead if Corporal Sedlák hadn’t taken that machine-gun nest at Bakhmach. You owe him your life.”

Zeman huffed. “I was behind a wall. I wasn’t in danger. If Sedlák hadn’t taken the gun, we could have waited the Germans out.”

“We didn’t have time to wait. The rest of the German Army was closing in, remember?” Emil took a step back, but the rage on his face didn’t diminish. “Let us pass.”

Zeman gave Nadia another sneer and walked away.

She took a few deep breaths to clear away the disconcertment. To think that she’d almost been desperate enough to marry that man. “You were very brave, Mr. Horák. Thank you.”

Emil laughed. “Standing up to him? That’s not brave. That’s . . . Well, he’s been listening to too many Bolshevik rabble-rousers. The more he listens, the more he turns into rabble.”

Standing up to rabble was brave. It had been rabble that had put the Bolsheviks in power, rabble that had become a dangerous mob and forced her family to flee their ancestral home. And no one could take a German machine-gun nest without a tremendous store of courage.

These legionnaires were made of sterner stuff than she. When she’d been confronted by the Bolsheviks, she’d run. And now she was hiding, depending on Filip and his squad to keep her safe. She wasn’t proud of it, but she wasn’t sure what else to do.

“Besides,” Emil continued, “Corporal Sedlák slipped me this.” He pulled a small handgun from his pocket, the one Filip has been so protective of in the market. “Makes it a little easier to put Zeman in his place, knowing I’m armed and he’s not.”

Chapter Ten

Filip and Dalek found Kral in the boxcar that served as the train’s command center with a large map pinned to one wall and multiple desks covered in machines and paperwork. The smell of ink mingled with the scent of baking bread from a nearby boxcar that had been converted into a bakery.

Kral put his stack of papers aside while Filip expressed his concerns.

“I don’t like having Bolshevik commissars either,” Kral said. “But we don’t have much of a choice, not if we want to avoid war in Russia. Maybe they really will expedite our withdrawal, like the Soviets say. They’ve enough things to worry about without an armed foreign army in their midst. Most of them want us gone.”

Filip wasn’t sure how much he should tell Kral about his wife. Would he think Filip had gone behind his back when he’d married Nadia to get her on the train? “I’m particularly concerned about the commissar assigned to the Sixth Regiment. His name is Vlad Orlov.”

Dalek broke in. “We have eyewitness testimony that he ordered the slaughter of former tsarist officials and their families. He’s ruthless.”

“With your permission, we could attach his boxcar to a different train.” Ideally, Filip could attach Orlov’s car to an engine on its way to the bottom of a ravine, but he’d settle for a different regiment.

Kral nodded. “I don’t know that any of the other commissars would be better, but I’ll look into it.”

Filip almost let it go at that, but he trusted Kral to take care of the men he commanded. “There’s a bit of personal animosity involved. Someone just as ruthless, but not Orlov, would be an improvement, sir.”

“Sir?”

“Brother Lieutenant,” Filip corrected himself.

“Very well. Sedlák, you’re free to go. Pokorný, I understand you know how to operate a telegraph?”

“Yes, brother.” Dalek straightened his shoulders.

“Good. You’re being transferred to headquarters staff.” Kral gave Filip an apologetic smile. “I know the two of you are old friends, but the legion is spread across six thousand miles. We need solid communications.”

“I recruited him to serve the legion and our as-yet nonexistent country, Brother Lieutenant.” Filip hoped his words hid his sense of loss. Seeing Dalek in that prison camp and convincing him to join the legion had brought in the warmth of old friendship and given him a piece of home. Yes, Dalek made fun of most things and never took Filip too seriously, but Filip needed that. War was far too often far too serious, and Dalek’s sarcasm and wit helped make it bearable.

“Pokorný, report tomorrow morning at six.”

“Yes, Brother Lieutenant.”

The two left, and Filip didn’t bother to hide his frown.

“Well, you’ve managed to protect your wife at the cost of losing your best friend.”

Filip grunted. “She’s not safe yet. But I have gotten rid of an irreverent, insubordinate soldier.”

“Not entirely. We’ll still sleep in the same coach, so I’ll still have to listen to your bed creaking above me, unless you manage to corner part of a boxcar to share with the grand duchess.”

Filip smiled for a moment. Nadia was beautiful, but beyond that, there was something about her, a graciousness and a determination, that he admired. His smile faded. She was also desperate, and that was the only reason she was married to him, even temporarily. He may as well dream of being king of Czechoslovakia. That was about as likely as Nadia willingly building a home with him. The fact that it wouldn’t be a real home, just a flimsy teplushka shared with a least a dozen other couples, made a future with her that much more improbable. “I should make sure she made it back without running into the Cheka.”

“I’m sure Emil got her back safely, but by all means, go check on her.” Dalek slapped Filip’s shoulder and strode off, whistling as he walked.

Filip watched him go. They were packed tightly into the boxcar, more tightly now with the secret compartment eating away some of their space. He would have to limit the tossing and turning at night. But it was hard to sleep in the middle of revolutionary Russia. The Germans had stopped at the newly negotiated border, but trickles of released German, Austrian, and Hungarian POWs were starting to move west, more every day. They were unorganized and full of animosity, returning west to fight with the Central Powers again. The Czechs and Slovaks were rebelling, planning to fight against them. Tension between the two was thick enough to cut with a bayonet.

Then there was Nadia. Worry over her also cut into his sleep, and it would again if he didn’t know she was safe, so he went to the women’s train.

Four cars from his goal, he heard a low chuckle and stopped.

Zeman sauntered over to him. “Off to see your wife?” His breath and his tone were sour.

“What do you want, Zeman?”

Zeman shrugged. “I’ve been talking with the Russians. One of them said he had a warrant for the execution of a family hiding near Piryatin. He found them easily enough. They were with a relative, but somehow, the twenty-year-old daughter escaped. It got me thinking. Piryatin, that’s where we were stationed before Bakhmach. And that’s where you gained that pretty little wife of yours.”

Filip wasn’t scared of Zeman, but he found his hand searching for the Beholla pistol he’d loaned Emil. “She’s from Petrograd, not Piryatin.”

“As was the family in question.”

“A lot of Russians have spent time in Petrograd, especially with the disruption the war has caused.”

Zeman didn’t reply at once. Filip waited for him to specify his threat or make a demand.

One side of Zeman’s mouth pulled into a sneer. “We’ve been ordered to stay neutral in Russian affairs. I don’t imagine our officers will look kindly on anyone harboring criminals.”

Nadia wasn’t a criminal. She was a refugee. Filip couldn’t ignore this, or Zeman would make it worse. He stepped to within inches of Zeman’s face. “The Penza Agreement places the entire legion—and everyone traveling with us—under safe passage, guaranteed by the Bolsheviks. You wouldn’t want to stir up trouble, would you?”

“I might.”

Filip slammed Zeman into a nearby teplushka, smashing the air from the man’s lungs with a satisfying whoosh. “Don’t make trouble for her, or you’ll regret it. I’m not the only one you’ll make into an enemy.”

Zeman’s sneer was gone, but anger showed in his eyes. Would he really destroy an innocent women just because he couldn’t have her?

Filip released him, and Zeman slunk away without another word. Filip had probably left bruises. Every time Zeman moved his shoulders for the next few days, he’d remember Filip’s threat.

But would that threat keep Nadia safe? Or had it made things worse? Marriage with Nadia was becoming more complicated by the hour.

He marched to the woman’s coach. When he arrived, the siding was shut, even though it seemed early for everyone to be sleeping; it was barely twilight. He knocked on the siding. “Nadia?”

“Filip?” The voice came not from inside the women’s coach but from beneath the one in front of it. He turned to see Nadia crawling out from under a boxcar.

“What are you doing under there? I thought Emil escorted you back?” Filip didn’t often yell at the men under his command, but Emil’s negligence was inexcusable. He’d give the lad an earful.

“He did. But Larisa and Petr wanted some time alone, and I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Aren’t you cold?”

“No. I’m wearing Dima’s jacket and the coat and hat you bought for me.” The fur cap lay at an angle, with stray bits of her black hair peeping out from under it. Her voice seemed shy, almost apologetic.

Did she think he was upset with her? He’d probably let too much of his anger at Zeman seep through. “Aren’t you bored just sitting there?”

“I’d rather be bored than run into the Cheka.”

Still frightened. That wasn’t what he wanted, but caution would help keep her safe. “Have you had supper yet?”

“No. They moved the trains about yesterday. I’m not sure where the dining car is now, and I didn’t want to blunder into one of the commissars.” She glanced at the coach. “Larisa said she’d show me where to go later.”

“I can show you now.”

“But I’ve already taken up so much of your day.”

“I would be happy to eat with you.” Filip had never before had such a beautiful dining companion. He ought to enjoy the view while the marriage lasted.

She glanced at the train carriage, then back at him and nodded her agreement, letting him guide her toward the dining car. She really did walk like a princess. It made her stand out, and yet, he liked it. Changing it would be a shame. Of course, not changing it might also be a shame if it caught Orlov’s attention.

Cheerful notes sounded from one of the coaches they passed, an old Czech folk song played on a mandolin.

Nadia smiled. “Do you play an instrument?”

“I’m not very musical, I’m afraid. You?”

“I play the piano, a little.” They passed an open area and saw a group kicking a ball around. Then, a bit beyond that, another group performed gymnastics. Nadia stopped to watch the leaps and tumbles. “They’re very good, aren’t they?”

Filip had thought the movements mediocre rather than extraordinary. “A lot of us can do that easily enough.”

Her head turned toward him. “You can do that?”

“I grew up attending Sokol clubs. They were all about gymnastics and Czech patriotism.”

She hadn’t been loud, not the entire day, but now she seemed even quieter. Perhaps she didn’t approve of Sokol clubs. They weren’t revolutionary in the way the Bolsheviks were, but their nationalism challenged the existing order. Not in Russia, but that might not make a difference. They watched a while longer. A crowd of legionnaires and Russian peasants had formed. Nadia observed with interest, but they observed with enthusiasm, clapping their hands and gasping. It almost made Filip want to join in, but that would leave Nadia alone, and with Zeman and Orlov to watch out for, it was better to stay beside her.

After a while, the performers ended their routine, and night swallowed the railroad tracks. There weren’t many lanterns or candles, but the dining car was still lit. It might once have been a typical dining car, with tables and benches and waiters. Now it was more like a canteen, serving bread and thin cabbage soup for lines of Czechoslovak soldiers and their dependents. Filip and Nadia waited in line like all the others, then took their food to one of the communal tables.

Steam from the soup warmed Filip’s face. He watched his wife and had the impression that she wasn’t used to drinking her soup, but spoons weren’t available. “I suppose that’s not what or how you’re used to eating.”

“I’m willing and able to adapt.” Her tone held a hint of sharpness. Or was it defensiveness?

He hadn’t meant his comment to sound like criticism. It was more an apology that he couldn’t offer her the type of meal she was used to. Maybe he should stop talking. Everything he said came out wrong.

When they finished, he returned their bowls. “I’ll walk you back.”

As they passed the hospital car, a few bandaged men made their slow way up the stairs into the boxcar.

“Do you have many wounded?” Nadia asked.

“Some.”

“I volunteered at a hospital in Petrograd. It was a hospital for officers, of course.” She paused. “I don’t know why I said that. The enlisted were just as wounded, just as much in need of care. But we were always assigned to officer wards. I hate to say it, but volunteering in a hospital was a most fashionable activity for upper-class women.” She took a few steps closer to the car. “Do they need more help, do you suppose? I could volunteer again.”

“It wouldn’t be just officers. And the accommodations aren’t as fancy as what you’re used to.” The wounded usually slept on straw spread on the floor. The boxcar was little better than a barn.

“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.

Some of the local Soviets were cooperative, but the initial cordiality was drying up as the days passed. And progress was painfully slow. Distances that should have taken hours were taking days. Anton had thought they’d be in France by the time his child was born, but at this rate, the baby would be born somewhere in the middle of Siberia.

They were stuck. Weak. And vulnerable.

Chapter Eleven

Filip dismissed his men after morning drills. They’d crossed from Europe into Asia, then gotten stuck in their current town for a week while the local Soviet wavered between wanting the legion out of the way as quickly as possible or delaying them for recruiting purposes. Morale was holding, but the men were frustrated. So was Filip.

Dalek and one of the other Czechs stayed on the field, leaping and flipping, much to the amusement of some local boys who’d come to watch. When the men finished and bowed for their audience of five- to ten-year-olds, Dalek came over to him.

“Part of the legion made it to Vladivostok.” Dalek ran a finger over his mustache, smoothing out the blond hairs.

“Good.” Filip was ready to celebrate, but something in Dalek’s manner held him back.

“There’s no shipping for them.”

“What?” How were they supposed to fight in France if there were no ships to take them there? “So they’re stuck there. And we’re stuck here.”

“The local Soviet said we could leave tomorrow.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

Dalek nodded. “Why let us go when they’re getting trained men from us?”

Filip crossed his arms and tried not to fume. Jakub Zeman had joined the Red Army and taken five members of the legion with him. Had Zeman told Orlov, their unwanted commissar, where Nadia was? If he had, Filip would have no qualms in tracking Zeman down and killing him. He might have hesitated to strike a fellow legionnaire, but now Zeman was a turncoat.

They were all turncoats, in a way. But turning against an oppressive empire was justified. Turning against his brother Czechs? Filip would never do that, and he couldn’t forgive anyone who would.

He said goodbye to Dalek and went to find his wife. He needed to see she was safe. And he wanted to see her. As their train had crawled eastward, he’d taught her how to wash clothes, how to make kasha, and how to build a fire. Something about peeling away layer after layer of her reticence and discovering little bits of her past was deeply satisfying. He still worried about the Bolsheviks disarming the legion and Orlov finding his wife, but time with Nadia had become the best part of his day.

He found her bent over an old wash tub he’d scrounged, washing clothes, some of hers and some of his. Several other women worked nearby, but not beside her. Were they distancing themselves from her, or was she distancing herself from them? He was never sure. He’d expected her to look down her nose at him or treat him like a servant, but that hadn’t been the case with him, and he doubted it was the case with the women who shared her boxcar.

They said their greetings, and Filip pointed to a smaller tub. “Are these washed?”

“Yes, but not wrung.”

Filip began squeezing the water from them.

“I don’t suppose there’s any news about our departure?” she asked.

“Someone said tomorrow.” Her face lit up, and he quickly corrected himself. “But I’ve heard that before.”

“So, I shouldn’t get my hopes up?”

“No.” Water squelched from the wool skirt he wrung.

“Any news of Orlov?”

“He’s more interested in recruiting for the Red Army and confiscating weapons than he is in tracking down former nobles.” Unless Zeman had stirred him up, but why make Nadia worry? Her posture was still impeccable, but she looked different wearing a kerchief over her hair and secondhand clothes that weren’t tailored to her body.

“I still see him when I sleep. I begged for mercy, but he shot them anyway.”

Her face was downcast, so he couldn’t see her eyes, but pain wove into her voice and showed in the set of her jaw.

She worked the cloth over the washboard. She was getting the hang of it; the clothes would be presentable when she finished. “How long have you been at war, Filip?” She pronounced his name slightly differently than others did, a bit more stress on the second syllable.

“Since 1914. I was part of the initial call-up. I’d finished my mandatory service but was still on reserve status.”

“Like my brothers.” She dipped his spare trousers in the suds and worked up a lather. “Have you seen things you wish you could forget? It’s not that I want to forget how they died; I just wish I could control the memory. Right now, it feels as if the memory controls me.”

Filip wrung one of Nadia’s blouses. “Yes. I’ve seen things I wish I could forget.” Men choking when they were gassed, bodies pierced by bullets or shredded by shrapnel. Death for his friends, death for the enemy, and vast destruction of farmland and villages. The memories didn’t control him, but he wished he could banish them completely, forget the entire war and go home. He couldn’t forget it yet though; he’d learned lessons that might keep him and his men alive when they next fought. But some day, the oblivion of forgetfulness would be a welcome balm. “It gets better with time.”

“Do you forget?”

“No. You just get better at pushing it aside.”

A pair of women who’d been chattering nonstop burst into soft giggles. Nadia, in contrast, was solemn today. She deserved solemn days. She was mourning her family and her former life. But her laughter had become Filip’s favorite sound. He wanted to hear it again.

“Sometimes it helps to remember the good.”

She glanced up from the wash.

“What’s a favorite memory of your brothers?” he asked.

She scrubbed a shirt while she thought. Then a hint of a smile creased her lips. “The Easter before the war. We decorated the most beautiful eggs. Alexander was in love, and Nikolai teased him mercilessly. She had a rather narrow chin, but Alexander thought she was beautiful. Nikolai drew her face on an egg and made it so pointy. Vera Vanina. Fortunately, she wasn’t there to see Nikolai’s caricature.”

“Did they marry?”

“No. The war got in the way. For them and for a lot of others.”

Veronika appeared from the side of a boxcar with her own tub, washboard, and laundry. She rushed over to them. “Orlov is with a group of Bolsheviks confiscating weapons only a few boxcars down.”

***

Anton barely held his temper as Jakub Zeman ransacked the boxcar in search of weapons. It was bad enough when the Soviets did it, but to have a former comrade seize their arms—it was scarcely tolerable. Anton believed in forgiveness, but Zeman was forcing a gap between Anton’s beliefs and his ability to live them.

The Soviet commissar, dressed in a long black jacket, stood watch as Zeman and another member of the red guard lifted mattresses and dug through the men’s meager belongings.

Maybe it was a blessing that Orlov was looking for weapons instead of for Filip’s wife. According to Veronika, Mrs. Sedláková had few useful skills, but she seemed willing to learn, and she showed gratitude. But a gracious demeanor would do her little good against a firing squad.

“You could join us, you know.” Zeman leaned against the wall hiding the weapons cache. “You’ve worked in factories. You know how awful it was for the workers.”

Anton grunted. Being a factory worker hadn’t been any harder than being a soldier, and no one had shot at him in Taganrog.

“Come on. I bet I can convince Orlov to let us serve together.”

If Zeman meant that to be an incentive, he couldn’t have been more wrong. “I want to go back to Slovakia. Russia can take care of itself.”

“Once we take Russia, the revolution will spread throughout the world.”

If the Communist revolution spread throughout the world and behaved as it had in Russia, there wouldn’t be much of a world left. Their revolution was like a plague, destroying everything in its path.

“Are you finished taking our weapons yet?” Anton asked.

“You have more. I know it. Where are they?”

“You already took them. We handed over the allotted amount in Penza. And the last three stations we’ve passed through have wanted even more.”

“You have more. You’re hiding them.” Zeman clenched his jaw. “Sedlák. He’s behind this, isn’t he? Well, I know how to hurt him.”

Anton didn’t have to guess at Zeman’s meaning, especially not when Zeman looked toward Orlov. Anton had to do something, fast. “Haven’t you heard?”

“Heard what?”

“She died.” Anton hoped he could pull off such a blatant lie. He believed in honesty, but he also believed in helping others, and in this moment, that seemed the more important of his principles. “Came down with something—influenza or typhoid. Nasty way to go.”

“But I saw her in Penza.”

“You’ve seen how quickly typhoid ravages people. Happened all the time in the camps. Don’t suppose someone who grew up like she did could adjust to a hard life.”

Zeman’s face was sober, briefly. “How did Sedlák take it?”

Did that mean Zeman believed she was dead? “Not very well.”

Zeman grunted. “Serves him right for stealing her. And serves her right for living off the work of the proletariat for so long.”

Only after Zeman and Orlov moved their search to the next boxcar did Anton go looking for Filip and Nadia. He didn’t expect to find them easily because he’d sent Veronika to warn them, so they’d be hiding. He found his wife first, working on the laundry.

“What happened?” she asked.

“They didn’t find our weapons. And I told Zeman that Mrs. Sedláková died of typhoid.”

Vernonika’s eyebrows went up. “Did you tell them she caught it on the hospital train?”

“I’m not that foolish. If they knew she was working there, they might poke around and ask inconvenient questions.”

Veronika wrung out a newly washed pair of trousers. “I didn’t know you were such a convincing liar. Do you lie often?”

“Of course not. This was a special situation. And Zeman wanted to believe it. Filip won a bride at his expense, so he wants him to suffer. And now that he’s a committed Bolshevik, he welcomes the demise of a former noble.”

“You know what I’ll welcome? A home of our own. But I’d settle for half a boxcar.”

Anton liked most of the men in his boxcar, but he felt the same way. Living apart from his wife when they were so near was a form of torture. He stood behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. “Someday, we’ll have a real home. It will have large windows and running water and flowers. And it will be in a free country that we can call our own.”

***

The legion’s hospital car was a far cry from the Petrograd officer’s hospital where Nadia had volunteered earlier in the war. And yet, the work was still satisfying, maybe more so because the patients were in such need. A few of the casualties were from the fighting around Bakhmach, but most of the patients were ill rather than wounded. The prison camps had left them with fragile health, and that seemed to slow their recovery.

Nadia changed the bandages on a wounded soldier’s leg, then looked up to see Filip. “I’m almost finished,” she called to him. When Orlov was assigned as their train’s commissar, Filip had started escorting her back to the women’s coach at the end of her shifts. When he couldn’t make it, he sent Emil or Dalek.

She wore no uniform, so when she finished, she washed her hands and hung her apron. Vanity—and Filip—made her wish for a mirror. She had no idea how presentable she was or wasn’t. She retied her kerchief and joined her husband. “How was your day?”

“We had to surrender more weapons.” His voice had an edge to it, but the anger and frustration weren’t directed at her.

“That happened to us in Petrograd and at our manor. They left us the musket my great-great-grandfather carried to Borodino, but they took everything else. With the peasants demanding land and the Bolsheviks stirring up trouble, it felt as if one wrong move or one bit of ill luck would be the end of us.”

“That’s how I feel now,” Filip said. “But it doesn’t have to be like that. We’ve almost fifty thousand men in the legion. If we weren’t spread all across Russia, we could keep our weapons, and if anyone objected, we could fight our way through.” He shook his head. “Or we could have if we’d taken that strategy in Penza. Now I’m not sure we have the weapons for it.”

“Filip!” They turned at the familiar voice. Dalek rushed to catch up to them.

“What is it?” Filip asked.

“Kral is to be a delegate at a Czechoslovak Congress in Chelyabinsk. He wants you to go with him.”

Filip frowned. “Me? Why me?”

Nadia wondered the same thing. With Filip gone, who would she turn to if she needed help? Veronika was a friend, and Nadia trusted her, but the woman wasn’t armed.

Dalek grinned. “He wants to make sure whatever they decide is clearly articulated. So he’s taking the most thickheaded man in the Sixth Regiment to test the wording. If you can understand it, anyone can.”

“Be serious, Dalek.”

“Because you’ve a little more battle experience than most of us. He trusts your judgment.”

Filip met Nadia’s eyes. He was a soldier. She knew that. He had to go where he was ordered, but it still made her nervous. What if Orlov found her?

“You’ll look after Nadia while I’m gone?” Filip looked from her to his friend.

Dalek shook his head. “He wants me to come too.”

“Mm. For comic relief, no doubt.” Filip folded his arms across his chest.

“So someone can operate the telegraph, dummy.”

Both men focused on Nadia. She tried to think of something brave to say, but her throat was dry, and she couldn’t brush off the terror the commissar held over her. The Cheka claimed to be the sword and flame of the revolution, and if Orlov found out she was still alive, he would see her sent to her grave one way or the other.

“Is Emil going? Anton?” Filip asked.

“No.”

“The rest of the squad will keep you safe, then.” Filip’s words sounded hopeful, but the rigidity of his muscles suggested he wasn’t completely at ease.

Nor was she. “How long will you be gone?”

Filip looked to Dalek, who shrugged. “Depends on a lot of things. At least a week, probably closer to two. Maybe three.” Dalek paused before continuing. “But I did forge a telegram for Orlov, recalling him to Moscow. I doubt he’ll figure out it’s a mistake until he arrives. So he might be gone just as long as we are.”

The tension that had been building the entire conversation melted away.

“He believed it?” Filip’s jawline was softer now, more relaxed.

“Of course he did,” Dalek said. “It’s a real telegram. It was just sent from across the room instead of from Moscow. I overheard him telling Zeman that they leave in the morning. Which is also when we leave.”

“Thank you, Mr. Pokorný,” Nadia said. He couldn’t have any idea how it had felt to have her would-be executioner sharing her train. Perhaps the nightmares wouldn’t be so bad now.

Dalek smiled. “I should have thought of it sooner.” Then he left.

Filip chuckled as Dalek disappeared. “I’d hate to be Orlov when he reports for duty in Moscow. I wonder how much trouble he’ll be in for abandoning his post as commissar. Maybe they’ll lock him up.”

The prospect of weeks without Orlov—or of being rid of him permanently—made Nadia feel as if she could do some of those fancy flips the Czechs did for the peasants. “I should do something to thank Mr. Pokorný.” But what would she do? She had no money and very few skills.

“I’ll take care of it. For now, I think we should celebrate. Come, I’ve something to show you.”

She took his offered arm and allowed him to lead. “What will you do at the congress?”

“I’m not sure. Kral’s to be the delegate, not me.”

“He’s a lieutenant, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“He does a lot, for a lieutenant. And you seem to do a lot, for a corporal. Given your duties, I’d put Kral as a major and you as either a master sergeant or a lieutenant.”

Filip’s mouth pulled into a slight smile, a movement she found inexplicably appealing. “As a Slav, it was hard to advance very high in the Austro-Hungarian Army. Most of us are fairly low rank, no matter how high we scored on our exams or how well we fought. Some of the Russian officers with us have ranks more in line with their responsibilities.”

“Perhaps that is why the Austro-Hungarian Army has performed so poorly throughout this war.”

One side of his lips turned down in an equally appealing gesture. “They’ve had their setbacks, but they haven’t done so poorly, have they?”

“I suppose not, or the war would have ended by now. But they were kicked out of Serbia twice. And they haven’t made much progress in Italy. And the Russian Army pushed them out of Galicia a few times. I think the only reason they haven’t collapsed is because the German kaiser is propping them up.”

“But they did invade Serbia, eventually, and they stayed. And they’ve held most of their ground on the Isonzo. They lost at Zborov last summer, but the larger Russian offensive failed. I was there. Took a piece of shrapnel in the shoulder.”

She glanced at his shoulder. Was it better to express sympathy that he’d been wounded or gratitude that he was recovered? He was healed, wasn’t he? “Does the wound still trouble you?”

“Sometimes, when the weather changes. I might not be able to do much on the rings if I ever go back to a Sokol club, but I can still shoot and climb.” He led her between two boxcars and helped her over the coupling. “You know a lot about the war.”

“I read the papers, and my father spoke of it constantly. And my brothers . . .” She swallowed back the pain that still overwhelmed her at the loss of both parents and both siblings. “I suppose I wanted to know what was so important that they should die for it.”

“Did you figure it out? Why they died? Why the whole world went mad?” There was a tightness to his words.

Nadia shook her head. “I suppose it had something to do with honor and duty and defending their homeland.”

“Your family’s home, you call it Lavanda Selo?”

“Yes.”

Filip led her around a boxcar, and she stopped, frozen with surprise. When Filip had walked her to the hospital car that morning, he’d mentioned something about painting. And paint he had, covering the side of the women’s coach with spiky plants bursting with tiny purple blossoms. The side of the boxcar looked like a lavender field in the Crimea.

She’d seen a lot of things painted on the sides of the legion’s cars—forests, medieval knights, mountain streams, and flags—but this was, by far, her favorite.

Filip’s voice was hesitant. “I assumed with a name like Lavanda Selo there had to be fields of lavender nearby.”

She nodded, her eyes fixed on the side of the boxcar. “Yes.”

“I’m probably supposed to buy you flowers, not paint them.”

She turned to him, noticing for the first time the splotches of purple paint along one knuckle and another fingernail. He’d made the train beautiful, and it suddenly felt a bit like home. And he’d done it all just to make her happy. “This will make me smile every time I step in or out of the boxcar. Thank you. It’s wonderful.”

Chapter Twelve

Filip, Dalek, and Kral rode west in a third-class carriage, going back to Chelyabinsk. It felt like a retreat, traveling west after all their efforts to move eastward. Dalek slept. Filip watched the mix of forests and cultivated fields passing by outside the window. They seemed endless.

Kral leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. “I never expected to be a congressional delegate.”

“It’s fitting. You were with the Družina from the beginning, and if it weren’t for the Družina, it’s doubtful anyone would have paid attention to the Czechs or the Slovaks.”

“The Družina certainly helped. Tothova says it’s God’s hand.”

Of course Anton would say that. Most of Filip’s family too. Religion had always seemed to work for his grandparents. His mother had been religious, too, though Filip hadn’t seen her faith rewarded, despite all her prayers for Filip’s father. Nor had Eliška’s piety softened her husband’s temper. Filip had attended mass with his family, and he valued the memories, but the things he’d seen as a soldier had long ago convinced him that God, if He existed, was not actively involved in the lives of ordinary people. But that didn’t mean all hope was lost. The dream of Czechoslovakia was slowly growing tangible, and this congress would be an important step. “Regardless of how the congress was brought about, I hope they listen to you.”

Kral smiled. “And you hope I argue for more aggressive action?”

Filip looked out the window again. “We can’t trust the Bolsheviks. They want our weapons and our recruits. Where will that leave us?”

“Vulnerable. But if we provoke them, we’ll end up at war.”

Filip opened his mouth, but Kral held up a hand. “I know, I know. We’re going to war. But if we get into trouble with the Bolsheviks, how many of us won’t make it to France? A war in Russia brings us no benefits, only casualties.” Kral’s voice was calm and reassuring.

Filip still didn’t like what was happening to the legion—disarmament and dismemberment—but they’d come up with a solution in Chelyabinsk. Kral would figure out what to do, and he’d convince the others.

Filip remembered the first time he’d heard Kral’s voice while standing picket in a miserable, dark trench in Galicia.

“Why do you fight your brothers?” the voice had asked Filip.

Filip had huddled into the side of the trench because the Czech voice calling to him hadn’t been loud, so it had to have been close. Close enough to lob a grenade, and then Filip would never return home. “I fight because I’m ordered to war. Isn’t that why everyone fights?”

“The Russians are our brothers. The Germans and the Magyars are pestilent tyrants, grinding you into a slave.”

“I was born in Prague. It’s my lot to fight for the Austro-Hungarian Empire.”

The voice hadn’t replied right away. The wind had whistled through the brush, and Filip had braced himself for an attack. He wouldn’t have a chance against a grenade, but he might be able to fend off a knife or a bayonet.

“Do you like the empire?” That voice again, unruffled and unhurried.

“No. I hate it. They destroy our culture, and they treat us like third-class subjects. But what am I to do?”

“You could join me. Join the Družina. Fight the government you despise.”

“Desertion?” The idea was appealing, but the consequences were far too high. “That’s insane.”

“Not as insane as fighting for an emperor you hate. You owe nothing to Franz Joseph.”

“But if Russia were to lose the war, I could never go home.” And he wanted to go home. He wanted to see his grandparents, his mother, and Eliška. He even wanted to see his father.

“But if Austria-Hungary were to lose the war, how much better would your home be?” The voice continued, calm and compelling. “Think on it, my brother. You’ll want your children to learn Czech in schools, won’t you? You’ll want them to learn our people’s history.”

“Of course, but—”

“Make it happen, my brother. Join us.”

Kral had fanned the flames of Filip’s discontent that night, urging action instead of servile obedience. He’d convinced him that his duty to his people outweighed his duty to an emperor he hadn’t chosen. When the conversation had ended, Filip had followed Kral back to the Russian lines. He’d never regretted it.

Filip’s hopes hadn’t changed all that much in the three years since he’d joined the Družina. He still wanted to return to Czech lands, become a watchmaker, have a family. He still wanted freedom, for himself, for his family, and for his people.

Nadia flitted into his thoughts. What would a marriage and an annulment do to his dreams? Maybe nothing. But what if there were no annulment? The thought was crazy, but that didn’t make it any less appealing. Could Nadia be happy with him, in Prague?

Filip glanced at Kral. “Whatever is decided at the congress, we need to ensure the safety of the civilians traveling with us.” Filip could dream of a future with Nadia all he liked, but it wouldn’t do him any good. Yet even if their marriage was only temporary, he had promised her protection, and he was honor-bound to keep his pledge.

Kral raised an eyebrow. “That’s not the first piece of advice I expected to hear from you.”

“You already know how I feel about disarmament. I don’t need to tell you again. And I’ve got a stake in the safety of civilians.”

Kral sat back. “What stake?”

“My wife.” He could call her that, couldn’t he, even if it was temporary?

“You’re married? When did this happen?”

“At Piryatin. I don’t know that you remember, but there was a woman there, running from the Bolsheviks because her father served the tsar a little too faithfully. They killed her family, and she was seeking refuge.”

Kral grunted. “So sometime in the last two months, you found said refugee, wooed her, and married her? That’s quick work, Sedlák.”

“Not exactly. I married her. Now I’m trying to woo her.”

“That seems a little like firing your rifle before loading it.”

Filip chuckled but felt no mirth. “She was desperate. It didn’t seem right to let the Bolsheviks have her.” He was treading on dangerous ground now. Kral had been willing to leave Nadia to her enemies, and Filip didn’t want to tell Kral he’d been in the wrong. Besides, he understood Kral’s reasoning, even if he didn’t agree with it. They’d had only so many cars, only so much room.

“So you married her?”

“Yes. You said you’d only evacuate the legion and its families. She was neither unless she married one of us. Zeman offered to marry her first, but I didn’t think he’d make a good husband.”

“What?” Kral leaned forward. “That’s not what I meant. I would have found a place for her, after I made sure all my men and their families were taken care of.”

Filip hadn’t realized he was harboring resentment toward Kral until it suddenly dissipated. He hadn’t been merciless. He’d just been setting priorities. But a feeling of dread quickly replaced the vanished anger. “She didn’t have to get married to escape?”

“Of course not. I’d want some work from her, but I wouldn’t force her to marry a stranger.”

Filip took a deep breath. “So I forced her to marry me because of a misunderstanding?”

“Do you like being married to her?”

The bench was suddenly hard and squirm-inducing. “I’m not sure. I offered an annulment when she gets to where she wants to go.”

“Well, you can arrange the annulment the next time you see her. We’ll switch her to a boxcar for refugees, and she won’t be your problem anymore.” Kral chuckled.

Filip wanted to laugh, but he felt sick. He could get an annulment now and stop worrying about Nadia. So why did the thought of ending their marriage make him feel like he’d come down with influenza or some other painful disease?

“You want her off your hands, don’t you?”

Did he? She was beautiful, and she was trying so hard at a life that was completely foreign to her. He admired that, her adaptability, her tenacity. “I guess I hoped to win her over somewhere between Bakhmach and Vladivostok.”

“Then take my advice: don’t tell her about our conversation. She’s a lucky woman. Give her a chance to realize that, eh?”

Filip didn’t know what he would do; he still wasn’t sure exactly what he wanted. But Kral was wrong. There wasn’t any way a former Russian aristocrat would consider herself lucky to be married to a Czech corporal.

***

The Chelyabinsk depot was a mass of migrating soldiers the next morning as Filip and Dalek walked along the rails, exploring the station while Kral met with officers and officials.

“It looks . . . ramshackle.” Dalek gestured to the barracks beside the depot, probably used to house railway and telegraph workers. Beyond that were warehouses, a bathhouse, and a wooden church. “Except that.” Dalek pointed to the station. “That looks like it should be in Petrograd alongside one of your wife’s mansions.”

Filip smiled at the mention of Nadia. “She called Chelyabinsk the gateway to Siberia. Most of it’s been built since the Trans-Siberian Railway went through.”

“Are you going to tell her?”

“Tell her what?”

“That she can accept the annulment immediately if she wants.”

Filip should have known his secret wouldn’t stay between him and Kral. “So you weren’t sleeping?”

“No. Are you going to tell her? Because I think you should wait.”

That wasn’t what he’d predicted from Dalek. He’d expected teasing or a threat to break the news when it was most inconvenient. “Why wait? Doesn’t make much difference, does it, if it’s annulled in Chelyabinsk or Omsk or Vladivostok?”

“As a single refugee, she’d be courted by half the legion. And we are a fine bunch, but Zeman might not be the only bad apple. She’s safer attached to a husband.”

Filip hadn’t considered that. Single women were vulnerable. And they still had all of Siberia to cross. The tsar and the provisional government had both fallen, so any safety they’d once offered along the vast stretch of rail was no more, and Soviet power didn’t project so far east. Even if their marriage were annulled, Filip would feel responsible for her, and she was easier to protect as his wife. But he didn’t want to lie to her.

“Besides, maybe with time, things will change.” Dalek’s eyebrow lifted playfully.

“She’ll want an annulment.”

“She doesn’t dislike you. That’s promising, isn’t it? Give it till we board the ships, at least. See what happens.”

“How can you tell she doesn’t dislike me?”

Dalek smirked. “She watches you when you aren’t looking. And she wants to please you. It’s either gratitude or something else. You should give it some time.” Dalek’s voice grew serious. “I suppose I want to believe that marriage between two strangers can work because I haven’t seen my wife in four years. We’ll be strangers if we’re ever reunited.”

“You were head over heels for Klára.”

Dalek nodded. “Yes, but one month of marriage and a handful of letters . . . it’s not enough. I barely remember her now. Anyway, Kral suggested I ingratiate myself with the local telegraph clerks.” Dalek pointed to the building they’d reached. “I’d best make a few new friends.” He ducked inside the building, leaving Filip to wonder about his friend and his friend’s wife and his own wife as he strolled the station. Should he tell Nadia the next time he saw her or wait and hope something changed?

A trainload of legionnaires had been shunted onto the railroad siding. He spoke with some of them and heard a familiar tale: slow progress, pressure to surrender weapons, new demands at each station they passed. Despite their frustration, morale seemed good. Once they got to France, they’d show the world how courageous the Czechs and Slovaks could be.

Nearby, heading west, was another train. It, too, was stopped as railway workers replenished water and wood. The first cars carried civilians, but the last three were full of released war prisoners. Curiosity drew Filip closer. A Hungarian folk song floated from one of the cars, and Hungarian insults were hurled from another, the one closest to the legion trains. Plenty of Czech insults flew back.

“Have you any food, sir?” The boy who spoke wore a tattered coat too large for him and shoes that were too small—the ends had been cut to give his toes more room. He held up a case. “I’ve this to barter with.”

Filip took the case and opened it to reveal an old violin. Scratches covered the body, but all four strings looked functional. “A loaf of bread in exchange for a song.”

The boy frowned. “I don’t play. I only have that because someone left it behind. Probably got sick of carrying it.”

Filip didn’t play either. But Dalek did, and Dalek had managed to get Orlov away from Nadia. Would Dalek scoff at an old violin? Filip smothered a laugh. Of course Dalek would scoff—he scoffed at everything. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t love it. Filip held out several bills. “For this? You can buy potatoes there.” Filip pointed out the legion’s dining car.

The boy’s grin stretched from ear to ear as he grabbed the rubles.

Filip watched the boy buy a bag of potatoes. Then Filip took the instrument to the boxcar where he and the others were sleeping and put it with Dalek’s things before heading back toward the telegraph office. He met a few eyes as he walked past the train of freed Hungarian prisoners again. They were hard, forged in war, toughened in the harsh lands of Siberia. They were going to war again, but Filip doubted he’d see them. In France, the legion would face Germans.

“Sedlák? Is that . . . is that you?”

Filip turned to see Miklos Vadas holding a loaf of bread in one hand and a blood sausage in the other. Filip hadn’t seen him since 1915.

“I thought you were killed,” Miklos said. “We never found a body, but that’s not so unusual. Were you taken prisoner?”

“Vadas, it’s good to see you.” Filip wasn’t ashamed of going over to the Russian side, but he didn’t think a train depot near a boxcar full of rowdy Hungarian war prisoners was the best place to mention it. “Heading home?”

Vadas nodded. “Our whole regiment was captured or killed not long after you disappeared.” His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down a few times as he studied Filip’s uniform. “You weren’t captured, were you?”

“No.”

The muscles of Vadas’s face tightened, turning fierce. “You’re a traitor.”

Desertion. Mutiny. Treason. Filip had been accused of all three, and each was true. But he felt no guilt about the decision he’d made to fight for a cause he believed in instead of for a decrepit, despotic monarchy. The world was changing, and the possibility of freedom was worth the risk. “No one asked me if I wanted to go to war for the Hapsburgs, struggle against my Slavic brothers, and risk my neck for an emperor who did everything he could to bury Czech culture. You’re Hungarian. You know what it’s like to be subjugated, to be looked down on by the ruling class. Haven’t you ever wanted to fight for something you believed in instead of for something you despised?”

Vadas kept his face hard. “I fought for my comrades in the trenches next to me. We depended on you to warn us of attack! We trusted you! What about loyalty to the men who were willing to bleed with you when the next assault came? Didn’t you owe us anything?”

“I didn’t tell them your positions.” Kral had asked, as had Kral’s superior, but Filip hadn’t been willing to give the Russian artillery the exact locations of the men he’d shivered and shared rations with. Letting down the men who’d stood beside him in the trenches was a crime, but Filip thought of it more as escaping from slavery and not being able to bring everyone with him.

Vadas huffed and glared at the legion train. “There’s talk of hanging the lot of you. It would serve you right. I’ve seen enough. I just want to go home. But don’t expect the men I travel with to be that reasonable.” He turned and stalked off.

“Vadas?”

He paused but didn’t turn.

“I hope you make it home. A village near Debrecen, wasn’t it?”

Vadas turned, and his face softened. They’d been comrades and friends back when the war had been young, and maybe some of that friendship had survived. “Yes. Good luck, Sedlák. Things were never the same after you disappeared.”

This time, as Vadas walked away, there wasn’t so much anger in his stride. Filip was glad for that. He’d not had anything against Vadas or the other enlisted men. His problems had been with the men at the top.

Filip wasn’t the only legionnaire to find an old comrade. Some of the ill-fed Hungarians were begging food from the Czechs . . . and getting it. Others were catching up on news. Filip hadn’t spent time in a prison camp, but he remembered Dalek and Anton saying how hard it was to be cut off from the world and ignorant of the war. The Hungarians looked worse for their time in Siberian prison camps. He wasn’t surprised, but he felt sorry for them. They’d been away from home just as long as him, and no doubt they wanted to return just as badly, but they had a different path to take.

Dalek joined him as the Hungarian train started to move.

“Any luck in the telegraph office?”

“Not enough to get our trains moving again.” Dalek shook his head at the Hungarian boxcars. “They seem to be moving quickly enough, but Moscow can’t decide what to do with us, so local officials all along the track are getting confused. Or getting greedy.”

The sneers from the Hungarian train picked up volume as the train picked up speed. Several of the Czechs and Slovaks standing to the side of the tracks gestured back rudely. Part of Filip’s responsibilities as a corporal was maintaining order, so he strode toward the legionnaires. Dalek followed.

One of the Hungarians threw something from a window. It connected with a Czech head. The sickening thud silenced the legionnaires.

The man slumped to the ground, rolled off the platform, and landed beside the tracks as the car full of Hungarians moved forward. Czech voices gasped and then shouted in anger.

“Ducháček?” someone called. The fallen man didn’t move.

“Stop the train!” someone said.

Filip jumped down to the tracks.

“Is he alive?” Dalek asked. In his hand, he held the object that had struck the man, an iron leg from a stove.

Filip pulled the man away from the tracks and felt for a pulse. Nothing. He tried a different position but had the same result. “Dead.”

Another Czech knelt over the body, his head on the dead man’s chest. “They won’t get away with this.” His face hardened in indignation.

“They will if we don’t stop the train,” someone else said.

Dalek helped Filip pull the dead man back onto the platform. “This could get ugly.”

Hungarian faces hung from the train windows. Some showed sympathy, but most laughed. Filip hadn’t been angry before; he’d been jealous that the Hungarian trains hadn’t been held up and worried about their role in the war. But rage and frustration built now to overflowing. A man had died, and they were laughing. Something had to be done.

Others had the same thought, only they’d had it sooner. Legionnaires crowded on the running boards of the steam engine, demanding the train be stopped, and already it was slowing. Soldiers poured off the legion trains to demand justice.

A Czech sergeant took charge. “Turn over the man responsible,” he demanded.

The Hungarians laughed. Again.

Legionnaires boarded the Hungarian trains and hauled the men off. There were more Czechs and Slovaks than Hungarians, and they finally seemed to realize that. A few armed legionnaires prodded the Hungarians with their rifles and murmurs went up and down the line. One of the Hungarians pointed to a comrade. “He did it.”

A group of Czechoslovaks rushed toward the guilty party, who disappeared behind the press of livid soldiers.

“They should string him up.” Dalek crossed his arms.

“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.”

“At least you took the initiative to hide what you could. We’ll be glad for that in time.”

Filip turned and straightened when he saw the captain’s uniform and the Sam Browne belt. The legion didn’t give its officers shoulder boards—that was too tsarist, too bourgeoisie—but some men didn’t need shoulder boards to look impressive.

The man held out a hand, and Filip shook it. “Radola Gajda, with the Seventh Regiment.”

“Filip Sedlák, with the Sixth. In town for the congress with my lieutenant, who is scheduled to be executed tomorrow after requesting a mixed tribunal for our arrested men.”

Gajda turned to the legionnaire Filip had been speaking with. “If we are low on weapons, then our first move will be to seize the armory. After that, the local militia’s headquarters.” His words were spoken casually, as if explaining the steps in roasting a pig. “Sedlák, what type of experience do you have?”

“Three years compulsory service in the Hapsburg Army before the war, six months active duty after the call-up, then in the Družina until the legion was formed.”

“A Družina man? I assume you’ve worked in reconnaissance?” Gajda’s eyes swept over Filip’s face as if he could see all Filip’s credentials at a glance.

“Yes, Brother Captain.”

Gajda gathered the men standing near the boxcar. “We don’t want a battle. Overthrowing the local Soviet is not our aim. But we can’t put up with this any longer. We’ve been meek as lambs, but no longer. It’s time to get our men back. What’s the state of our arms?”

“Ninety men, ten rifles.”

“Eighty men, eight rifles, six pistols.”

“One hundred men, nine rifles, ten pistols, and these two fists.” A brawny sergeant raised his enormous hands and balled them into formidable weapons.

The reports continued, most of them similar—few weapons but a good supply of men motivated by weeks of frustration over slow passage east and by the injustice of the local Soviet’s decision to release the Hungarians and sentence the Czechs to death.

Gajda and another man unrolled a hand-drawn map of Chelyabinsk and held it against the boxcar. Gajda motioned for Filip to take his end, giving Filip an up-close view as Gajda doled out assignments.

“Remember, this is a rescue mission. We don’t want to start a war, so hold your fire unless that becomes impossible. Men without firearms should take alternative weapons. Grenades. Rocks. Boards. Disarm and detain any sentries you come across. Take and hold all intersections in this zone.” Gajda used his finger to trace a circle on the map.

“Sedlák, you know where they’re being held?”

“Yes, brother.”

Gajda nodded. “Take a few men and cut the phone lines. We don’t want anyone warning them, and we don’t want them calling for reinforcements. After that, see what you can do with the sentries.” He ended with a traditional Czech wish for success. “Nazdar, Brother Corporal.”

“Nazdar, Brother Captain.”

Filip gathered a few volunteers. Makovec, Golova, and Novak. They seemed competent enough, but he would have rather had Dalek, Anton, and Emil. “Have you been through the city?” he asked.

“No,” Novak said. “We were told to stay at the train depot. Didn’t want us getting into scuffles with the Bolsheviks. Some peasants selling food at the station told us the town was mostly shut down anyway.”

Filip nodded. “It’s quiet. Almost seems abandoned. If this is the new prosperity for all that the Bolsheviks promised, then I’m not impressed. More like prosperity for none, but I suppose I should give them a little time. But not time to execute our brothers.”

The sun was down, so they approached the main part of Chelyabinsk in darkness. Between the four of them, they had Filip’s handgun that he’d plucked from a German officer in Bakhmach and a blunderbuss Novak had traded a few loaves of bread for. In addition to the firearms, Makovec and Golova had a grenade each, and some wooden boards they could swing. Filip had a knife.

A hush enveloped the town, as if tension from the confrontation at the train depot had left everyone too nervous to leave their homes. After a war and two revolutions, Filip would have expected it to take more than a brawl with a casualty count of two to frighten the local population, but perhaps the Soviets treated the locals the same way they treated the Czechoslovaks.

The group crept to the nearest building. They had to move swiftly; those telephone lines had to be cut soon. The other groups of Czechoslovaks were supposed to maintain silence for as long as possible, but it would take only one red guardsman to raise the alarm. Filip couldn’t fail—Dalek, Kral, and ten others depended on his success.

Filip led them along the same route he’d taken before, but they stayed near the buildings, in the most shadowed portion of the street. He halted them on one road, waiting for a sentry to walk past. Then they paused on another street but only long enough to discern that a looming shadow was too drunk to be a threat.

They stopped several buildings before their destination because an alert guard stood at the front of the militia’s headquarters. Filip studied the rooflines of the nearby buildings but couldn’t make out the phone wires in the dark. Maybe they ran behind the buildings. He waved the men back the way they had come and approached from the opposite side.

“Look for wires,” Filip whispered when they reached the building that held the prisoners.

Novak pointed. Filip followed the wire from where it entered the building back to the nearest telephone pole. “I don’t suppose any of you were lumbermen in civilian life?”

They shook their heads, which meant the task would fall to Filip. He borrowed several belts and strung them together to make a loose tether. He wasn’t a lumberjack, but he’d watched them work before. And he was a gymnast. Even with an imperfectly healed shoulder, he was confident he could climb a telephone pole. He handed Golova his pistol and started up.

With the right pressure from his legs, he could push himself up, then use the belts to keep from slipping too far down. He slid twice but not far, and the second half was easier than the first half, despite the muscle aches that grew in each limb as he climbed.

A single shot sounded in the darkness. It was some distance away, a few blocks at least. Had the turmoil of the last four years hit Chelyabinsk hard enough to make a rifle shot something to shrug away? Probably not. Everyone would be more alert now.

Filip took out his knife, cut the wire, and climbed back to the ground. Golova handed him back his pistol.

Their next task was the guard.

Filip turned to Novak. “Approach him and keep his attention long enough for me to sneak up on him.”

Novak nodded, then he and Golova rushed along one side of the building while Filip and Makovec rushed along the other.

But when they reached the front, there were now two guards instead of one. Both held rifles.

They weren’t supposed to shoot anyone, just take them prisoner, but the added guard complicated their task. Filip weighed the benefits of caution against the benefits of boldness, but he took too long deciding. Novak acted first.

Novak sauntered toward the guards. He no longer wore his hat, and his greatcoat, though obviously military, didn’t indicate his nationality, especially not in the dark. He held something small in his hand, but Filip couldn’t see what. His voice carried just well enough for Filip to hear him ask for a light in precise, factory-worker Russian.

As one of the guards searched for matches, Filip left the safety of the shadows and slipped silently toward the group.

Novak made a joke about the tsar and the kaiser. One of the guards laughed while the other struck a match and lit Novak’s cigarette.

Filip slipped his knife against the neck of the guard with the match and shoved the barrel of his pistol into the other guard’s back. Novak pulled out his blunderbuss at about the same time.

“We’ll take those rifles, please.” Filip tried to imitate Gajda’s tone—even and unconcerned but unquestionably authoritative.

“Tie their hands,” Filip ordered Makovec, who had followed him.

Another shot sounded, again in the distance.

Filip needed information. “How many men are inside this building?” he asked the guard who’d offered Novak a light.

The guard clenched his jaw and looked away.

Filip had spoken Russian since 1915. The man understood him; he was deliberately ignoring him. In normal circumstances, Filip might have let it slide, might have been gentle and persuasive, but Dalek’s life was on the line, and so were the lives of eleven others.

Filip grabbed the man and whipped him into the stone building hard enough to crack his head. The man winced. “How many of your comrades are inside the building?”

He still refused to speak.

Filip turned to the other Russian and repeated his question.

“Ten awake. Twenty asleep, rifles within reach.”

“And the prisoners? Are they still inside?”

The man nodded.

Filip turned to Novak, who seemed to have the best Russian of the four of them. “Take this one’s coat and hat so you’ll blend in. Guard the door. You too, Golova. Makovec and I will take our prisoners back.”

After removing the guards’ hats and coats, Filip and Makovec marched them off. “How many armed men are within an hour’s march of this building?” Filip asked the more talkative of the two Russians.

The man shrugged. “Five thousand.”

Five thousand? Filip’s stomach did a flip of trepidation. “Russians?”

“Two thousand are. The rest are Hungarian. They’d rather join us than stay in their prison camps.”

Filip and Makovec took their prisoners through the quarter with stone buildings, through a neighborhood with wooden buildings, and past a few Siberian-style huts. Filip kept up the questions. According to the captured guard, the Bolsheviks and their allies were armed much more thoroughly than the legionnaires. Unless Gajda had captured the armory—that might make things closer to even.

“Halt!” someone called in Czech. One moment, the street looked empty. The next, dozens of men appeared in doorways and windows, from alleys and behind fences.

Makovec greeted one and verified they were all on the same side. Filip handed over the prisoners and spoke with the sergeant in charge, reporting what they’d done at militia headquarters.

“Good. Now it’s time to free our brothers. Lead the way,” the sergeant said.

Filip steered a group of fifty back toward the building. Czech and Slovak guards now held several of the intersections they passed. Some had piled up furniture to make a barrier. Others used sandbags. But if the local Bolsheviks found out what they were doing, the Czechs and Slovaks were going to need even stronger defenses. Small arms fire cracked in the distance as they returned. They were running out of time.

A block away from militia headquarters, Filip’s group converged with another group of about the same size. More legionnaires. And they had come from the Bolshevik armory.

Filip took one of the offered rifles, a Mosin-Nagant with bayonet, and a pocketful of ammunition to go with it. They weren’t supposed to fire, but he assumed the sight of one hundred armed legionnaires would convince the men holding their brothers to either negotiate or surrender.

A Czech sergeant divided the men and sent groups to cover various points of the building. When the legion was in position, the sergeant yanked open the door. The bulk of the force fanned out behind him, Filip included, and sixty sharp, freshly commandeered bayonets shone in the light that flooded from the building.

“We’re here for our brothers.” The sergeant kept his rifle pointed at the ceiling, but with a motion of his hand, the rest of the men aimed at the handful of guards who’d come to investigate.

One of the red guards ran into an office. No one shot him. The wires had been cut, so he couldn’t call for help.

Legionnaires rushed into the building and infiltrated its rooms and corridors.

“Where are the prisoners?” the sergeant asked one of the guards as Filip and another Czech searched the man for weapons. They confiscated his revolver.

A knob in the man’s throat quivered as he looked at the force arrayed against him. “I’ll show you.”

Filip kept his eyes moving as they followed, wary of traps. The guard would be foolish to try anything other than complete cooperation, but he might not realize his building was surrounded and his communications were cut off.

When they reached their destination, the prisoners were locked in a cell, all crowded together. Filip would have expected the red guards to at least separate the officers, but perhaps the insult had been intentional. Voitsekhovsky was Russian, but he hadn’t joined the Bolsheviks. That made him an enemy.

Dalek stood and walked to the bars. He gripped them with both hands. “You’re late, Filip.”

Filip chuckled as Dalek’s face broke into a grin. The sergeant unlocked the cell and released the captured Czechs.

As dawn broke, another group of legionnaires joined them. With them was Soviet Commissar Sadlucky. His frown and pose showed displeasure and distaste, and he glared at Voitsekhovsky before reluctantly agreeing to negotiate with him. “This represents an attack against the Bolshevik government, and I will use all available means to ensure your punishment.”

“We have no hostility for the Bolsheviks.” Voitsekhovsky spoke with calmness. “The legion just wants to embark for France—with all its men.”

The men spoke back and forth, sometimes arguing, sometimes seeming to come to an agreement of sorts. Finally, Sadlucky relented. “If all your men leave for the train depot and stay out of Chelyabinsk proper, I think we can put this whole business behind us.”

Chapter Fourteen

The Czechoslovak Congress proceeded with their sessions, but tension with the local Soviet simmered during the week that followed the deadly confrontation between members of the legion and Hungarian war prisoners. Filip sat near the back of the train station waiting room, where the meetings were held. He wasn’t quite at ease, because the Bolsheviks were near, but nor was he unduly alarmed, because there had been no more outbreaks of violence since the rescue. Kral sat in front of the room with the other voting delegates. Dalek hadn’t arrived. Either he was still in the telegraph office, or he’d gotten distracted by his violin.

The chairman of the Russian branch of the Czecho-Slovak National Council, František Richter, addressed delegates and the audience. He wasn’t as bold as Filip would have liked. The Chelyabinsk incident had made it crystal clear that the Bolsheviks couldn’t be trusted.

The incident had also shown that the legion was perfectly capable of taking care of itself. If they had to fight their way to Vladivostok, so be it. It would take a force stronger than anything the Bolsheviks could currently come up with to stop them.

Dalek rushed into the room and let the door slam shut behind him. He marched directly to Chairman Richter, whispered something, and handed him a piece of paper. Then Dalek joined Filip in the back. Half the delegates followed him with their eyes.

“What’s that all about?” Filip asked.

“Comrade Trotsky forgot something very important.”

“What?”

“Whoever controls the railroad also controls the telegraph lines.” A mischievous grin spread across Dalek’s face. “We just intercepted his orders to all local Soviets from Moscow to Vladivostok.”

Richter finished reading the paper Dalek had handed him and cleared his throat. “The legion has intercepted a telegram from Comrade Trotsky, Soviet People’s Commissar for Army and Navy Affairs. In it, he orders local Soviets to forcibly remove us from our trains and disarm us completely. Then we’re to be compelled into the Red Army or labor battalions. My brothers, this changes things.”

Silent shock filled the room. Disarmament. Separation. Conscription or slavery.

The quiet didn’t last. Soon, murmurs grew and spread.

“Without arms, we’ll be at the mercy of every bandit in Siberia!” someone called out.

The man in front of them got to his feet. “I won’t go to one of their camps! They’ll work us to death.”

“We should fight our way through!” another man said.

Filip nodded his agreement as the debate continued, boisterous and emotional.

Richter, still at the stand, held up his hands in a call for order. Gradually, the noise died down, but there was still a palpable charge in the air. “Brothers, we can have only one response to this demand.” He raised the telegram as if his words could somehow be transmitted back to the man who had sent it. “We will not turn over our weapons! If you want them, come and get them!”

The room broke into cheers.

“It’s about time.” Filip turned to Dalek, a sudden worry in his chest. “That telegram is real, isn’t it?”

Dalek smirked, changing the shape of his mustache. “Of course it’s real. I only counterfeit telegrams to rid us of Soviet Commissars.”

“This will rid us of all Soviet Commissars.”

“Only if we win.”

“We will, Dalek. I can feel it.”

Everyone in the room seemed to feel the same thing. From his seat near the front, Karel Kral stood and sang the words of a familiar folk song.

Where is my home?

Where is my home?

Filip joined in, as did most of the hall.

Waters murmur across the meadows,

Pinewoods rustle upon the hills,

Bloom of spring shines in the orchard,

Filip had left his homeland close to four years ago. He’d seen more of the world than he’d ever expected, but nothing compared with his own land—the flowing and rippling waters, the trees in the wind, the burst of color every spring. When he closed his eyes, he could see it again, could almost smell and hear it.

Paradise on Earth to see!

And that is the beautiful land,

His homeland would always be beautiful to him, and now it felt as if all their hopes were within reach. Not just a compromise giving them more autonomy within an empire but instead a settlement that would give them a new, independent country. Freedom would make the beauty more meaningful, carrying his people forward to a new era, where the light of liberty scattered the shadows of oppression.

The Czech land, my home!

The Czech land, my home!

Tears streamed down Filip’s face, but he wasn’t embarrassed. Everyone else was crying too. This could change everything—for him, for his family, for his people. No more would they be forced to give loyalty to an emperor who cared nothing for them. No longer would they form his cannon fodder when he went to war. No more would they have to hang his portrait in every schoolhouse and every business. They would be no longer subjects but citizens. No longer oppressed Slavs but free men. They would have their own country, and the next step in winning it would come here, in Siberia.

Chapter Fifteen

Endless grass of green and gold blurred past the window of the slowing train. “I wonder why we’re stopping,” Nadia said. It had been a strange day. Normally, the Bolsheviks kept them spread out, but they’d converged with another legion train at Isikul. A second train offered double the weapons and double the manpower. And unfortunately, double the requirements at the service stations. So their train had gone ahead while the other waited at Marianovka.

Veronika joined her at the sawn-out window. “We’re not approaching a station?”

“Just a bridge.” And another train, with the prominent red flag of the Bolsheviks.

Veronika leaned out the window for a better view. “Sometimes I have trouble keeping track of where we are.”

“We’re east of the Urals but west of Lake Baikal. That puts us in Central Siberia.”

“Yes, but you always seem to know the spot on the map as well as the station’s and town’s history.”

Was that a compliment? Veronika was kind like that. Nadia looked around, but even Larisa wasn’t displaying the contempt and distain she normally showed whenever Nadia spoke. Nor were the other women.

“Marianovka is where we left the other train,” Nadia said. “Omsk is ahead, not far. It’s one of the larger cities in Siberia, founded about two hundred years ago as a fort.” They were getting farther and farther from Filip, and something about that made her nervous. But he would catch up. He might not come for her, but his men were here, and Filip genuinely cared about them—whether it was mentoring young, courageous Emil or drawing quiet, competent Anton out of his shell.

Anton jogged to their boxcar before they came to a complete stop.

“Why are we stopping?” Veronika asked him.

“The engine is low on water. The engineer’s afraid he’ll blow the boiler if he keeps going. So we’re going to have to push the train back to the last water tower we passed.”

“Push it?” Veronika’s eyes widened. “How?”

“Once we get it started backward, it should be easy enough to keep it moving. But when they tell everyone to help push, they don’t mean the women.” Anton lowered his voice but not so much that Nadia couldn’t hear. “Especially not you, love.” He ran off, probably to help get the train moving in the opposite direction.

Veronika looked after him, one hand on her abdomen, increasing Nadia’s suspicion.

“Veronika . . .” Her friend met her gaze. Nadia probably shouldn’t ask, but the curiosity was unrelenting. “Are you going to be a mother?”

Veronika glanced around to see if the others were listening, but they were watching the men detrain. “Yes, probably at the end of July.”

“So soon? Why haven’t you told anyone?” Nadia hadn’t heard a peep of gossip about it, and she understood more Czech every day.

Veronika chewed on her lip for a moment. “Some of the women have been married longer than I have. And they want babies very badly.”

“You don’t think they’d be happy for you?”

“Happy for me, yes, but also sad for themselves. I just thought it would be easier not to say anything, and maybe we’d get to Vladivostok before it was time.”

“My mother used to say that the world is flooded with hardship and sorrow. We’ll only get our fill of joy if we experience it with others when they’re blessed. What we have alone won’t be enough.”

Veronika smiled. “Your mother was wise.”

Nadia felt longing, then sadness as the last image of her mother passed through her mind. “Yes.”

Veronika put her hand over Nadia’s. “Her wisdom can live on in you.”

It was a beautiful thought, one that brought comfort while she was missing her parents and, she supposed, missing her husband.

***

When they pulled into Marianovka Station again, music from the other train’s regimental band filled the air. Anton went to find Veronika. The last thousand miles had taught him that delays usually dragged into boredom, so they ought to enjoy the concert while it lasted. Her clothing hung differently now, with the baby’s growth, but she was still camouflaging her condition, for the most part. And she was still just as beautiful, especially as she smiled at the music.

Something about that Bolshevik train worried him. And why had the engineer refused to go forward? They’d been far closer to the Kulomzino Station than they’d been to the water tower.

The band played one song and started another. Then Anton noticed a train from the east—the train they’d seen at the bridge. There were a number of nonthreatening reasons the train could be following them. It might simply be heading west. But cooperation with the Bolsheviks had been growing more and more difficult.

“Veronika, I think you should go back to the car.”

“Why?” She nibbled at her lip. Did she realize she did that whenever she was worried?

“Because I don’t trust that train.”

The train came closer, slowing. Before it came to a full stop, soldiers rushed from the cars. They wore lengths of red fabric around their arms, and they held rifles in their hands.

“Now!” Anton physically spun her toward the boxcar, and together they ran. As rifles cracked on the other side of the station, he boosted her into the carriage. “Lay on the ground, and stay away from the doors and windows. All of you!” he said to the other women inside.

He wanted to stay and protect his wife, but he wasn’t armed. It was time to break out the rifles they’d been hiding since Penza.

Machine guns burst into action. Between the two legion trains, there would be several—or did he hear Bolshevik weapons? He arrived at his carriage as Emil jumped down, shoving bullets from a stripper clip into a Mosin-Nagant rifle.

Anton scrambled up as Emil ran off.

Petr tossed him a rifle. “Don’t know that we’ll be able to put this false wall back up.”

“After this, we won’t need it.” The Bolsheviks had just declared war on them, and an open war would end all smuggling. If they won, they’d keep their weapons handy. If they lost, they wouldn’t have any weapons left to hide. He prayed they wouldn’t lose.

Once he had a rifle in his hands, his first impulse was to run back to the women’s carriage. But he couldn’t do that. He had to work with the other legionnaires to defend the entire train, not just one boxcar, no matter how precious its cargo. Dust tickled his throat as he and Petr ran toward the fighting and followed orders to spread out. They found a defensible position to the side of the station, in a ditch that offered a good view of the Bolshevik train. The legion’s train curved with the track, so the women’s boxcar was out of sight, away from immediate danger.

Red guardsmen continued to leap from their cars and shoot. Anton and Petr shot back.

“Stupid Bolsheviks,” Petr mumbled. “Good for us though.”

“What?”

“If they attacked as a group, they’d be stronger.” Petr worked the bolt on his rifle to prepare the next shot. “Instead, they’re letting us pick them off a few at a time.”

The red guardsmen never had a chance to form a line. They were instead mowed down in the Czechoslovak crossfire. Some made it back to their train, more fled into the woods, and a significant number fell to the ground, wounded and dying.

“That will teach them to steal our weapons.” Petr grinned as he shot again.

Anton aimed at the few Reds still attempting to infiltrate legion positions. Petr’s sudden gasp was the first sign that something had gone wrong. Anton shot the Bolshevik trying to approach their ditch, probably the man who had shot Petr.

Blood flowed from Petr’s shoulder. Anton checked for an exit wound, but the bullet was still lodged inside. Warm, sticky blood clung to Anton’s hands.

“First thing, Petr, is to stop the bleeding. So hold this.” Anton pressed a wad of cloth into Petr’s wound, then guided Petr’s healthy hand to hold it. Anton used his rifle to repel a few straggling red guardsmen, then looked at Petr’s wound again.

“Do you suppose Larisa and the others are all right?” Petr’s voice sounded muffled.

“I doubt any of the Bolsheviks made it that far back. Even if they did, they’d target the cars we’re firing from, not a boxcar designed to haul cargo.”

When the firing died down, Anton dragged Petr from the ditch and hauled him toward the hospital car. Petr was conscious, but he wasn’t speaking anymore, and his eyes wouldn’t focus. Marianovka was a bad place to get shot. It didn’t look big enough for a doctor, and their train’s hospital car was staffed only by an orderly—wounds like this might be beyond his skill.

When Anton got Petr inside, his fears were confirmed. A medical orderly treated the handful of wounded, but with one look at Petr’s shoulder, he turned pale. “This needs a surgeon.”

Anton stripped off Petr’s gymnastyorka to get a good look at the wound. “The bullet entered the front and made a straight enough path. Someone just needs to remove the bullet and stitch up the skin.”

“Is that so? If you know so much about it, why don’t you do it?”

Anton had never removed a bullet before, but he’d assisted Dr. Horváth in the prison camps for months, sometimes with this very type of wound. In most of those cases, the bullets had been in the bodies long enough for the surrounding flesh to fester. “What tools do you have?”

The orderly waved at an assortment of devices. Anton picked up the forceps.

“Would you like me to clean them for you?”

Anton turned to the feminine voice. Nadia. “What are you doing here?”

“When the shooting died down, I thought there might be wounded. I can help.”

“The other women?”

“I told them to stay. None were injured. Veronika is fine.” She glanced at Petr. “And Larisa was fine as well, though when she finds out . . .”

“Let’s get him fixed before we tell her, shall we?” Anton said.

Nadia nodded. “You’ll have better light there.” She pointed to a patch of straw beneath the window.

Petr’s injured body had grown weaker, so Anton grabbed him beneath the arms and Nadia took his legs to bring him over. Then she held a match to the forceps while Anton washed Petr’s wounded shoulder. The alcohol drew a grimace and a shudder.

Nadia handed Anton the sterilized forceps. Petr was a friend, but a familiar detachment from his patient and curiosity over what to do next was back, just as strong as it had been when he’d assisted Dr. Horváth. War could do all manner of things to a soldier’s body. Healing it was one way to fight back against the madness that had gripped the world since 1914.

Petr flinched. “Hold him,” Anton told Nadia. She might not be strong enough to keep someone like Petr from moving, but Anton couldn’t force Petr down and pull the bullet out at the same time. “Petr, you need to hold still. I don’t care how much it hurts. If you move, it will hurt more.”

Anton waited for Nadia to establish a good hold and said a silent prayer for help. Then he dug for the bullet. He couldn’t see beyond the edge of the wound, but he could feel where the flesh was torn and where it was mostly whole. The bullet would be at the end of the hole, unless it was lodged in Petr’s scapula.

Blood continued to flow into and from the wound, but Anton finally felt something harder than muscle. He gripped it and yanked. It didn’t move. Was it stuck in the bone? “Sorry, Petr.” Anton yanked harder, and on his third tug, the bullet came out.

Petr groaned and shook with pain. He looked around as if coming out of a stupor. Nadia grabbed a rag and mopped the perspiration from his brow. He focused on Nadia for a second. “Is Larisa all right?”

“She’s fine,” Nadia said. “And you’re going to be just fine too, with a little rest. But this next part will hurt a bit.”

Anton started stitching. He wasn’t sure what to say, so he didn’t say anything. Dr. Horváth had always had a cheerful manner with patients. He would tell a joke or offer sympathy and hope. And Nadia was pleasant and proficient, still murmuring encouragement. But Anton had never been good with saying anything beyond what needed to be said, except when he was with Veronika. A good doctor should use all resources, including speech, but Anton still hadn’t thought of anything useful to say by the time Petr’s shoulder was stitched. He’d have to work on that, because he wanted to be a real doctor, a good one.

The orderly nodded his approval. “There are more, if you can assist with them as well.”

Anton looked around. Eight wounded. Six dead. He glanced at Nadia, who nodded her willingness to help.

Chapter Sixteen

The hospital train had been relatively calm since they’d left the Ukraine, but that wasn’t the case anymore. Nadia spent the afternoon of the attack caring for the wounded. Most of the next day too. The injured red guardsmen had been carried to a nearby warehouse, and she had spent time there as well. They’d attacked the legion, so they were the enemy, but they were also men who needed help.

Few acted like committed Bolsheviks. Since the fall of the tsar, Russia had been buried in waves of chaos and violence. If people didn’t join a side, they were susceptible, made a victim by all sides. In some ways, they weren’t so different from Nadia. She’d joined the legion for protection. She approved of their cause, but even if she hadn’t, she doubted ideology would have stopped her. Her choice had been to join the legion or die at the hands of the Cheka. How many men had joined the red guard to escape starvation or to keep from being alone when the next round of violence broke out?

Nadia changed bandages on a man who’d been shot in the stomach. He moaned. She hadn’t tended many stomach wounds before. Most men injured in the gut didn’t survive long enough for transfer to a Petrograd hospital like the one where she’d volunteered. It was overwhelming to think of how many men she’d seen and how it was only a tiny portion of the war’s wounded.

When Nadia finished in the warehouse, she returned to the boxcar for Czechoslovak wounded. Larisa sat with Petr, both on the floor because the hospital car didn’t have beds. Larisa smiled up at her as she approached. She had never smiled at Nadia before.

“How is he?” Nadia had tended Petr that morning, and he’d been well then.

“Stronger than yesterday, I think. Thank you. He says you’re a good nurse.”

Surprise left Nadia momentarily mute. Had Larisa really given her a compliment instead of a snicker because she didn’t know how to braid her own hair or wash her own clothes? She swallowed, then managed a soft, “You’re welcome.”

She checked the other men in the boxcar, all stable, most improving, then stood to stretch after changing the bandages on someone’s legs. She nearly bumped into her husband.

“Filip, you’re back!”

Stubble covered his cheeks, and his hair curled with whimsy. She felt warm inside, seeing him there safe and whole. And . . . had he come to see her? She wanted to throw her arms around him. She’d been worried about him, and rumors of some sort of incident at Chelyabinsk had made the worry worse. But he might not welcome an embrace. Perhaps he’d come to the hospital car for treatment.

“Are you well?” she asked.

He nodded, and a soft smile creased his lips. “We pulled in a few minutes ago, and I wanted to check on you. No sign of Orlov or Zeman since we left?”

“None.”

“Good.” He glanced around at the casualties. “I see you’re busy. I don’t want to interrupt your work.” He stepped toward the exit.

Was he leaving already? “I haven’t had a break all day. No one will mind if I step out for a few minutes.” She was being too bold, but the orderly would stay with the wounded, and she hadn’t seen Filip in weeks.

To her relief, he seemed pleased. “I’ll wait for you outside.”

She watched him hop down, and then she quickly refilled a few canteens.

Filip smiled when she joined him, and that warm feeling inside returned. She could do far worse than Filip when it came to husbands. But that was a silly thought. Their marriage was just a ruse.

Ruse or not, she took his arm when he offered it, and they strolled along the train depot. It wasn’t the most scenic of excursions, but the company was pleasant. She told him about the attack, and he answered all her questions about Chelyabinsk, ending with a summary.. “Trotsky ordered any armed Czechs shot on the spot and everyone else forced into the Red Army or one of the work battalions. So I guess we’re at war with the Bolsheviks now.”

“I’ve been at war with them since they shot my parents, maybe before. So I suppose that puts us firmly in an alliance against a common enemy.” The Bolsheviks worried her. Papa had never thought they’d last this long. Were they simply enduring longer than expected, or were they in Russia to stay?

A figure came toward them. Dalek.

He nodded to her, then turned to Filip. “Kral sent me to find you.”

“Already? I left him less than an hour ago.”

“Talks with the Omsk Soviet broke down. They aren’t going to let us through, so he needs scouts. And he trusts you more than he trusts anyone else.”

Filip glanced at Nadia. He seemed apologetic, almost reluctant to say goodbye. “Can you see yourself back to the hospital car?”

She nodded.

Watching Filip leave was almost painful. She wasn’t an expert on war, just a woman who had listened to her father and talked with wards full of wounded officers. No expert, but wise enough to know that scouting work was dangerous, especially in Omsk. The Bolsheviks there had attacked without warning. And now Filip was going into that?

Omsk. She’d never been so far east before. She knew nothing that could help the legion get past it. But nearly one hundred wounded men who had attacked from Omsk lay in a nearby warehouse. Perhaps the right questions from a friendly nurse could encourage them to share their knowledge.

***

“You didn’t tell her, did you?” Dalek asked as he and Filip walked to Kral’s boxcar.

Filip hadn’t wanted to bring up the subject of annulment. “I didn’t have a chance.”

“Did she seem pleased to see you, despite how scruffy you look?”

“How should I know?” Filip ran a hand over his face. Maybe he should have shaved. But if he’d taken the time to freshen up, he wouldn’t have gotten to see her at all. “Do you know what Kral wants?”

“Reliable information about what the Bolsheviks are doing in Omsk. I gather a few men have gone out, but they either haven’t returned or haven’t returned with the right information.” Dalek grinned. “That’s what you get for being the best scout in the echelon.”

Filip and Dalek had been insulting each other since boyhood, so the compliment felt strange. That didn’t mean they wouldn’t kill for each other, maybe even die for each other, but that level of comradery was best hidden under a hail of abuse.

Kral stood before a map when Filip and Dalek stepped into his boxcar. “Omsk is the largest concentration of Bolshevik power in Siberia. And it’s in our way, so we’ve no choice but to take it. You know what I need?”

Filip nodded. “Where they’re concentrated, how many men, how much firepower. Any weaknesses we can exploit. Disposition of the local population. Anything else?”

“Yes. I don’t expect they would treat legion spies with much mercy, so don’t get caught. I’d like you to come back. You heard about the attack while the band played?”

Filip nodded. He’d heard snippets on his way to the hospital train, plus Nadia’s version. He studied the map of Omsk and the surrounding areas. It showed the river, a few streets, and the rail lines, but not much else. “You don’t have a better map, do you?”

Kral shook his head. “Yet another reason we need good reconnaissance. Find out what you can and be back in two days’ time. There’s a horse waiting for you a few cars back.”

Filip took a last look at the map, committing what he could to memory.

Dalek joined him as he went for the horse. “I’ve heard rumors of how the Bolsheviks torture people. Would you like to hear them?”

“No. But I suppose you’ll tell me anyway.”

Dalek shrugged. “If you don’t want to hear, then there’s no reason for me to tell.”

Would knowing about torture make it any easier to survive? Dalek had gone and stirred up his curiosity. But Filip wasn’t going to get captured. He’d scouted out enemy positions countless times before. The red guardsmen at Omsk couldn’t be any more dangerous than the Austro-Hungarian Army in Galicia.

He fingered his face. Not enough of a beard to pass as a peasant. Omsk had factories, so he would pretend to be a worker. “I can’t go in my uniform.”

“No.”

“I don’t have any civilian clothes. Not in Russia, anyhow.” Maybe not anywhere. Almost four years had passed since he’d folded his clothes and put them away in a trunk, then stored it in his grandmother’s attic so it wouldn’t be in the way. The whole lot of it was probably nothing more than moth-eaten scraps by now.

“I’ll find you some.”

“Thanks. And, Dalek?”

Dalek paused.

“If I don’t make it back, look out for Nadia for me, will you?”

“I’ll see she makes it to Vladivostok. But you really ought to come back and look out for her yourself. Perhaps the next time you return, she’ll accept a kiss as greeting.” Dalek’s eyebrows did a suggestive tango.

Kiss Nadia? He’d imagined it, but that daydream would never be anything more than fantasy.

Dalek returned with appropriate clothes as Filip finished preparing the horse and his gear. He wouldn’t take a rifle—that would be too conspicuous. Just food, a small pistol, sharp eyes, and a keen ear that understood most Russian, even if it didn’t always pronounce it correctly.

“Nazdar, Filip.”

“Nazdar, Dalek.”

Chapter Seventeen

Filip nodded as the peasant spoke on and on. “They requisitioned all our spare grain. If they do that again after harvest, we’ll have to choose between starving or eating our seed crop. We were all in favor of revolution but not this communism.”

“What of the White Army?”

The peasant shook his head. “We haven’t seen much of them.”

“And the Czechoslovak Legion?”

“I have no problems with them.”

Good. The local population was unlikely to turn on them. Sometimes small favors like a willingness to sell hidden grain or feigned ignorance when the other side was collecting intelligence was just as useful as armed men.

Filip said his goodbye and mounted his horse. He’d spoken to a dozen peasants the day before, and most of them had said the same thing. Revolution had promised them land, but land did them little good when they couldn’t keep their crops. War had already created a manpower shortage for agriculture, and food requisitions were making things worse.

As Filip approached Omsk, light reflected off the Irtysh River. The land was flat, giving him a view both of the older, more established part of the city and the newer, southern portion built up around the rail depot. Both lay beyond the river. The railway was the more important target, so he rode there first and found a peasant selling an assortment of used furniture. Filip asked him to watch his horse. He’d find out more on foot.

The station looked almost like a palace, and it was guarded. Heavily. A dozen armed men sat smoking out front. Inside, more guards patrolled. Their watchful eyes scanned everyone, but no one stopped Filip. He joined a line of passengers and pretended to study the posted schedule. When he was within three passengers of the ticket booth, he left the line and went out onto the platform, striding with purpose so no one would stop him. He didn’t like working out in the open like this. He was used to gathering information across battlefields as a soldier, not across train depots while disguised as a civilian.

The repair facilities for the trains were old, neglected during the war, because resources and manpower were needed elsewhere. But the rails were sound enough to keep traffic moving.

Of more importance than the state of the track was the state of enemy defenses. Thus far in its encounters with the Bolsheviks, the legion had been better organized and more experienced. Judging by the state of the train station, that advantage would be less significant in the coming battle. Trenches lined the earth on the edge of the station, and sandbagged positions guarded nearby buildings. Omsk was prepared for war.

Filip retrieved his horse and rode through the main town. He wasn’t in Omsk for sightseeing, but the neoclassical buildings were a dramatic change from the log huts and Tatar yurtas of the countryside. Red guardsmen walked the muddy streets. They seemed more relaxed here than they’d been at the station, but they were just as heavily armed—all of them.

Over the course of the afternoon, Filip gathered an estimate of how many guardsmen there were. Roughly two and a half thousand, five times the number of legionnaires waiting at Marianovka Station. And most of the legion wasn’t armed, but the enemy seemed to have rifles to spare. Filip had also seen four field guns and heard rumors of over one hundred fifty machine guns. The legion had thirty.

He turned west, and a few armed men pointed at him, making him even more eager to get away. He pushed his horse into a trot. He had the information he needed as well as details about the roads and buildings they’d be attacking, so it was time to return to his echelon.

As he approached the bridge over the Irtysh, he slowed and dismounted. The bridge was an impressive piece of architecture. It was also mined. Several guards patrolled the area, and a few railroad workers went about their duties. The bridge was important. Without it, no trains could move east. Would the Bolsheviks destroy it to stop the legion’s progress?

A civilian worker with upright posture met Filip’s eyes for a long moment, gave a slight jerk with his head, then slowly turned away and trudged back toward town. If Filip stayed where he was, he’d draw attention to himself, so he led his horse after the man, hoping he wasn’t walking into a trap. The man waited midway along the first street they came to, then continued when Filip saw him. Filip hadn’t been imagining it; the man wanted him to follow. But to what purpose? It was hard to know who was aligned with the Reds, who might be sympathetic to the legion, and who would sell out anyone suspicious for the promise of reward.

The man entered an unmarked wooden building. Filip tied his horse to a birch tree and slipped a hand into his pocket, over his pistol. He glanced around the street, looking for sentries or anything else that ought to cause alarm. In the end, he trusted his gut and followed the man inside.

He waited, standing near another man who was large, bearded, and armed with a vicious-looking knife. The armed man watched Filip closely but stayed seated on a chair.

“You seem interested in the bridge,” the first man said.

Filip waited, wanting to hear more before he replied.

“The Bolsheviks have the bridge, so you can’t be with them.”

The way the man spoke made it sound like he wasn’t with the Bolsheviks either. Filip had been under the impression that most workers sided with the Reds, but maybe these men were exceptions. “Perhaps I’m just curious. It’s not every day one sees a mined bridge.”

“It’s wired at eighteen points.”

Eighteen? Filip let out a low whistle. “Who mined it?”

“The Bolsheviks. To stop counterrevolutionaries. But I know where the detonators are.”

“Ah. And you’d be willing to sell this information?”

The man huffed. “I’m not a mercenary. I’m an officer who was almost murdered when the Bolsheviks convinced my soldiers that the war was hopeless and discipline was something that could disappear with the tsar. And you aren’t a native Russian. I can tell by your words. A Czech, by chance? That’s who the Bolsheviks seem most keen on stopping.”

Filip glanced at the man with the knife, then back at the former Russian officer. “It seems we have a common adversary.”

“If you were to tell me the legion’s plans, we could coordinate our efforts.”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss them.” Refusal could backfire but not as badly as sharing plans with a false ally could.

The man didn’t show anger. He continued calmly. “The tracks to Yekaterinburg. We can cut them. You’re already occupying the tracks to Chelyabinsk. And the ones to the east. We have an opportunity to cut the Bolsheviks off and destroy them.”

Filip pictured the map in his head. Two rail lines ran from the west and joined at Omsk, one more northerly, through Perm, Yekaterinburg, and Tyumen; the other followed a more southern route, through Samara, Ufa, and Chelyabinsk. After joining at Omsk, they continued east past Lake Baikal until the line split again at Chita. Filip’s group of legionnaires held the southern line to the west of Omsk, and another group of legionnaires held part of the track to the east. If this man could cut the third and final line into Omsk . . .

Surrounding the Bolsheviks was appealing, but Filip had to be cautious. “It sounds promising, to cut them off.”

The man’s lips twitched. A smile? “Will you join us?”

“Our goal is to move all our men east, not to interfere with internal Russian affairs.”

“You may want neutrality, but it seems the Bolsheviks have gone to war with you.”

That was true enough. “And we will fight back, but only as needed.”

“For now.” The man held out his hand. “Kirill Sokolov.” He nodded at the other man. “Yuri Fedorov.”

Filip shook both their hands. “Filip Sedlák.”

“If you need us again, one of us is usually by the bridge. But take care. The Bolsheviks are executing anyone they want to get rid of.”

***

Filip didn’t have the authority to promise Sokolov or Fedorov anything, but cooperation made sense. The legion wanted the Bolsheviks off the railway. The White Russians wanted more than that—they wanted the Bolsheviks out of Russia—but the two could, in theory, cooperate when it came to the Bolsheviks in Omsk.

Filip left the city and rode for a time, then slowed his horse when he was confident no Bolsheviks tracked him. Three figures took shape in the distance. Two stood. The other hunched and moved around something on the ground. They might have information for him, and he was far enough from Omsk now that anyone wanting to report him would have a long walk to the nearest authorities.

He dismounted. Then he winced. He knew how to ride—not enough to impress Nadia, but enough to get by—but he wasn’t used to hours in a saddle. The inside of his legs burned, and he almost rethought his plan. He’d considered himself and his Beholla pistol equal to three peasants, but he hadn’t counted on how sore he’d be.

The three went about the task as before, though they had to have heard Filip’s horse. Two men and a woman.

“Greetings.” Filip kept his distance, still unsure of how he’d be received.

The one bending over stood and slipped something into his pocket. Filip looked from the man to the ground, and his feet suddenly felt stuck to the steppe. They were scavenging from the bodies of five executed men. He couldn’t see the faces. Someone had tied white handkerchiefs over them. But he could see the uniforms, two of them with legion patches.

“We were here first,” the largest of the three said.

“I don’t want anything from them.” Filip watched the woman tug boots from a body. “Who are they?”

“Spies, counterrevolutionaries. The Bolsheviks shot them. They don’t need their clothing anymore, do they?”

Stripping the dead was reprehensible, but Filip forced back his indignation. “What did they do?”

The man shrugged.

Spies, counterrevolutionaries, and legionnaires. A bullet in the chest was what Filip could look forward to if he were caught. He reached into his pocket and took out a few Kolchak rubles. “May I look at the faces?” He held the rubles out.

The large man raised an eyebrow. The woman frowned. “Why would you want to see their faces?”

Filip didn’t want to confess that he might recognize them. “I’m looking for a friend’s missing brother. Sounds like the type who might get involved with this sort of trouble. Has a scar along his nose.”

The woman pulled off the handkerchiefs. Two of the faces belonged to men Filip knew. A third looked familiar, though he couldn’t place the name. He noted the curly hair and blue eyes of the fourth, the cleft chin and birthmark of the fifth.

“Not your man.” The big man glanced over the bodies.

That wasn’t true. Some were his brothers. Was it worth pulling out his pistol so he could take the bodies and give them proper internments? But how would he move all five? The legion would have to bury them somewhere. Perhaps this spot was as good as any. “Will you bury them when you’ve finished?”

The woman let out a chuckle.

“If I paid you, would you bury them?”

The second man, thinner and hairier than the other, seemed to consider it. “I’ll come back when it’s dark.” He nodded to a hovel in the distance. “I’ll bring my shovel.”

Filip had no way of knowing if the man lied, but under the circumstances, it was the best he could do. He might owe respect to his fallen brothers, but he also owed information to his living brothers, and their needs came first. He handed over his money and hoped for the best. On days like this, he hoped all those promises that he’d heard in church about redemption and resurrection were really true.

***

Kral waved Nadia in when she arrived at his boxcar. A man sat before Kral, his back to her. He wore worn civilian clothing, yet something about the curly brown hair was familiar. Filip?

“You’re sure about those descriptions?” Kral asked.

“Yes, Brother Lieutenant.” Definitely Filip’s voice. “I paid a peasant to bury them. Don’t know if he will, but I didn’t think my horse could carry that many bodies.”

Bodies? What bodies? At least Filip was back, and alive, even if he slumped on the makeshift table. He needed rest, but she doubted he’d get it. Kral was bold, and time wouldn’t improve their situation, so the legion would strike soon.

“You have more information?” Kral looked past Filip to Nadia. Filip didn’t even turn to see who Kral questioned.

“One of the patients told me about shift changes at the train depot,” she said. “If they still use the same schedule, I thought it might be valuable.”

Filip’s head whipped around as she spoke. He must have recognized her voice.

Nadia met his eyes for a moment, then focused on Kral. “I wrote it down for you.” She handed over her notes. The proper thing was to stand erect and focus on the lieutenant until she was dismissed, but her eyes returned to Filip, who stared right back with a puzzled expression on his face.

Kral cleared his throat, and both of them straightened. “Thank you, nurse Sedláková.” He turned to Filip with a raised eyebrow. “Your wife?” Something about that tone—was it disapproval? Surprise that someone like Filip had tied himself to someone like Nadia?

“Yes, Brother Lieutenant.”

“Then I’ll dismiss you both. But, Sedlák, I’ll need you first thing tomorrow morning. Rest up.”

Filip nodded, then hurried to step from the car so he could help her down.

“Thank you,” she said.

He’d taken her hand to help her from the train and didn’t let go of it right way. He looked at their entwined fingers for several long seconds before releasing her. “Sorry, I’m filthy.” He wiped his hand on his clothes, then stopped when he only succeeded in creating poofs of dust on his smock. “Why were you reporting to Kral?”

He wasn’t angry, was he? “The Bolsheviks left a lot of wounded men when they withdrew. I thought that since they attacked from Omsk, they might have useful information. And since Kral needed intelligence badly enough to send you for it, I thought it would be helpful. I wasn’t trying to interfere.”

“I wouldn’t call it interfering. I’d call it helping. Thank you. You’re magnificent.”

Magnificent? All she’d done was ask a few wounded, lonely men the right questions. Her cheeks grew warm. “I had hoped it would keep you safer, somehow. I should have thought of it before Kral sent you.”

“Well, I made it back, and now we have two sources.”

“And the bodies you spoke of?” She was reluctant to bring up the Bolsheviks’ latest victims, but she wanted to know. “Legionnaires?”

“Three were. I’m not sure about the other two. The peasants said they were accused of counterrevolutionary activities, and I suppose scouting for the legion counts.”

“They call anything they don’t like counterrevolutionary. It’s what my family was charged with, and we were simply trying to leave. My father had worked against them in the past, but in Piryatin, we were just trying to survive.” She folded her arms across her chest and tried to ignore the fresh pain that still came whenever she remembered those events.

“What did your father do that they hated him enough to track him down in the Ukraine?”

She could trust Filip, but she still hesitated. “He was one of the tsar’s officials. He supported General Kornilov last August. But the coup was all a misunderstanding, and it was against Kerensky, not against the Bolsheviks.” She sighed. “My father said the Bolsheviks should have thanked him. When Kerensky and Kornilov broke, it left everyone weaker except the Bolsheviks.”

“Maybe they feared his potential to threaten them.”

Nadia nodded. “He was still in contact with important people. Maybe they knew. What of your father? What did he do?” Filip had said his father had been convicted of treason, but treason could mean many different things.

“He and a friend helped organize a street demonstration. At first, they were calling for universal suffrage. But it soon took on an antidynastic tone, and they clashed with the police.” Filip broke off with a yawn.

“Did you sleep while you were gone?”

“A bit.”

She wanted to spend more time with him, but that wasn’t fair. He needed sleep, and she needed to follow orders. That was something she’d learned as a nurse, the importance of discipline. “Kral told you to rest. I suppose you had better follow his advice.”

He hesitated, then nodded.

“Will you attack Omsk tomorrow?”

“I can’t see any reason to wait. And I doubt Gajda will either. He believes in hitting the enemy hard and quickly.”

Filip had just returned, and tomorrow he’d be leaving again. “You’ll be careful, won’t you?” Taking Omsk would be no easy task.

Filip’s eyes wandered over her face. “I have reasons to come back, so I’ll do my best.”

Chapter Eighteen

Anton’s boots squelched as he pulled them from the mud. He understood why they’d been sent on a flanking maneuver around the rail line, but that didn’t make the marching any easier.

“Mud.” Dalek cursed under his breath. “They talk about battles and charges, but war is really about mud. Galician mud. Ruthenian mud. Siberian mud.”

“And may we all live long enough to see Czechoslovakian mud.” Emil straightened his rifle strap. Their squad didn’t have a full supply of weapons, but they were better off than most, thanks to the cache they’d hidden. “I’d rather deal with Siberian mud than Siberian snow.”

“We better be gone before the snows come.”

Anton didn’t say anything, but he agreed with Dalek. Winter in Siberia sounded like a good way to lose a few toes to frostbite. The days were long lately, but they’d be short in the winter months, dark and cold. Veronika would hate it, and so would he. Better to spend the winter in France or in their new homeland.

The legionnaires from Marianovka had split into two groups. The main force defended the station. Kral’s group of about two hundred, a quarter of them armed with rifles, were spread across the marshy taiga, moving toward Omsk. A few, like Filip, had other missions.

A runner dashed over to them. “They’ve come. We have better positions, but they’ve got more manpower. And machine guns.”

Kral’s group didn’t have a single machine gun. And while Anton was glad he didn’t have to cart it around, he would have liked the firepower. The Bolsheviks rode an armored train. Legion rifles could peck at it, but they’d do little damage.

“All right, move back to the track,” Kral ordered.

Hopefully the Bolsheviks had driven far enough west toward Marianovka Station that they wouldn’t notice the legionnaires who had sneaked around behind them. Anton, Dalek, and Emil hauled brush and whatever else they could find to make a barrier of sorts across the train tracks.

In the distance, small arms sounded as the Bolsheviks attacked Marianovka. Anton and a dozen others pulled out sharp Russian shovels and began digging. The rest of Kral’s group worked on destroying a section of track. If the Reds tried to retreat back to Omsk in their armored train, they’d be stuck, sandwiched between two groups of the legion.

***

Filip pried another steel railroad spike from its tie plate. Fedorov worked the opposite side and was several sleepers ahead of him. Other men worked on the fish plates, undoing the bolts so the rails could be pulled away.

Filip had snuck back into Omsk that morning after a lamentably small amount of sleep. He could have spoken less with Nadia, but he didn’t regret those moments. He’d thought he’d married a helpless aristocrat. Instead, he’d married a clever, determined woman who was helping the legion make its way east with weapons, medical care, and knowledge.

“Come, Czech. You’re falling behind.”

Filip grunted at Sokolov’s teasing. Most of the other men were railway workers, so of course they were more skilled than he at destroying rail line. “This one’s a bit tricky.” That was true enough; the edge of the tie had corroded, so there was less of a head for Filip to work his prybar under. He tried from a different angle and shifted the spike.

When Filip had found Sokolov that morning, he’d needed convincing that the northern rails should be destroyed. The Bolsheviks couldn’t escape on the southern line—groups of legionnaires blocked them to the west and to the east. As long as the Bolsheviks were gone, Filip didn’t care if they escaped west along the northern line, but there were other legionnaires in that direction. As Sokolov pointed out, if the Bolsheviks weren’t destroyed, they would regroup and attack elsewhere. Weakening the Omsk Bolsheviks was good for the legion. And if it happened to be good for the White Russians too, then that was something Filip could be happy about, regardless of their constant orders to stay out of internal Russian affairs. Neutrality might make sense in Prague or Paris, but in the middle of Siberia, it quickly became impossible.

“That’s enough. It will take more time to repair than they’ll have.” The verdict came from one of the other rail workers, someone who knew what he spoke of.

Sokolov motioned to Filip. “Come, Czech. We’ve a bridge to see to.”

***

Anton dropped to the ground as rifle shots tore into the grass in front of him. After they’d set up their barricade and broken the track, Kral had sent a runner back to Marianovka Station, and the legion there had pushed hard. The counterattack had driven the Bolsheviks back, so the Reds now attacked east instead of west. Right into Anton’s group.

A shell shrieked from the armored train and plowed into the ground a few meters to the left, exploding in a shower of mud, grass, and shrapnel. Their trench was only a few feet deep, and Anton did his best to use every bit of cover by pressing his body hard into the dirt.

Emil cried out, and Anton rushed over to him. “Are you hit?”

Emil nodded and reached for his back. Anton found the problem—a piece of shrapnel piercing his uniform just below his belt. He pulled away the layers of clothing, and the shrapnel pulled away with it.

“Is it bad? I’m not going to die, am I?”

The cut was scarcely wider than Anton’s thumbnail. It bled but not much. “You’ll be fine.”

Dalek glanced at the wound. “I’ve seen more blood from a squashed mosquito.”

Emil’s face colored. “Well, the mosquitos out here are enormous.”

“It’s always a surprise to get hit, especially the first time.” Kral nodded toward the shell hole. “That looks deeper than this trench. Come on.”

The group scrambled into the shell hole.

“We hold here until they give up.” Kral aimed his rifle. “These bullets won’t go through the armor on that train, but the moment any of them show their faces . . .”

The Bolshevik train backed up once it reached the barrier. Then it crept forward again as if whoever was in charge had decided to barrel through. The huffs of the engine and the clack of wheel on track increased, then slowed.

Dalek chuckled. “I think they just realized they don’t have a track.”

The Bolsheviks continued to fight, even without a way forward. A few fired rifles, but whenever they did, Anton and the others replied in kind, so most of the Reds kept their heads down and let the armored train do all the work. Artillery hit on either side of Anton, making the ground shake and his ears ring. A few rounds hit legionnaires, and Anton crawled around to help with bandages.

The time between shells lengthened, and the Bolsheviks seemed to lose heart. Whether they wanted to go east or west, the line was blocked. They were trapped. Eventually, they pulled out of range, and the red guardsmen melted into the taiga, heading north or south, leaving their armored train behind.

Kral ordered a group of men to replace the rails, then led the rest to the train they all hoped was deserted.

Kral turned to Anton. “Tothova, you worked in a munitions factory?”

“Yes, Brother Lieutenant.”

“So you know something about demolitions?”

Making artillery shells wasn’t the same as firing them, and it was a far cry from using explosives to destroy things, but Anton had paid attention in training and at the factory. “A little.”

“If you were trying to sabotage a train, where would you put the explosives?”

“In the engine.”

“Right. See if you can find anything.”

“I’ll go with you.” Emil was probably trying to make up for his earlier fear. Regardless, Anton was glad for the help.

“How’s your back?” Anton asked as they approached the engine. Other legionnaires spread out to look at the carriages.

Emil shook his head. “It’s nothing. I was foolish to say anything. I just . . . I just wasn’t sure how deep it was, and it hurt.”

“There’s no shame in being nervous about a wound.”

Emil nodded, but he didn’t look convinced.

The rat-tat-tat of a machine gun hammered along the line. Anton pulled Emil to the ground. “Can you see what’s going on?”

Dalek dropped to the ground beside them. “They knew we’d come for the train, so they left someone behind to get as many of us as they could.”

Another shot whizzed past Anton’s ear. He still couldn’t see the enemy, but he heard their weapons and watched the destruction they caused. Windows shattered all along the train, and some of his brother legionnaires collapsed to the ground.

“There!” Dalek pointed, and all three of them shot. But the machine-gunner had prepared his defenses well. He was hard to get at.

“Come on, we’ll flank him.” Emil started crawling.

Anton had seen men do stupid, reckless things after feeling as though they’d embarrassed themselves, and he didn’t want Emil to get hurt. He wasn’t as brash as Filip, but nor was he as skilled. “Careful, Emil.”

“They can’t see us if we stay low.”

Anton prayed Emil was right and ignored the grumbles coming from Dalek. Despite the protests, Dalek crawled along behind them.

The ground was soft in some places, slimy in others. A layer of grime coated them, some of it dried from their earlier work, some of it fresh, still wet and thick. Maybe after they took out the machine-gun nest, confiscated the train, and captured Omsk station, they’d find a bathhouse. Perhaps he could find a private bath for him and Veronika to share.

The machine gun still fired but not constantly—they were conserving ammunition. Two enemy soldiers crouched behind the MG 08, and another lay on the ground, wounded or dead. The Reds concentrated on the soldiers approaching from the east of the train, so Anton’s trio came from behind and got within fifteen meters. Dalek and Emil took the shots, and they didn’t miss.

They got to their feet and ran to the machine gun. Dalek bent over the dead men, pulling on their uniforms. “Hungarians.”

That explained why they were so determined. It wasn’t a just a military maneuver; they had a deep hatred for the legion.

Anton and the others searched the engine, but the Bolsheviks hadn’t sabotaged it. The legion had captured an armored train and a machine gun, and they were one step closer to Omsk.

***

Filip and Sokolov flattened themselves against a building and held perfectly still as a mounted red guardsman trotted past along a cross street.

“The Bolsheviks have been trying to rally the workers,” Sokolov said. “But no one wants to fight for them. They have no grievances with the Czechs, and the Bolsheviks have broken a lot of promises.”

“So will they blow up the bridge?” Filip and Sokolov were headed there now.

“My sources say they’re far more interested in emptying the local banks before they leave, but that doesn’t rule out sabotage.”

Bridges were more difficult to repair than a few torn-up rail lines. What Filip had helped destroy that morning could be fixed in an afternoon. A bridge, on the other hand, would take specialists, especially if said bridge were wired in eighteen different places.

The bridge came into view then, supported on a series of piers high above the Irtysh River so as not to interfere with shipping.

“All the wires lead there.” Sokolov pointed to the nearest support.

Filip slid toward the river and found the detonator. Then he found a good spot and settled in to wait. It wasn’t the easiest place to defend, but the slope from the river to the higher ground would make it difficult for the Bolsheviks to see him from the Omsk side. And the pillar would block any fire from the opposite riverbank. Sokolov stayed with him. Fedorov was somewhere else; Filip didn’t ask where. The White Russians and the Czechoslovaks were allies for the moment, but the legion wasn’t staying in Russia, so that alliance was temporary.

They waited. Filip tensed when a man in worker’s clothing ran toward them.

“One of mine,” Sokolov said. He joined his comrade and spoke for a while, out of hearing range. When Sokolov came back, he seemed unhappy.

“Bad news?”

“Partially. We cut them off along all three rail lines. There’s that bit of track toward Yekaterinburg that we destroyed this morning, and the legion’s blocking the other two directions. There was fighting to the west of us, but the legion drove them off.”

Filip looked across the river. The legion’s success in that direction would mean Nadia was probably safe, Dalek and the others too. “Any word on casualties?”

“No.”

“So what’s the bad news?”

“The Reds have steamships. And I don’t know how to block the river.”

“So they’ll regroup and fight us again somewhere else.”

Sokolov nodded. He eyed the surrounding area. A few people came and went, but none looked like Bolsheviks. “Do you know how to remove the charges?”

Filip shook his head. Anton could do that, but Anton was back with the rest of the regiment.

“I’ll try to find someone and send them. But first, I’ve got to gather my men and harass the Bolsheviks.” Sokolov pointed west. “Your people should be along soon enough.”

Filip nodded. “Good luck.”

Sokolov’s runner returned to help Filip. Two men made a paltry guard against saboteurs, but the Bolsheviks were leaving. Soon, the legion would arrive and take control of Omsk, and they’d set up a garrison to keep both train station and bridge open for their comrades farther west.

Night fell. Filip and the other man, a Kazakh, took turns staying awake. The bridge was on the edge of Omsk, so they couldn’t follow events taking place elsewhere. An occasional shot sounded but without the consistency to suggest a battle. He wished the legion train would arrive, but he understood their caution. They wouldn’t want to enter Omsk in the dark—literally and figuratively.

The sun rose early, and Filip stood and stretched, then washed his face and hands in the river. “Do you suppose Sokolov will send food?”

“Only after he’s driven out the last of the Bolsheviks.”

Filip shared the last of his bread and the Kazakh shared his salted, dried fish. A few people passed as they ate, but most didn’t notice the two soldiers guarding the bridge from below.

Then a group of five armed men ran at them.

“Halt!” Filip shouted. He aimed but hesitated. He didn’t know who the men were or which side they fought for. He repeated his order in Russian, Czech, and German.

The men didn’t slow.

Filip and the Kazakh fired from their positions on the ground. The men fired back, attacking in a frontal assault with nothing but a few blades of grass to hide them. One down. A second turning away. Three and four cried out and collapsed. Then Filip shot the last assailant, who was near enough for Filip to recognize the uniform. The man had been a war prisoner.

“The prisoners are the Bolsheviks’ best supporters. Probably because they feed them.” The Kazakh nodded at the fallen men. “Siberia is no place for a person without allies—a tribe, an army. It’s hard to survive alone.”

Filip understood the need to be part of something bigger, but the attack had seemed the work of true believers, not men who had joined an army simply to be fed.

A shot rent the air, and a plume of dirt burst between Filip and the Kazakh. They dropped to the ground and spun to see another group attacking from behind. They each shot one, leaving two. The men attacked from downhill, so Filip scrambled closer to the pillar for cover. They must have snuck to the river while the first group was charging.

A flash of pain burst above Filip’s right ear. He heard himself cry out but kept hold of his rifle. But his weapon seemed a great deal heavier now, and the sun had been up for hours, so why was everything so dark?

He hauled his rifle back into position and aimed, but the two men had turned into four blurry apparitions. Was he supposed to shoot the smudge on the far left or the identical smudge just to the right of it? He blinked, turning the men back into a pair, but then his eyes blurred, and there were six of them. He fired at the center figure on the left half, and the shot echoed along the bottom of the bridge. Filip tried to aim again, but everything had turned to a painful, throbbing gray. Another shot, not from his rifle, and he was falling, falling hard into the earth.

Chapter Nineteen

The number of casualties had almost overwhelmed Nadia that first day of battle. More experienced nurses had told stories of what it was like near the front, where wounded men would come in a trickle for days, then in a flow, then in a gush. One had confessed that they’d had to ignore some of the wounded. Those who couldn’t be saved were left to die unaided.

Now Nadia understood, but she couldn’t ignore any of them. It didn’t matter if she was exhausted and had worked all through the night. The legion had saved her life. She would wear herself out trying to save as many of them as she could.

Her stomach rumbled, but she didn’t have time to eat. The fighting was over now, and fewer wounded were coming in, but there was still so much to do. She paused long enough to get a drink of water. She’d be dizzy otherwise.

“There’s a hospital in Omsk,” the orderly told her. “As soon as the city’s secure, we can move our patients there.”

A hospital would be an improvement over the straw-lined boxcar. Dima had kept the stable at her aunt’s estate in better condition than this. The doctor at the Petrograd hospital had told Nadia and the other nurses over and over again that cleanliness was necessary to prevent the spread of disease. But how could she stop to clean when men were in danger of bleeding to death?

“Will you sterilize these for me?” Someone had fetched a local doctor, and he was stitching up torn and punctured flesh. He pointed to his needles.

“Right away, sir.”

Nadia put the needles in a dish and poured vodka over them. She reached to put the liquor back on the shelf, but something caught her eye.

She dropped the alcohol, and the bottle shattered.

Filip stumbled through the door, Dalek supporting him. The way he moved suggested extreme drunkenness, but the cascade of blood on his face and hair suggested it was far more serious.

She left the broken glass and rushed to Filip. “What happened?”

Dalek dragged her husband to an empty spot on the floor. Filip closed his eyes and leaned his head against the boxcar wall.

“A bullet grazed his head,” Dalek said. “Looks worse than it is.”

“That’s easy for you to say.” Filip’s voice lacked its normal volume. “You don’t have this pounding headache.”

“Get some sleep, then. The rest of us have more important things to do than lay about in a hospital.” Dalek chuckled at Filip’s scowl, then left.

Nadia grabbed a rag and water and knelt to scrub the blood off. But now that the most important man in the army was inside the hospital car, her hands wanted to stop working. She managed to get the rag into the water, but her fingers shook so badly that she couldn’t wring it out. She took a deep breath. What was wrong with her? She tried again and decided an insufficient wringing would work. His uniform was filthy. What was a little extra water?

She cleaned off the worst of it. The wound was too wide and shallow to need stitches. It might scar, but then again, it might not. What if the man who’d shot him had held his rifle at a slightly different angle? What if the wind had blown with a slightly different force? The smallest change in circumstances might have left Filip dead.

Her hands started shaking worse than before.

“Nadia?” Filip’s eyes cracked open. “Are you all right?”

She nodded, not trusting her voice. She’d treated hundreds of patients throughout the war, maybe thousands. So why this reaction, why now?

Filip took her trembling hands in his. Her hands were covered in blood—most of it Filip’s, though other patients had contributed to the buildup.

“When was the last time you slept or ate?”

“I don’t remember.”

Filip moved his head and winced. “Sit for a moment.”

She complied. There wasn’t a lot of room, so she sat very near to him. He kept hold of one hand, and though they sat in dirty straw in a crowded boxcar, the moment felt intimate, private.

“I’m glad you’re helping us.” Filip eyed her from partially closed lids. “But you still need to eat.”

“It’s hard to tell that to the next patient who needs help.” There were no other nurses to relieve her, and the orderly and the doctor were equally busy. “It’s supposed to calm down now that Omsk surrendered.”

“Did they surrender?”

“Didn’t you hear?” If news had reached the hospital, surely it had reached the men who fought. “Where were you?”

He closed his eyes again. “Guarding a bridge.”

The orderly caught Nadia’s attention and motioned to the broken glass. “Filip, I have to get to work.”

His eyes stayed closed, but his lips pulled into a frown. “Will you sit with me again when you finish?”

“Yes, as soon as I can.” She squeezed his hand and went to pick up the broken glass.

***

Dalek scribbled down the message being transmitted into the newly commandeered Omsk telegraph office. The legion had taken official control of Omsk just that day, after promising the inhabitants that they were there only to keep the peace and keep the rail line open.

“What is it?” another clerk asked.

“The Bolsheviks in Tatarsk want reinforcements.” Dalek looked at a map. Tatarsk was to the east of Omsk. So that meant the detachment of legionnaires approaching Omsk from the east was nearing Tatarsk and putting pressure on the Bolshevik garrison. The Reds still held much of the Urals, part of the northern rail line, and pieces of the track between Omsk and Irkutsk. If the legion could kick them out of Tatarsk, they would eliminate a pocket of opposition and allow two units of the legion to converge. “I need Lieutenant Kral. Immediately!”

The other clerk hesitated, but Dalek waved him on, and the man stood and rushed out.

“Hurry!” Dalek yelled at the man’s departing figure.

Dalek grabbed a sheet of paper and picked his words carefully as he studied the section of map from Omsk to Tatarsk.

Kral came back with the clerk. “This had better be important, Pokorný.”

“It is.” Dalek stood and pointed to the map. “I just received a message from the Bolsheviks in Tatarsk.” Dalek tapped the settlement’s location. “They want reinforcements from Omsk.”

“Good. Our brothers coming from Novonikolayevsk are making progress. And I’m currently planning our progress to meet them. So I’m not sure why you called me.”

“Because they don’t know we control Omsk.”

Kral thought for a few seconds, absorbing what it meant. “You can pretend to be the Bolsheviks who left yesterday?”

Dalek nodded.

“And if it blows up in your face?”

Dalek shrugged. “If they believe me when I tell them reinforcements are on the way, they postpone action, and our brothers have an edge. If not, no harm.”

Kral nodded. “Right, run with it. Tell them a battalion is on its way. But instead of a friendly face leading said battalion, it will be me. We’ll hit them from both sides and drive them off.”

Dalek sat at the desk and clicked out his response. Reinforcements en route.

After a while, the telegraph line clicked again. Received message stop awaiting arrival.

Good. They were waiting, giving up the initiative. But could Dalek do more? If he told them armored trains were coming and they should pull back from the station, the station would be easier for the legion to take. But an order like that could backfire because pulling back would make sense only if the station and town were divided. He walked to the map to see how the station was set up, but the map wasn’t detailed enough. Who would know something about Tatarsk?

Dalek turned to the other clerk again. “I need Nurse Sedláková. She ought to be in the hospital car. If not, try the women’s carriage.”

“Why do you need a nurse?”

“For this.” Dalek tapped his finger on the map.

The clerk frowned but left. Dalek didn’t know anyone who had been this far east before, but Nadia knew Russia.

Eventually, she came, still wearing a nurse’s apron spotted with blood.

“Have you heard from Filip? Is he all right?” she asked.

Kral had sent Filip out early that morning, and it seemed Filip’s wife was worried. Dalek recognized concern beneath a shallow layer of calm. He’d seen the same thing from her the day before when he’d found Filip’s body by the bridge and hauled him to the hospital car. “He’s not due back until later. I’m sure he’s fine.”

Her shoulders relaxed in relief. “He should be resting.”

“He said he felt much better this morning.” He hadn’t said it very convincingly, but Kral depended on Filip’s information, so he’d sent Filip out, and as a concession to his recent wound, he’d sent Emil with him.

Nadia looked around the telegraph office. She didn’t seem as weary as she had the day before, but her eyelids drooped a bit. “Why did you send for me?”

“Tatarsk. Do you know it?”

“I’ve not been there, but I’ve heard of it.”

That was something. “How big is it?”

“Small. Not even a town. It scarcely existed before the railway went through.”

“So is it like most of the towns along the railway? With the train depot wherever they could buy cheap land or ford a river and the main town to the north or the south?”

Nadia looked at the vague map. “I would guess not.”

“So telling them to withdraw to town won’t make much sense. Might blow my bluff.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Bolsheviks in Tatarsk requested aid. They think their allies still hold Omsk, but I answered, told them help is on the way. Getting them to expect help when none’s coming is useful, you see. They’ll delay any attack, giving the legion an advantage.” Dalek ran a finger over his mustache. “But it might also make them hold out longer, expecting help to arrive even if the tide turns against them.” He hadn’t thought of that before, and Kral must not have either. The ruse could cut both ways.

Nadia took a chair beside him. “They think you’re the Omsk Soviet?”

“For now. How do you know so much about the railway?”

“My father was involved with the building. Bureaucratically rather than physically. He was passionate about linking Russia together.”

“And why did you assume something happened to Filip?”

Her hands, folded in her lap, did a little flutter before once again clasping calmly together. A hint of color warmed her cheeks. “Why else would anyone call for me?”

“For this, perhaps.” Dalek gestured to the map. “You’re worried about him?”

“He’s my husband. Is it wrong to worry over him?”

Dalek smiled back a chuckle. He was making her defensive. Interesting. “Depends on the type of marriage.”

Her blush grew more pronounced, but before she could answer, another message came through.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Oh, that one’s not for us. Something about grain shipments. But will you stay in case I need you again? Eventually, Tatarsk is going to ask where their reinforcements are.” Dalek looked at his watch. He’d sent his first message an hour ago. It was time to contact them again.

Dalek ran his translation past Nadia, then tapped it out. Request report of current situation.

Tatarsk didn’t answer for a while, but eventually, it came through. Maintaining hold on station stop Czech counterrevolutionaries approaching from east and south.

Dalek had his reply ready. Armored train en route stop clear nearby buildings to prevent casualties from artillery rounds.

They waited again, and this time, the delay was longer before Tatarsk’s message arrived. Pulling back as requested but counterrevolutionaries are advancing.

Dalek sent another message to further the ruse. Alert when counterrevolutionaries are in stationary position and will direct artillery from armored train via radio.

The Tatarsk Bolsheviks didn’t reply. Kral’s group wouldn’t be there yet, but maybe the legionnaires moving west had taken over. The other clerk stood in front of the map, as if he could see the battle being played out.

“You’ve known Filip since you were boys?” Nadia made the question sound casual, but he didn’t think she would have spoken without purpose.

“Yes. We met in the Sokol clubs.”

“Was he a happy child? From what I’ve heard of his father, his childhood sounds a bit complicated.”

Dalek nodded. “Mr. Sedlák was . . .” Dalek paused to think of the right description. Blue? Drunk? A shell of a man? “He was hard to predict. I think that’s why Filip spent so much time at the Sokol. He couldn’t control what was going on at home, but he could practice the same spindle or flare over and over again until he could control that.”

“It sounds lonely.”

“His grandparents were devoted. He and Eliška weren’t neglected.”

She nodded. “It’s very soon to send him out again. Are things really so desperate?”

Desperate? Yes. They’d had successes, but they were four thousand miles from Vladivostok, and there were a lot of Bolsheviks in their way. “Filip and Kral have worked together for a long time. Kral depends on him. And given our current circumstances, we need scouts like Filip more than we need just about anyone else. He told Kral he was well enough to go.”

“He’s good, then, at what he does?”

Dalek turned to his friend’s pseudo-wife. “The best. And I don’t say that lightly.”

“We have Omsk. They have Tatarsk. Do we have anything else?”

Dalek stood and went to another set of maps, ones pieced together to show the entire Russian Empire, from its old border with the Austro-Hungarian Empire all the way to the Pacific Ocean. He walked along from west to east, pointing out the stations legionnaires now held. “In addition to Omsk, we have control of Penza, Syzran, Chelyabinsk, Novonikolayevsk, and Tomsk. A few places in between. When the Bolsheviks split us up, they spread us all across Siberia. Now they have to fight us everywhere at once.” Dalek sat again. “Of course, we have to fight them all at once too, but I think we’re better organized than they are.”

Another message tapped its way through. Czech counterrevolutionaries have taken the station stop annihilate them at once.

Dalek grinned. “The legion has taken the Tatarsk Station. One more city we can add to our list.” Dalek turned to the other clerk. “You’d best tell the rest of the group, whoever Kral left in charge.”

“It’s more a hovel than a city. But it puts us closer to Vladivostok.” Nadia smiled, then it faded.

“Aren’t you eager to get there?”

“It’s just that sometimes it’s hard to remember there was ever a time before the war. Peace—I’m not sure I’ll remember what to do with it. And even then, I think life will be far different than it was before the war.”

“Not so many emperors and kaisers, I imagine. And not so many men of military age.” For a moment, memory of the battles Dalek had fought in haunted him. Waves of men cut to the ground, never to rise again. The emperor had considered them as expendable as the horses that pulled supplies or the shells that plowed into enemy soldiers. But this war had made even empires expendable. “The world will be different now.” Different, but would it be better? Filip would argue yes, as long as the Czechs and Slovaks were given their own country. And Dalek would never admit it out loud, but Filip was usually right.

Tap. Dash dash dash. Still awaiting artillery barrage stop reinforcements needed at once.

Dalek replied quickly. Track torn up by bandits stop attempting to repair.

Then another message clicked through. Counterrevolutionaries now attacking from west stop reinforcements and artillery needed immediately.

“I think our game is over, and we managed to take everything at the Tatarsk Depot except the telegraph office. I suppose we might as well let them know who we are now that we can’t fool them any longer.”

His next message needed no translation. Thank you for Tatarsk Depot stop Nazdar.

Nadia glanced at the message he’d just sent. “What does nazdar mean?”

“Hello. Goodbye. Good luck. Good health. Stand firm. For success—ours of course. That sort of thing. You’ve been with us since March. Haven’t you heard it before?”

“I have. I just wasn’t sure what it meant, and no one’s used it with me. Requesting a definition seemed like admitting to eavesdropping.”

“You should use it on Filip sometime. Nazdar, and polib mĕ.”

“What does polib mĕ mean?”

The other telegraph clerk chose that moment to return. He gave the two of them a look of surprise, then chuckled as he walked to his desk.

“Ask Filip when he gets back.”

“If I have a chance. He comes and goes so quickly, with never a moment to rest. And I suppose I made it worse by giving him one more responsibility.”

“Not all responsibilities are unpleasant. He’d spend more time with you if he could.” Dalek had never been a matchmaker before, but if Filip let a perfect opportunity like this pass him by, it would be a crime. And Dalek didn’t plan on letting his friend become a criminal. A deserter and a traitor, perhaps, but not the man who let a beautiful, interested woman escape him for want of effort.

Nadia glanced at her hands. “Will you let me know if you hear from him before I do?”

“Yes.”

“Then I ought to get back to my patients. Well done. It’s amazing what a few false telegrams accomplished today.”

***

The legion left a garrison in Omsk and continued on to Tatarsk, where Nadia and the hospital car connected with the rest of the regiment. But she saw Filip for only a few minutes. The railway ahead was clear to Novonikolayevsk but not beyond, so Kral sent Filip to gather information, and Nadia told him nazdar and somehow managed not to cry when he left again after scarcely saying hello. It might have been easier if he weren’t going into battle, or if she hadn’t heard so many rumors about the ways captured men were tortured.

After days of unimpeded travel, their train stopped in Mariinsk and waited for Krasnoyarsk to fall. Filip was up ahead somewhere, so she didn’t see him. When she’d married him in the Ukraine, she’d thought an absent husband preferable to a present one, but now she longed for his company. Prayers gave her comfort, and work with the wounded kept her busy, but he came to her mind again and again as the legion fought for control of the railroad.

The wounded who came to the hospital car were exhausted, their faces swollen with bumps. “I’ve never seen so many mosquitoes,” a soldier with a bullet hole in his arm told her. “And I’ve never had such blisters on my feet. Gajda and Kral led us on a seventeen-mile flanking maneuver. And when we got to the river, the ferry was missing, so we had to take rowboats.”

The next day, the wounded looked different. The skin of their faces, hands, and necks were black. “A peasant gave us this.” A soldier with a twisted ankle held up a bottle. “It stopped the mosquitoes.” And indeed, none of the men smeared in black had the horrible swelling of the other men.

“We fought for six hours. Doubt we would have taken it if Ushakov’s men hadn’t been attacking from the other side.”

Nadia did her best to keep track of everything she heard so she could tell the other women. As she returned to her carriage after a long shift in the hospital car, she wondered what Filip looked like. Was his skin swollen with mosquito bites or blackened to prevent them?

Veronika saw her and took her hand. “You look so tired.”

Nadia shook her head. “I’ll manage.” She pulled Veronika toward the hand-drawn map of Siberia someone had pinned up in the coach. “The men say Krasnoyarsk is ours now.” Nadia said ours without hesitation. She was with the legion now. “But the fighting was intense, so I imagine there’ll be rails to repair.” She doubted their train would be in Krasnoyarsk anytime soon. And by the time they got there, Filip would have already moved on.

“Any word on Anton?” Veronika asked.

“No. But that’s probably good news. If he were wounded, I would have seen him.” She assumed she would recognize him, even under the black liquid from the peasants.

“Any word on Filip?”

“No.” And suddenly, the comfort she’d offered Veronika felt useless. The legion tried to care for all its injured, but if Filip were wounded while scouting, he might not be found for days. And what if he were killed? They might never find his body.

Veronika squeezed Nadia’s hand. “Have faith.”

Nadia nodded.

“And get some sleep. More patients will need you tomorrow.”

Nadia washed up and slid into her bunk. “Veronika? What does polib mĕ mean?”

“It means ‘kiss me.’ Why? Has someone been telling you that? Other than Filip?”

“No . . . I was just wondering.” She hadn’t said that phrase to Filip yet. She’d scarcely had the chance, and now that she knew what it meant, she doubted she’d use it. Dalek was no doubt trying to stir up mischief.

She wouldn’t use the phrase, but she certainly thought about it. How would it feel to have Filip hold her, caress her, meet her lips with his own? She touched her lips with her fingers, wondering, dreaming, and longing.

Chapter Twenty

Filip and Kral stared at the map. After taking Krasnoyarsk, the legion had seized several hundred miles of track. They had more equipment now—rail carriages in addition to their boxcars, clothing, and ammunition. And a great many prisoners, most of them Austrian and German war prisoners who’d joined the Bolsheviks to keep from starving to death.

Kral tapped the map. “Irkutsk is next.”

“Would you like me to go?” It would mean another scouting expedition, but maybe after Irkutsk they’d have a break. Filip had been hoping for a rest since Chelyabinsk. So far, it hadn’t happened. Six weeks of hard fighting, and no end in sight.

“Not now. The White Russians have been feeding us information.”

“And?”

Kral grimaced. “Twenty-five thousand men, an armed fleet on Lake Baikal, and artillery.”

“What type of men?”

“Mostly war prisoners. About the time we left Chelyabinsk, they attacked our men there, tried to disarm them per Trotsky’s orders. But the legion rebelled, took Irkutsk. Some Americans arranged a truce and sent our men through to Vladivostok. Gajda wants them court-martialed for not holding the city once they had it.”

“Irkutsk.” Filip pronounced it like a curse because it was one more obstacle in their path to freedom. Beyond Irkutsk lay Lake Baikal and an intricate system of rail tunnels that sounded like it would be their largest hurdle yet. “What are your orders, Brother Lieutenant?”

“For today, help repair the rails.”

Filip grunted. “I’m better at tearing them apart than I am at putting them back together, but I’ll do what I can.”

He spent the day laying wide-gauge rails because he could swing a hammer as well as the next man. Men with more skill worked to repair a bridge the Bolsheviks had blown. Others gathered wood for the wood-burning engines—an easy enough task when thick forests crowded either side of the track. But as evening cast its shadows along the trains, everyone was in a celebratory mood. All along the line, train depots were surrendering to the legion. They controlled everything along the southern route from the Volga to the outskirts of Irkutsk, a stretch of roughly three thousand miles.

When Filip finally finished for the day, he washed up the best he could. Then he went to the hospital train, in search of his wife. He hadn’t seen her in weeks.

The boxcar was busy, worse than he remembered from Omsk, but many of the cases seemed minor. He climbed up, and Nadia met his eyes and smiled at him across the bodies of the wounded soldiers. He still hadn’t told her that they could get an annulment whenever she wished, and at that moment, he decided he didn’t want to tell her, not yet. He’d let himself have one day more to call her his, one day more married to the most beautiful, most resilient woman he’d ever seen.

“How are you, Nadia?” he asked when she approached. Whenever he saw her, he felt different. Better. Nervous, too, but eager to be with her.

“I’m well, thank you.” She glanced at the patients and at the orderly. “I’m free to leave, if that would be agreeable to you.”

“It would be quite agreeable.” Why did he suddenly feel like an awkward schoolboy again? At least he’d shaved and put on fresh clothing. His words might be clumsy, but he was clean. He hopped from the boxcar and offered a hand to guide her to the ground.

“They’re still serving supper. And there’s music, if you’d like. Probably in several places.”

She smiled. “Supper and music both sound wonderful.”

They ate a soup of cabbage, potatoes, and pickled fish at a table made of scrap wood. She told him about the men she was tending, and he passed on the news he’d heard from Dalek. Though parts of the northern line, like Yekaterinburg, were still in Bolshevik hands, the legion had pried open a huge swath of its escape route.

“It’s extraordinary.” Nadia looked into the distance. “I hope the legion’s luck holds. And that we get to Vladivostok before winter.”

“Eager for an annulment?” Filip did his best to sound casual, as if he didn’t care one way or the other if they stayed married.

Nadia’s lips turned down. “Actually, I was thinking of the weather. General Winter wasn’t kind to Charles XII or to Napoleon. I don’t know what he might do to the Czechoslovak Legion.”

“We’re trying to leave, not take over, so perhaps he’ll be merciful. We ought to be in France by then anyway. Have you ever been?”

Nadia shook her head. “No. My father . . . he was trying to convince my mother to go there—to start a new life in Paris. Then the Cheka found us.” A note of grief threaded its way into her voice, making it waver. She swallowed as if to gather her thoughts, and the emotion disappeared. But he didn’t think it was gone, just hidden. He wasn’t sure he ought to, but her hand lay on the table, and it seemed as if she needed comfort, so he put his hand over hers. She didn’t pull away. Instead, her face softened.

“I’ll get you to Paris if that’s where you want to go. I promise.”

“You seem like the sort of man who keeps his promises.”

“I try.” He wasn’t sure what to say beyond that. He studied her face, trying to memorize every bit of that warm, smooth skin and those beautiful, elegant features. “I, um, I promised music, didn’t I?”

Her perfect lips pulled into a smile. “Yes, I believe you did.”

“That’s a promise I can keep tonight.” He helped her to her feet, and they wandered to the nearest source of music. Dalek stood before a boxcar, playing, and listeners sat nearby or danced in a clearing of grassy taiga. Filip pulled a log over so they’d have somewhere to sit and settled next to Nadia. He should have picked a shorter log—it would have given him an excuse to sit closer to her.

Nadia closed her eyes and leaned back, as if that could help her hear the music better. As much as he admired her gray eyes, there was something equally appealing in her calm concentration, her graceful neck, her silky black hair, and the contentment on her face. Dalek was back in practice again. The music was better than normal. She seemed to be inhaling it, as if each note was feeding her soul.

“I went to Petrograd the summer before the war, when it was still Saint Petersburg. Music and dancing every night. My mother had a dozen new gowns made for me. It was such a different world back then.”

Dalek smirked at Filip as he ended one song and began another. What was behind that knowing nod? If Filip hadn’t been so worn out from six weeks of fighting and a day of hammering rails, he would have suggested they change groups. Filip wasn’t eager to be the butt of whatever prank Dalek was planning.

Nadia opened her eyes at the new song. “A waltz. Do you dance?”

“Me?” Filip laughed. “No. At least not like they do in Petrograd.”

“But do you waltz?”

“That’s a type of dancing, isn’t it? No, I don’t waltz.”

Her eyes followed Anton and Veronika, then Larisa and Petr. She glanced at him again. “Would you like to learn? I could teach you. You’ve taught me so much. Maybe I can return the favor in some small way.”

The couples dancing to Dalek’s music seemed like they were having fun. Not all were graceful, but they looked happy, as though the connection in their hands was creating a deeper joining of their minds and hearts. Filip envied them but didn’t dare join them. The last time Nadia had waltzed, it had probably been with a noble who had taken lessons for years. What would she think of Filip’s clumsy attempts? “I doubt I can be taught to waltz.”

“Oh.” She looked at her lap, and the corners of her mouth pulled down. “I would undoubtedly make a poor teacher.”

“I’m sure you’d be a fine teacher. It’s the skill of your student that I doubt.”

She looked up, surprised. “But, Filip, you can do anything, can’t you?”

He waited for her to break out into laughter, but she seemed completely serious. “No. Why would you think that?”

Her elegant lips twisted. “Well, they always call you when they need information about what’s ahead or what’s behind. You can cook and clean and paint boxcars and repair rail line. You sew and cut wood and know all about weapons. It just seems like you know so much. I was foolish to think I could teach you anything.” She folded her arms across her chest and resumed watching the dancers, but the earlier contentment was gone.

Filip reached for her elbow. “Nadia, I was questioning my ability, not yours. Please, teach me to waltz. If anyone can teach me, you can.”

She was hesitant now, uncertain. He stood and held out a hand for her. Slowly, she accepted. Maybe, for a few moments, they could be like the other couples. Happy. Enjoying one another’s company. Wanting a love that would last.

“What do I do?” he asked.

“You’ll have to put your rifle down.”

Putting his rifle down seemed easy enough, but now it was his turn to hesitate. They’d taken several weapons caches recently, so replacing it would be possible, but that particular rifle had helped him across several thousand miles of hostile territory.

Nadia seemed to understand. “Dalek will see if anyone tries to take it. We probably will too.”

“Dalek will probably snitch it to make a nuisance of himself.”

She smiled. “He’ll have to stop playing first, so you’ll have warning.”

Filip took a deep breath and let his rifle rest against the log they’d been sitting on. “All right. Now what.”

“You take my right hand in your left. And place your right hand on my back.”

He ran his hand over her right fingers before grasping her palm. He glanced at the other dancers, not sure if he should place his other hand closer to her shoulders or the small of her back. The others weren’t uniform. Some men held the women higher, others lower. He decided on a midpoint, and she placed her free hand on his shoulder.

“It might help if you count in your head. One-two-three, one-two-three. Hear how the music has the same count?”

He nodded.

“You can hold me a little tighter. I’m not going to break.”

That was an instruction he was happy to heed. He moved forward but not too close. It was tempting to skip the dancing altogether and simply pull her into him completely. But what then? He had a good idea of what he’d like to do, but he doubted Nadia would agree.

“Move your left foot forward.” She moved back as he moved up. “Now slide your right foot to the side. And together. Now your right foot back. Left to the side. And together again.”

They made a complete circuit without him stepping on her toes, but she still had to talk him through each movement.

“Do we just do this over and over again?”

“We can. Or you can turn a bit with each step.” She glanced over her shoulder. “You’re facing north now. Turn to face west. There.”

“Counterclockwise?”

Her smile deepened. “Of course. I forget you were a watchmaker before you were a soldier. Do you suppose you have a better grasp on time than the rest of us do?”

Dancing was tricky enough. Now she wanted to have a conversation too? “No. I just know it keeps marching on, never at the pace we choose.” He stepped forward a little too quickly and landed on her toe. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right. That’s part of learning.”

Filip counted in his head. One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-crunch. He was stepping backward, so he hadn’t smashed her toe again. He stopped dancing and glanced down. A branch.

“It’s easier to learn on a dance floor.” Nadia regarded the stick. “Shall we try again?”

Filip nodded. The song couldn’t last much longer, and then perhaps he could consider his duty done. Except it was getting easier. The rhythm carried through him, and he followed it much the same way he followed a rhythm on the high bar or the pommel horse. This one was set by the music rather than the momentum of his body, but he was adjusting. And the woman he held in his arms was stunning. Her braid was neat, but enough hairs had rebelled to give it a windblown look. Her hands weren’t as soft now, but they were tempered by admirable work. And her smile seemed lit with genuine happiness.

“Have you always been such an accomplished dancer?” he asked.

“No, but I started young. My father would dance with me when I was very small. I’d stand on his boots, and he’d move me with each step. Or Alexander would simply carry me instead of placing his hand on my back.”

Dalek kept playing, even though the music was beginning to sound repetitive.

“You’re doing very well for your first time.” Nadia smiled up at him. “I shouldn’t be surprised. You’re a gymnast. With a little practice, I imagine you’d be wonderful at the mazurka.”

“Is that a dance?”

“Yes. A Polish folk dance. The dancers leap and jump. The ballroom version is a bit more sedate but still vigorous. Maybe we’ll try it someday.”

The way she said someday made it sound as if they had a future together. Or had he only imagined it? One-two-three, pull Nadia a little closer. One-two-three, enjoy the way her eyes looked at him as if they were friends, maybe even lovers. One-two-three, trip on a rock and listen to the melodic sound of her laughter.

Then she stumbled just a bit. Filip was supposed to step back, but he hesitated and was a bit behind the beat when he finally moved. As they turned, a bit clumsily, his lips brushed across her forehead. An accidental kiss. But he didn’t regret it, so he didn’t apologize.

Nadia’s mouth lost its smile, and her expression changed, but she didn’t pull away. What was that look? He didn’t think it was anger. Surprise? She glanced from his eyes to his mouth, and the careful time she kept with the music grew muddled. She looked away for a moment and moved her hand to tuck a stray bit of hair behind her ear. When her hand returned to its place, she put it not on his shoulder but at the collar of his uniform. One of her fingers brushed along the back of his neck.

He wanted to reciprocate. Wanted to caress her neck and her cheek, then guide her lips to his. But how would she react? Would she kiss him back or be disappointed that he’d crossed a line he’d told her he wouldn’t?

The music slowed and drew to a long, drawn-out final note. The counting in his head stopped, but he didn’t release Nadia’s hand or her back. He needed to say something. But Thank you for teaching me to dance sounded superficial, and I want our marriage to be real might scare her away. She stayed as she was, looking up at him, waiting.

Someone cleared his throat nearby, breaking the moment. “Filip?”

He released Nadia and turned to Anton. “Yes?”

“We’re late for guard duty.”

***

Nadia watched Filip retrieve his rifle and rush off with Anton. He looked back once, to give her a parting smile. She waved goodbye, and then her fingers went to the spot on her forehead where his lips had touched. She hadn’t meant for it to happen, but she wasn’t sorry. And she hadn’t stopped her mind from imagining what it would be like for him to kiss her forehead again, then kiss her mouth.

She pulled her eyes from the men and joined Veronika. Dalek was putting away his violin. Another legionnaire played a harmonica, but she was ready to head back. Filip was gone, and she’d had a full day with her patients.

“Did you teach him to dance?” Veronika asked.

“I suppose.” Filip wasn’t an elegant dancer, not yet, but that hadn’t made dancing with him any less enjoyable.

Veronika seemed to be waiting for something. Nadia stayed silent for a time, then couldn’t hold it inside any longer. “I thought he might kiss me.”

“And?”

“He didn’t.”

“But if he had?”

If he had, Nadia wouldn’t be walking back to the women’s boxcar. She’d be flying back. A smile escaped.

“Ah. You would have welcomed it.” Veronika seemed pleased. “I thought so.”

“It’s just . . . complicated.”

“Sometimes kissing can make things less complicated.”

“How?”

Veronika stopped walking and seemed to stop breathing for a moment. Finally, she took a deep breath and looked to Nadia again. “I’m sorry. Yes, you should let him kiss you. Or kiss him yourself. He may feel he can’t because of your arrangement.”

“But I don’t know how.”

Veronika laughed. “It’s not so difficult. You’ll figure it out.”

Would she? Or would she make such a mess of it that she’d leave Filip disappointed?

They walked for a bit, then Veronika stopped again and released a small moan.

“Are you all right?”

Veronika straightened and inhaled deeply. “What’s the day today?”

“July 10, I think.”

Veronika rubbed the side of her abdomen.

“Is it the baby?” Nadia asked.

“The baby’s not supposed to come for another week or two. And Larisa said first babies are always late.” Her words morphed into a sharp cry of pain.

“Babies come when they want to come, and I think yours is coming early.” Giving birth in a boxcar full of wounded soldiers didn’t seem like the ideal location, so Nadia led Veronika to the women’s carriage instead of the hospital car. The train wouldn’t move for a few days, so many of the women were sleeping in tents with their husbands. The few who remained could either help or find a different bed. She hoped someone had attended a birth before, because Nadia certainly hadn’t, and working among soldiers hadn’t prepared her for midwifing.

She pulled Veronika’s arm around her shoulders and helped her along. They had to stop every few minutes to wait out the pains. She’d heard noblewomen speak of childbirth and describe it as an elaborate affair, with doctors and numerous attendants, but peasants seemed to manage it with a mother or a friend, sometimes without even a midwife. Hopefully Veronika would be more like the peasants because they weren’t in Irkutsk yet, so they couldn’t send for a doctor or midwife, and the nearest settlement to the west was just a small village. It might not have anyone who could help.

Eventually, they made it back to the women’s carriage. Larisa and Petr were nearby, almost hidden in a shadow.

“Can you help me get her inside?” Normally, Nadia wouldn’t interrupt them, but these were abnormal circumstances.

The three of them helped Veronika into the carriage, then Petr went to find Anton.

“Have you ever helped with a birth before?” Nadia asked Larisa.

A look of fear crossed Larisa’s face. “No.”

“We’ll need water. Boiling water. And rags. And . . . and I don’t know what else, but we’ll figure it out.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Nadia stayed with Veronika all through the night, even when Anton came. He’d never attended a birth either. She and Larisa obeyed his requests anyway, whether it was fetching more water or applying counterpressure to Veronika’s back. And sometimes, Nadia just held Veronika’s hand through the contractions.

The sun was high the next morning when Veronika cried and pushed yet again.

“It’s the baby. I see hair.” Anton’s face was haggard, but the joy of those words seemed to wipe away hours of exhaustion. “One more push, Ver. You’re almost done.”

Nadia sat behind Veronika, supporting her back, so she couldn’t see, but at the next contraction, she felt her friend tremble and push again and heard the groan. Then Anton’s laughter merged with a baby’s wail. “It’s a boy.”

Veronika sighed and leaned back. Despite the exhaustion from so much pain and so much work, she beamed. “A son.”

Nadia wiped her friend’s forehead with a cool cloth while Anton delivered the afterbirth and cut the infant’s cord. Larisa wrapped the baby in a blanket and placed him in Veronika’s arms. The new parents admired each fragile finger and each tiny toe. The baby was small and red and somehow the most endearing thing Nadia had ever seen.

She excused herself after a while. “I’ll find something for Veronika to eat.” Her work that night had been minor compared to Veronika’s, but she was tired and hungry. Veronika had to be even more so.

She returned with food, then later with a bucket of warm water so they could clean the baby. The meal did little to restore Veronika’s energy, but it would take several days, maybe weeks to recover. Anton washed the newborn boy, who screamed loudly until his father dried him and once again wrapped him in a blanket.

Someone knocked on the side of the boxcar, and then the door slid open, and Dalek came inside, followed by Filip. Nadia’s eyes went to Filip first. They always did now, whenever he was in the room.

“Dalek, Filip, come meet my son!” Anton held the infant higher so his friends could see.

“A son? That’s wonderful!” Filip came closer and brushed the baby’s hair with a reverent finger. For a moment, Nadia was filled with longing. Helping Veronika with the delivery had made her glad she was not with child. The process had been terrifying. And Veronika was no weakling. If she had cried in pain, what would Nadia do? But in the end, she had a baby. What would it be like to bear a child and share it with Filip? The pain still frightened her, but the outcome—the outcome appealed to her.

Anton bent to give his wife a kiss. “Yes, and my beautiful, brave Veronika is well.” Anton met Nadia’s eyes for a moment. “She had the help of dear friends.”

Nadia felt her cheeks grow warm. Veronika had shown Nadia so much kindness. Nadia was glad to return a bit of it.

“Dalek?” Anton’s face held question. “What’s wrong?”

Dalek glanced from the baby to Veronika to Anton. “I’m just wishing I had champagne to help celebrate. It’s good news. So delightful that I wish I didn’t have news of my own to share.”

Filip looked up. “What is it?”

“Gajda wants demolition experts.” All eyes turned to Anton. “Kral sent me to find you.”

“Anton’s a new father. Surely someone else . . .” Filip didn’t finish his sentence.

Dalek shook his head. “The Bolsheviks pulled out of Irkutsk. We can waltz right in, but according to White Russian spies, the Bolsheviks have a train full of high explosives at Baikal Station. There are thirty-nine tunnels around the lake. If they blow any one of them, we’re trapped. And they tore up the track behind them, so we’ll have to go on foot.”

It had taken years to build all the tunnels that cut through the steep cliffs at the southern end of Lake Baikal. If one was destroyed, it could take months—or more—to repair it. By then, the Red Army would be upon them, and the Red Army was gaining strength every single day.

Veronika’s lips trembled. “When is he to leave?”

“Tonight.” Dalek frowned. “I’m sorry.”

Anton sat next to Veronika and handed the baby to her. She’d been so strong all night, but now she sobbed. “What if you don’t come back?”

“I’ll go with him,” Filip said. “I’ll bring him back to you.”

“It’s the Seventh Regiment’s task, not ours,” Dalek pointed out.

“I’m sure they’ll accept volunteers. I’ll clear it with Kral.” Filip took the baby’s hand and smiled, then looked at the new parents. “I’ll get your equipment ready. And Veronika, I will keep him safe. I promise.”

Nadia left the boxcar with Filip and Dalek to give the new family some time together before they were parted. She was glad Filip would look after Anton, for Veronika’s sake. But who would make sure Filip came back?

***

They left under cover of night, following Cossack guides. Nadia watched them go, and Filip wondered what she thought. He hadn’t considered how she might feel when he volunteered. He’d been a soldier the entire time they’d known each other, so she had to understand his duty. Only this wasn’t his duty, not really. He wasn’t following orders, just the demands of friendship. If Anton were being dragged away from his vulnerable wife and new baby, how could Filip stay behind?

“Can we trust them?” Anton studied the nearest guide.

“Most Cossacks don’t love the Bolsheviks.”

“They might not love us either.”

That was true enough, but most of the people he’d met in Siberia sympathized with the Czechoslovaks. They were just going home, after all, and weren’t a threat if left alone. If provoked, it was an entirely different matter. “There are more of us than there are of them. I doubt they’ll cross us.”

Anton grunted. “They don’t have to cross us directly. They just have to delay us, and the Bolsheviks will blow up a tunnel and trap us.”

Filip didn’t expect Anton to be cheerful company during their march. Had it been Nadia who’d just given birth, Filip would have had a hard time leaving. But their marriage wasn’t real, so the thought of children was laughable. He was simply Nadia’s ticket to Vladivostok, and he had to remember that, or the pain when she left—and leave she would—would be unbearable. “Did you name your son?”

“Marek, after Veronika’s father.”

“Marek Tothova. It’s a good name.”

Anton’s voice was softer now, the bitterness gone. “A name from a Czech grandfather and a Slovak father. He’ll be both, I suppose, just like this country we’re going to win.” Anton adjusted the straps of his knapsack. “If we don’t get trapped between a bunch of blocked tunnels and the Red Army.”

“You’re going to save us from that fate, aren’t you?”

Anton shook his head. “If we can’t move the train, we’re to blow it up. Just about anyone could do that.”

“I’m sorry you had to come.”

Anton nodded. “I miss her. And the baby. I’ve only known him a few hours, but I already miss him.” They walked in silence for a time. “Do you miss your wife?”

“Nadia isn’t really mine. I’ve no right to miss her.”

“So you’ll go through with the annulment?”

“That was our agreement.”

“I know, but I thought maybe you wouldn’t want to when it came down to it.”

Filip didn’t want to, but he wouldn’t trap her in a marriage she hadn’t chosen. He’d made a promise, and he intended to keep it. If he’d gone and fallen in love with her, then it was just too bad for him. “It’s her decision.”

“Will she want an annulment?”

“She did in Bakhmach.”

Anton huffed. “That was a long time ago. I saw the way the two of you danced.”

“It takes more than one clumsy waltz to make a marriage.” Filip crunched through some dry brush.

“So you’ll just let her go?”

“I promised I would.” The conversation was not going the way Filip wanted it to.

“But you didn’t promise not to try swaying her. Veronika thinks she’s fond of you.”

“She does?” Filip tried to cover his eagerness by looking into the forest, but there wasn’t much to see other than trees.

Anton’s voice held mirth now. “And based on how quickly you asked that, I would say you’re fond of her. You’re already married. It shouldn’t be too hard to find a way to keep her.”

Something rumbled in the distance. Thunder, not artillery. They’d have a wet march through the mountains. Then there was the matter of surviving the coming battle for the tunnels. But if he did see Nadia again . . . he knew what he wanted to do, knew what he wanted to say. If he told her he loved her, would he win her heart or scare her away?

***

When Dalek’s shift ended, he left the car with the tapping telegraphs to enjoy fresh air and relative silence. The track ahead was being repaired, slowly. They had better get it fixed soon, or any reinforcements sent to Filip and Anton would be minus an armored train.

A group of men struggled to wheel a heavy machine gun along the track. “Where are you taking that?” he asked.

A man with a boyish face and a chipped front tooth grinned at him. “Baikal Station. Or close to it.”

Dalek did a quick count. “Just the six of you? There’ll be more than six of them.”

“We’re counting on it, Brother. The more we can draw away, the better.”

“You seem unnaturally cheerful for a mission of such danger.”

The man’s eyes drifted to the boxcar. “If you’re a clerk, then I’ll wager you haven’t seen much battle. Trust me, Brother, a machine like this, properly emplaced, can stop a few hundred men.” He nudged one of the wheels of the Kolesnikov mount with his boot.

Did they think him less of a soldier because he operated the telegraph more often than he operated a rifle? “When you were still schoolboys, I was campaigning in Galicia. I know exactly what a Maxim machine gun can do.” He also knew what the Bolsheviks could do, but if the six of them were going to ignore little details like that, there was no reason for him to spoil their happy delusion.

One of the men grunted and shifted a wooden box of ammunition. “Vojta, let’s go. This is heavy.”

The group moved off, toward Baikal Station, toward the Bolsheviks who might tear them to pieces and then do the same to Filip and Anton. Dalek glanced at the train where he worked. There were other telegraphists and not much news. Even when news came, they couldn’t act on it, not with the track torn up in front of them.

Dalek went to tell Kral his plan, then he jogged up to the man struggling with the ammunition and took the other end of the box. “Brother, I think your group would benefit from the addition of one.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Filip rubbed his neck in the early-morning light. They’d marched two days through dense mountain forest. The thick trees had made each step an effort but had also kept them hidden from enemy eyes. They still hadn’t reached Kultuk or the shores of Lake Baikal, but they were making progress.

“You’re the sapper aren’t you?”

Filip glanced at the warrant officer and pointed to Anton. “He is.”

“Right. Time to move out.”

Filip gathered his equipment too.

“We’re only taking fifty,” the warrant officer said. “The rest of the group is continuing to Kultuk.”

“But I’m with him.” Filip wasn’t about to let Anton march off without him.

Anton put a hand on his shoulder. “I think you’re more useful with the main group.”

“The only reason I came was to look after you.”

“I’m not a child needing someone to tend me.”

Of course Anton wasn’t needy. He was a good soldier. But he had a brand-new infant who needed his father to return to him. “I promised Veronika.”

“Filip, we’re walking into the mouth of a bear. The best thing you can do is hold the jaw open long enough for me to dislodge a few teeth.”

“But . . .” Filip shut his mouth. Continuing would make him sound petulant, and Anton was right. Success was the best form of protection. Filip would be more useful storming the Bolshevik barracks in Kultuk. “Nazdar, Anton.”

Anton nodded and followed the officer.

Filip squared his shoulders and studied his remaining comrades. Some of them he knew but not well. He would have felt more at home with the Sixth Regiment, but he had his duty, and he had his orders.

The officer now in charge walked over to him. “Sedlák, you were part of the Družina, weren’t you?”

“Yes, Brother Lieutenant.”

“Good. I want you with the advance party. See if they’ve set sentries between the mountains and their camp. And if they have, take care of them. Novak, Havel, go with him.”

“Yes, Brother Lieutenant.” Novak was one of the men Filip had worked with in Chelyabinsk. That offered a measure of comfort. Novak had been useful when they’d stormed Bolshevik headquarters to rescue their brothers from execution.

The three set off, marching with few breaks for the next two days. But after nightfall on the second day, they cleared the trees, and the view before them opened up. Sun and moon were hidden beneath the horizon, but despite the darkness, Filip could tell something was different. Stars speckled the sky, and a few lights shone in the town below. Beyond that, the darkness was smooth and wide.

“What is that?” Havel whispered.

“I think it’s Lake Baikal,” Filip said.

“It’s enormous.”

The locals called Baikal a sea, and even in the dark, Filip could understand why. But they couldn’t get distracted by the water, no matter how enormous or beautiful it was. The Bolshevik camp lay in the valley below, and if Filip’s group didn’t wedge themselves between the men in Kultuk and the explosives at Baikal Station, the Reds could keep the legionnaires to the west of the lake from ever joining with their brothers in the east.

Filip stepped quietly. The skills he’d learned in the Družina had never left him. So many evenings they would sing Slavic folk songs loudly enough for the Austro-Hungarian troops to hear. Then, under cover of darkness, he’d look for pickets. If they were Austrian or Hungarian, well, it was war, and they were the enemy. Knives, bayonets, or bullets ended the war for the sloppy sentinels. But if the men on outpost duty were Czech or Slovak, Filip would talk to them. Some had attacked him, but most had followed him back to the Russian lines, much like he had followed Kral.

The tsar’s regime had been eager for Slavic defectors but reluctant to encourage democratic ideals. They’d vacillated between allowing an enlarged Družina or keeping any anti-imperial movements quiet and weak. But even when Filip couldn’t promise a chance to fight with the Družina, he could promise an end to life under the thumb of German officers. The camps where the Russians held war prisoners weren’t pleasant, but they were better than the trenches.

The night was dark now, like those early days when the Družina was the eyes and ears of the Russian Army. Unlike Filip’s time on the so-called Eastern Front, the night was also quiet. But this quiet wouldn’t last.

Havel had moved to the right, and Novak to the left. So far, no sentries. Had the Bolsheviks really been that careless? Perhaps they didn’t think anyone could infiltrate through the mountains. Underestimating their opponents would be the Bolsheviks’ undoing. Unconfirmed reports said there were two and a half thousand of them down there, but a surprised enemy was less of a threat.

Filip went to Havel and kept his voice a whisper. “Have you seen anything?”

“No.”

“Keep watching. And listening.”

Filip went to Novak next, with the same results. “Tell the lieutenant,” he told Novak. “I’ll keep watch here.”

Kultuk slept, quiet in its little valley, the Bolsheviks below unaware that legionnaires had marched through the mountains to challenge them in their Baikal stronghold. According to rumor, the Bolsheviks would try to defeat the legion in other ways before they resorted to blowing the tunnels, because destroyed tunnels would hamper the Bolsheviks too, cutting off supplies and communications. They would do it to trap the legion but only if they had no other way of stopping them.

After an hour, Novak returned. “We’re attacking,” he whispered.

The summer sun rose early around Lake Baikal, but it was still dark, still night, and mist blanketed the ground. Filip joined the group of men Novak had led forward, and they dispersed among the buildings below, as silent as ghosts.

Filip and Novak climbed to a roof where they could shoot anyone leaving the nearest barrack. They waited, giving the others time to settle into position. Filip took a few deep breaths. He and four hundred fifty of his brothers were about to attack a camp of several thousand.

A silent signal went round, and then legionnaires threw grenades through the barrack windows. The air exploded with bangs, shouts, and rifle fire.

A handful of men burst from the wooden barracks, and Filip and Novak promptly struck them down. It felt almost cruel, but the Bolsheviks came out armed and shooting, and they planned no mercy for the legion—they meant to trap them, then annihilate or enslave them.

The battle went well at first. The Bolsheviks were sleepy and disorganized. Filip hit his targets before they could spot him. Between shots, he made as much noise as possible, following orders to make it seem like their numbers were larger than they really were. But no amount of noise could change the fact that the legion was vastly outnumbered. More and more of the Bolsheviks joined the fight. Shots flew toward him, and some of his brothers fell. There were simply too many Bolsheviks.

“Fall back!” the order came.

Filip slid his rifle across his back, and he and Novak scrambled from the rooftop. A splinter dug into his skin, but he ignored it. He was more concerned about larger things—like bullets—puncturing his skin.

The sun still hadn’t made an appearance, and darkness would allow them to withdraw unseen. They had a long fighting retreat ahead of them. Most of the Bolsheviks were in Kultuk, so Filip’s group just needed to slow them down long enough for Anton’s group to seize or destroy the explosives stored at Baikal Station.

Of the thirty-nine rail tunnels along the southern end of Lake Baikal, thirty-eight lay between Kultuk and Baikal Station on the Angara River, so there were plenty of places to make a stand. Fighting retreats could be pulled off with no casualties if everything went perfectly. But nothing was perfect in battle. A few wrong moves and fighting retreats could turn into massacres.

***

Anton ran. His group had left the mountains a few miles from Baikal Station, and now they rushed along the tracks, through tunnels lined with hollowed-out crevices prepared for demolition. They’d left most of their equipment in the hills, but he still carried a rifle and ammunition. The pace was brutal. With only fifty men, they couldn’t afford to be surrounded, couldn’t risk an engagement before they reached Baikal Station. They had to be quick.

He pushed aside thoughts of Veronika, pale and weary but content. And of Marek, so small and so perfect. If he let his family distract him, he might never see them again.

As they got closer, prudence dictated a slight letup in their speed. Their most recent intelligence on Baikal Station was several days old, so they didn’t know how many opponents they’d find, but they expected formidable defenses.

“Spread out and find that train!” came the order.

Anton stayed near another sapper, a round-cheeked boy from Pilsen. Rifle fire sounded in the distance, and small-arms fire joined it nearby, between them and the lake. A flash appeared ahead. Anton aimed but didn’t shoot—what if it was one of his brothers? Another flash, but that one was friendly, he was sure.

“I expected more of a fight,” the man from Pilsen said.

“Me too.” Anton held his rifle close, still expecting an attack, but only a handful of Bolsheviks defended Baikal Station. Where had all the Reds gone?

***

Dalek had spent the last several days sending bullets toward the enemy rather than tapping out dots and dashes to his brothers, and the entire time, he’d questioned the wisdom of his decision. He could have remained in relative safety in the rear with the gear, but this had seemed important.

He handed over another belt of machine-gun ammo. His group of seven had taken position beneath an overhanging cliff and behind a timber fence meant to stop rockslides. Thus far, no one had dislodged them from their spot, but it seemed the Bolsheviks had finally gotten fed up with a group of seven Czechs and Slovaks pestering their line with a single machine gun. They’d held off numerous probes and a few determined assaults over the past days, but now most of the Bolsheviks from Baikal Station were attacking.

Vojta poured water over the machine gun to cool the barrel. Even in the dark, perspiration was visible on his face.

“It’ll hold, won’t it?” Dalek forced a smile.

Vojta shook his head. “The gun will, for a while. But I think this next attack is too big for us. We won’t be able to hold them off forever, but we can’t withdraw without exposing ourselves. We’re trapped.”

“Not so good for us, perhaps, but I think we’ve about cleared Baikal Station.” Dalek had marched off to help his friends, and he’d succeeded. Anton and Filip had better hurry and find those explosives because if Dalek got himself killed while trying to help them and they didn’t accomplish their tasks, he was going to haunt them for the rest of their lives.

***

Anton and the other sapper found the train of high explosives on a siding in a meadow, with the mountains to one side and the lake to the other. They couldn’t find an engine with which to move it. Even if they had, they were blocked on both sides. The tracks were torn up in the direction of Irkutsk, so they couldn’t take it back to Gajda’s main group, even if they could get past the Bolsheviks, who were mysteriously missing from Baikal Station. In the other direction, the tracks were passable, but the Kultuk Bolsheviks stood in their way.

That left one option: destroy the explosives before the Bolsheviks used them to trap the legion.

Anton put a fuse in place.

The other sapper smashed his finger and swore. “That gunfire is close. I hate to think of how many hits our men are taking.”

Anton pushed thoughts of the other groups aside. Regardless of anything else, he had to do this correctly. If he messed up, every legionnaire west of Baikal was doomed, including his family and his friends. “Ready?”

“Almost . . . all right, I’m set.”

Anton lit the fuse, and they sprinted for the hillside. They flung themselves into the dirt and waited and prayed. A few heartbeats passed, and then an enormous explosion tore the air.

***

A sound like a roar boomed around the sharp mountainsides and cracked across the water, then the ground shook beneath Filip’s feet. In the light of the rising sun, the surface of the lake convulsed into enormous waves. Water spewed through the air. Rocks tumbled down mountain slopes.

A few thousand Bolsheviks had been pushing them back, away from Kultuk and toward Baikal Station, but with the explosion, the pop of small arms quieted. Filip pulled a wounded Czech into the shelter of a tree and tied up the bullet hole in the man’s arm. What would the Bolsheviks do now?

In the distance, a column of smoke, dark and thick, rose in the air and spread like a thundercloud.

Daybreak was supposed to be gentle, gradual. But that explosion, shrieking through the valley as the sun peeked over the mountain, had seemed to signal the end of the world, and echoes of sermons about brimstone and a fiery judgment day swirled through Filip’s head.

It wasn’t the end of the world, but it did seem to signal an end to the battle because the Bolsheviks realized there were more Czechs along the track, so they pulled back.

They wouldn’t give up. They’d just consolidate and prepare a new trap. But for now, a bit of breathing space was enough. He’d see those Bolsheviks again, but perhaps not until he’d had a few hours of sleep and had gathered a full allotment of ammunition.

***

Dalek and the machine gun crew held their position until the reinforcements led by Gajda reached them. Gajda assigned a group to stay and repair the rail so the legion’s armored train could advance, but he urged the rest of the men forward.

“What should we do?” Vojta asked.

“Bring that machine gun and come. We’ve got to keep moving while they’re on the run.”

Dalek and the others obeyed, driven by duty and by curiosity—they’d felt, seen, and heard the explosion, and they wanted to witness the results up close. Dalek had been at war since 1914, but he’d never been that close to something that powerful. What had the explosion done to those nearer the blast?

When they reached the open scar where the train depot had once stood, Dalek bent over an unmoving body in legion uniform. “Brother?”

The man groaned and coughed. Good. He wasn’t dead. “My head.” He grabbed his forehead and squeezed his eyes shut. Then he blinked and looked around. “I must have been thrown. I wasn’t in this spot when I felt the explosion.”

The man’s face wasn’t familiar, but maybe he had information. “Did you have any casualties?” Dalek did not want to have to tell Veronika or Nadia—or both—that they were now widows.

“The station was mostly abandoned. But that explosion . . .”

Dalek approached the center of the smoldering wreckage, where a red gash on the earth still emitted heat. Farther out, blasted-over trees and flattened wood marked what had been the train station. He didn’t see any bodies, but was that because everyone had gotten away or because the blast had been powerful enough to make men disappear completely?

“Pokorný, come on,” Vojta called. “There are more Bolsheviks ahead of us.”

He almost shouted that he had to find his friends first, but if Filip or Anton were dead, it was already too late. And if they weren’t, they might be farther along the tracks.

Rifle fire sounded, and they dropped to the ground. Not all the Reds had retreated. Dalek, Vojta, and other legionnaires returned fire, and the remaining Bolsheviks either threw down their weapons in surrender or fled. More small arms sounded in the distance.

Dalek and the others advanced past the flattened station. A line of prisoners marched the other way, toward Irkutsk. A lone legionnaire from the Seventh Regiment guarded them.

Vojta eyed the prisoners with suspicion. “Should we stay and defend the station?”

“No. They must have surrendered to someone up ahead, and I imagine our brothers there need our help more than anyone back here.” Dalek scanned the area again and kicked a wheel that had become dislodged from its train but had somehow survived the blast. Then he left the devastation behind, hoping to find his friends.

He caught up to Anton an hour later.

“What are you doing here, Dalek?” Bruises and cuts lined his face, but Anton wore a smile.

Relief at seeing Anton eased the weight of worry he’d been carrying. “I was distracting the Bolshevik garrison from Baikal Station. Now I’m looking for you and Filip.”

Another man slapped Dalek on the back. “You were with that machine-gun crew?”

“I was.”

“Well done. Hardly a Red in sight, so we practically walked into Baikal Station. And then flattened it.” He broke off in a chuckle.

“Were there any casualties?”

Anton shook his head. “Not on our side.”

Dalek looked at the group they’d come across. “Where’s Filip?”

“I haven’t seen him for a few days. Our group split up. Filip went to Kultuk.”

“Have you had any word?”

“No.” The smile disappeared from Anton’s face. “Just that they’ve had a rough go of it.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

The Bolsheviks in Kultuk held out for five days. Filip was in the thick of it, retreating one morning, advancing the next afternoon. His group took hit after hit, but Bolshevik losses were even worse.

Reinforcements came, following the path Filip had taken over the mountains. On the fifth day, Gajda’s group joined them, advancing along the rail from Irkutsk. With their help, the Bolsheviks finally scattered, fleeing Kultuk for the next stronghold.

Filip sat with Novak in the dirt, their backs against a tree. “We should probably pursue them.” He didn’t lift a finger to follow his own advice.

“Before they get to Slyudyanka Station.” Novak sounded just as exhausted as Filip felt. “Don’t want them to take that last tunnel. It’s over three hundred meters long.”

Filip glanced at his boots. A hole graced the left one above his big toe. A tear decorated the right knee of his trousers. And grime covered every inch of his uniform. Novak looked much the same, with the addition of blood across his tunic—he’d killed a man with a bayonet. Would the advancing group even recognize the two of them as legionnaires? Or would they be mistaken for Bolshevik prisoners? Being mistaken for a prisoner might not be too awful. They could sort it out after they caught up on sleep.

“Come on, men, we’ve got to push forward and attack before they organize.”

Filip held back a groan. He knew that voice. Gajda. And knowing Gajda, he’d been fighting for almost as long as Filip had, so exhaustion would be no excuse. Filip wasn’t injured. His head wound from Omsk didn’t even bother him anymore. Or maybe it did, but the rest of his head hurt so much from the constant noise and the lack of sleep that it all felt the same.

Filip stumbled to his feet and helped Novak up. “Brother Colonel, we’re low on ammunition. Where can we get more?”

Gajda looked at the two of them. “You came over the mountains?”

Filip nodded.

“With the original group?”

“Yes.” Novak’s voice was scratchy.

Gajda turned to point along the rail, the direction of Irkutsk. “Back there. Get some rations too. You can rest a bit, but be ready to move tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you, Brother Colonel.”

Gajda nodded curtly. “I push my men, but I try not to push them beyond the breaking point.”

When he trudged back with Novak, the thunk of metal echoed as a group of legionnaires worked to repair the rail line. Men shouted from time to time—orders, greetings. But for the moment, Filip didn’t hear any rifle fire. It had been almost nonstop for days, and its absence was strange in a wonderful sort of way.

“Filip!”

Filip snapped his head around, seeking the source of the familiar shout. “Dalek?” He didn’t look quite as rundown as Filip, but he was headed in that direction. “I thought you were a telegraph clerk now, not an infantryman.”

Dalek frowned, but there was mirth in the gesture. “I saw some green soldiers planning to shift the battle with only six men and a machine gun, so I decided to join them. I’m still waiting for my boxcar with its telegraphs to catch up.”

“Are they sending the trains up?” Filip looked along the track. Maybe Nadia was coming.

“They’ll send up the armored train as soon as the track is fixed. The rest will have to wait until we secure the lake.”

Of course. As long as the Bolsheviks held the lake, the track wasn’t safe for civilians. “What exactly were you doing with that machine gun?”

Dalek’s mustache twitched. “Keeping the Bolsheviks from moving that train of explosives, then drawing off all the Bolsheviks from Baikal Station so Anton and his group could sneak in and destroy it.”

“Anton . . . have you seen him?” Filip hadn’t forgotten the reason he’d ended up in Kultuk, but with everything else going on, he’d tried to stop fretting over it.

“He’s fine. For now.” Dalek slapped Filip on the arm and laughed at the dirt that came off. “Almost as filthy as you.”

Filip went back to the Sixth Regiment after that, with Anton, Emil, Dalek, and the others. The next morning, they were tasked with capturing Slyudyanka Station. By then, the rail lines were repaired, so an armored train went with them.

They swatted at mosquitos and wiped perspiration from their foreheads as they marched. Kral handed out orders as they neared the station. “Sedlák, take a group and try to sneak around on the lake side.”

Filip set off with ten men. The ground around the station was wider than it was along much of the lakeside rail line, with enough space between the lake and the mountains for a settlement. And with settlements came plenty of places for Bolshevik soldiers to hide.

“Just one more tunnel after this.” Emil’s voice sounded cheerful, but his expression suggested it was forced.

“And after that, only two thousand miles until we reach Vladivostok.” Dalek didn’t even try to be cheerful. Apparently, he was more cynic than comic today. They were all exhausted. They’d been exhausted for weeks, and it was affecting morale.

“But more of our men are coming east.” Emil fiddled with his canteen. “We’re going to get stronger.”

“Only if the Bolsheviks stop shooting at us.”

Filip gave Dalek a warning look. Breaking down Emil’s hope wouldn’t be good for anyone’s morale. He didn’t want Dalek to continue with how vast Russia was and how many men the Bolsheviks could conscript into their army and how easy it would be for someone to destroy the railway. They all knew the odds, and they needed what hope they had.

Dalek stopped. “Are those trenches?”

Filip swore. The Bolsheviks had dug in, and it looked as though they had a machine gun. “Someone needs to tell Kral.”

“I’ll go.” Anton studied the trenches and the surrounding buildings as if trying to memorize them.

Filip almost ordered Anton to stay. He’d promised Veronika that he’d bring Anton back unharmed. What had he been thinking? He had no control over who lived and who died. It had been a foolish promise. Sincere in sentiment but impossible to carry out during combat. And he was guilty of mixed motives—he wanted Anton to be safe, but he’d also been trying to impress Nadia. That would backfire if Anton were shot, but going back to Kral might not be any more dangerous than staying with Filip. “Tell him we need reinforcements if he wants us to attack.”

Filip watched Anton go, then focused on the enemy. The trenches were deep enough to hide the men inside. The enemy was prepared. Maybe that was why Gajda pushed them so hard. Every moment of delayed pursuit gave the Bolsheviks more time to dig in and made them even harder to dislodge. But there were limits to what men could do after weeks of fighting.

“More are coming.” Emil pointed to a building where a clump of uniformed men had gathered. “Should I shoot?”

The distance was close enough that Emil might hit a man, but that one shot would make the others dive for cover and alert the Bolsheviks to Filip’s much smaller group hiding in the tall grasses. Filip wasn’t sure it was worth the risk. “Hold a minute. If they start to move, we’ll shoot, but all together.”

The Reds milled about a while longer. Then something must have startled them, because one instant they were relaxed and careless, then the next they sprinted for cover.

Dalek grunted. “We missed our shot.”

Filip gritted his teeth. Maybe he should have attacked while the men were exposed. But they had little cover themselves, and they were outnumbered. It seemed foolish to start a skirmish they couldn’t win.

A shot sounded, and a bullet slammed into a nearby tree trunk.

“Get down.” Most of the men were already as sheltered as they could be in a slight dip in the ground, but Filip repeated the order anyway as enemy fire descended on them.

Filip looked along his rifle, searching for a target. Dalek fired, as did another of the legionnaires. Neither brought down their man. Filip caught movement around the trench, a swaying bayonet. He followed it to where its holder had to be and aimed, even though he couldn’t see his enemy in the shadows. The bayonet jerked, suggesting a hit.

The Bolsheviks showered them with rifle fire, and one of Filip’s men cried out. Emil crawled toward him and fished a cloth from his pocket to use as a bandage.

“How bad is it?” Filip asked.

Emil glanced back and shook his head, suggesting the wound was mortal.

Filip fired as quickly as he could find targets, but their position was poor. The sharp-smelling grasses might blur their outline, but they’d stop no bullets. Another legion man moaned in pain from a leg wound. They were exposed, but if they dashed across open ground to something more sheltered, they’d all be cut to pieces.

Two Bolsheviks ran hunched over toward the trench. Between them, they carried a machine gun. Filip aimed and shot one of them, but the other man—and the gun—disappeared from view. If the Bolsheviks set up the Maxim 1910, his group really wouldn’t be able to move. Maybe they should run now while they still could. Rifle fire would take its toll, but it wouldn’t be as devastating as machine-gun fire.

If they ran, they’d have to leave the wounded. In the stretch of track between Omsk and Novonikolayevsk, the Bolsheviks had captured a legion officer. After the Reds had been driven away, the peasants had shown the legion the shallow grave. The man’s body had been brutally tortured. Filip didn’t want any of his men to fall into Bolshevik hands. Leaving them meant abandoning them to a savage fate.

Their situation was desperate. Stay and die. Or flee and die.

Filip was about to send Dalek off with the healthy men while Filip stayed with the wounded when an enormous boom shook the earth. An instant later, a wall in the building behind the Bolsheviks shattered and fell.

It took a few heartbeats for Filip to get over his surprise and start shooting at the Bolsheviks, who were now panicked enough to show themselves.

“Bless that armored train.” Dalek joined Filip in picking off retreating Bolsheviks as another shell burst, this one even closer to the trench line. “And bless that Slovak messenger who told them exactly where to aim.”

***

They took Slyudyanka just before nightfall. They slept a few hours, then had patrol duty the next morning. Filip and the others spread out on either side of the track as much as the terrain would allow between the cliff and lake, looking for trouble in the form of Bolshevik soldiers. The armored train followed, but it stayed far enough back to avoid an ambush.

“I think I want to be stationed on the armored train.” Dalek stifled a yawn.

Filip looked back, but the train wasn’t in sight. “Everyone targets the train.”

Dalek shrugged. “Maybe. But nothing gets through four inches of steel.”

“Another armored train could. Or a battleship.”

Dalek glanced at Lake Baikal. “The Bolsheviks have a few ships, but nothing with that kind of firepower.”

“Isn’t the communications car safe enough for you?”

Dalek pursed his lips. “Only when I’m smart enough to stay at my desk. But now that I’m here, I wouldn’t mind manning one of those guns.”

“The machine guns or the field guns?”

“Either, but I got a taste for Maxims outside Baikal Station.” Dalek pointed at the water. “Do you suppose we can bathe after we take this last tunnel?”

“I hope so. If Nadia saw me like this, she’d probably run.”

Dalek laughed.

Then the earth shook.

The rumble was similar to what Filip had felt when the boxcar of explosives had destroyed Baikal Station. He’d been close to fifty miles away when that had blown. This felt just as strong, but it was louder. Much louder. Closer.

No one voiced their fear, but they rushed forward, first at a jog, then at a run. A column of dust and smoke crawled into the air, then spread out, blocking the formerly cheery sun. They ran around a bend and halted.

The tunnel was gone.

In its place was a pile of rocks.

Filip stared for a long time, hoping against hope that when the dust settled, it wouldn’t be real. But the longer he stared, the more he felt the bitter truth. They were trapped.

He slung his rifle across his back and started climbing. Anton joined him, and the two trudged up the mountain, through the dense trees and across the steep slopes, reaching the summit over the tunnel as the afternoon sun beat down from its zenith.

Anton wiped the perspiration from his brow with a handkerchief. “I don’t see them. Do you?”

Filip shook his head. The Bolsheviks had blown up the tunnel, and then they’d left. But he doubted they’d gone far. They would wait and attack again, and they’d have plenty of time to prepare their next ambush.

The dust and the heat made Filip’s throat ache. Beyond that, disappointment gnawed at him. They could hike across the mountains, but the trains couldn’t advance, and by the time enough men made it over, the Bolsheviks would have the type of defenses that would cost the legion dearly.

Two thousand miles to Vladivostok. Could they walk that far with their equipment? With their wounded? With their families? All while under Bolshevik attack?

Where is my home? The line from the folk song mocked him. Their home, their dream, now hung in the balance.

***

“The tunnel isn’t gone.” Kral’s face was sober, as was everyone’s since the explosion.

Filip gestured to the pile of rocks that still hid the tunnel. “I can’t see it.”

“Rockslides filled it in on both sides, and there’s some damage, but the ceiling seems to be intact. We’ll haul the rocks out and move on from there.”

A flicker of hope rose, then died. The rocks were massive. They didn’t have the specialized equipment they would need to move them efficiently. And the tunnel was three hundred twenty meters long. “How?”

“One rock at a time, Sedlák. One rock at a time.”

And that was what they did. Filip and the other legionnaires worked in shifts around the clock to remove the rubble. When they weren’t moving rocks, they formed patrols to protect the rest of the line, stretching back to Irkutsk. The Bolsheviks still controlled the lake with a fleet of ships, boats, and barges. The legion watched them carefully, but the Reds seemed content to wait.

Three weeks later, the tunnel was cleared enough that they could lay new rails over the remaining rubble and bring their armored train through. Troop trains would follow but not Nadia’s train, at least not yet. Filip was starting to lose track of how long it had been since he’d seen her. Some of the men, like Dalek, had wives back home in Bohemia who they hadn’t seen since the war had begun. In comparison, Filip’s separation was mild, but knowing she was close made it different somehow.

Kral pulled Filip aside while others worked to lay the rails. “Scout ahead; see what you can see without getting shot, eh? Be back in three days. We should advance toward you, so you won’t have as long of a trip back.”

Filip nodded. The Bolsheviks had been given three weeks to prepare a trap for them, and the legion needed to know as many details as possible if they were to have any hope of escaping it.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Nadia woke to a baby’s cry. Marek. She waited for Veronika to quiet him, but the wail grew. Bunks creaked as the other women turned over, trying to go back to sleep. Veronika’s lullaby drifted up, but minutes passed, and the lullaby didn’t seem to be working. A scrape and scuff told her Veronika was getting up. The cries moved as Veronika paced the floor with her infant. Then the door of the boxcar slid open, and distance made the wails fainter.

Nadia wanted nothing more than to snuggle into her blanket and get a little more rest before she headed to the hospital train, but Veronika was barely over a bout of mastitis, and she was supposed to be resting.

Nadia climbed from her bunk and followed her friend outside. “Veronika?”

Veronika held Marek to her and swayed back and forth. He was wrapped in the blanket of white and red his mother had made to match the ribbons the men of the legion wore on their caps. White for Moravia and red for Bohemia. “I just fed him, but he won’t go back to sleep.”

The horizon was lightening from black to gray. The short night was almost over. “Let me take him. I have to get up soon anyway. You should rest.”

Veronika frowned.

“I’ll take good care of him.”

“I know you will. I just hate needing help.”

“You’ve helped me. Time after time.”

Veronika handed Marek over. “I never had to give up sleep for you. But I’m so tired. Thank you.”

Marek continued to fuss after his mother returned to the boxcar. Nadia checked to make sure he was warm, then held him to her shoulder and patted his back in case he had gas. She watched the sunrise with the baby. The sky turned from cool shades of blue and indigo to warm shades of amber and blush. Was Filip awake, watching the sunrise? If so, the crack of rifles probably accompanied his view rather than the sounds of a fussy infant.

She missed him. She wanted to see him again, wanted to tell him she was ready to try a real marriage, if he would take her as a permanent wife. The wounded brought rumors and updates with them, and the legion published newspapers in multiple languages, so she could follow the battles and skirmishes. Nothing gave details about Filip and whether or not he was safe.

Eventually, Marek soiled his diaper, then calmed.

“Was that what was bothering you, little one?” Nadia laughed at the baby, then gave him a fresh diaper. He seemed sleepy after that, so she rocked him until his eyes closed, then tucked him into the bunk with his mother.

Nadia scrubbed herself clean and went to the hospital train. Maybe the work would keep her from worrying about Filip for a few hours.

Most of the men still slept when she arrived, but the orderly had plenty of cleaning for her to do. Then the men woke, and she served breakfast of bread with butter and gooseberry jam while the wounded passed newspapers around.

One whistled. “We finally took Yekaterinburg. The end of July.”

Yekaterinburg was to the west of them, on the northern line rather than the southern line the Sixth Regiment had come along. Now more of the legion could make it east, if Filip’s group could clear the Bolsheviks out of the tunnels around Lake Baikal. If not, they were all trapped—the groups waiting around Irkutsk and those coming from Yekaterinburg.

The man folded the paper to read the bottom half of the sheet. “They think the tsar was being held in Yekaterinburg.”

“Did the legion free him?” Nadia asked. Nicholas II had been flawed, but he was still her tsar and her father’s friend. Most of the time, she thought it best that he not return to power, but if he could somehow prevent the Bolsheviks from taking over all of Russia . . .

The man looked up from the paper. “He disappeared. Sounds like he might have been executed.”

Executed? Would the Bolsheviks really kill the tsar? “What of his family?” Nadia had volunteered in a Petrograd hospital with the Grand Duchesses Olga and Tatiana. Hatred was widespread for the tsar and tsarina, but surely they’d let the children go.

“No one knows for sure. But the Bolsheviks aren’t very forgiving.”

Nadia nodded and went to work changing bandages. If the legion had driven the Bolsheviks from Yekaterinburg at the end of July, then three weeks had passed, plenty of time for the tsar and his family to escape to safety. But Alexei had poor health. Maybe they were still traveling, moving at a slower pace to accommodate the tsarevich. Or perhaps they were safe already but wished to stay in hiding a while longer.

When she had a free moment, she grabbed an unattended newspaper. The words were Czech, so she asked one of her patients to read it to her while she replaced the bandages on his shoulder. The first man had softened the news. The article was blunter, reporting that the tsar was almost certainly dead. It all sounded so savage, killing the tsar. She understood the frustrations of the peasants and the workers. But to kill him? The tsar had exiled his enemies. He’d shown mercy. Couldn’t they have extended the same mercy to him? And what had become of his wife and children?

Nadia had already decided she wanted a future with Filip, even if it meant leaving Russia. But she would always be Russian at heart, and if the tsar was really dead, then a part of the Russia she loved had died with him.

She worked with a renewed determination to assist the legion. The enemy was brutal and terrifying. And somewhere along the shores of Lake Baikal, her husband was facing them.

***

Three days after setting out, Filip returned with a discouraging report. “The Bolsheviks are dug in at Tankhoy. I counted sixty troop trains between there and Mysovaya. They weren’t idle while we cleared the tunnel, and now they’re waiting for us.”

Kral nodded but didn’t seem overly worried.

Filip didn’t want to sound like a defeatist, but this roadblock was more serious than the others they’d faced. They had more room to maneuver here than they’d had on the opposite side of the lake, but the mountains still hemmed them in. Thick pines would mask some of their advance, but other sections of the landscape would leave them woefully exposed. “You aren’t worried, Brother Lieutenant?”

“No. We’ll conduct a frontal assault tomorrow morning.”

A frontal assault? Was that supposed to be encouraging?

Kral continued. “Gajda sent a group over the mountains to hit them in the flank when we attack.”

That was something, but it might not be enough.

Kral cracked a smile. “And Colonel Ushakov is leading our fleet across the lake tonight. His legionnaires and Cossacks will attack in the rear, closer to Posolska.”

“Our fleet?” The legion had no navy.

“Ferries and a few steamers pulling barges. Enough to move twelve hundred men. Tomorrow will be hard, but we’ll manage.”

A three-pronged attack. Filip didn’t have the energy to debate whether or not it would work. As soon as he found his bedroll, he went to sleep.

The next morning dawned early, as summer days did in Siberia.

“Do you ever wake up and wonder if you’re seeing your last dawn?”

Filip looked over to Anton, who was cleaning his rifle. “You feel that way today?”

“No more than usual. It’s just that we’ve been fighting almost nonstop since the end of May. August is nearly over. Marek is almost two months old.” Anton fixed his bayonet. “Remember Jan Beran?”

Filip nodded. Beran had joined the legion in Taganrog, same as Anton. He’d died in the fighting for Krasnoyarsk.

“He had a son. Born in 1915, seven months after we were called up. He never met him.”

“This war has made it so a lot of sons will never meet their fathers. But our sons will have a country.”

Anton gazed at the lake. Filip wished he could read his friend’s thoughts. He could guess at the emotions a little. No matter how promising the future, there was pain in knowing they might not see it. Anton straightened his shoulders. “I suppose I have to trust God to take care of my family if I no longer can.”

Their assignment that day included a frontal assault against a daunting foe, yet Anton’s expression had grown calm as he spoke of God. Had Filip heard similar words from someone unacquainted with trouble, he would have passed it off as naivety. It was easy to trust in God when life was easy. But Anton knew all about war, discrimination, and poverty and held to his faith despite all the hardships he’d seen and felt. What would it be like to have such a firm assurance? In that moment, Filip wished he could feel the same, but the oppression he’d felt as a child and the horror he’d seen as a soldier made the concept of a loving God hard to grasp.

The other men stirred, and not long after, a runner came by, telling them to assemble. They gathered their things and adjusted their equipment, then organized themselves for the march to Tankhoy. Dread grew with each step they took, at least for Filip. He’d seen the fortifications waiting for them.

A boom sounded in the distance, and a thread of smoke appeared to the north along the lake.

“What was that?” Dalek climbed a tree for a better look.

The smoke grew, getting darker.

“I’ll bet it’s Ushakov’s men.” Filip didn’t know for sure, but that was where the cross-lake assault had been planned. He just hoped it was a Bolshevik possession that had been destroyed and not a ferry full of legionnaires or their Cossack allies.

Filip’s regiment advanced the rest of the way to Tankhoy Station. In the distance, the flash of sunlight off bayonet told him the group of legionnaires who had marched over the mountain was also in position.

“Hit them hard, and drive them from Tankhoy!” Kral ordered.

The legion attacked, and the Bolsheviks fought back with fury. Filip led his squad from one point to another, trying to shield his men from a withering hail of rifle fire and advance at the same time. Tankhoy was small, but the Bolsheviks had found or created formidable positions. He kept his men in the trees when he could, but huge stretches of ground were open, leaving them exposed.

The smell of cordite hung in the air, and the crack of small arms was constant. Bolshevik artillery dueled with the legion’s armored train, and the train had to retreat.

“What’s the point of clearing a three-hundred-twenty-meter-long tunnel so we can have an armored train if it retreats and leaves us to fight alone?” Dalek shoved another clip of cartridges into his rifle.

“It’ll be back.” Filip hoped he spoke the truth. “They have to switch their position as soon as enemy artillery zeroes in on them.”

Kral approached, probably to coordinate the attack. His body jerked, and he slammed into a tree. Anton grabbed him and pulled him into a ditch. Filip crawled over to see how bad the damage was.

“Keep up the pressure.” Even wounded, Kral was calm, though his voice lacked its normal volume. Blood flowed from his arm, and Anton set to work bandaging it.

They moved closer to the enemy, crawling through grass and hiding behind trees. The sun had reached its zenith when Dalek let out a whistle.

“What?” Filip asked.

“They’re retreating.”

A few Bolsheviks were running, but Filip didn’t think that signaled victory. “Probably just switching positions to hold off the flanking attack. Maybe they’re making progress.” The frontal assault certainly hadn’t been effective enough to drive the Bolsheviks back, but the Bolsheviks were fighting on two fronts, facing two threats.

A few minutes later, though, Bolshevik intentions were clear. “Why are they withdrawing? We aren’t winning.”

“Who cares why, as long as they leave.” Dalek shot at one of the retreating men.

“Keep them running!” Kral’s arm was bandaged now, and he was back on his feet, still giving orders.

Filip led his men forward, into the Bolshevik trenches, then into Tankhoy Station. They were a few miles closer to Vladivostok, but they’d taken considerable losses that day. So had the Bolsheviks. Their dead lay strewn about the railroad tracks.

Most of the enemy wounded had gone, but the Reds hadn’t evacuated all their casualties. Filip found a man pierced with shrapnel in his legs and chest. He was on his way to death but taking the slow road. Filip gave him a drink from his canteen, then found the man’s cigarettes and lit one for him.

“Why did you retreat?”

“You had us surrounded. From the front, from the mountains, and from behind.”

That explained it. Lake on one side, legionnaires to the south and east, with more advancing from the north. They’d wanted to pull out before they were trapped.

The next day, Filip and the rest of his regiment reached Mysovaya.

Emil shook his head as they marched through the aftermath of the battle. “Looks like they should have retreated earlier.”

“Yes. But quite generous of them to leave us so much equipment, don’t you think?” Dalek walked beside Filip and picked up an extra rifle. “We might be able to arm all our men after this. Maybe the women too. Do you suppose your wife would be any good with a rifle?”

Filip chuckled. “I have a feeling Nadia can do anything she sets her mind to.” He just hoped that didn’t include an annulment.

They left Lake Baikal behind and chased the Bolsheviks to Verkhne-Udinsk after that. Filip and his squad survived the series of skirmishes. Colonel Ushakov, the Russian officer who had sailed across Lake Baikal to Posolska, destroyed most of the Bolshevik fleet, and scattered the Reds at Mysovaya, did not. Filip mourned him and his fallen brothers from the legion. They would never see the country they had died for.

Kral called for Filip when they’d been in Verkhne-Udinsk for two days. He wore his injured arm in a sling. “We’ve got most of the rail line now, but a lot of the Bolsheviks escaped. If they organize, they can wreak havoc on our rear. Ambush us. Cut off our communications. Slow us down or stop us completely. We have to follow them.”

“Yes, Brother Lieutenant.”

“Tomorrow, you’ll take my place. I’d go, but . . .” Kral gestured to his arm.

“I understand.” Survival depended on pursuing the enemy until they were no longer a threat.

“A group of White Russians will go with you. Follow the Selenga River. We don’t have enough ships for the entire group. The Russians will take the boats down the first half. You’ll switch at Novoselenginsk, unless you catch the Bolsheviks before then. Lavrov and Karandashwilli fled after our last battle on the lake, so they have a head start.” Kral sighed. “One last effort, then you’ll have a break. Nazdar, Sedlák.”

“Nazdar, Brother Lieutenant.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Nadia and the rest of the women caught up with the Sixth Regiment at Verkhne-Udinsk in September, but she couldn’t find Filip among the legionnaires.

Dalek was easier to locate, at the telegraph station.

“I haven’t seen Filip yet, nor Anton,” she said after her initial greeting. “Are they well?”

Dalek’s face grew sober. Nadia held her breath. Were they dead? They’d had news of the battles around the lake, but she’d hoped Filip and Anton weren’t among the casualties. “They were dispatched to the Mongolian border. Supposed to cut off some of the Bolsheviks who escaped.”

“Oh.” They were alive at least, or had been recently. “Do you know when they’ll return?”

“I’m not sure. But don’t frown. I’ve got good news. We met up with the legionnaires from Vladivostok. The rest of the rail line is open—all the way to the Pacific.”

That had been their goal since setting out from the Ukraine. Now it was finally a reality. “That’s wonderful.” She sat when Dalek gestured to a chair.

“It seems a group of legionnaires also captured part of the imperial treasury when they took Kazan. It was moved from Petrograd when the Germans got too close.”

“Well, I’m glad the Bolsheviks didn’t get it.” She preferred them to stay unorganized, underfunded, and at risk of collapse.

“Eight boxcars full of gold.” Dalek whistled. “The Bolsheviks took Kazan again, but the gold is on its way east. Ought to be enough to fund an army capable of stopping the Communists. Of course, being a Czech, I have no desire to get involved in internal Russian affairs, not officially. But after fighting them since May, I will unofficially be cheering for anyone who opposes them.”

Nadia walked back to the women’s coach. Eight boxcars full of gold. Enough to turn the tide against the Bolsheviks? And if the Bolsheviks fell, could she reclaim her family’s lands? The manors and homes might not be there anymore. The hidden art might have burned to the ground. But the land, that would still be there. Part of her heritage, part of her soul.

In March or April, even in May or June, she would have let that hope keep her in Russia. But not now. She wanted Filip more than she wanted Lavanda Selo. But would he want her? Months had passed since their last meeting. She couldn’t begin to guess how he felt.

“They aren’t here, are they?” Veronika asked when Nadia climbed into the coach. She held Marek against her shoulder and patted the baby’s back.

“No. They followed a few groups of Bolsheviks down to the border with Mongolia. But they were alive a week ago.”

Veronika shifted Marek so she could see his face. “Anton’s missed so much.”

Nadia sat beside her friend. “Marek won’t remember that his father was gone for so long.”

“Sometimes I just have a horrible feeling that he won’t know both of his parents.”

Nadia put her hand on Veronika’s forehead without even asking permission.

“I’m not feverish. Haven’t been for a week.”

Indeed, Veronika’s temperature felt normal. But she’d had fevers often enough since the baby’s birth that the worry stayed in Nadia’s head. “If you’re not sick, is there another reason you’re so gloomy? Other than Anton’s absence?”

Veronika sucked on her lower lip. “It’s just a feeling. Probably nothing.”

Veronika didn’t speak of her premonition again. As the days passed, Nadia continued helping at the hospital, but now that the entire Trans-Siberian Railway was in legion hands, most of the wounded were sent to hospitals in Vladivostok. Nadia had less and less to do as their first week in Verkhne-Udinsk passed and the second began.

On a crisp autumn morning, she washed diapers after finishing her tasks in the hospital. It wasn’t the most pleasant of chores, but baby Marek was worth it, and she was glad to give Veronika a hand. There was also something satisfying in knowing she could get them clean. Her laundry skills had room for improvement, but they’d advanced considerably since that spring.

On her way back from the river, she saw Anton. “You’re back!” She peered at the other returning faces, hoping to see Filip. He wasn’t there, and something heavy grew in her stomach. What if he’d been hurt or killed?

“He’s reporting.”

Nadia searched Anton’s face, making sure she hadn’t misunderstood. “So he’s well?”

“Nothing worse than a few blisters. How’s Veronika? And the baby?”

“Your little Marek is an angel. He smiles all the time now. Veronika is . . . She’s still recuperating.” Larisa and the other women thought Veronika should be stronger by now. They all helped, but Veronika still seemed almost as fatigued as she’d been immediately after delivery. Having Anton back was bound to speed her recovery. “She’ll be glad to see you. She’s in the lavender van.” Nadia handed the basket of laundry to Anton. “These are Marek’s.”

Anton thanked her and rushed off.

Where would Filip be? Still reporting to Kral? She’d seen the lieutenant a few times, his arm in a sling and his face as stern as usual. She passed the various train cars, seeking only one thing: her husband.

She finally saw him, his back to her as he spoke with Kral. She couldn’t interrupt, so she waited with her hands clasped behind her. Filip was right in front of her, so she could stop worrying about him. Still, it was hard not to fidget.

“When we caught up with them, they were trapped. The Mongolians closed the border and wouldn’t let them cross. Some snuck over, I’m sure, but the main group surrendered unconditionally.”

“And the locals?”

“The Buriats were friendly and hospitable. I think the entire population of Troitskosavsk came out to cheer us, led by the mayor, and the Mongolian cavalry came over as an honor guard. It seems they don’t want a bunch of Bolsheviks stirring up trouble in their country.”

“No, I imagine not.” Kral noticed Nadia, and a rare smile flickered across his face. “Well, that’s enough for now. You earned a bit of rest.” He clapped Filip on the shoulder and waved him off.

Filip’s eyes found her the moment he turned around. Only by exercising tremendous willpower did she manage to walk to him instead of run. She couldn’t think of anything to say, so she just smiled. He was equally tongue-tied but seemed happy to see her, and that gave her hope.

“I’m glad you’re back,” she finally said.

“I’m glad to be back.” His hair was longer now, but his skin was smooth, so he must have shaved recently. His clothes looked worn but clean. He offered her his arm, and they strolled together, away from the train depot.

“I was worried. We had news but nothing specific. And when we finally caught up with the regiment, you weren’t here. I was terrified that something had happened to you. What would I do if you didn’t come back?”

Filip stopped walking and took both her hands in his. “Nadia, if something happens to me, the legion will still take you to Vladivostok. You’re one of us now.”

She looked at the ground. “It’s not that. You’re the only one who doesn’t see me as a nuisance.” Or maybe he did, but he never let it show.

His fingers brushed her jaw, bringing her face up so she looked at him again. Those fingers were strong yet gentle, and warmth at his touch spread across her skin. “There are people here who care for you now, not just me. You wouldn’t be friendless. Dalek remembers your help with the telegrams to Tatarsk, Anton admires your skill as a nurse, and Kral is grateful for your work with the prisoners. And the women are your friends now too.”

“But I would be without you.” She reached for his hand that still held her face.

Something in his expression changed and softened as his eyes studied her with an intensity that seemed to mirror all the emotion tangled up in her heart. “You’d miss me?”

“I did miss you, and you were only a few miles away. If something happened to you, I . . .” Terror had consumed her when she’d seen him wounded outside Omsk. What would she do if anything worse happened? She’d be helpless again, but she wouldn’t just miss what he did for her, she would miss him. She hesitated to speak. What if she told him she loved him and he laughed at her? But she’d already said more than was prudent, and the warmth of his touch suggested their feelings might be in accord. “If something happened to you, it would break my heart.”

He kept his gaze on her a while longer, then looked along the street. It wasn’t crowded, but it was occupied. He took her elbow and guided her between two buildings where fewer people could see them. “Are you saying I have some sort of claim on your heart now?”

“Of course. You are my husband.”

He shook his head. “I’ve been your husband since March. You had no affection for me when we wed.”

“I had gratitude, if not affection. But my feelings since then have changed. A great deal.” She leaned her back against the rough wood of a building. It had taken her a long time to learn to trust him, to see all the good in him, and she saw him clearly now.

He put one hand on the wall behind her and used the other to caress her hair. “I thought you were beautiful the first time I saw you. Beautiful, and completely out of reach. You might as well have been one of the grand duchesses. But I didn’t know you then, had no idea how you would surprise me again and again with your abilities.”

Nadia looked away. “I can barely cook, my sewing is atrocious, and I still take twice as long to make the clothes half as clean as the other women do.” She’d learned so much since the train station in Piryatin, but there was still so much she didn’t know.

“You’ve learned skill after skill, and you’ve never given up. And you’ve done it all with grace and kindness.”

“But you’re trying to overthrow the old order, and I was part of that.” Her life prior to meeting him was one of luxury and privilege, part of a class parallel to those who had persecuted his people in his lands. “Is Russian aristocracy so different from Austrian aristocracy?”

“I didn’t hate the Hapsburg aristocracy because they were rich and German. I hated them because they thought that because they were rich and German and I was poor and Czech, my life and my happiness weren’t as important as theirs. But you’re not like that. You’ve cared for our wounded, helped us smuggle rifles, and gathered intelligence. You may have been born rich, but you’ve made common cause with us, and that has earned you my undying admiration and my unconditional love.”

Love? She swallowed as hope and uncertainty waged a war in her chest. Could he really love her? She met his gaze and had her answer. Yes, he did. She could see approval in his eyes and fondness in the set of his mouth.

“Filip, I think I love you.”

His smile was pure joy. “I had hoped you would come to. But I never supposed you would.”

He kissed her forehead, kissed her cheeks, kissed the end of her nose. They were delicate, soft gestures that warmed her like a fur cloak in winter. And then he kissed her lips. She’d never been kissed before, had only dreamed of what it might be like.

Reality was far better.

Filip had won her over completely with his humble confidence, his kindness, his patience. She’d fallen in love with his determination, his attention to duty, and his considerate nature. Now she fell in love with the way his mouth moved over hers, the way his arms held her, and the way his hands caressed her. She didn’t want the kiss to ever end. She’d never felt so alive, so giddy. Nor had she ever felt such a strong connection to anyone.

Eventually, Filip’s lips moved to her neck. “Nadia.” His voice was a husky whisper. He kissed her again, even longer than he had the first time. There was more passion now, and more anticipation. She treasured every second of it, drank up every moment of his closeness, his attention. The feelings were new, powerful, and exquisite.

“Nadia, I don’t have guard duty till tomorrow. Will you spend the night with me?”

She hesitated only a moment. She wanted to be Filip’s wife in every aspect, wanted to be alone with him, wanted to be completely his. “Yes.”

“What I’m asking will make an annulment unlikely.”

Their agreement at the train station in Piryatin felt like something from a different life. “I . . . I don’t want an annulment anymore. Do you?”

He ran his hands around her waist and buried his face in her neck. “I never wanted one.”

She laughed softly. “For someone who never wanted an annulment, you’ve been incredibly patient.”

He responded with more kisses. His mouth did something to her—something incredible. His warmth wrapped her up in delight and security and invited her to something new and absolutely breathtaking.

She held his face with her hands. “How soon can you find us somewhere private?”

“Soon.” Another kiss sent her soaring. “Very soon.”

She woke up the next morning with Filip at her side. Her husband—a real one, not a sham one. She fingered the curls of his hair and watched him sleep. Gratitude wound around her heart. After the worst moments of her life, God had led her to someone who was gentle and capable, honorable and kind. “I love you,” she whispered and knew it would be true for the rest of her life.

Chapter Twenty-Six

When Kral called everyone together, Filip sensed that something was wrong. Dalek’s more-petulant-than-usual frown confirmed his hunch. It seemed a cruel twist of fate for another complication to arise now, when the legion finally held the rail line from the Volga to Vladivostok and when everything with Nadia had been so perfect for the last week and a half.

Kral raised his voice so everyone could hear. “The Allies have requested that we hold our current positions.”

“Why?” someone asked.

Filip had the same question. Yes, they’d managed to take over several thousand miles of railway, but the legion was too small to hold for long. It was better to get everyone to the coast and sail for France as soon as possible.

“Because German guns are shelling Paris, and the German Army is transferring divisions from Russia to France. The Western Allies are in danger of collapse. They’re desperate.”

“Then they should give us ships and send us to France, as planned.” Emil’s young face showed confusion. “We can make a difference there if they hurry.”

“We can also make a difference here. Perhaps more quickly than we can there.”

Filip almost choked. “They want us to draw the Germans back east? Pick up where the Russian Empire left off? Kral, there aren’t enough of us. You know that. We’ve been lucky this summer. We’ve had speed and better tactics, but we’ve made enemies. We’d have to fight the Bolsheviks to get there, then fight the Germans with the Bolsheviks at our backs. It’s insanity.”

Kral didn’t disagree. “I know it’s not what we planned. And I know it’s not ideal. But we’ve thrown our lot in with the French, the British, and the Americans. If they don’t win, we don’t have a country. We’d be shipped to a Bolshevik work camp, or you’d go home and be executed for treason. We have to keep the Central Powers from victory. We can best do that by splitting their armies—forcing them to fight on two fronts—and by keeping them from the million tons of war supplies sitting in Russian ports. We won’t be alone. The French and British are landing in Arkhangelsk. The Americans and Japanese are landing in Vladivostok.”

“We’ll be fighting with the Americans? And the Japanese?” Emil frowned.

“That’s what’s implied.”

Dread wormed through Filip’s gut. Their supply line would stretch five thousand miles, maybe farther. It sounded like a disaster. If the Bolsheviks took just one station, they could cut the legion off. The legion was growing, with almost seventy thousand men now in its ranks. It wasn’t a small number, but compared to the millions of men they would replace—and the millions of men they would face—it seemed insignificant.

And yet, Filip wanted a country. A homeland free from Hapsburg domination. The paradise on earth that they sang about, not just because of its beauty but also because of its liberty. Helping the Western Allies might be the best thing he could do for his people. He’d planned to help them in the west, but the way things were going, if the legion sailed now, by the time they made it to France, they might be greeted by Germans.

But if they stayed in Russia, they’d be torn to shreds.

***

Filip held Nadia extra close that night, after telling her he was going west with most of the legion and she was going east with the other wives and children. He knew his duty, knew the reasons behind the orders, but that did little to assuage the pain inside. He’d found the perfect woman and had somehow convinced her to fall in love with him, and now they’d be separated, connected only by a thin line of steel stretching five thousand miles.

“You’ll write to me, won’t you?” she asked.

“I can’t write in Russian. Only Czech and German.”

“I don’t know how to read Czech yet,” she whispered. “It will have to be German.”

German. The language of their enemy. That seemed like a final, ironic stab at their emotions.

Preparations for the move left him little time to spend with his wife. The men had to be armed and outfitted as best as possible, and after the march from the Ukraine and months of fighting the Bolsheviks, boots were worn out, trousers were torn, and greatcoats were threadbare. Hardly any of them owned socks, so they wrapped their feet in rags. They’d taken good care of their rifles, for the most part, but some had been damaged, and they had little ammunition for their few pieces of artillery.

Dalek approached as Filip finished leading the men through a session of calisthenics.

“Dismissed,” Filip said.

Dalek watched the men disperse. “Eager to go west again?”

Filip avoided answering. He was a leader. He’d recruited a significant portion of the men under him, so it was his duty to show the proper attitude—willing, optimistic, confident. “Are you?”

Dalek shrugged. “How are things with the wife? No chance of an annulment now?”

“No annulment. Just a separation.” Filip wasn’t happy to be sending Nadia to Vladivostok, but she loved him. That was something to rejoice over. As long as he survived, they had a future together. “My wife is a goddess, and I worship her as often as I can, though it seems such activities will have to be put on hold until the war is over.”

“And she is pleased with this, uh, veneration?”

“Goddesses are usually pleased with adulation, aren’t they?”

Dalek stuck his hands in his pockets. “It seems such a shame for war to come between a man and his worship.”

Filip cracked a smile. Dalek could make fun of him all he liked, but it wouldn’t change the magnificent fact that Filip and Nadia were passionately in love with each other.

Dalek continued. “I was speaking with Kral. It’s vital we keep control of the line—the tracks and the telegraph wires.”

Filip nodded. If they lost control of the railroad, troop movements would slow to a crawl, and supplying the men at the front would become nearly impossible. All the weapons and equipment stockpiled in Vladivostok had to move thousands of miles west if it was to be turned against the German and Austro-Hungarian Empires. If they lost control of the telegraph lines, they would lose their ability to communicate with each other. They held one long, thin section of Russia, and losing any part of it would doom them to failure.

Dalek prodded a tuft of grass with his scuffed boot. “I’m to be stationed at a teeny telegraph office in the middle of Siberia, somewhere to the east of Yekaterinburg. There’s a little village near the station. Uncivilized, isolated other than the rail. Not the best of assignments, but it has a few perks. Privacy, for one.”

“And no need to worry about the Red Army or the Germans. You’ll just have to watch out for partisans and bandits.”

“Yes. I can’t hold it by myself. Wild country, Siberia. Warlords and released prisoners everywhere. Criminals, too, with no one to keep order. I’ll need a group large enough for patrols. It’s not big enough to justify a doctor . . . but a nurse might come in handy. If you and your wife were to join me, you’d have a house of your own. A hut anyway. Or an old boxcar. It won’t be the Winter Palace or the Peter and Paul Cathedral, but for someone seeking a place of worship, it might do nicely.”

Strange how Filip could know a man for so long and still be surprised by him. Dalek was hauling him out of a blizzard and offering him springtime.

A home with Nadia. No matter how shabby, it would be an improvement over the tent they currently shared. And infinitely better than the dark threat of separation that loomed ahead of them. “I’ll talk to Nadia.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Anton kissed his wife and son goodbye and watched their train roll east toward Vladivostok. Veronika still seemed fragile. Did she regret marrying him? He never had regretted marrying her and was certain he never would, and that made it all the harder to watch them go. They’d already been apart more than he wanted, and now she had an infant to care for without his help.

After parting with his family, boarding a westbound train was like being punched in the gut after being shot there. It was the lesser of two pains, but it made the aching of the first more intense.

Petr, too, was sending a wife east while he headed west, and he seemed just as reluctant as Anton. “When we went to the front in 1914, we wrote a poem on our banner. ‘Red-colored handkerchief, wave through the sky. We fight the Russians, though we don’t know why.’ That’s what it feels like again, only it’s worse because it’s not the emperor sending us to war; it’s our own national council.”

“We scribbled ‘Export of Czech meat abroad’ on our boxcar,” Emil said from the bench behind them. The third- and second-class carriages were an improvement over the boxcars they’d traveled in when they’d come east, but better transport didn’t make the assignment any easier.

The train picked up so much speed that the sides shuddered and it felt as though the carriage would break apart. It traveled through the tunnels south of the lake to the rebuilt depot of Baikal Station, still surrounded by downed trees and scorched earth from the massive explosion Anton had detonated. Westward the train flew, past Irkutsk, Krasnoyarsk, Novonikolayevsk, Tatarsk, and Omsk. Stretches of Siberia that had taken them months to advance past now sped by in days. At Omsk, their train continued along the northern track rather than the southern track they’d taken on their way east.

When they reached their destination on the Ural Front, their new commander greeted them with joy. The legionnaires already there seemed too exhausted to show any emotion.

Anton helped load a wounded man onto the train they’d just disembarked from. The train would head east now, taking the wounded with it. “Looks like you’ve had a hot time here.”

The wounded man grunted as the angle of his litter shifted. “We’ve been fighting nonstop for five months, with no reserves to fill in our gaps, against an enemy who grows bigger every day. Wish we could have gone east instead of propping up the line here.”

Maybe the man didn’t know how hard the fighting along the railway had been, how many wounded they’d had, and how often the Bolsheviks had seemed close to cutting them off. And yet, as Anton gathered his equipment and followed Kral, he got the impression that the legionnaires along this front had fought a war just as intense.

They went into battle the next day. “We’ve been ordered to flank the enemy and take Shamary Station and a bridge on the River Sylva.” Kral stood before them. He’d received a promotion and was now a captain, a rank more in line with the responsibilities he’d shouldered all summer and into the autumn. “Take care. The Red Army here is more organized than the rabble we dealt with in the east. They’ll fight like a professional unit, not like a mob of zealots. They forced the legion in this sector back a few days ago—the first retreat for our brothers here. The Red Army is in high spirits. Our job is to humble them, show them that the Czechoslovak Legion is still strong.”

Anton and the others marched all morning through the thick Ural forest. The weather was growing cooler, and a thick tangle of branches blocked out the sunlight. He hoped Veronika and Marek were somewhere safe and warm by now. The legion had a mail service, but the troop trains had been sent west so quickly it was unlikely he’d have a letter anytime soon. He could only pray for his family’s safety, pray for a reunion sometime in the future.

“Tothova?” Kral called that afternoon.

“Yes, Brother Captain?”

Kral pointed through the thinning trees. “I want you to head straight for that bridge. We want it captured intact. They don’t expect us, so I doubt it’s wired for demolition, but it’s best to take proper precautions.”

“Yes, Brother.”

Kral gathered up a dozen legionnaires. “Go with Tothova to the bridge.”

“What are we doing with the bridge? Other than capturing it?” Emil whispered.

“Making sure it doesn’t explode.”

“I thought your talent was blowing things up. Now he wants you to do the opposite?” Emil shook his head. “I guess we’re soldiers of many talents. Not long ago, we were fighting for survival. Now I hear that we’re just pawns for imperialists and capitalists.”

“That sounds like Marxist propaganda.”

Emil shrugged. “Maybe. But that doesn’t make it feel any less true.”

Anton didn’t like the situation either, but letting their enemies define their plight would only make it worse. “The Czechs and the Slovaks are a small people. We need powerful friends.”

Emil grunted. “So if those powerful friends want us to fight the Russians, that’s what we do, and then we hope they give us a country?”

“Something like that.” Anton wasn’t good at boosting morale. That was Filip’s role. And while Anton didn’t begrudge Filip his lighter duty, he’d have liked something similar, especially if it had kept him closer to Veronika and Marek.

Anton checked his equipment and studied the bridge that was his next target. When Kral gave the order, the group rushed from the forest. Rifle fire filled the chill, humid air. Anton ran, Emil beside him, hoping speed would keep them safe. They reached the bridge with burning lungs and leaden legs. The handful of Red Army men stationed there dropped their rifles and raised their hands. Petr stepped toward them as guard while Anton checked the bridge supports. It wasn’t wired for demolition.

Surprise had kept the enemy off guard and given the legion another victory. When the day was done, they had captured the depot, the bridge, and three hundred prisoners.

***

The next morning brought a new target with another long march through thick, untamed forest. The undergrowth was so dense that they had to travel single file. An occasional bird called in alarm, but the march itself remained mostly quiet, with just the sounds of men breathing heavily at the strain and of twigs, leaves, and bushes crunching and swooshing as the men went past. The pace they kept would have been brisk on level ground, but the added obstacles of fallen branches and uneven ground cover turned it from brisk to grueling.

A break for lunch did little to revive them. Emil drifted off to sleep and began snoring, but Anton couldn’t do the same. Battle made him nervous. It was hard to sleep when death hung so near the horizon, where at any moment it might slip down and harvest a handful of legionnaires. Maybe more than a handful.

Blisters burned Anton’s feet as the afternoon went on. In the midst of their march, a whispered order came down the line calling for absolute silence. Anton crept closer to the road. Six wagons lumbered past with four Red Army cavalrymen acting as escort.

One of the mounted men pointed into the forest and shouted. He’d seen someone, and both sides reacted quickly. Legionnaires shot, and the cavalrymen bolted. Three fell, but one galloped away.

“So much for surprise.” Petr aimed at one of the fleeing wagon drivers, then let the man go. He was just a frightened peasant, no danger to the legion.

Kral and another officer went forward to examine the abandoned wagons. “Tothova!”

“Yes, Brother Captain?” Anton emerged from the woods.

“Shells. We can’t move them, so destroy them. Then join the rest of us. We’re attacking at once.”

Anton nodded. In other circumstances, they’d save the shells for their own use. But they were surrounded on all sides by Bolsheviks. If they tried to take the shells back, they might be recaptured by the enemy. And they couldn’t take them forward because it would slow their advance, and they’d brought no cannon with which to fire them.

Petr, Emil, and several of the others followed Anton onto the road. “Put all the carts together.” Anton wasn’t used to giving orders, but speed was vital, so he acted on his first idea. While the others maneuvered the wagons, he dragged the driest branches he could find from the forest. Kral ordered the rest of the men out of the woods and onto the road. The Bolsheviks knew they were coming, so there was no longer any point hiding in the trees. They’d move faster on the road.

Anton unharnessed a pair of horses, and others did the same. When only the wagons remained, they lit a fire underneath. It was a clumsy solution, but they had limited equipment and limited time. As the fire caught, they rushed to catch up with the rest of the column.

The increased pace was exhilarating, especially when the shells behind them began to burst, punctuating their movements. But when the trees along the side of the road thinned out, Anton stopped abruptly. A steep hill sprung from the ground. The road curved around it, and beyond that lay the station they’d been tasked with taking. On top of the hill, the Red Army had dug in. And along those steep slopes not a single bush or tree grew. There was only grass, and it wasn’t tall enough to hide in.

“We’ve got to take that hill.” Kral’s reasoning was clear. If the Bolsheviks kept the high ground, they could cut to pieces anyone trying to take Station 61. But they could also cut to pieces anyone trying to take the hill.

It wasn’t Anton’s decision, and the order had already been given. The men let out their war cry, “Hurrah,” and charged up the hill. The muscles of Anton’s calves burned on the steep incline, but he didn’t dare slow. Rifle fire rained down, and men fell to either side of him. Explosions continued in the distance—shells from the wagons he’d lit on fire.

Partway up the hill, the crack of rifle fire died down. Then white handkerchiefs appeared from the men in the trenches. Why on earth were they surrendering? They had the advantage in position, if not in numbers. Had the legion’s charge really been so intimidating?

A few shots whistled past them as Anton and Petr crested the hill. Anton shot an officer in a black uniform. As he fell, the fighting stopped completely.

Emil struck up a conversation with one of the prisoners, then told Anton his conclusion. “They’re conscripts, not Communists.”

Most of the Russians were more boy than man, and the commissars in black uniforms, one dead and the other wounded, were no longer able to command them. Perhaps the sound of shells exploding in the distance had helped. It sounded like the legion had powerful artillery at their backs.

Kral ordered a few legionnaires to guard the prisoners and man the captured trenches, then spoke to the rest of them. “Come on, this is only part of our objective. We need that train station.”

Anton hadn’t yet caught his breath, but he obeyed and ran down the opposite side of the hill with his brothers.

“Is that a . . . ? Get down!” Petr yelled. “Armored train!”

Anton dropped to the grass beside Emil as a shell plowed into the hill a few meters away. The exploding shells from the burning wagons had been loud, but they were a whisper compared to the roar of the armored train’s artillery.

“Keep moving!” Kral’s voice carried through everything else. “Don’t stop! Get off the open slope!”

Emil got to his feet first, then Anton. They both followed Kral. Did the captain ever experience fear, even a little? They raced into the trees at the bottom of the hill. The forest wasn’t as thick as the one they’d left, but it still slowed them. Anton would take the slower movements because it also hid them. To the right, the sound of battle echoed with a roaring intensity.

When they emerged from the woods, the station lay before them with more forest beyond it. The armored train was gone, but the Bolsheviks manning the depot quickly opened up with rifle fire.

Kral pointed to Anton, Petr, and Emil. “See if you can get close enough to throw grenades at them.”

Anton looked at Petr, who smiled grimly, and at Emil, who set his jaw in determination. They moved quickly. Anton fired at the Bolsheviks, trying to make them duck, while the others used first a bush, then a tree as shelter. Then Petr fired while Anton joined them and moved closer to the station, crawling through the thick, scratchy grass.

He was close enough to see the enemy clearly. Black-uniformed commissars led the Bolsheviks. Anton didn’t agree with their fanatic ideas, but he couldn’t deny their bravery.

Emil crawled to a bush beside him. “Now?”

Anton nodded, and they both lobbed their grenades. They ducked back to the ground and heard a satisfying blast.

“Move there.” Anton pointed to a group of bushes about five meters to the left and a few meters ahead. “Then we’ll do it again.”

They repeated the maneuver several times, with Petr doing something similar to their right. On their fourth—and last, given the state of their grenade supplies—hurl, Emil cried out and crashed to the ground. Anton dove toward him and looked at the damage.

“Just a scratch, right?” Emil forced a smile. “Nothing more than you’d get from smashing a mosquito.”

Blood gushed from multiple wounds on Emil’s right leg. Anton couldn’t tell how deep they were, nor could he spend much time probing because the Bolsheviks were still shooting at them.

“I think this will earn you a ticket to Vladivostok.” If Emil lived that long. There was so much blood. Anton grabbed a rag from his pocket and made it into a tourniquet. Then he bandaged the two gaping holes, one on Emil’s thigh and the other on his knee.

Petr threw his last grenade, and several of the enemy ceased moving. Two of the Bolsheviks, then four, then a dozen fled to the woods behind the train depot. They’d held out longer than most of their comrades who had fought in the east last summer. They were either more disciplined or were held under tighter control by their commissars. The men in black fought until Kral led the rest of his group in a bayonet charge. Then, at last, Station 61 fell to the legion.

In the fading light of day, Anton helped the doctor with the wounded, starting with Emil. The bleeding wasn’t so bad now, so they could better see the injuries. His knee was destroyed. The doctor drew out the bullets and stitched up the gashes, but it seemed certain Emil would lose his leg. And if the wound grew infected, he’d die.

Anton followed the doctor to the other patients, helping where he could with washing and bandaging. The day’s battle had cost them dearly.

“No fires,” Kral ordered. “Least not until our armored train comes up from Shamary.”

They ate cold sausage and bread that night. Anton lay next to Emil in the station, knowing a wounded man could freeze more easily than a healthy man. It was only the first week of October, but winter came early in the mountains. A fire would have made them easy targets, and they were already vulnerable here, an isolated pocket of legionnaires connected to their brothers at Shamary by only a thin train track. Yet knowing the reasons behind the fire restriction didn’t prevent him from shivering.

Petr shook him awake sometime later.

“What time is it?” Anton yawned. The wind whistled through the station, and blackness hid the surrounding tracks and forest.

“About midnight.”

Anton listened for a moment, relaxing only when he heard Emil’s breathing. He’d survived the day, and that was something. “Am I to stand watch now?” They’d agreed to change at one, but maybe Petr needed relief earlier.

“No. We’re pulling back.”

“What? Why?”

“The Bolsheviks damaged the rails between here and Shamary. We can’t move our armored train forward, and without an armored train, it’s too easy for the Reds to cut us off.”

That meant the entire day’s work, all the day’s casualties, had been for land they were giving up. Anton didn’t say anything aloud, but his frustration grew as he searched the station for anything the legion could use. The Bolsheviks had taken most of the engines, boxcars, and coaches with them. They found a few flat cars designed to haul timber and put the legion’s wounded on one and the captured weapons on the other.

“What do we do with the wounded Bolsheviks?” Anton asked.

“Leave them. They’ll be in friendly hands again soon enough.”

Anton and a few of the prisoners placed bowls of water next to the enemy wounded who wouldn’t be able to fetch it for themselves. Then he and his brothers left them behind.

Kral ordered Anton and Petr to guard the weapons, then divided the rest of the men into an advance group and a rearguard. Anton climbed onto the car loaded with captured machine guns and rifles. They had no engines, so their Bolshevik prisoners pushed. The weapons remained unloaded, so even if one of the prisoners tried to steal one, they’d be shot before they could load it and turn it on their captors, but it was still a nerve-wracking task, guarding weapons that were so near the enemy.

“What a waste.” Petr kept his eyes moving, checking the prisoners. “All that work only to retreat.”

Petr spoke of the attack on Station 61, but the sentiment fit with the legion’s other experiences too. They’d finally taken the railway and secured the route all the way to Vladivostok only to turn back and get stuck in a war with the Russians.

Red-colored handkerchief, wave through the sky. We fight the Russians, though we don’t know why.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Nadia laughed when Filip came into the boxcar they shared. “You look as though you’ve been playing in the mud. Are you finished?”

He’d been piling dirt around their boxcar for insulation. It was almost November, and they’d already had snow. The wooden box they lived in wasn’t on a track or wheels; it lay in the frozen dirt on the outskirts of the little village with a few huts, a small train depot, and a telegraph office. The grime covered him so completely that she could barely make out the newly awarded sergeant’s insignia on his sleeve, but she still took pleasure in the lines of Filip’s mouth and the sparkle in his brown eyes.

“Not quite. But I have something important to tell you.” His smile faded, and he suddenly looked very serious.

“Yes?” What would he say? An announcement like that suggested something significant, and seconds passed before he answered.

Finally, he broke into a grin. “I have a country, Nadia. We have a country!”

“We do? When?”

“Today. The news just came over the wire. Czechoslovakia. A new, independent country. No king, no emperor, no tsar, no Soviets. A republic, with Professor Masaryk as president.”

Nadia ignored the dirt and threw her arms around Filip. “That’s wonderful news. For you and for us.” He’d worked so hard for this, sacrificed so much for it. And Czechoslovakia would be her home too, her refuge with her husband.

Filip couldn’t stop smiling. “They must be going mad with jubilation in Prague. Three hundred years under the Hapsburgs. But no more. Today, we are free.”

“Do you wish you were there now? With your family?”

“I wish the whole legion were out of Russia. But there is no one I would rather celebrate this day with than you.” He kissed her thoroughly, and the elation, affection, and desire contained in his kiss left Nadia breathless. Then they went to join the others stationed at the outpost. The small garrison didn’t form a crowd, but she doubted even the masses of celebrants in Prague could beat them for jubilation and enthusiasm.

A few days later, Nadia saw a newspaper article about the new country and carefully clipped it. When she placed it in the leather attaché case Filip had bought her in Penza, she noticed another paper stored there. The affidavit from Filip allowing an annulment. She smiled to herself. That wasn’t going to happen anymore. She put the paper in the stove and used it for kindling the next time she lit a fire.

***

Dalek sat back in his seat. He shouldn’t have been surprised. Anyone could have seen it coming for at least a month, maybe longer. And yet, to have it become official . . .

He started laughing. It was loud, uncontrollable, and didn’t stop for a long time, not until Filip walked in and grabbed him by the shoulder.

“Dalek, what on earth’s going on?”

“The war’s over.”

“It is?”

“An armistice went into effect this morning.”

Filip sat on Dalek’s desk. “Does that mean we can go home now?”

That was the question that sounded throughout the village as every man in the legion considered the future. Two weeks ago, they’d received a country, and now they had peace as well. But the cease-fire between Germany and the Allied Powers didn’t end the mess between the Czechoslovak Legion and the Bolsheviks—a war the legion hadn’t asked for.

They waited days, and then they waited weeks. Dalek’s position in the telegraph office wasn’t a hardship. In fact, having access to a telegraph and a few trusted contacts throughout the legion meant he could have one friend buy thirty rubles’ worth of cigarettes in Harbin, ship them west, and have another friend sell them in Chelyabinsk for the equivalent of eight hundred rubles. They were making a tidy profit on cigarettes, sugar, and salt. But he’d rather be home.

For the men at the front, it was an entirely different story—a dire one. They weren’t just homesick. They were fighting for survival.

Dalek followed the orders that passed up and down the telegraph line. Legionnaires were rushed to the front and made to fight until they were so worn out that they had to be pulled back. But there were no replacements to fill the gaps in each unit. Most of the time, they barely had time to catch their breath and spend a night or two in teplushkas before they were rushed to the front again to keep the Red Army from breaking through their lines.

The legion was growing smaller. The Red Army was growing larger. And then winter tightened its grip on Siberia.

“Have you heard the news?” Filip asked Dalek the last day of November.

“The news that the democratic Siberia we were helping is now a dictatorship led by a British puppet?”

Filip scowled. “Admiral Kolchak taking over? No. Not that. General Štefánik said we’re to hold the line until victory and that we won’t be getting any help from the Allies.”

The Allies were the ones who’d insisted on Siberian intervention. The legion had complied, despite protest, and now it was stuck. “We shouldn’t have trusted them.”

“We have Czechoslovakia now. We wouldn’t have it without the Allies speaking on our behalf.”

“Yes, but will we live to see it?” Dalek gestured to his office. “And we have it easy here. Sure, you’ve chased away partisans and rescued a few peasants kidnapped by bandits, but you go home each night to your wife. I have a desk and a roof. What about our brothers in the Urals? They’re freezing and getting shot and getting sick. They can’t last forever.”

Filip’s voice was soft, as if he weren’t sure of himself. “But the White Russians were our friends when we needed them. We can’t abandon them, can we?”

Dalek snorted. “Then the Siberian government had best get its troops to the front, and soon.” He studied his friend. Filip was rarely uncertain about things like this. Their situation was painfully complicated, so that explained it, but that didn’t make it any easier.

He’d seen some of the Siberian troops, a mix of former tsarist officers, war-weary Cossacks, peasants disappointed by unfulfilled Communist promises, and bandits taking advantage of widespread lawlessness. Then there was the Czechoslovak Legion: professional and able, tired of being pawns, and ready to go home.

As December passed into January, rumors made their way through the telegraph line. Mutiny. Legion units had refused to go to the front when ordered. Dalek understood. They’d been in hard fighting all winter, and they’d been in hard fighting before that, all autumn and all summer. They were exhausted, and they wanted to go home. They’d never wanted a war in Russia. Dalek understood, but it was still a crushing blow. The brotherhood that had sustained the legion from the Ukraine all the way to the Pacific Ocean had been pushed to the breaking point, and he didn’t know if it would ever recover.

***

“Nadia?” a voice called from across the train depot.

She turned. It was a well-educated voice, but she didn’t recognize it until she saw the face that went with it. Oleg Petrov. She smiled as she walked closer. “Oleg!” She hoped she was still permitted to use his Christian name. Seeing him wasn’t quite like seeing family, but Oleg was part of so many memories with Nikolai. He reminded her of warm summer evenings and days of plenty. He wore a major’s uniform of Kolchak’s Siberian Army now. He’d been promoted. “It’s very good to see you.”

“I thought you were dead, Nadia Ilyinichna! I went looking for you at your aunt’s home near Piryatin and was told the entire family was executed.”

Nadia squeezed her eyes shut. Echoes of the way revolver shots had blasted through the courtyard tumbled through her head. “It’s mostly true. They shot my parents and my aunt. The groom helped me escape.”

Oleg put his hand on her elbow. “Then it is a double miracle. First, that you survived, and second, that I found you.” He gestured around the remote, snow-covered station. “Here, of all places.”

“You look well, Oleg, and I’m glad. We hadn’t heard anything in so long that we feared you had fallen.” So many of her friends and all of her family had been wiped away by the war and the revolution, erased from the face of Russia like dust from a piece of furniture.

“I am very much alive. What’s more, my parents escaped. They’re in Shanghai. I didn’t want to leave Russia, not while there was any chance of stopping the Bolsheviks. But finding you changes everything. I’ll slip away from the army and follow my parents. Things won’t be quite the same in Shanghai, but you know my father—he’ll turn a profit. You might have to make do with amethyst and opal instead of diamond and pearl, but we could have a good life there.”

“We?” What was he talking about?

“Yes. You and I, Nadia. I know we never made it official. You were only seventeen when the war started. But when I last saw your brother, I promised I’d take care of you. And seeing you again . . . you’re even more beautiful now. Even if I can’t buy you diamonds, you’ll make a radiant bride.”

Nadia shook her head and took a step back. The war had changed things, and finding an old friend didn’t suddenly change them back. “I’m already married.”

The lines of his face changed from jovial to subdued. “Of course. I shouldn’t have assumed.” He looked as if he’d just been punched in the gut.

He’d gone to her aunt’s manor for her and hinted that he would desert the White Army for her. He had never seemed so attached before the war. They’d danced together, sung together, and dined together. For years, she had thought they would marry. But she’d never been in love with him, and until that moment, she hadn’t thought he was in love with her. Now she wasn’t so sure.

“I hope you can understand why I didn’t wait,” she said. “I hadn’t heard from you, and I wasn’t sure exactly where we stood.”

“Your husband. Is he a good man?”

“He is.”

Oleg glanced at her clothes. “But it seems he does not buy you gemstones. Not even tiger’s eye or topaz.”

“I have little use for jewelry now.” Wealth wasn’t as important as honor, hard work, and kindness—qualities Filip had in abundance.

“Are you happy? Because I could steal you away. My father knows people who can make it right, regardless of whatever happened.”

“I’ve come to love my husband very much. I wouldn’t leave him, not for the imperial jewels themselves.”

A frown cut into his face. “Nadia, are you sure?”

“Certain.”

“I made a promise to Nikolai.”

“Nikolai wouldn’t want you to steal me away from Filip. He would want me to be happy, and I am. And he would want you to be happy too. Go to Shanghai. Help your father build his business. And find someone else to love and marry.”

His posture wasn’t so erect now. “My regiment doesn’t leave until tomorrow. If you change your mind, ask anyone for Major Petrov. They’ll find me or bring me word.”

“I won’t change my mind, Oleg. But I’m glad to see you again, and I wish you well. I’m sorry if I hurt you.”

In her past life, she could have been content married to Oleg Petrov. But now she had Filip, and nothing on earth could entice her away from him.

***

Filip pushed his way into the boxcar after another patrol. He inhaled his first breath of nonfrozen air and waited for the feeling to return in his fingers and toes. All the Bolshevik groups they’d driven off the line last summer hadn’t disappeared completely, and some were regrouping. Criminals of all political persuasions were growing bold because no one was powerful enough to impose the rule of law. Thus, despite the weather, he led his men on patrols every day. They couldn’t bring order to all of Siberia, but he had a duty to keep the rail line safe while the legion needed it.

Nadia picked up the blanket she’d started hanging near the fire and brought it to him. He pulled her into him and buried his frozen face in her neck.

“Filip!” She pulled away with a shiver and a laugh. “You’re freezing.”

He started removing layers—his thick fur hat, the Dokha overcoat, the greatcoat underneath it, and the heavy felt boots that went up to his thighs. It was a wonder he could move under so much material. Without the gear, he was down to about half the previous bulk. He wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and held the warm fabric to his face. The temperature was nice enough, but Nadia’s neck had a better texture.

He stood in front of the fire until his fingers weren’t cold. Nadia faced the stove, cooking something. He stepped closer. “Am I warm enough to kiss you now?” He put his arms around her waist and kissed the spot right below her left ear.

“I wouldn’t call you warm, but I suppose you’re no longer freezing.” She turned around and kissed him until something popped in the pan.

She turned back to the stove. “I better not burn whatever it is the butcher sold me.”

Filip took a closer look at the pan. Was the butcher taking advantage of Nadia’s relative inexperience with shopping?

“It’s chicken. Not very much of it, I’m afraid. But I got it for a fair price.”

“I wasn’t trying to second-guess you.” Had he hurt her feelings? She was learning fast. He needed to trust her abilities. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

Maybe she wasn’t angry.

She pulled potatoes from the stove. “I’ve butter for these. Do you think we can have a milk cow in Prague?”

“I don’t think there’s room for one at my grandparents’ house. But we’re right along the milkman’s route.”

“I suppose that will do.”

What would she think of the little townhome? The bottom level was the shop, and the top level was the home. Only three bedrooms and a small kitchen. He had always been content there, but he hadn’t been raised in a manor.

They held hands as Nadia blessed the food. Filip’s family had grown up saying grace before meals, but he paid more attention when his wife spoke the words, sometimes in Czech, sometimes in Russian. She often talked about all she’d learned from him, but the reverse was true as well. He learned from her, especially when it came to matters of faith. It was a living thing, needing constant care. He’d long neglected his, when he’d been young and when he’d gone away to war. He had gone to mass on Sunday the way he’d gone to the Sokol club most other days of the week or to the bakery on Tuesdays.

But Nadia treated faith differently. And in exchange for all the prayers, all the gratitude she directed to God, she had been able to keep her faith, even after her world had been ripped apart and her family murdered. Faith took effort, but it also gave, in comfort, in perspective, in hope. He wanted that for their future family. And his faith, though frail, was beginning to grow.

Nadia was quiet while they ate, so he put a hand on her knee. “Is anything wrong?”

She didn’t answer immediately. “Filip, I, um, I realize there’s something I never told you.”

Her face seemed so solemn. The mood change made his stomach tighten with worry. “Oh?”

“My real name. I mean, my old real name. When I left, the groom told me not to use it anymore, so I lied. My name is Nadia Sedláková now, and that’s true enough. But before, it was Nadia Ilyinichna Linskaya. I just thought I should tell you. I’m sorry I didn’t sooner.”

Filip took her hand. “What would it have been like, to court Nadia Ilyinichna Linskaya? I wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

She looked at the floor. “Only because I was a fool. Now I couldn’t wish for a better husband. I trust you with everything.”

Filip felt his heart hammering in his chest, a strange mix of delight at her compliment and guilt. “Nadia, I have a confession too. And I’m afraid my falsehood might be harder to forgive.”

Her face seemed to freeze. “You lied to me about something?”

“Not exactly . . . I just didn’t tell you.” He used his fork to prod the chicken bone on his plate. “In Piryatin, when you asked to board the train, Lieutenant Kral didn’t intend to force you into marriage. He would have let you on because it was the right thing to do, but he had to worry about the legion and their families first. He was busy and distracted. By the time he had a moment to find you a place, you were gone. Jakub Zeman had drawn you away to convince you to marry him.”

“Did Zeman know?”

“I don’t know. Either he took Kral’s words at face value, or he saw an opportunity. And I took Zeman’s words as truth. When I offered to marry you, I honestly thought it was the only way to get you on that train. That, or let you marry Zeman, and I thought I would make a better husband than him.”

“And you have, but when did you learn the truth?”

The next part of his confession was harder. He should have told her as soon as he knew. “Chelyabinsk.”

“But that . . . that was back in May. You caught up to us in June. You’ve known this whole time?”

“I should have told you.” His mouth was dry, and his face was on fire. “But I’d given you the annulment papers, so you had a way out, and if we’d canceled our marriage then, you would have been vulnerable. And I guess I was starting to hope that maybe you’d change your mind and wouldn’t want an annulment.”

Nadia stood and turned from him. There were no windows, so she looked at the walls of the boxcar. Filip had painted them, but his lavender was a far cry from the artwork she’d grown up with. Was she noticing how shabby their home was? How cold and backward and indigent? If he’d ruined everything, he would never forgive himself.

Nadia’s arms fell from their crossed position. “I wouldn’t have married you if I hadn’t thought marriage was the only thing that would save my life.”

“I wouldn’t have asked you if I’d known there was another way.”

“Are you keeping any other secrets from me?”

He wasn’t sure what she wanted, but if it would convince her to stay, he’d give her a full confession of every wrong he’d ever committed. “I cheated in a card game once. Against Dalek. We were eleven, and if he won, he got to keep my new book. I didn’t want to give it up.”

“Have you cheated since then?”

“No. I learned not to gamble. Except when I married you and wagered my heart.”

“Anything else I should know?” She turned to face him. “You don’t have a woman waiting for you in Prague?”

“No, you’re the only woman. I kissed a girl when I was nineteen. Another girl when I was twenty-two. I kissed her a few times, actually. But nothing ever came of it.”

“Have you ever lied to me?” She looked so fragile, as if a wrong word would break her.

Filip turned his gaze to the floor. “There have been times when I haven’t told you all the details of a patrol. Not because I wanted to lie but because I didn’t want you to worry.”

When he glanced up again, she wore a frown. “I’m not the first woman you’ve kissed?”

“No, but you’re the first I’ve ever really loved.” Did she find that upsetting, that he’d kissed other women before he’d even seen her? “Am I the first man you’ve kissed?”

“Yes, of course you are.”

“What about the officer you were to marry?”

She shook her head. “We were always chaperoned, and I was young and quite proper. And . . . well, I was content to marry him, but it wasn’t to be for love so much as because it would have made our families happy.”

“Nadia . . .” Seeing the pain in her expression and knowing he had caused it was a form of torture. “Will you forgive me?”

Her face grew serious. “I wouldn’t have married you had I not thought it necessary.”

Filip studied the floor again at her repeated words. If she was going to chastise him, he deserved it. He’d kept her when he should have let her go. It had been so easy to rationalize his delay in telling her, but he’d broken her trust. He should have said something before they’d made their marriage a real one—but he’d loved her, and he had thought she loved him, and that had seemed to make what they’d experienced together since Verkhne-Udinsk right and proper. Had he ruined it with his deceit?

Nadia continued. “I wouldn’t have married you, and I would have missed out on the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Filip could finally breathe normally. “You aren’t going to hate me for keeping it from you?”

Her lips softened into a smile. “How can I hate you when I’m so completely in love with you?” Her mouth twisted playfully. “But I think you had better kiss me quite thoroughly now that I know I’m not the only woman you’ve kissed. I’m feeling rather jealous.”

He took her hand and kissed her palm. “I can spend all night, if you wish, proving that I love you and no other.” She had reason to be angry, but he couldn’t see that emotion, not in the soft cast of her eyes or the tantalizing curve of her lips. He gently pulled her into him and began his penance with a kiss.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Nadia was half asleep when Filip dressed for his patrol the next morning. Days were short in the winter, with the scarce sun garnering its strength until summer came again. Like the sun, she’d needed more sleep lately. She suspected it was because her body was growing a new little human. Filip pulled on his boots. Should she tell him? No—she’d wait until she was sure. No reason for them to both be disappointed if she was wrong.

When Filip saw she was awake, he sat beside her and bent to kiss her goodbye.

“Be careful.” She said it every time he went out on patrol. It might have been repetitive, but it was sincere.

“I will, but I doubt we’ll run into anything.”

“You’re only saying that so I won’t worry. It won’t work. I’ve seen the casualties coming through.” Sometimes she felt sick inside for Veronika. Anton was in the worst of it, and they were advancing but only at a high cost.

Filip sighed. “I just want to take you home to Czechoslovakia.” He smiled whenever he spoke the name of his new country. He was in love with Czechoslovakia, and he was in love with her. “We weren’t supposed to get caught in the middle of a civil war. But I better go.” He kissed her again and left.

Nadia fell back asleep until sunrise. Then she pulled on most of her clothes and a few of Filip’s and headed to the stream. She needed to do laundry, but she wasn’t sure she’d find water in its liquid form. Spring was still months away, so she might have to melt snow. It covered the ground in abundance, but she wanted clean snow, not the piles in the village.

If she was in the family way, the baby would come in . . . October. She calculated in her head. Then she grinned, a smile she could share only with the snowdrifts. She would tell Filip as soon as he came home. She’d thought she was a week late, but she’d miscalculated. She was two weeks late.

Filip would be thrilled. He’d feel the same anticipation she did, the same hope and awe. Maybe they’d be in Czechoslovakia when the baby came, away from the war and all the bad memories it had created. A new baby born in a new country.

Up in heaven, her parents would be pleased. That had been their wish, the one reason strong enough to make them leave Russia—they had wanted their family, their blood to continue, to grow.

Filip would be a good father, she was sure of it. Would the baby have brown eyes like him? Or gray eyes like her? Curly hair like his? Or straight like hers? She imagined holding the tiny fingers and smelling the newborn-scented hair.

The stream was frozen when she arrived, with a layer of ice too thick to break with her bucket. She’d have to use snow, so she’d need more firewood. She walked along the stream to the woods and gathered as many branches as she could. She would go back and try to borrow a sled, but first, she’d gather what she could carry on this trip. When the temperature dropped, Filip brought home entire logs to keep them warm all night, squaring the sides and pinning them together to make a slow-burning naida, like the prospectors used. She needed a different type of fire for cooking and laundry.

Nadia gathered a few more branches, then paused as smoke met her nostrils. There shouldn’t be anyone south of the village. The peasants lived closer to the train depot, as did the garrison.

Maybe she didn’t need firewood so badly after all.

She turned back for the village. She’d gone farther than she’d realized, and irrational fear sent her rushing away. The smell of smoke probably meant nothing, but why did her instincts tell her to run?

A large man stepped from behind a tree a few paces ahead of her and stood directly in her path. He wore no uniform, no clue as to who he was. Dark ungroomed hair spilled from beneath a mangy fur Astrakhan cap.

Nadia took a step back. Then another as the man stepped toward her. Then she stepped into something and spun around. Another man, not quite as tall but bulkier, and two others behind him.

She turned back to the first man. “Excuse me.” She didn’t know if the man understood Russian, but she tried to move around him. He moved into her way again. “Let me pass.”

One of the men behind her started to laugh.

Nadia bolted. She dropped her firewood, and terror drove her around the tall man. He reached at her, but she turned, avoiding him.

“Help!” She was too far away for anyone to hear, but she shouted anyway. Then she screamed when the footsteps behind her grew louder and one of the men grabbed for her, brushing her clothes.

A moment later, he lunged into her from behind, tackling her and pushing them both into the snow. She screamed as loud as she could until he grabbed her mouth and muffled the sound. His enormous hand grasped her chin and shoved her head to the side. She wanted to bite him, but his hold prevented it. She tried kicking or scratching, but he’d pinned her limbs to the ground. She was absolutely helpless.

The other men stood around her. She didn’t understand their language, but she understood their intentions, especially when they jerked her to her feet and marched her to a group of sturdy Siberian ponies. She struggled against them, knowing she might never see the village again if they took her. One of them struck her in the face so hard her vision blurred. Then they tied her to a pony and left the village far behind.

For a few hours, she held out hope that Filip would find her. But then it began to snow. Every clue about her struggle and the direction she’d gone would disappear.

Reality set in with stark clarity, a dark future as awful as anything the Cheka could do to her. She was the band’s property now, and no one would find her, no matter how much they wanted to save her. Her dreams of a life with Filip were as frozen as the Siberian landscape.

***

Filip scanned the steppe with his field glasses, cursing the falling snow and the way it cut their visibility to almost nothing. “Someone was here, but they’re gone now.”

Maly knelt next to the rail line. “Why did they go through the trouble of prying off the bolts if they weren’t going to tear up the tracks?”

“Maybe they backed away when that White Russian train went through.” The troop train had passed only recently, so the bandits were probably still near. Filip bent next to Maly to see how bad the damage was. “That won’t stop a train, but it needs repair, after we find out who did it.”

“Reds?”

“Maybe.” Filip stood and stamped his feet repeatedly to keep circulation in his toes. “Maly, swing around south. I’ll take my group north.” His brothers in the Urals had enough problems without their supply lines being cut. Were bandits or partisans lurking nearby? The flat, snow-covered expanse went on and on, an endless stretch of white and gray. There were hardly any trees in sight and certainly no packs of soldiers, regular or otherwise.

They mounted. He and his men were infantry, but they used horses for patrols so they could monitor a longer length of track. He had taken to calling his tan gelding Konstantin, after Nadia’s horse. Or maybe it had been her aunt’s horse. Either way, Konstantin’s trot across the proving grounds had led to he and Nadia’s first meeting. He owed a lot to that horse.

The garrison at the little village was only ten strong, plus Dalek and the supply sergeant. Filip and the four men with him rode north from the track, hoping to find some sign of whoever had damaged it. But the snow was getting thicker, and there was no sign of unfriendly forces.

Why had they started their sabotage but not finished? Troop trains moving west were common enough that if they missed today’s, they could wreck the rails for the one that would come tomorrow or the next day. They hadn’t found footprints near the damaged rail ties, so the saboteurs must have left before the patrol had been within range, long enough in advance for the snow to cover their tracks. If the patrol hadn’t scared them off, what was their purpose?

Ambush. That could have been their goal. “Careful, brothers. They might be trying to draw us out.” Would they want to pull them north, where Filip’s group had gone, or south, where Maly’s group had gone? Filip wasn’t too worried about the village. Even with the garrison gone, Dalek and Pavel could handle most bandits. And if the group was large enough to attack a village, Filip and his men would have seen them by now.

A sharp crack sounded, and a solid burst of pain pummeled Filip from his horse. He grunted and reached for his rifle, but his arm wouldn’t follow his commands.

Rifle shots came quickly, sounding all around him. He tried to see, pushing with his healthy arm and struggling to turn, but he’d sunk into the snow, and he couldn’t move. Agony pulsed in his shoulder.

The rifle shots died down, but his men’s horses remained in place, so they must have driven the bandits off.

“Sedlák?”

Filip tried to answer, but neither his voice nor his vision worked properly anymore.

White. And red. Why was the snow red? He must have lost a lot of blood for it to soak through two coats and leave the snow stained scarlet.

***

Dalek heard the men coming back from patrol. He put on his coat and fur hat to step outside and knew something was wrong when only four riders approached. Ten had left that morning. “What happened?”

Svoboda dismounted and went to another horse, one with a body thrown over it. “We were ambushed. Just a handful of men, and they scattered after getting a few shots off. They hit Sedlák.”

“Is he . . . ?” Dalek couldn’t finish his thought. His friend couldn’t be dead. It was unthinkable.

Svoboda put his hand on Filip’s neck. “Still alive.”

“And the other five?” Were they all dead in the snow somewhere?

“We split up.”

Dalek nodded. “Help me get him into the office.” The cold was helpful for slowing blood flow, but it could kill a man, especially when injured. Filip didn’t respond when they lifted him off the horse and carried him into the telegraph office. They laid him on the floor, and Dalek pried back a few layers to reveal a mass of blood on Filip’s shoulder. A serious wound but survivable if they acted quickly.

Dalek grabbed some rags and tied up the wound. “Get the engine ready. We’ll send him to hospital in Yekaterinburg.” They were lucky to have an engine today. That wasn’t always the case.

The other half of the patrol returned as Dalek left the office. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. They’d all made it back. If they could just keep Filip alive . . .

Dalek slid through the icy streets to Filip’s boxcar.

“Mrs. Sedláková!” He burst inside. “Nadia?” She was gone. What she was doing out in weather like this was beyond him, but he’d never pretended to understand women. The fire was mere embers, and the smoky boxcar was only slightly warmer than the outside temperature.

Dalek swore under his breath and ran through the village as best he could in the snow. Where was that woman? The train couldn’t wait for her. Filip’s bleeding was under control, but delay would be a mistake. Dalek would find her later because if he spent much longer searching for her now, she wouldn’t have a husband anymore.

Chapter Thirty

Filip forced his eyes open. He tested his shoulder with a slight shrug and instantly regretted it when the pain flared. He glanced around the ward. No visitors for him, again, but maybe that would change. It was still early.

He’d been in the hospital for five days. He kept thinking Nadia would come, but maybe there was a hold up with the trains. The saboteurs might have returned to destroy part of the tracks. Or maybe she didn’t know where she’d stay if she came. Things weren’t so bad in their little village, but elsewhere in Siberia, refugees choked the cities. People were lucky to get a few feet of floor space. It wasn’t a long journey, but it’s wasn’t a particularly safe one either. It might be better for her to remain where she was, in a familiar place surrounded by friends. But the selfish part of him wanted to see her.

He tried to read a newspaper. The print was Russian, and though Nadia had taught him how to sound out the Cyrillic letters, it was slow going. Eventually, the train whistle he’d been listening for blew. He checked his watch. If Nadia was on the train, she might make it to the hospital in as little as twenty minutes, but it would probably take longer.

Thirty minutes passed, and someone came, but it wasn’t Nadia.

“Dalek! They let you out of the telegraph office?” Dalek wasn’t Filip’s first choice for a visitor, but he was easily his second.

Dalek stood at the foot of the bed as Filip scooted into a sitting position. Dalek removed his gray fur hat with the legion colors and brushed his blond hair from his eyes. “I wanted to come sooner. You’re looking much better than you were when I stuck you on the train.” He glanced around the hospital. “The Americans might be awful when it comes to reinforcing the Ural Front, but they run decent hospitals. Least it looks like it. Are they treating you well?”

“No complaints.” Other than the lack of visitors, but he didn’t say that out loud. “If you got me here, then I owe you my thanks.”

Dalek sat on the end of the bed. “The men who dragged you back did more. They stopped the bleeding.”

“And the partisans?”

“Disappeared again. Left their dead behind. Three of them. Bolsheviks. Not in uniform, but they had red handkerchiefs around their arms.”

“And my patrol?”

“Everyone made it back.”

Now that he had an update on the military side of things, he asked the more important question. “How’s Nadia? I keep hoping she’ll visit. Maybe it’s not safe, but I’ve been waiting for a letter at least.”

Dalek stared at the floor.

“Dalek?” The silence that followed made Filip’s stomach hurt with a pain that rivaled what he felt in his shoulder. “Dalek, what’s going on? Is she all right?”

He didn’t answer, not until Filip nudged him with his toe. “I ran to your boxcar the day you were shot. They had to get the fire started and the boiler hot, so I thought she could go with you. But she wasn’t there.”

“I think she was going to do laundry. Must have been getting firewood or something.”

Dalek grunted his reply.

“Have you looked in on her for me? She’s still . . .” How did Filip put it without it sounding like an insult? “She’s still learning. Things were different for her for most of her life.”

“I haven’t seen her.”

“Does she know I was shot?”

Dalek shrugged.

One of the men from the patrol would have told her. He was surprised she hadn’t pestered Dalek for an update. Telegraph clerks were the first to know everything. “Will you check on her for me when you go back?”

Dalek’s hand balled into a fist on his lap. Filip stared at it. Had he made Dalek angry? He’d thought they were good enough friends to ask favors of each other, especially when Filip was wounded and he was only asking Dalek to take a short walk through the village. Would Dalek come all the way to the hospital in Yekaterinburg but balk at walking to see Nadia?

“I don’t think you understand. I haven’t seen her, and not because I haven’t checked. She’s gone, Filip.”

“What?” Filip could barely get the word out. What on earth could Dalek mean?

Dalek shook his head. “I thought she was just out when I ran to get her before the train left. But I checked again after it pulled away. And again an hour later, then again and again. She never came back.”

“But where would she have gone?”

Dalek looked at the floor again. “The day before you were shot, I saw her talking to an officer in Kolchak’s army. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop—I was just trying to look out for her. It sounded like they were engaged to be married before the war.”

Filip nodded. “She was supposed to marry one of her brother’s friends. She said it wasn’t a love match, but the families were pleased with it.”

“He offered to marry her when they met at the train depot. When she said she was already married, he offered to whisk her off anyway, said he could take care of her current marriage. She told him no. I was proud of her, sticking with you when he was offering luxury, but . . .”

“But what?”

“Not all the Russians who left that morning were going west. Major Petrov was on the eastbound train. It left that morning, a little after you went on patrol. I assumed he was a courier, but now I’m not so sure.”

“Petrov?” In the Ukraine, Nadia had told him her maiden name was Petrova. That was no coincidence. Had she loved her former fiancé more than she’d let on, loved him enough to use his name? “I need to get out of this hospital. Nurse!” he shouted the last bit.

“Are you well enough to leave?”

“Not well enough for patrols but well enough to go back. I have to see for myself.”

Dalek stood. “Filip, there’s nothing to see. Just an empty boxcar. Don’t ruin your health because she’s gone and left you for some tall officer with a rich father.”

Filip didn’t care if the boxcar was empty. He had to know what she had taken and what she had left.

“At least stay in bed until it’s time for the westbound train to depart.”

“I have to be on the next one.” He would wait at the station overnight if needed, anything to get back as soon as possible to the boxcar he’d shared with Nadia.

Dalek stood next to the bed, making it hard for Filip to get out. Probably on purpose. “I’ll fetch you when I find a train. I promise.”

He had the feeling Dalek would stand there for hours, keeping him in bed if he didn’t cooperate. “The very next train.”

“You have my word.”

Filip waited the rest of the afternoon. Nadia couldn’t have left him. They were in love. As soon as the war ended, they would go to Czechoslovakia and have a family together. They knew where they would christen their babies, knew which bakeries they’d patronize, knew which colors of paint they would use in their rooms above the watchmaker’s shop. It was all planned out, and he thought she’d been just as eager as he was to see it through. He’d hurt her by keeping that secret from her, that Kral would have given her refuge even if she hadn’t been married to a legionnaire. But she’d forgiven him—hadn’t she?

Dalek came back just after supper and helped him to the depot. Filip’s shoulder was sore, but his legs worked well enough. Maybe she’d spoken with someone from the patrol and caught a train before she saw Dalek. She might have gotten off at the wrong depot or gotten delayed somewhere. But as long as she found the railroad, she’d come back. Maybe she was waiting for him in their boxcar now.

The journey should have been short, but at one of the depots there was a delay getting wood, and at the next, they had to wait for a special train to go by. When they finally reached the village, it was nearly morning.

The boxcar was cold when he pushed inside. Of course it was. The stove hadn’t burned for almost a week. Dalek started a fire while Filip looked around. He’d left before she had gotten out of bed that fateful morning. He still remembered sitting next to her and kissing her. She’d smiled up at him and run her hand down his back. It had felt normal, part of the richly satisfying routine they’d fallen into.

The bed was made now. The blankets were tidy and the pillows fluffed and untouched. He grabbed Nadia’s and pressed his face into it, trying to catch her scent. Still there but faint.

Half the clothes were gone—hers and a few of his. “If she was running away, why would she take some of my clothes?” It didn’t make sense, so she couldn’t have really left him. She’d just gone to do the laundry.

“Maybe he was deserting and needed something other than his uniform.”

That thought was particularly bitter. Nadia knew how hard it was to get clothing out here. Would she really rob him of trousers and tunic so her former fiancé could blend in with the masses? “I thought you said he was tall.”

Dalek finished with the fire. “Taller than you. But he could wear boots or puttees if the trousers were too short.”

She’d left their cooking supplies, their dishes, their bag of potatoes. They didn’t have much else other than the bed, the table, and the stove. Filip hesitated before looking through her leather case. What he might not find there would confirm his fears. He shifted through the meager contents—letters from Veronika, a newspaper clipping about the founding of Czechoslovakia, sketched out maps, and some Kolchak rubles.

It wasn’t there. And that made everything clear. “The annulment paper is gone. She must have taken it with her.” It wasn’t true anymore, but she’d taken it and left him. Would it have been any different if he hadn’t held back the truth about Kral’s intentions in Piryatin? He should have told her as soon as he’d heard. Or kept it a secret forever. It shouldn’t have mattered. They were in love now—or he was. And she had said she was too.

He sat on the bed. His shoulder ached worse than it had in days, and grief and hurt pulled at him with the weight of a train engine. He thought back to that night when he’d told her. Those minutes when she’d faced away from him. That must have been when she’d made her decision. She’d told Petrov no. Then she’d found out Filip had deceived her, and she’d changed her mind. The rest of the night had been playacting so Filip wouldn’t suspect a thing until she was gone.

He buried his face in his hand as pain of the betrayal closed in around him. Never before had he felt such agony. “I thought she was happy with me.”

Chapter Thirty-One

It was dark when Nadia woke. The wind howled outside, and the men snored nearby. How many days had passed? Six? Seven? Time had become murky after day four when she’d come down with a fever. She shifted on the cold dirt floor. The pain—sharp and achy and internal—wasn’t quite so bad when she moved her legs now. She tried to sit, and unlike the day before, her head didn’t spin. She glanced at the men, wanting to see their location, not their faces. Usually one of them slept in front of the door, but tonight the exit was clear, her dizziness lessened, and the pain from her injuries was no longer crippling.

She’d borrowed Filip’s trousers the morning she’d been abducted. She grabbed them again. Blood stained the fabric, but she pulled them on under her skirts and petticoat. She needed all the layers she could get.

The smoky hut was dim, lit only by dying embers from the large clay oven. It reeked of vodka and unwashed bodies. Thinking of those unwashed bodies almost made her cry. But she couldn’t think about what the men had done to her now. She had to escape.

She stood and held perfectly still. Any moment, one of the bandits sleeping on the long wooden benches would wake and see her. He’d grab her again and—no, she wasn’t going to think about that. The men were brutal and uncivilized and far stronger than she, but they were drunk and would probably sleep until sunrise.

They’d never given her a blanket, so she couldn’t take one with her. It would have been covered in soot and fleas anyway. It might take days to reach the nearest train station, and winter still gripped the steppe, but she wouldn’t stay. Death in the snow was preferable to captivity with beasts like these men.

She wished she’d paid better attention to directions that day they’d taken her, but she’d been dizzy and terrified. She thought they’d gone south, so she would flee north. If she found the train tracks, she could follow them to a depot. Czechoslovaks manned most of the stations, and they’d send word to Filip.

He would still love her, wouldn’t he? She glanced at the bandit nearest her and crept past him. It hadn’t been her fault. She’d fought until they knocked her unconscious that first day, fought them again the day after and the day after. It wasn’t her fault they had no decency or honor. But knowing she’d done nothing wrong didn’t keep her from feeling dirty and spoiled—ruined.

Was that how God saw her now? Ruined? She had prayed so hard for relief, for rescue, for a chance to escape. God hadn’t seemed to hear her, not until tonight. Her mother’s words drifted on a memory. God is always there, even when it’s too dark to see Him. Would Mama still believe that if she had lived through the past week?

Empty liquor bottles covered the rough-hewn table. They’d given her bread from time to time. She grabbed all that was left on the shelf and put it into a burlap bag with a few potatoes. She didn’t see any other food, so it would have to be enough. Her stomach rumbled, and she stiffened in terror.

The snores continued uninterrupted. She was being paranoid, fearing they would hear a gurgle like that.

Several hats and coats hung near the door. She stole a cap to replace the one she’d lost and took all four coats of thick Samoyed fur. They’d have a hard time following her without their coats. She knew which fur belonged to which bandit by smell. The stench was no worse than normal for a frequently worn, infrequently washed coat, but the memories associated with those men and that scent stirred the bile in her stomach. Despite the smell, she would have to wear one of the coats, maybe two of them.

She grabbed an ax. She didn’t think she could use it on the men—even if she were strong enough to land a crippling blow, she wasn’t sure she could kill or maim someone, no matter how vile he was—but an ax might mean the difference between freezing to death or having a fire. She stole their flint too.

The door handle was cold in her hand as she pulled the felt-padded door inward. The blast of a Siberian winter barreled inside. If she weren’t so desperate to leave, she’d be tempted to wait for better weather. She couldn’t let the men wake, so she rushed out and pulled the door shut as quickly and silently as she could.

Frigid air stung her lungs, but the cold was welcome. That clean, freezing air meant freedom. Now that she didn’t have to worry so much about silence, she ran. For a few moments, anyway, until that pain in her pelvis came back.

She breathed through the sharp, churning ache. It didn’t go away, but the worst of it passed. At least she didn’t feel the warmth of blood. She still wasn’t sure if the blood she’d found on her skirt that second day was a result of injury or a triggered miscarriage. She gritted her teeth. She couldn’t worry about that now—it was too depressing. Later, she would deal with it later.

Four sturdy ponies huddled together not far from the hut. If she stole the horses, they were more likely to pursue her. If she left alone, they might not chase her because there were plenty of other women they could carry off. She wouldn’t feel guilty for robbing the bandits—they’d taken far more from her—but which choice was more likely to see her safely back to Filip? Leaving the horses or taking them?

She prayed again. Nothing miraculous happened, but her thoughts cleared. Her injury would slow her, but the ponies would give her speed. She would take them all, leaving her captors with nothing but their feet if they decided to pursue her.

The animals wore lead ropes so she tied them into a line, then pulled on a thick pair of mittens. She secured the extra coats to the back of one pony and mounted another. The horses were short, so she could climb on easily enough. But once she’d straddled the animal, the pain flared so much that she leaned over and vomited. Her limbs trembled, sourness filled her mouth, and the icy Siberian wind cut into the bare skin of her face and neck. She wound a scarf around her nose, leaving only her eyes exposed to the weather. Then she gave the pony a little kick, and he plowed forward. The ones tied behind him followed.

When she got back to Filip, he’d take care of her while she recovered. There would be food and a fire and a warm bath and clean clothes and kind words and gentle kisses. She had to be strong for a little longer, and then he’d protect and heal her.

Maybe he was searching for her now. He would have gone looking when she hadn’t returned home, had probably recruited the entire village and all the nearby garrisons to help.

By the time the sun rose, she’d almost convinced herself that Filip would find her any moment. She looked across the wide, white steppe, searching for a speck that might be her husband. She clung to that hope, but she also kept looking over her shoulder, because she couldn’t survive if the men captured her again. She was too fragile, too broken by what she’d been through.

Her body ached, so she dismounted and walked for a while. She ate bread and a raw potato, then moved forward again. Mounting the pony the second time was worse, but she was light-headed after a week of horror and hunger, so she would have to ride, despite the pain. She didn’t have far to go now. She could put up with the pain because soon, she’d find the railway, or Filip would find her.

She rode on and off as the sun climbed into the southern sky and then began sinking again far too quickly. Each time she walked, she moved a little slower. And as the sun disappeared, it was harder to keep up her hope. Falling snow would have covered her bucket and the firewood. Even if it hadn’t been snowing, she’d dropped the firewood when she’d run. It wouldn’t have fallen into a neat stack. Filip wouldn’t know where she’d gone, wouldn’t have any idea where to search.

But he would still love her, wouldn’t he?

Doubt crept in as thoroughly as the winter chill. She dismounted when she reached a few trees, and she stamped her feet to force feeling into them. Maybe tomorrow she’d find the train tracks. Until then, she would ignore the crimes that had been committed against her and assume her husband would take her back, despite the ravages of bandits.

She took the ax and chopped down one of the short, spindly trees. It was harder to do than she’d expected. Filip usually set up the boxcar’s naida. In the growing darkness, she chopped down a second tree and cut off all the branches. She couldn’t feel her toes, but everything else from her waist down hurt. The logs of the naida were supposed to have squared sides, but she gave up after a few swings. The snow made the night not quite so black, but it was still difficult to see and even more difficult to get the angles right with frozen fingers.

She tied the logs together with one of the lead ropes and worked on starting a fire between them where the two pieces weren’t flush. Despite the pile of kindling, the flames blew out twice before she finally got something burning.

A fire at night might act as a beacon to any bandits in the area, but the alternative was freezing to death, and she couldn’t push forward indefinitely without rest. She piled up branches and snow to hide some of the light. Then she sat on the pile of hacked-off branches and roasted one of the potatoes.

When she finished eating, she brought the ponies close and laid down beside them, cocooned in fur coats. Guilt swept over her when she realized she had no food for the ponies. She shouldn’t have brought them when she couldn’t feed them. But as she watched, they nuzzled into the snow until they found the dead, buried grasses and grazed on those. The ponies were bred for these lands. They would be just fine.

The next day was difficult. She walked and rode but had to rest often. How far to the train tracks? Her captors had traveled by day, spending the first three nights in different locations. But they might not have traveled in a straight line. And what if they were following her? That fear—that terror—wouldn’t release her from its grip.

She stopped earlier the second day after her escape, while there was still enough light to build a proper naida. Then she made a shelter from branches. The ponies didn’t seem any worse for the miles they’d covered, but Nadia’s strength was failing. She felt feverish again, and whenever she had to urinate, it burned. She’d been a nurse long enough to recognize it as an infection that would likely resolve with time and rest, but in the meantime, she wasn’t sure how far she could push her body before it collapsed.

She wept that night as her memories haunted her and refused to be banished. The tears froze on her eyelashes, and their sharp edges cut at her skin. Not even prayer brought her solace. But with the new day, she asked God for strength and set out again. She kept her eyes up, in search of the telegraph lines that ran along the railroad.

Her body still ached as she rode, so she stopped and walked for a while. She mounted again when she grew dizzy. Had she even walked ten minutes? She kept at it, walking a bit, then riding a bit longer. But the dizziness was worse, and the cold had seeped into her bones. She pulled on another coat.

She ate a piece of bread at around noon, then rested. Just a short rest, she told herself. She didn’t mean to drift to sleep. She woke with a start—lucky to have woken at all. Falling asleep in the open like that was dangerous.

All was silent.

The wind had died down. No noise.

No ponies.

She stumbled to her feet. Where had they gone? She’d been foolish not to tie them to something. But they’d left hoof prints in the snow, so she could follow those to the animals, the food, the ax, and the extra coats.

Her brisk pace soon turned to a slow walk, and that became a hobble. Worse, the wind picked up. Even with all the layers she wore, she was cold, and the wind blew the snow around, covering the trail she followed.

The ponies had been traveling in a steady direction. At least she thought they had. It was hard to tell when everything was gray and the clouds kept the sun hidden. With no sun, she was in danger of wandering in circles. And what if the ponies headed back toward the men who’d abducted her?

Finding the train tracks was more important than finding the ponies. Which way was north? She searched the ground for shadows but couldn’t find a single one. She looked at the sky again. At this time of year, it would be brighter to the south, so she headed toward clouds that were a darker shade of gray.

One foot in front of the other. Were it summer, she’d tell herself to conserve her energy until she could figure out a more accurate direction, but in the winter, she had to keep moving.

Light was fading, and her head ached. She studied the sky. The clouds were thick. They would block the stars in the same way her circumstances were blocking her hope.

She trudged forward, then tripped and fell. She was so dizzy. She didn’t get up for a few moments, but eventually, she forced herself to her feet. The rail line might be on the other side of the next snowdrift. She had to keep going.

The next time she fell, it took longer to rise. In the distance, she saw a bit of gray darker than the rest of the horizon. Smoke? A storm? Or a feverish delusion? Regardless, she headed that way. Maybe a train was coming. She couldn’t hear a train, but maybe, just maybe . . .

Her head spun, and she fell into the snow again. Her body shook with exhaustion, but she prayed and found her feet. Another few steps. Another fall. She crawled. Then she collapsed. Could she get up again? Would it matter? She wasn’t going to find the ponies. She wasn’t going to find the rail line. Even if she did, finding the tracks was just the first step. She’d have to follow them to a station, and her body wouldn’t carry her that far.

She closed her eyes. General Winter was going to carry her off. The wind blew, but she didn’t feel the cold any longer. She felt nothing, but a sound met her ears. The cry of the wind and . . . voices? Didn’t General Winter know anything about stealth? Why was he so loud?

Chapter Thirty-Two

Filip felt lost without his wife. Which was ridiculous. He’d managed the twenty-seven years of his life before meeting her just fine. She’d only been his real wife for four months. But she’d left his heart—and the rest of him—in pieces.

“Did you hear about what happened there?” Dalek walked with him along the streets of Yekaterinburg. Filip couldn’t lead patrols until his shoulder was healed, so he had come east to meet up with the rest of the Sixth Regiment. Dalek had come too. He wouldn’t say why, but Filip suspected it had something to do with making sure Filip didn’t do anything stupid in his grief.

The house Dalek pointed to was two stories high, surrounded with a fence of wood that looked like a medieval palisade. It had once belonged to an engineer, but when the Bolsheviks had held the city last summer, they’d commandeered it, calling it The House of Special Purpose.

“I’ve heard a few different versions,” Filip said. “But they all agree on one thing: that’s where they killed them.” Local rumor was more interested in a good story than in accuracy, but the tsar, his wife, his son, and his four daughters had all disappeared. Most people assumed they were dead.

“I heard they bungled the execution. Some of the family had jewels sewn into their underthings. Bullets couldn’t get through, so they had to try other methods.” Dalek shook his head. “Poor things. One would think the Bolsheviks could have managed a proper execution for a tsarevich and four grand duchesses.”

Grand duchess. The title still reminded Filip of Nadia, even if her rank had been significantly lower. With the reminder came a new cascade of pain. Unlike the Romanov sisters, Nadia was alive. She’d left him without a word and run off with another man. They were probably in Shanghai now, where she was settling for amethyst and opal instead of diamond and pearl. Filip turned away, sickened by the murders, torn up by his memory of Nadia. He wanted her to be happy. But he wanted her to be happy with him.

He’d almost gone east, searching for them. That was what husbands did when their wives ran off. They found the man in question and challenged him to a duel. That was the honorable course, but Nadia and Petrov had a week’s head start, and Siberia was a very large place. He might never find them. And Dalek had insisted that the Sixth Regiment needed him. That seemed to be all Filip had left now—his duty to his brothers.

They were moving off the line, the entire legion. They weren’t going to fight someone else’s war any longer. They’d be out of the thick of it, but they couldn’t go home yet. They would guard fifteen hundred miles of rail line from Omsk to Irkutsk. To the east, Japanese and American troops would keep the rest of the railway open. To the west, the White Russians would continue their fight against the Bolsheviks. He wished them luck, but it was time for the legion to worry about Czechoslovakia. They’d been in Russia long enough.

“No one’s found the bodies.” Dalek stood on his toes, trying to see over the wall. “I assume the tsar is dead, but maybe the children survived.”

“You just said they were murdered in a sloppy execution.”

Dalek shrugged. “That’s one version. Someone else swore they saw the Grand Duchess Anastasia at the train station a few days later.”

“Nadia has the same birthday as the Grand Duchess Tatiana. They fired one hundred and one shots from the cannon at the Peter and Paul Fortress in Saint Petersburg to announce news of a royal birth. Nadia was born between shots eighty and eighty-one.” Why had he just said that? He hadn’t spoken her name in days, even though it was hard to go more than a minute or two without thinking of her. He had better change the subject, and fast. “I hope your source is right, and at least some of the children escaped. I feel we’re to blame. By most accounts, the Bolsheviks panicked because our brother legionnaires were closing in.”

“I spoke to the men who fought under Voitsekhovsky. They didn’t know the tsar was in Yekaterinburg.”

“Well, the Bolsheviks thought the legion was part of a rescue mission.” Strange how Filip felt sympathy for Russian royalty but had wanted to end all privileges for their counterparts in the Austro-Hungarian Empire. But the Bolsheviks were massacring former aristocrats, or former people, as they called them. Wanting to level a group that had oppressed people for centuries was different from trying to annihilate them.

The rest of the Sixth Regiment pulled into Yekaterinburg station later that day. Filip and Dalek watched as they detrained and assembled in front of the depot.

“Where are the rest of them?” Dalek asked.

“Maybe there’s another train.” This couldn’t be the entire regiment. It should be twice this size.

Filip joined Anton and Petr. They exchanged greetings, then Filip asked, “Is another train coming?”

Anton shook his head. “This is all that’s left of us.”

Death had nibbled at their numbers over the summer. It had clawed at them during the winter. Filip should have been with them. These were his brothers, and many were his recruits. His work protecting the rails had been necessary, but guilt hung in the air.

“Where’s Emil?”

“Wounded.” Petr frowned. “We heard he made it to Vladivostok, minus half of his right leg. Larisa and Veronika saw him. They’re renting a room together. Small and crowded, but they’re used to that, I suppose.”

Filip nodded. Poor Emil. Did he think it was worth it, losing a limb in service of his country?

Filip should have been prepared for the next question when Anton asked, but it still struck him like an artillery salvo.

“How’s your wife?”

***

Filip’s old bunk was still available in the familiar, worn teplushka.

“About Mrs. Sedláková . . . or whatever name she’s using now . . . I’m sorry, Filip.” Anton shoved a bit of loose cotton more tightly into the crack it was supposed to fill.

Filip shook his head and inhaled deeply to make sure his voice was steady. “I was foolish to think anything lasting could come from a corporal marrying a baron’s daughter.”

“War made fools of a lot of us.” Anton sat on his bunk. “I believed the Entente for months. When they said the British were coming, then the Japanese, then the Americans, I believed it every time. And each time, it was a lie.”

“I’ve seen a few Americans,” Filip said. “Not soldiers. YMCA volunteers. They had chocolate and tinned fruit. But what we really needed were uniforms without holes and more rifles and men to shoot them.” The regiment wasn’t going naked, but their clothing looked more like rags than uniforms. Half the men had holes in the fabric meant to cover their shoulders, worn away by their rifles. Real socks were a thing of memory.

Dalek huffed. “And the British sent us a very nice naval gun. They just neglected to provide a single shell to shoot from it. And the French sent us a general but no troops.”

“Do you remember what you said when you came to Taganrog and told me I should fight for the Czechoslovak Legion?” Anton asked.

“A bit,” Filip said.

“You said we were going to earn a country of our own.” Anton tapped the wooden boards of his bed. “Last summer when we took over the railroad, I understood. We were making our way home. Or to France, and then home. I even understood what happened in the fall. We could help the Allies more here than we could in France. But what are we doing now? Why are we still fighting? The war ended in November. Why can’t we just go home now that we have a home? If we don’t hurry, all the jobs and all the land will be snatched up. We’ve risked so much for our country, but if we’re stuck in Siberia, we’ll miss out on all the opportunities.”

Filip knew the arguments for staying. Someone needed to keep the railway open and running, and the peace settlement hadn’t been finalized. Czechoslovakia was a country, but the borders could change. And the legion had stirred up a hot response from the Bolsheviks; it seemed unfair to abandon their allies, the White Russians, to a mess partially of the legion’s making. But Filip didn’t spout off any of the official reasons. His heart wasn’t in official reasons anymore. His heart wasn’t in anything anymore, other than in mourning. He’d always been the one with the answers, during his recruiting drive and on the legion’s thrust eastward the previous year. But not now. “I don’t know, Anton. I don’t know.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

Nadia hugged the Khanty woman who had taken her in and restored her to health. “Thank you for everything.”

The smear of gray she’d seen before she’d collapsed had been smoke from a peasant’s hut. When her stolen ponies had wandered near, the woman and her husband had gone to investigate. Nadia still wasn’t sure if they’d expected to find someone living or if they’d simply wanted to scavenge more lost supplies, but they’d found her, unconscious and almost frozen, and had brought her to their home.

Rest, tea, and warmth had done wonders. As had time. But time was also a painful thing. She hadn’t kept an exact count, but at least three weeks had passed since her abduction. There was a deeper pain too, a sorrow that would never disappear but would forever scar her heart. She’d lost the baby. She’d never even had the chance to tell Filip, and now the news would bring mourning rather than celebration.

She said goodbye to the couple, to the shaman who had helped heal her, and to others from the small settlement who had been so generous with their food and their fires. They had given her refuge, enough rubles for a train ticket back to Filip, and enough dried meat for her journey. More than the food and the money, they’d given her another chance at life. She left the horses with the village, but her expressions of gratitude seemed woefully inadequate.

One of the peasants took her by sleigh to the nearest train depot along a spur line. He didn’t speak Russian, but she hoped he understood her emotion, if not her words, when she thanked him again.

She walked into town. The journey from the village had taken most of the day. She may have already missed the last departure, so she hoped the train station had a heated waiting room.

A dozen stores lined the street leading to the train depot, with wooden homes opposite the stores and huts along the secondary roads. A dress in a store window caught her eye, but she paused for only a moment. She didn’t have money for a new dress. The one in the store probably wasn’t new anyway, but at least it was clean. That was what she really wanted—to be clean again. The Khanty settlement hadn’t had bathing facilities. She searched the main road as she walked to the depot, hoping to spot a bathhouse or an inn.

The streets were strangely empty. Maybe the town was only large enough to hold market a few times a week rather than every day. Or maybe it was Sunday. Once she got to the station, she could inquire as to what day of the week it was and which direction she should travel to find her husband.

The town was quiet, but the train depot was hectic. People emerged from a train, and they were treated like prisoners. But they couldn’t be military prisoners. Some were far too old, and some were female.

As she got closer, she could pick out the difference between the guards and the guarded. The guards wore long black coats, much like the men who had shot her parents. Something twisted in her gut. She didn’t know where she was or where she could go, but she had to get away from the train depot.

A burst of wind made a bright red flag billow into view. Either the bandits had carried her far to the west, or the legion had been pushed farther east. She was in Bolshevik territory.

No wonder no one was out shopping. The Bolsheviks had taken over the town. They’d probably seized all the crops and would label anyone trying to sell something a kulak or a petty bourgeoisie.

She turned and walked back along the main road. She wanted to run, but that might draw too much attention. And she hadn’t tested her recent recovery. If she pushed her body too hard, the pain might start again, and once it started, it might become debilitating.

A man came around a corner. Their eyes met for an instant.

Nadia immediately turned to cross the street. She couldn’t breathe, the fear was so intense. A year had passed, and the courtyard had been dark. She was disheveled now and looked like a peasant instead of an aristocrat. Maybe Orlov hadn’t recognized her.

“Nadia Ilyinichna Linskaya.” His crisp, cool voice held a touch of surprise but no doubt.

Pain or no pain, it was time to run. She didn’t look back; she sprinted forward.

The pain found her quickly. Thumping boots and shouts found her soon after. Someone grabbed her arm and yanked her to a stop. He spun her around, and she was face-to-face with the man who’d executed her parents.

Orlov stared at her, his face impassive. Two others stood nearby, also in long black jackets, but the one who’d thrown her to the stable floor wasn’t there. That was some consolation. She’d rather die than suffer that type of treatment again.

He released her arm. “You are Nadia Ilyinichna Linskaya, are you not? I still have a warrant for your death.”

She considered lying but didn’t think it would help. He’d recognized her. She’d run. This was only a test to see if she would confess. “That was once my name.”

“I’ve been looking for you for a year.” He rested a hand on his hip. “That’s not all I’ve been doing, of course. You’re not that important.”

“If I’m not important, will you let me go? I’ll leave Russia. I won’t work against your revolution.” Her husband might, and all his friends, but she wouldn’t. She just wanted to find Filip and go to Czechoslovakia with him. She’d given up on Russia. The Bolsheviks could have it if they’d just let her and her husband go in peace.

He shoved her toward one of his men. “See that she doesn’t get away.” He and the other man marched off toward the station, leaving her with the one remaining guard.

She looked at him more closely and recognized Jakub Zeman.

“Looks like you married the wrong Czech.” He looked her over. “I offered to help once. For the right bribe, I might offer again.”

She held out her bag of food. “I have dried meat. And enough rubles for a train ticket.” If he took her money, she wasn’t sure how she’d get to Filip, but she’d worry about that later. Maybe she could trade her clothes. She still had one extra coat. She wore it now, but she could get by with a single coat, especially if the weather cooperated.

He scoffed. “I don’t want peasant food. And Kerensky rubles are easy to forge. It’s probably worthless.”

“My coat?”

He shook his head.

“I don’t have anything else.”

“A woman like you?” His eyes looked her over again, lingering on the skin of her neck. “You always have something to offer.”

Her stomach roiled as she grasped his meaning. Her beauty was her only asset. Illness and dirt had diminished her allure, but Jakub Zeman still found her desirable. Or maybe it was more a wish to have what he’d once been denied. The bandits had already made her their plaything. Would it be so wrong to trade a bit of time with a man she didn’t love in exchange for her freedom? What was more important: virtue or survival?

He leered at her, a smile of anticipation pulling at his mouth. “You’d better decide soon, or Orlov will be back, and it will be too late. He’s incorruptible. Wouldn’t dare release a prisoner who might come back to hurt the revolution. But I can see right through you. You’re no threat. Say you’ll cooperate, and I’ll help you escape.”

What would Filip tell her to do? She was never going to see him again, she knew that now. She could bribe Zeman, but even if he kept his word and helped her slip past the Bolsheviks, there were bandits to avoid. She’d found kind peasants once, but she was just as likely to run into cruel ones. Or she’d freeze to death. The only men she could trust were the legionnaires, and she had no idea where they were.

Orlov returned. She waited for him to pull out his revolver and point it at her. A quick shot while she stood, like what had killed her parents and aunt. Or perhaps he would tell her to remove all usable clothing so it wouldn’t become blood-splattered, and then he’d kill her.

Instead, he pushed her toward the train station. She followed his directions, relieved and horrified at the same time. She’d come close to accepting Zeman’s offer.

Orlov stopped at the edge of the depot and faced her. “I’ve seen enough death, so I’m commuting your sentence. Fifteen years hard labor. That will atone for your life as an aristocrat. There’s a group leaving now. You’ll join them.”

Fifteen years. Fifteen winters in Siberia. It was better than death—or was it? Hard labor might have the same result. It would just take longer. And if she survived, how could she hope to find Filip again after so long? She had to let him know what had happened. “May I write a letter?”

“That will depend entirely upon the leader of your labor battalion.” Orlov nodded at one of his men—not Zeman—and he led her to the group of downtrodden prisoners.

She’d escaped the bandits only to be captured by the Bolsheviks.

***

Nadia assumed she would be transferred to a concentration camp, where enemies of the revolution were gathered so they couldn’t infect the rest of the population with their heretical views.

Instead, she and the other prisoners were crowded into the basement of an old house. They were so tightly packed that there wasn’t room for them to lie down. Normally, lying on the cold floor would be unappealing anyway, but she was still weak from her ordeal. In her current circumstances, there was little she wouldn’t have lain on.

Some of the prisoners looked like criminals. Others like nobility. Had she once been so easy to spot? Filip and Dalek had discussed it back in Penza. Something in the way an aristocrat stood and walked and moved, regardless of the clothing they wore. A few priests were among the captives. They seemed safer to stand beside than the criminals, so she worked her way over to them.

The guards gave them no food. Nadia still had hers, as did some of the other prisoners. She shared a bit with a priest and his wife and with a woman who looked to be in her twenties.

“Thank you.” The woman chewed the dried meat slowly, savoring it. “You weren’t on the train with the rest of us.”

“No. I escaped once. About a year ago. The Cheka found me again.”

“They’re good at that.” The woman muttered a curse. “I’m Tanya.”

“I’m Nadia.”

“Thank you for sharing your food. The only reason I’m sitting on this freezing floor is because I’m too dizzy to stand. They haven’t fed us much since they stuck us on the train.”

“How long was your journey?”

“We come from Moscow. But our train didn’t have priority. We were on it for ten days.” Tanya shivered. “Someone tried to assassinate Lenin back in August. The Cheka were bad before that, but they’re worse now. They’ve unleashed a Red Terror. We’re but a few of the victims.”

Before the sun rose, guards herded them from the basement and rushed them to the town’s outskirts to dig trenches. The Bolsheviks supplied the shovels. Even with gloves, Nadia had blisters within an hour. Long before the day ended, her back ached and her throat was parched. But she was luckier than some of the others because she at least had warm clothes. As a reward for their labor, the workers were given a few slices of black bread. That night, they slept in a barn.

The next day, they cleared trees for a road. The day after, they shoveled gravel. Then they dug more trenches. Hard days turned into cruel weeks, and brutal weeks turned into hellish months.

“Where are we?” she asked the priest’s wife, Elena, one spring morning. They moved slowly but often. She wanted to pinpoint their position on the map in her mind.

“Just behind the front lines. If the Whites chose to, they could shell us.”

“Is the Czechoslovak Legion with the White Army?”

Elena shrugged. “Last I heard.”

Nadia paused for a moment and stared at the pile of dirt on her shovel, hating what her efforts were accomplishing. The Bolsheviks had prevented her return to her husband, and now they were forcing her to work against his cause.

Chapter Thirty-Four

“Halt!” Filip leveled his rifle at the man trying to shove a bomb under the train switch.

The man bolted. Filip didn’t give chase because the man was running right at Anton and Petr. He was too busy looking back at Filip to notice them as they stepped from behind a discarded boxcar. They wrestled him to the ground and bound his hands.

Filip pulled the bomb out and held it at arm’s length, then handed it to Anton. “Is it set to explode?”

Anton examined it. Petr took a step back, as did Filip. “It’s not armed.”

Filip hadn’t really thought it was. Why arm a bomb before it was in place? “Right. I’ll let you dispose of that. I’ll take our saboteur in and see what Kral wants us to do with him.” Filip pushed the man on ahead of him.

“Do you want to tell me why you were planning to blow up the train switch?” Filip asked.

The captive just grunted. Filip didn’t press it. Interrogations weren’t his responsibility, and he didn’t want that burden. He could guess the man’s motives. Destroy the track either to help the Bolsheviks or to hurt the White Russians.

Filip and the rest of the regiment—what remained of it—were now stationed in Omsk. They’d been met with friendly crowds the summer before, but the locals were no longer so welcoming a year later. The Bolsheviks hated them. The White Army called them cowards for refusing to shed blood in a civil war that wasn’t theirs. And the peasants and workers were hostile because they were suffering.

Now that the legion had pulled back from the front, they were scapegoats for everything going wrong with the White Russian cause. And though the White Russians had made some progress, they’d had far more setbacks. Among their more significant failures was the collapse of their brief democracy and the establishment of an unlikable regime in its place. It shouldn’t have been difficult to do a better job of governing Siberia than the tsar or the Bolsheviks had, but the Whites were suggesting otherwise.

Maybe he was being too hard on them. They were trying to keep the peace while waging a devastating war. Enemies were everywhere, and despite promises of foreign help, little made it beyond Lake Baikal.

Filip turned the prisoner over to another legionnaire and reported to Kral.

“So, this bomb. It would have killed people, not just destroyed the tracks?” Kral asked when Filip finished.

“Probably.”

Kral nodded. He was a major now. In the past months, the hair of his temples had become sprinkled with gray, and his face had more of a leanness to it. “I suppose that makes his fate fairly straightforward. You’ll come with me?”

Filip didn’t want to join Kral for a chat with the White Russian authorities on whether the saboteur should be shot or merely imprisoned, but if Kral asked, he would go. Kral was worn out, stretched thin, burdened by a war that wouldn’t end. Filip knew exactly how he felt, because he felt the same thing, with the extra burden of a broken heart. Soon, maybe, they’d leave Russia for good. If only he could forget Russia for good as well.

“Gajda’s visiting.”

Kral’s remark took Filip by surprise. Admiral Kolchak, the Supreme Ruler of Siberia, had given General Gajda command of a White Russian army. Filip had long admired Gajda—without him, it was unlikely the legion would have survived the summer of 1918. But by joining the White cause, he’d left the legion, throwing in his lot with a dictator. The legion had always wanted democracy for Siberia, so Gajda’s decision had felt a bit like a betrayal. Still, the man could fight. And Filip didn’t want the Bolsheviks to win. He could cheer Gajda on as long as the rest of the legion wasn’t required to join him in risking their blood for Russia.

“The visit. Is it going well?” Per Kolchak’s orders, Gajda had marched toward Moscow. He hadn’t made it. None of the White Armies had reached their objectives that spring. Most had suffered horrendous casualties. Gajda’s men had fared a bit better, but only because he’d disobeyed orders and pulled them back before they’d been overwhelmed by the ever-growing Red Army.

Kral pursed his lips. “Gajda’s troops evacuated refugees with them. Perhaps the right thing to do but not the most expedient. I don’t think Kolchak was impressed.” Military expediency was everything during a civil war. But if they forgot mercy, what did that make them?

Kral explained the purpose of their visit to the guards outside Kolchak’s office. Then they waited. Filip stretched his shoulder, testing it. He still felt his wound on cold nights and during sudden movements, but the injury didn’t hamper him anymore. He was even getting better at putting Nadia from his mind. He, like most of the legion, was ready to go home. Go home and try to forget everything about his time in Russia, including his wife. If she was still his wife. She might have obtained an annulment by now and simply not informed him.

Nadia. Did she have any idea how much he’d loved her? And how much it still hurt that she’d abandoned him? He hadn’t prayed since that day he’d returned to their empty boxcar to find her and the annulment paper gone. His faith was tied too closely to his marriage, and with her gone, he’d fallen out of all the habits they’d built together.

Gajda’s voice sounded from the other side of the wall. The conversation between him and Kolchak carried clearly into the hallway because both shouted. Something hit the wall with a thunk and shattered.

“I suppose I shouldn’t have expected much. You’ve never even attended military high school,” Kolchak’s voice said.

“And you?” Gajda yelled back. “You’ve commanded a few ships. Does that qualify you to govern an empire?”

“You withdrew without permission.”

“I saved those men’s lives!”

“And now the Red Army is taking all that territory!”

“If I hadn’t been forced to beg you for supplies, maybe we could have held it. But your staff was growing rich on the black market, and my men were freezing to death!”

The guards shooed them farther along the corridor.

Filip glanced at Kral. “Why are we still here? Everybody hates us now. The Americans won’t come west of Lake Baikal, the Japanese are mistreating the peasants, and Kolchak is making alliances with warlords who pillage and murder at will. You know what a peasant said to me the other day? He said the Bolsheviks were bad, because they stole everything. But that the White Army is worse, because they steal and they kill.”

Kral glanced at the door. The arguing continued, though the words were no longer distinguishable. “Do you think we’re on the wrong side now?”

“No.” Filip couldn’t support the Bolsheviks. “But I’m not sure we’re on the right side either. We’re in the middle of a mess.” All around, people were dying. They were starving, falling ill with disease, and being swept before armies and bandits. “Our country needs us at home.” Hungary had attacked Slovakia, and according to accounts printed in legion newspapers, the fighting had been intense. They wanted to go home. Their country wanted them back. And most of Russia wanted them gone. So why were they still in Siberia?

They made their report, eventually. Kolchak ordered the saboteur shot without trial. It was all Filip could do to keep his mouth shut—and he wouldn’t have stayed silent had the man not been caught in the act.

No trial. Even the tsar had given suspects trials and had frequently given them exile instead of execution. Filip wasn’t so blind as to think the tsar had been an exemplary ruler, but the forces fighting to replace him hardly seemed an improvement.

Kral put a hand on Filip’s elbow. “They’re working to bring us home. We’ve got to protect the rails just a while longer.”

That was Filip’s permission to leave, and he took it. Kral was his friend, so Filip nodded and mumbled a thank-you. But what he really wanted to say was that the legion had been told Just a while longer so many times that Filip had lost count.

Omsk. Siberia. Russia. Filip wanted out. Once again, the legion was surrounded by hostile forces—both open enemies and slippery allies. That seemed to be how it always ended up. They couldn’t trust their allies—not the ones who had helped them defeat Germany and Austria-Hungary, not the ones working with them to stop the spread of Bolshevik power. The Allies had broken their promises. So had the Whites. His wife had betrayed him. God had abandoned him. But his brothers in the legion had always been there for him, and if they stuck together, eventually they would make it out. Or at least that was what Filip kept telling himself.

When they’d arrived in Omsk that spring, the White Army had offered the legion barracks, but they’d stayed in their boxcars, where they’d have an easier time defending themselves. The locals called it Czech Town. Filip strode to the boxcars, guided in part by the barks and howls of a pack of wild dogs that had found sympathetic Czech and Slovak cooks and had adopted the legion as a result. Now refugees fought the dogs for the kitchen scraps. Filip felt sorry for the refugees. But since not all of them were trustworthy, the dozens of guard dogs filled a need.

He washed the sweat from his face before going to his quarters. The day had been hot, but the evening breeze made the temperature more bearable. The men in his teplushka were quiet when he came inside. Solemn. Severe.

“Have the Hungarians advanced in Slovakia?” Filip asked.

Dalek shook his head. “They were pushed back.”

“Then what’s wrong?” It felt like a funeral. Filip wasn’t happy about the saboteur’s death sentence, but summary justice was the normal course of events lately. They were used to it.

Dalek glanced at Anton, who sat on a bunk, hunched over, his face hidden in his hands. Then he handed Filip a letter. “It’s from Larisa.”

The legion ran a postal service, but letters were still rare enough that they were normally passed along so everyone could read them. The men craved news almost as much as they craved trousers without holes or teplushkas with better insulation. But if the letter was from Petr’s wife, why had Dalek looked at Anton?

Dear Petr,

I’m afraid I have bad news that you’ll have to pass on. Veronika came down with fever about ten days ago. She didn’t think it was anything serious. Nor did I. She never regained her strength after Marek’s birth, so days of poor health were normal. But this one lasted, and then she started getting headaches and could barely open her eyes. She was in incredible pain. Don’t tell Anton that. I finally convinced her to see one of the YMCA nurses. It was typhus, and they couldn’t do much for her. She died three days ago. I wish I could report her last words, but she was too delirious to say goodbye. And she was in so much pain.

Marek had a fever. The nurses insisted on taking him and putting him in quarantine. They tell me his case isn’t as severe as his mother’s, but it’s too early to say if he’ll live or die. And if he survives, sometimes typhus addles the brain. You probably shouldn’t tell Anton that either. The poor baby. Fevers and chills and all alone in a big, crowded hospital. The nurse who took him told me she’d take good care of him. But I visited Veronika in that same hospital. Each nurse had a hundred patients.

Filip stopped reading. He met Dalek’s eyes, then looked at Anton. “Did he read it?”

Dalek nodded. Despite Larisa’s efforts to spare Anton, he knew the worst of it.

Filip couldn’t think of what to say. For him, the pain of losing a wife had been like having his heart thrown into a boiler. Nothing anyone said could make it better. And worry over a baby would only add to the pain. “Anton . . . I’m sorry.”

Anton stood and rushed from the boxcar.

Dalek grabbed Filip’s arm when he turned to follow Anton out. “Let him go.”

“What if he’s going to throw himself in front of a train?” Filip didn’t think Anton would, but he’d thought about it himself a few times since Nadia had left him. He wouldn’t have actually ended his life, but he’d grown reckless on patrols. Death had less of a sting when life sank into endless hurt.

Dalek released Filip with a nod.

Anton wasn’t within sight when Filip left the boxcar, but the mutt that followed Anton around was sitting and watching. Filip followed the dog’s gaze. A muffled sob rent the air, and Filip stood back, giving his friend privacy. Time passed slowly. A few more sobs. The dog crawled closer, but it, too, held back.

Which was worse? Knowing death had taken your wife and she was gone forever, even though she’d loved you? Or knowing you’d made a mistake and your wife had left voluntarily? She was still alive, might be happy even. She’d just discarded you.

The night was quiet, so Filip stepped forward. Anton sat with his back against a crate. His gaze flickered over Filip but didn’t meet his eyes. Filip sat beside him but didn’t say anything.

Anton inhaled and swallowed. “We never even had our own apartment. Just a curtained-off section of a zemlanky. I wanted to give her more than that, more than a life on the move as part of an army.”

“You gave her a son.”

“A son who’s probably dead. You’ve seen how typhus spreads.”

“You gave her a new country.”

“What good is a new country if she didn’t live to see it? And what good is it to me if everyone I love is buried in Russia?” The pain in Anton’s voice almost choked him.

Filip didn’t reply. Nothing he said could take the pain away, and Anton deserved time to grieve. Someday, he could take comfort in the fact that he’d loved Veronika and she had loved him and they’d worked together for a dream, started a family, done what they could with what time they’d been given. But that someday wasn’t today.

The notes of Dalek’s fiddle drifted on the warm night air. Where is my home? The notes seemed more melancholy now, as if the violin were grieving with Anton.

“Where is my home?” Anton whispered. “It was always supposed to be wherever Veronika was.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

Nadia took a rushed bite of bread, then slowed to a more ladylike pace. Forced labor was transforming her body, making it thinner, stooping her shoulders, bending her back. But she didn’t want it to change who she was inside. Dignity and pride were all she had left. That, the clothes on her back, and the Samoyed coats she slept on.

Elena coughed. It sounded worse today. Her husband, a priest, had died the week before, and Elena moved slower and slower each day.

“How are you, Elena?”

Elena forced a half-hearted smile. “I survived another day. That’s something.”

“The road’s almost finished. Maybe our next project will be easier.”

“It might be harder.”

Nadia knew that as well as anyone, but she was desperately trying to give Elena a reason to hope.

Elena patted Nadia’s hand. Both of them had rough, blistered skin, with dirt caked into the fine lines of their palms and knuckles. “You seem sad.”

Nadia tried to shrug off the despair that huddled about each of the prisoners, ready to grab them if given an opening. It would leach away their hope—and their lives. “I miss my husband. And I lost a baby this past winter. If things had been different, I’d be showing by now.”

“I lost several babies. Some before they were born. Two after. And then another lost in the war. I’ll have a warm welcome in heaven, I think.”

“Yes, but not anytime soon.”

Elena shook her head. “Life here brings me no joy. Why would I wish to stay?”

Nadia thought of Elena’s words that night as the prisoners settled down to sleep. Life as a former person contained no joy, but she wasn’t ready to give up. Not when Filip was out there, perhaps only a few miles away. She missed him so much. Had he given up on her? Or was he still searching? Nadia prayed, pleading for something to keep not only her body but also her hope alive.

Tanya shifted her shoulders on the hard dirt next to Nadia. “Under the tsar, anyone could escape Siberia. All it took was will. I escaped twice. This . . .” She gestured to the guards and the locked door of the barn. “These Bolsheviks are worse.”

Nadia scrutinized Tanya. “You were exiled? What did you do?” She didn’t have the hardened look of a criminal.

“I am an anarchist.”

“I thought the Bolsheviks and the anarchists got along with each other.”

Tanya huffed. “Only when we had a common enemy. Now that the Bolsheviks are in charge, they won’t share power. We both wanted the tsar gone. But not so he could be replaced with a Marxist elite. There was supposed to be no royalty, no classes, no state. The Bolsheviks seem to have missed the mark. Plenty of state with them.”

“You really escaped twice?”

“Yes.”

Nadia lowered her voice and tried to control the hope that was blossoming into excitement. “Could you escape again?”

“Things are different now.” Tanya glanced at her hands. The nails were broken and dirty, much like Nadia’s. “I’m a political prisoner. The tsar let political prisoners read and study. I wonder what my associates in Europe would say if they knew the truth, that the Bolsheviks are imprisoning anarchists and treating them worse than the tsar did.” Tanya looked away from Nadia’s gaze. “No. We can’t escape here.”

***

Elena lasted another week. Nadia held her hand as she died and allowed herself a few tears.

“I’m surprised she lasted as long as she did.” Tanya’s words were blunt but spoken with sympathy. “I’m sorry you lost a friend.”

Nadia nodded. “I imagine she’s happier now.”

Tanya scoffed. “In heaven? Surely you don’t believe that.”

“I do.”

“If God were real, He wouldn’t allow a mess like this. Come on. We’ve got work to do.”

Nadia followed Tanya. She didn’t agree with her—mess or no mess, God was real. But it was hard to believe He cared anything for the poor souls of the work battalions.

They were farther from the front lines now, building a network of roads to keep the Red Army supplied. As they began work, a cough tickled Nadia’s throat and escaped in a muffled burst.

Tanya raised an eyebrow.

“It’s nothing.” But Nadia didn’t believe that. She’d seen too many prisoners die. It started with a little cough, a bit less energy. Then stronger coughs, sometimes a fever. As the prisoner grew weaker and did less work, the guards fed them less, and then their decline accelerated. “How am I going to survive a fifteen-year sentence?”

“What did you do to earn that?”

“I was born an aristocrat.”

Tanya grunted. Perhaps she agreed with Nadia’s sentence. Anarchists weren’t fond of aristocrats. “What will you do if you survive?”

“I’ll try to find my husband. He’s with the Czechoslovak Legion, though I don’t suppose they’ll be in Russia that long.” He’d told her enough about his grandfather’s shop that she could find it. But how would she get to Prague? And would Filip wait that long for her? “But if the White Army wins, they’ll commute our sentences, won’t they?” She didn’t have to survive fifteen years of forced labor. She just had to survive until the Red Army lost the war.

Tanya let the rock she was prying up slip back into the ground. “Your husband is with the Czechoslovak Legion?”

“Yes.”

“So if you reached the legion, they’d help you and anyone traveling with you?”

“I think so.” Nadia bent to move another rock. “Can you get us to their lines? You’ve escaped before.”

Tanya didn’t answer, not right away. “Like I said, under the tsar, anyone could escape exile in Siberia. But this isn’t exile. It’s forced labor. Quite a different thing.” Tanya stretched her back. “How were you separated from your husband?”

Nadia glanced around to make sure none of the guards were nearby. One in particular didn’t approve of his prisoners chatting. “I was abducted by bandits, held for a week. I escaped, but then I ran into a Cheka agent.”

“I don’t suppose the bandits treated you kindly.”

Her hands started to shake. “No. They were worse than the Cheka.” Nadia didn’t want to talk about how they’d forced her, used her, broken her.

“Did they hurt you?”

“Yes.” Nadia’s answer was barely a whisper. “And I lost the baby I was carrying.” She’d lost more than that, but to lose Filip’s baby was the part that cut the deepest.

“And you think your husband will want you back after that?”

“Why wouldn’t he? It’s not as though I went with the men voluntarily. I fought them as best I could.”

A frown wove its way across Tanya’s face. “Sometimes men are strange about things like that. Honor and pride aren’t always rational.”

“Filip loves me. He won’t blame me for something I couldn’t control.”

“If you say so.” Something in Tanya’s voice suggested uncertainty, but she didn’t know Filip.

That night, Nadia shivered as she tried to fall asleep. Spring and summer had brought a respite from the harsh Siberian winter, but the air had a chill in it tonight. When she’d shared a bed with Filip, he had often crawled under the covers on her side of the bed so it would be warm for her when she joined him. There wasn’t much she wouldn’t give to be snuggled up next to him again, to feel his kisses and caresses.

Tanya was wrong. Filip would still love her. Of course he would.

But doubt wiggled its way in and lodged inside her heart. She’d been used and damaged. Did that also make her unworthy?

***

Weeks passed. Midsummer turned clearings in the taiga to gorgeous arrays of feather grass and cornflower, fescue and white hollyhock. But even though the land they worked grew beautiful, their days were still full of toil, and now, for Nadia, they were also full of doubt. Even if the White Army overran the camp and she was freed, could she and Filip really return to what they’d had so briefly?

Her mother had told her that God was always there, even when it was too dark to see Him. But what if life in a work camp was so dark that He couldn’t see her? Couldn’t comfort her? Couldn’t help her? Mama had said that phrase often before the war. Only once or twice after Alexander had died. Not at all after Nikolai had died. Had Mama, too, felt that the darkness was too thick, too powerful for God to see through?

Tanya didn’t speak of escape, not anymore. Nadia had thought the legion’s proximity would tempt her, but there were still the guards to get past. And each day, the prisoners grew more and more worn down. How could they escape when they were barely hanging on to life?

Autumn changed the taiga again, painting it with shades of russet and gold. New prisoners joined them—captured tsarist officers who’d been fighting with the White Army.

“I’m surprised they didn’t shoot them,” Tanya said.

Based on the expressions the men made when they learned their work would support the Red Army, she wondered if they might have preferred that.

A few days later, Nadia was startled by a shout. “Watch out!”

Nadia looked up, but the warning hadn’t been directed at her. A crooked pine with a long stretch of bare trunk crashed away from the road. A startled cry emerged from the wreckage, and Nadia hurried over.

One of the captured officers lay on the ground, no longer moving. She knelt beside him and felt his neck. His pulse beat a steady rhythm under her fingers.

Another man scrambled closer. “Is he alive?”

“Yes. Do you see any blood?” She didn’t, but she wasn’t strong enough to move him, not after eight months on a forced labor crew.

The other man turned him over. “Nothing more serious than scrapes.”

She noticed the bump on the side of the unconscious man’s head. The tree must have hit him. The guards were keeping their distance rather than ordering her back to work. They were in a generous mood today. “He’ll probably have a concussion.” That could be dangerous in these conditions. Anything that hampered the ability to work could result in less food, which led to death. “You’re his friend?”

“Yes,” the other man said. He eyed the guard drawing closer.

“I was a nurse during the war. I don’t have any equipment, but I’ll do what I can for him when he wakes.”

The guard surveyed the three of them. “Is he dead?”

“No.” Nadia held her breath, wondering what the guard would do.

“Leave him then. The rest of you get back to work.”

***

She saw the man who’d been hit with a tree later that night.

“You were a nurse?” he asked. He was tall, probably about forty, with blue eyes and fair hair.

“Yes.”

He held out his arm. “I think this may be broken.”

Without an x-ray, she couldn’t be sure, but she examined the discolored and swollen skin. “I could splint it for you. I’d need cloth and some straight sticks. Where is the pain strongest?”

He pointed to his wrist. “I lifted my hand at the last minute to stop the tree. It didn’t work.”

“It didn’t stop the tree, but it might have saved your life. One can survive a broken wrist. A broken skull is far more serious. How is the knot on the side of your head?”

He turned, and she gently felt the bump. He winced.

“I’m sorry. I have to feel for damage.” She prodded a little further, then finished.

He sighed. “I’ll have Yuri find materials. Thank you for your help.”

The injured man and Yuri, his friend from earlier that afternoon, gathered the needed supplies. When she finished splinting his arm, they offered her half a piece of bread.

Her mouth watered at the dark, dry morsel, but she waved it away. “You’ll need to keep your strength up. Especially if your injury affects your work.”

The injured man raised an eyebrow. “Most prisoners would slit someone’s throat for an extra piece of bread.”

“If the Bolsheviks take my decency from me, then they’ve won. I won’t take bread from the injured.”

He cracked a smile. “Why are you here?”

It was a long story, and he was a stranger, so she told a shortened version. “The Cheka condemned my family to death. I escaped, but I was captured again, and the agent commuted my sentence to fifteen years hard labor. Not that I expect to survive that long.” Hunger was her constant companion now. Lice infested her hair, even though she’d cut most of it off. Her body had grown unpleasantly lean, her limbs were like sticks, and she was constantly cold. The temperature was already falling, and it would get far worse far too soon. She might not survive another winter, not if she had to begin it so underweight.

“Why was your family condemned?”

“We were aristocrats. And my father served the tsar. We left when the Bolsheviks took power, went to the Ukraine, but I suppose his past actions were enough to brand him as a counterrevolutionary.”

The man grew thoughtful. “Your father’s name?”

Nadia hesitated but not for long. The Bolsheviks knew who she was. There was no longer any need to hide her identity. “Baron Ilya Ivanovich Linsky.”

“I met Baron Linsky a few times. You’re his daughter?”

“Yes.”

He studied her, probably seeing a face that didn’t resemble her father’s at all. “Your father may not have told you, but he was getting supplies for General Alexeyev and General Kornilov. I’m not surprised the Bolsheviks wanted him shot. He was dangerous to their cause.”

It took a few moments for the words to register. “No. We were planning to go to France until the Bolsheviks were defeated.”

“He may have been planning to send you and your mother away. But I don’t think he was planning to leave. Knowing him, he was going to stay and fight. Not with a rifle. With supplies and a talent for logistics.”

Could her father have been planning to send his family off to safety while he stayed behind? Yes, of course. Papa wouldn’t have left unless all hope was gone. He was tied to the land, bound to Russia for better or for worse. He would have considered emigration desertion, and desertion was something her father would never be guilty of. That was why they’d gone to the Ukraine. Not to escape but so he could better liaison with the Cossacks and royalist troops in the south of Russia. She wished he would have trusted her with the truth.

“Miss Linskaya.” The man held out the bread again. “Take this, not as payment for medical care but as a gift to the daughter of a man I once had the privilege of serving with. A man I admired. Take it as a gift from a former officer to a former lady, in memory of a happier, more chivalrous time.”

Nadia hesitated, but then she took the bread. If it was given to honor her father, how could she refuse? “What is your name, sir?”

“Kirill Sokolov. I used to be a polkovnik. But that was another time.”

He’d held a high rank. Now he sat in a makeshift camp for enemies of the Bolsheviks. And with one arm broken, his chances of survival seemed small. “How long is your sentence?”

“Five years.” The corner of his mouth pulled up slightly. “But I hear they’ll increase it tenfold if I’m caught trying to escape.”

Nadia’s eyes flashed around. No one was close enough to hear them other than Sokolov’s friend. “Be careful. The guards have informants.”

“Do you know who?”

“No.”

Sokolov met her eyes and held them. “If there are informers, they don’t include the daughter of Baron Linsky, I’m sure of that. Tell me, Miss Linskaya. If you could escape, where would you go?”

“It’s Mrs. Sedláková now. I married a Czech. If I were free, I would try to find him again. Have you any news of the legion?”

Sokolov frowned, as if he had bad news. Worry wove its way around her chest and hitched tight. What if the legion had been cut off, surrounded, destroyed? “The Czechoslovaks are no longer serving on the front.”

Relief made it easier to breathe, but Sokolov’s words hinted at disapproval. “Are they going home?”

“No. Guarding the railway to keep it open. But we needed them at the front. So many times we needed them, and they wouldn’t join us.”

“It’s not their fight.”

“It may not have started as their fight, but when they went to war with the Bolsheviks, they provoked massive retribution from the Red Army. We’re having to face it alone.”

She understood Sokolov’s frustration, but she wanted Filip and the others to be safe, and guarding the railways seemed far less dangerous than fighting the Red Army. On the other hand, she wanted the Reds defeated. “How are things at the front? We don’t get much news.”

“We’ve had setbacks. But the war’s not over yet.”

***

The trees had shed most of their leaves, and Nadia’s clothes had to be held on with rope when Kirill Sokolov and his friend Yuri Fedorov suggested they escape.

“Now, as the weather’s turning?” Nadia asked.

Sokolov nodded. “Now, before new guards are sent in.”

Nadia stretched her hands. Blisters lined her skin, and her back ached after a day of digging graves for typhus victims. “You would take me with you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” She wanted to leave, but she’d be of little use in a fight, and she wasn’t as physically sturdy as either of the men.

“Because of your father. And because of your ties to the legion. And because you’re a nurse. I want to find what’s left of my army. They’ll need nurses, so there’ll be a place for you, if you want it.”

She nodded. “I’ll come.” She risked increasing her sentence tenfold. And if she failed this time, then failed again, she’d be sent to a revolutionary tribunal and probably executed. But if she didn’t escape soon, she didn’t think she’d survive her original sentence. Staying meant death; it was just a question of how soon.

“The anarchist is coming too. Four of us.”

Nadia smiled. She liked Tanya. And while an alliance between two former tsarist officers, a former aristocrat, and an anarchist was unconventional, they all had a common enemy and a common goal.

Her smile disappeared a few hours later when she heard their plan.

“You want me to do what?”

Tanya tilted her head in exasperation. “Just go up to the guard and ask if you can earn a little extra bread. Smile at him, put your hand on his arm, and undo one of the buttons on your coat.”

“You want me to sleep with him? I won’t do that.”

“Offer, lead him into the woods, and then Fedorov will take care of him. Before anything happens. That guard has been eying you for months. It shouldn’t take much convincing.”

She’d noticed his attention, which was one of the reasons she didn’t want to approach him. He reminded her of the bandits who’d taken her. “But I’m married.”

Sokolov seemed apologetic. “What do you think your husband wants more? Your escape, even if you have to flirt with a guard, or your complete fidelity and death in a work battalion?”

Of course she wanted to escape, and Filip would want that too. She longed to see him again, and this plan offered her a chance. Tanya, Sokolov, and Fedorov were all more capable than she when it came to survival. She’d be a fool if she refused to cooperate and lost their help.

When the other guards were distant and the other prisoners occupied, Nadia wandered toward the guard. She wasn’t a good enough actress to feign attraction, but hunger alternated between a gnaw and a ravage. She could tell him she was desperate enough to sell herself for a bit of bread. The hunger and desperation were real, so it would be believable.

The guard in question watched her walk closer.

“I’m hungry,” she said simply and truthfully when she reached him. “There’s not much I wouldn’t do for a loaf of bread.” She took Tanya’s advice and undid the top button of her coat. “Perhaps we can come to an arrangement?”

The guard’s eyes widened, and his lips curled up.

Nadia took a step back and jerked her head toward the thicker trees of the forest, where he would assume they’d have privacy. That was where Fedorov waited.

The guard looked around, then followed her.

Nadia continued to walk, slowly, waiting for Fedorov to knock the guard unconscious.

“I think we’re alone here.” The guard’s deep voice rumbled up her neck. His hands gripped her waist and turned her toward him.

What was she supposed to do now?

The guard moved one of his hands to the back of her head and held her still while he kissed her. His lips were aggressive, and so were his hands. She couldn’t help it; she jerked away.

The guard grabbed and held her. “I thought you wanted bread?”

“I do, but I’m not sure this is the best way to get it.”

“You satisfy this craving for me, and I’ll ease your hunger.” His hands and lips were all over her again. It was all she could do to keep from screaming. Was it the guard or one of the bandits who had her now? She couldn’t even tell if she was in the forest or in one of those smoky, smelly huts they’d dragged her to. Her chest churned with terror, and her stomach turned with bile.

The guard fell into her, striking her face, and then he slipped to the ground.

She put her hand to her mouth and took a few deep breaths.

Tanya came into view. “There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Nadia started to shake. Maybe it wouldn’t have been so horrible if she didn’t have so many terrifying memories. But the past was still in her mind, and she couldn’t erase it at will.

“Are you all right?” Sokolov put his hand on her elbow.

No doubt he meant to be comforting, but Nadia jerked away. She didn’t want another man touching her just then. At that moment, she would have flinched from Filip’s hand.

“I’m sorry.” He held his hands out and stepped back.

Nadia hugged herself. “No, I’m sorry. That was just harder than I thought it would be.”

The look of concern didn’t leave Sokolov’s face, but he nodded. “Every minute counts. There’s a river about a mile east. We’ve got to cross it before they find out we’re gone and send the dogs after us.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

Anton shivered as he stood guard near the Omsk train depot. It was only November, but winter already held Siberia firmly in its grip, with short days, cold temperatures, and gray views. Petr came to relieve him.

“Any letters?”

Petr shook his head. “No.”

Anton nodded and headed somewhere warmer. Maybe it was better, for now, not to know. If word did come confirming Marek’s death, he wasn’t sure he could take it. At least for now, he could hope his son lived. But if conditions in Vladivostok were anything like they were in Omsk, then it was a fool’s hope.

Omsk had a new nickname: City of Death. Refugees crowded inside, hoping to escape the Red Army only to find typhus and spotted fever instead. Those who lived slept in shifts, sharing the same dirty room in a cramped apartment with a dozen other people. They ate what they could. And they died in droves. Their bodies lay in piles, stripped of boots, coats, and usable clothing. If Vladivostok was similar, what chance did a fifteen-month-old boy with no mother have? Anton had begged God to protect his son, but he’d also prayed for his wife—from the moment they had parted until he’d learned of her death. Heaven hadn’t heard him.

“Anton? Could you lend a hand?” Dalek’s voice carried from a nearby platform. Several legionnaires and YMCA volunteers were transporting wounded men off a boxcar. The injured wore uniforms with the white and green epaulets of Kolchak’s Army.

Anton hustled to help. What would this war have been like if he’d been a doctor or a medical orderly instead of a soldier? Maybe it wouldn’t have made any difference with what really mattered—regardless of how much he did or didn’t know about medicine, he hadn’t been with Veronika when she’d needed him, and he hadn’t been able to help her.

He grabbed the head of a stretcher, and Dalek grabbed the foot. But as Anton moved, Dalek stayed frozen in place.

“What is it?” Anton asked.

Dalek nodded to the patient, a field-rank officer with bandages around his left thigh. The injured man seemed to notice the delay and looked to Dalek.

“Oleg Petrov. That’s your name, isn’t it?” Dalek pulled the stretcher, and Anton followed.

“Yes. Have we met?”

Anton knew that name. Oleg Petrov was the man who’d run off with Filip’s wife. But if he’d gone to Shanghai with Nadia, why was he being unloaded from a hospital train in Omsk?

Dalek’s tone was measured. “I think we have a common acquaintance. Nadia Ilyinichna Linskaya Sedláková.”

Petrov smiled, as if sipping a glass of fine wine, and Anton was tempted to drop him on his head. He knew the pain of losing a wife. Revenge against the disease that had taken Veronika was impossible. But vengeance for Filip was within Anton’s literal grasp.

Petrov’s voice was weak from his injury, but the words carried to Anton’s ear. “Nadia. Yes. I was friends with her brother. Our families intended us to marry. I saw her last winter at some station near Yekaterinburg. So beautiful. She’d married one of you lot.”

Dalek’s face was hard, mirroring the contempt Anton felt. “You offered to steal her away, didn’t you? Take her to Shanghai. Is she there now?”

Oleg’s eyebrows crinkled up. “I offered to take her away. She wouldn’t come.”

“She refused you once, yes. But then she changed her mind the next day, and you ran off together. Isn’t that what happened?”

“No. She wanted to stay with her husband. I haven’t seen her since.”

Dalek’s face turned pale. Anton felt sick to his stomach. If Nadia hadn’t run off with her former fiancé, where had she gone? They handed the stretcher up into a truck and assisted a few more patients from the boxcar.

“Do you think he told us the truth?” Anton asked.

Dalek ran a finger over his mustache. “Why would he lie? If he had her somewhere safe, there wouldn’t be any point. And I heard his plan—if she joined him, he planned to desert.” Dalek shook his head. “I’ve got to tell Filip.”

***

Filip rummaged through a pile of thick wool coats. Kral pried open a crate to reveal new boots. A pair of Czech patrolmen had reported a black-market cache in a local warehouse, and Filip and Kral had gone to check on it. The more they searched, the more they found.

“I thought Semenov was holding up supplies,” Filip said. The warlord, nominally in charge of the rail to the east of Lake Baikal, was notoriously crooked. The constant shortages were maddening. Filip’s own coat and boots were full of holes, but at least he had somewhere warm to sleep. These supplies had been meant for men at the front. “Why are these here?”

Kral frowned. “Because someone thought they could make money from them.”

“Maybe if Kolchak weren’t so corrupt, the Red Army wouldn’t be advancing on Omsk.”

“I don’t think Kolchak is crooked, but all his friends are, and the cocaine he uses dulls his brain.” Kral let the lid to the crate drop. “These aren’t ours, so we can’t take them. The White Army will be here soon enough. Maybe if we mention what we found to a few of them, this equipment will end up in the right hands.”

Filip nodded. He hoped Kral was right, because the army retreating before the Reds fought in rags.

He followed Kral back to the legion’s Omsk headquarters. A long line of supplicants waited outside the two-story brick building. The legion was pulling out, and the refugees didn’t want to be left behind.

Kral sighed as he examined the long queue. “They all want the legion to evacuate them. I wish we could help, but we barely have enough room for our own men. Better make sure the regiment is prepared.”

“Yes, Brother Major.” Filip took his leave, grateful that he wasn’t the one who had to turn down the mass of desperate people seeking an escape. The city’s population had swollen fivefold. Refugees crowded into homes or lived in earthen dugouts with thatched roofs, but few of them wanted to stay, not with the Red Army driving the White Army east at an alarming speed.

He remembered another refugee, desperate to escape the Bolsheviks. He hoped Nadia was somewhere safe. She should have been waiting for him in Vladivostok. But at least she wasn’t lying beside the train track in a pile with a dozen other corpses. She’d betrayed him, and that had left him confused and miserable and cold inside. But he couldn’t wish hardship on her, not when he still loved her.

Maybe it was his fault anyway. He’d hidden the truth, and he’d made the arrogant mistake of thinking a former aristocrat could be happy with him. He’d been wrong, and now he was suffering the consequences.

Dalek and Anton found him midway between headquarters and their boxcars. Something was wrong. Their faces were pale, and though he had the impression they’d come looking for him, neither spoke.

“What is it?” Maybe the engine that was supposed to take them east had broken down. Or maybe the Reds had bypassed Omsk and taken the rail line behind them, cutting off their escape. He hadn’t thought the Reds were close enough for a flanking maneuver, but Gajda had managed feats like that. The right commander could make it happen.

Dalek swallowed. “Filip . . . when I told you that your wife ran off with Petrov, I thought I was right. Based on what I’d heard and the fact that she was gone . . .”

Filip held his breath. His friends normally tiptoed around the subject of his wife’s desertion. “And?”

Anton spoke. “And we just found Petrov among the White Army’s wounded. He said she turned him down. She didn’t run off with him.”

“She didn’t?” He paused. “I don’t understand. She was gone.”

Dalek nodded. “Yes. But she didn’t leave you for Petrov.”

“Then where did she go?” She wouldn’t have run off by herself, and the village was isolated other than the rail line. “There were partisans out that day, but we chased them away. There weren’t reports of anyone else, were there?”

Dalek shook his head. “No. But that doesn’t mean no one else was about. Criminals, freed war prisoners, bandits. Filip, I think maybe she didn’t leave voluntarily.”

Nadia hadn’t left him. His mind seized that thought and held it fast. She hadn’t abandoned him, hadn’t turned her back on all their plans. But where was she? “I have to find her.” The village where they’d lived was six hundred miles west, and the Reds were in the way, but maybe he could get through by sleigh.

As Filip turned toward the train station, Dalek grabbed his arm. “Yekaterinburg fell to the Reds in August. You can’t go back. But she knows where to go. If she’s alive, she’ll head for Vladivostok.”

“What if she can’t? Dalek, I didn’t even look for her. She might have been abducted, and I did nothing to help.” He’d promised to protect her, but he hadn’t even asked the villagers if they’d seen something suspicious.

“You wouldn’t find anything now. It’s been ten months. There won’t be any clues. No trail to follow.”

Dalek was right, but how could Filip not go looking for her? She might need him. And she might still love him. He couldn’t go to Yekaterinburg, but he still went to the station, with Dalek and Anton on his heels. He stepped over the crowds of refugees huddling on the floor and went to the walls plastered with little notes.

If Vanya wishes to find Olga, meet at the station in Irkutsk.

Ivan, I’ve taken the children to Tomsk.

Nikita can be found at Uncle Leonid’s home.

Maria, I’ve gone to Chita. Kostya.

They covered the walls, layer upon layer of paper scraps scribbled in hope and desperation. It would take hours to read through them, and something told him Nadia hadn’t been in Omsk lately. If she had, she would have contacted the legion. But he couldn’t leave without looking, searching, hoping to find some bit of paper with her name or his.

Dalek disappeared and came back with the entire squadron. But they didn’t find Nadia’s name at all, and the only message for a Filip was from a Daria.

Desperation drove Filip to the hospital next, in the hope that Petrov would have more information, some clue about where she might have gone or who might have taken her. But Petrov couldn’t tell him anything useful, could only add to Filip’s growing guilt and worry.

“A woman like that fell in love with you, and you lost her?”

Knowledge that Nadia was missing and Filip hadn’t searched for her was like a blade to his heart. Petrov’s question was like a twist on the hilt. Dalek looked ready to punch the man despite his wound, but Filip warned him off with a shake of his head.

“I’ll find her.” And Filip meant it.

“How?” Petrov’s condition didn’t prevent him from glowering with indignation. “She deserved better than you.”

Filip knew that. He’d known it since he’d stood over her limp body with shaving lather on his face after she’d been thrown from her horse in the Ukraine. But she’d chosen him, she’d loved him, and he intended to be worthy of that love, no matter where he had to go or what he had to do. He just needed a place to start.

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.

“Pokorný? What is it?” Kral’s face was calm; he wasn’t going to chastise Dalek for leaving his post, at least not until after Dalek explained himself.

“I intercepted a telegram from Kolchak to Semenov.”

Semenov’s name brought a frown to Kral’s lips. Semenov was nominally on their side—he opposed the Bolsheviks, and he received a generous stipend from the Japanese. But rumors of massacres performed by Semenov’s men were so common that there had to be some truth to them. “What did it say?”

“It seems Kolchak is unhappy that his train is stuck behind so many legion trains. We’re slowing his escape from the Red Army. He suggested Semenov prevent our movement east, even if he has to blow up bridges and destroy the Baikal tunnels.”

Kral’s frown deepened. “Blowing the tunnels would seal Kolchak west of Baikal too, not just us.”

Dalek shrugged. “Perhaps Admiral Kolchak has lost the ability to think rationally. Or maybe he plans to make for Mongolia by horse or sleigh.”

Kral rummaged through an attaché case and pulled out a map. “Come. We’ve a telegram to send. Semenov.” The name came out as a curse. “I trust him even less than I trust Kolchak. He’s the one who’s been delaying our supplies from Vladivostok. Kolchak’s supplies too. I’m surprised Kolchak’s asking him for help.”

“Desperation makes strange bedfellows.” Nadia and Filip, for example, but thinking of those two filled Dalek with guilt. If Dalek hadn’t assumed she’d gone off with Petrov, could Filip have found her before she’d disappeared forever into the Siberian snow? He’d let his best friend down, and a loss like that was unforgivable. Almost as unforgivable as the admiral’s telegram. “Kolchak doesn’t have many choices left. His army’s disintegrating, and the Reds are advancing. What I don’t understand is why the Japanese put up with a bandit like Semenov.”

“Oh, that I understand.” Kral grimaced. “All the massacres Semenov’s men perform give the Japanese an excuse to move farther and farther into Siberia, to keep the peace. It may be a chaotic country, but it has its resources—and Japan needs more resources. They’re using us, too, as an excuse to stay, so they have little incentive to speed our evacuation.”

“Then who are we telegraphing?” The British or the Americans might be more trustworthy than Semenov, Kolchak, or the Japanese, but most of them were farther east, nearer Vladivostok. To get to them, the legion would have to go through Japan’s sector and through Semenov’s territory.

Kral shoved his map back inside his case. “The only people we’ve consistently been able to depend on are our brothers in the legion. There’ll be some legionnaires closer to Baikal. We’ll tell them what to expect.”

Dalek coded a message and sent it to General Syrový, the legion’s eye-patch-wearing supreme commander. Then they waited. Waited for permission to use one of the few still-functioning engines. Waited to hear what would happen when Syrový’s force made contact with Semenov’s bandits. Waited for news of how quickly the Red Army was forcing the White Army east. Waited for word of his best friend’s missing wife.

The engine was available again the next day. It took them only two stations, but at least they moved in the correct direction. A group of legionnaires farther east captured 1,300 of Semenov’s men and took control of the railway. But even with the success of their brothers around Lake Baikal, the packed trains crept eastward no faster than a crawl over the ice-covered tracks. The Red Army continued to force the White Army to retreat. And the last problem—Nadia—remained unsolved.

***

“She’s been missing for how long?”

“Since January.”

The man Filip spoke with frowned. “That’s a long time.”

“Yes, I know.” At every town and every station, Filip searched the depot for messages from Nadia. So far, he’d found none. He’d asked every Red Cross or YMCA volunteer he’d seen if they could locate a missing person, but none had been able to offer any clues. “Have you any news of someone by that name?”

The man scribbled something on a sheet of paper. “No. But I’ll let you know if I hear anything. You’re with the Sixth Regiment?”

“Yes.”

Filip left the Red Cross office. They were packing, preparing to go east. Just like the legion. Most of the Czechs and Slovaks were already past Lake Baikal. Only the Fifth and Sixth Regiments remained to the west of it.

If Nadia had made it to Vladivostok, he assumed she would have written to him. If she was elsewhere to the east, she might be dealing with roving warlords and packs of criminals. If, on the other hand, she was still to the west of him, she’d be dealing with Communists, chaos, and civil war. He’d started praying again, begging God to protect her since he himself had utterly failed at that task. But faith was more than prayers—it was also action and decisions.

Filip went to see Kral again. “Brother Major?”

Kral shook his head. “I already told you, Sedlák. Unless you have a credible lead, I need you here, not chasing a missing person all across Siberia. I’m sorry for your loss, I am, but I’ll not allow you to risk your life unless the chances of finding her improve significantly.”

How had Kral known he didn’t have any leads? Perhaps it was written on his face. Maybe after being at war together for four years, Kral could read his mood as well as Filip could read Kral’s.

Filip had deserted once before. But leaving the Austro-Hungarian Army had been justified; he’d been following his conscience. Leaving the legion would be different, a betrayal. The rational part of his mind told him that staying with the regiment was his wisest choice. Nadia, at least, would know where to find him. Still, moving to the east, no matter how slowly, cut at his heart. What if he was leaving Nadia farther and farther behind?

“Have the men load up,” Kral said. “We’re leaving.”

“Already?” They’d only arrived a few hours ago. Their trains hadn’t moved so quickly in months.

“Yes. We’ve been assigned two engines, so we can escort Admiral Kolchak to Irkutsk.”

“You can’t be serious.” Dalek had told Filip all about the telegram and the conspiracy between Kolchak and Semenov.

Kral frowned. “I wish I were joking. But I’m not.”

“Kolchak hates us. Why would he want us to escort him to Irkutsk?”

“Because the Red Army is on his heels, and he has enemies everywhere. He needs protection, and we’re the best fighting force in Siberia. And there’s more. We’re also escorting the imperial treasury.”

“The gold?”

“Eight boxcars with 650 million rubles in gold bullion.”

Filip glanced around. No one else had heard. “That will make us a target. And why should Kolchak get the gold? It belongs to the Russian people.”

“So you think we should leave it for the Bolsheviks?”

“No. But I don’t like the idea of risking our lives so Kolchak can escape with the wealth of the Romanovs. He’s a crook.”

“That may be true, but we have our orders.”

Filip shook his head, not in disagreement, just in frustration.

“Cheer up. Maybe she’s in Irkutsk waiting for you.”

Hope surged through Filip’s chest. “Do you think so?”

Kral sighed. “I have no idea where your wife is. But she’s not here, so you may as well press on.”

Filip nodded and went to spread the word. They were moving east with one of the most hated men in Siberia on their train, and with enough gold to attract every bandit, mercenary, and outlaw within five hundred miles.

And without the woman that more than anything he longed to find.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Nadia, Tanya, Sokolov, and Fedorov had stumbled onto the portion of the White Army that General Kappel commanded. When Omsk fell, most of their equipment had been captured by the enemy, so they weren’t well supplied. Nor were they fighting the Bolsheviks.

They were retreating.

At least there was safety in numbers. Kappel’s group didn’t have a hospital train or even a tent, but there was no lack of wounded and ill patients, so Nadia’s services as a nurse were welcomed. In exchange, she ate. Not enough to gain back what weight she’d lost but more than she’d had as a prisoner.

The men she tended tugged at her compassion. The women and children often brought her to tears. The soldiers were retreating with their families, and the young suffered disproportionately. So far, she’d had no contact with the legion. The Czechs and Slovaks stayed a few stations to the east of Kappel and his men. The Red Army stayed to the west, nipping at their heels.

She replaced a bandage on an older man’s bullet-pierced bicep, then cut off the black ends of a young man’s frostbitten toes and wrapped the foot in relatively clean rags. She wasn’t really qualified to remove gangrenous bits of fingers and toes, but someone had to do it.

“Nadia?”

She turned. The sun was down, and the voice had come from a man standing in the shadows. He stepped closer, and light from a nearby fire revealed olive skin and black hair. It couldn’t be . . . The face was too thin, even if the coloring was right. But that voice . . .

She straightened and stared. The endless cold and miserable rations were making her hallucinate. Nikolai was dead. And yet, those eyes were familiar, and the grin that broke across the man’s face was one she’d seen a million times before. “Nikolai?”

“It’s really you, then.” Her brother closed the distance and wrapped her in an embrace. “The years have changed you.”

“And you’ve come back from the dead. Oleg said your company was slaughtered and you disappeared . . . three years ago. He told us you died.” Her tears had smeared the ink of Oleg’s letter.

“No. Wounded. And taken prisoner.”

“Why didn’t you write to us?” Her chest felt tight. They’d mourned for him, but Nikolai was alive!

“I did write, a dozen times. But I was sick, so it wasn’t right away. And then some Welch pilot escaped, and the German commandant punished the whole camp by revoking our mail privileges. Then the first revolution happened. And the second. I came back when the war ended, but I couldn’t find anyone. Not in Petrograd, not at Lavanda Selo. I’ve been praying for some clue about where you all went. How are Mama and Papa?”

Joy at her brother’s resurrection had made her forget everything else for just a moment. But memory of all her griefs came back again, heavier now because she knew Nikolai’s warm smile would soon disappear.

“We went to Piryatin.” She pulled her brother closer to a fire. They sat there while she told him everything that had happened, from when the Cheka found their family until she found Kappel’s army. Nikolai’s face seemed worn out as she finished. Part of the pallor could have been the poor rations and the long march, but it was also a heap of wrongs and hardships, and he was hearing it all at once.

“And now you’re a nurse again.”

She nodded. “I’m hoping to catch up to the legion. Find Filip again.”

“Your husband is a corporal?”

“A sergeant.” She doubted the slightly elevated rank would impress her brother, but Filip had been pleased with his promotion. By now, maybe he’d received another. “He’s from Prague. A watchmaker. Life with him will be different from what it was before the war, but I love him.”

Nikolai frowned. “Are you sure he’ll overlook what happened when the bandits took you? Honor is a powerful thing.”

“He won’t blame me.” She said the words, but Tanya had asked much the same question, and hearing her brother echo that doubt made it hard to ignore.

“Maybe not. But will he still want you?”

“I have to see.”

Nikolai nodded. “I’m not trying to destroy your hope. I just don’t want rejection added to everything you’ve already suffered.”

She squeezed his hand. “I have more patients to check. But I’m happy to see you again, Nikolai. This is a blessing I didn’t dare hope for.”

***

Knowing Nikolai was alive fixed something broken deep inside Nadia’s chest. Their time together was limited because they both had duties. She was a nurse, and he was an officer, though in the White Army, being a captain didn’t mean all that much. The Whites were opposite of how she’d found the legion in 1918. The legion had been mostly enlisted men. Corporals and sergeants had done the work of lieutenants and captains. The White Army, on the other hand, had few enlisted men and an overabundance of officers. Generals might command companies instead of divisions.

But no one was giving many orders lately, other than retreat. Nadia pulled a pot from the fire and ladled kasha into bowls for her and her brother. They had to eat quickly because they would soon be on the move again.

Nikolai blew on a spoonful, then tasted it. He gave her a smile of appreciation. “You know how to cook.”

“I learned.”

“I left behind a sister who could spend hours discussing art, music, or fashion but who couldn’t prepare a meal to save her life.” He looked at his bowl. “I knew you’d volunteered as a nurse, but to see you working on hard cases, to see you cooking . . . You’re different.”

“The world changed. I had to change too. I can even do laundry now, when soap is available.”

He met her eyes again. “I don’t think the work battalion was good for you. You’re too skinny. But the rest of the changes suit you.”

Nadia hadn’t felt approval in months. To feel that emotion from her brother almost brought her to tears. “You’ve changed too. Before the war, you were always in pursuit of the next lark: the theater, a practical joke, a ride through the fields. You’re more sober now.”

“War and revolution have a sobering effect. So does knowledge that the rest of our family is dead.”

Nadia lost her appetite as a vision of the executions in her aunt’s courtyard crossed her mind, but she forced herself to finish her breakfast. She needed every last bit of boiled grain to keep her strength. “I don’t even have a picture of them. Do you?”

“No. I had some before I was captured. I never got them back.”

“The only thing I have from before are my boots.” She held out a foot, displaying the torn leather and the cracked soles held together with rags. “Old boots and memories.”

Nikolai rummaged through his pack. He seemed to find what he was looking for and handed her a small object. With reverence, she examined the bit of metal with orange and black ribbon in her palm. Orange for fire. Black for death. A Cross of St. George, 4th Class. “This is yours?”

He nodded.

“What did you do?”

He shrugged. “I held the line against the Reds. And I did it much better than the units on either side of us did, which didn’t work to our advantage. We were exposed in a salient, so I turned and attacked the enemy’s rear. It shouldn’t have worked, but it did. Made them withdraw. I took a gamble that they would panic, and they did.”

She handed the medal back to her brother, but he shook his head. “Keep it.”

“I can’t keep it. It’s yours.”

“You said you don’t have anything from our family. I can’t find a piece of Mama’s jewelry for you, so a Cross of St. George will have to suffice.”

“But what about you?”

“I found my sister. I’ll be content with that.” Nikolai stood. “They don’t award medals for learning to live again when everything’s been taken away from you. But maybe they should.” He squeezed her shoulder briefly before moving on to his duties.

Chapter Forty

When Filip’s train pulled into Glaskov Station, across the river from Irkutsk, it was already growing dark. Icy temperatures buffeted his skin the moment he left the train. A sizeable group of Japanese soldiers waited, along with a hundred Russian troops and a handful of fighting men from France. They weren’t openly hostile, but they weren’t openly friendly either.

“Yesterday I told some of Kolchak’s entourage that they should take a walk and not return.” Petr climbed from their teplushka to stand beside Filip. “I hope they took my advice. They all look like they want to kill Kolchak and take the gold.” Petr scanned the foreign troops.

Another legionnaire approached them, someone from a different regiment. He asked after a few friends, then looked back at the armed men around the station. “Semenov’s men attacked the station a few days after Christmas. They were driven back but took hostages with them. Thirty men, one woman. They beat them over the heads and dumped them into Lake Baikal. The locals aren’t too happy about it. No trial, and most were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Arrested by Kolchak’s regime. The people blame him.”

While the senior officers consulted, Filip went to the train depot. He searched the notes plastered on the walls for news of his wife but had no success. Please, Lord, he prayed silently for the hundredth time that day. Please help me find her.

Negotiations dragged on, with officers rushing in and out of Kolchak’s train, in and out of the telegraph office. After looking through all the scraps of paper twice, Filip went to find Dalek. No one in Glaskov Station knew where Nadia was, but maybe Dalek would at least know what was happening with the supreme ruler and the gold.

Dalek nodded at Filip when he entered the telegraph office, then handed something to Kral before waving Filip closer.

“What’s happening?” Filip asked.

Dalek frowned. “The Social Revolutionaries control the coal from here east. We can’t get through without their cooperation, and they insist that Kolchak can’t move beyond Irkutsk. They want the gold too.”

“Of course they do.” Who wouldn’t want 650 million rubles in gold? “What are we going to do about the admiral?” Kolchak was under their protection. Handing him over seemed dishonorable, but the alterative—fighting their way east while the Red Army closed in from the west and their trains stalled for lack of fuel—sounded like suicide.

“That’s what they keep going back and forth about.” Dalek crossed his arms. “I don’t like Kolchak, but I hate to turn him over to SRs. I expect they’ll arrest him.” The Social Revolutionaries hadn’t forgiven Kolchak for seizing power from them in Omsk after a coup fourteen months ago.

“Better the SRs than the Bolsheviks.” Filip looked through the window at the swirl of troops outside. “We could force our way through. Take the coal. We just have to get past Lake Baikal, and then the Americans and the Japanese control the stations.”

Dalek snorted. “Yes, and the Japanese have been so friendly with us here. As has their close associate, Ataman Semenov.”

Filip frowned. Dalek was right. Working with the Japanese might not be any easier than working with the Social Revolutionaries. The SRs were reasonable, for the most part. They were opposed to an autocratic tsar and also opposed to a dictatorship of the proletariat. Their vision of government wasn’t so different from the Czechoslovakian Republic Filip was so eager to get to. And he’d get there faster if they handed Kolchak over, leaving him to face the consequences of his rule. Why should the legion put themselves at risk to defend a corrupt dictator who’d neglected his fighting men and ignored the atrocities of his underlings?

“What do you suppose our casualties would be if we tried to take the coal mines?” Dalek stamped his feet, trying to stay warm.

“I value the life of the lowest-ranked legionnaire more than I value Kolchak, even if he is the supreme ruler. I wouldn’t ask a single one of them to die for a man like that.” It wasn’t Filip’s choice anyway, but he’d made up his mind. He didn’t want to fight for Admiral Kolchak. Yes, the legion had said they’d protect the man, but he’d tried to stab them in the back by conspiring with Semenov to halt their evacuation—even suggesting the destruction of the Baikal tunnels.

If Kolchak wanted safe passage east, he should have left Omsk before the Red Army had crossed the Irtysh River into Omsk’s outskirts. And he shouldn’t have insisted on seven trains for him and his entourage. He’d complained that the legion’s trains were holding him up, but his own greed had slowed him just as much. The honorable choice might have been to protect the man they’d been ordered to guard, but their higher duty was to each other and their country, not to Kolchak.

Across the room, Kral finished his telephone conversation. He hung up and said something to another officer, who quickly left the office.

Filip went closer, wondering if anything had been decided.

Kral met his eyes. “Word came from General Janin. We’re to turn both Kolchak and the gold over at dawn. And pray they let the rest of us through.”

The night stretched on as final details were arranged and last-minute pleas were made. A few of Kolchak’s entourage managed to escape, but the fate of the supreme ruler was now fixed. SR soldiers from Irkutsk and the guards who had insisted on guarding Kolchak since they’d passed through Polovina two days ago argued about who would have the privilege of escorting the admiral to prison. Japanese soldiers still garrisoned the station, but they made no move to rescue Kolchak. At first light, the supreme ruler, his mistress, and his prime minister left the train and crossed the frozen river to Irkutsk.

Chapter Forty-One

Nadia checked a toddler’s toes. “These two are frostbitten but not severely. Heat a rock in one of the fires, wrap it in a cloth, and keep his toes on it. It will probably hurt as the feeling comes back, so you might have to hold him still. And it may form blisters.”

The child’s mother nodded and went to fetch a rock.

As Nadia tucked the toddler into a sleigh beside his wounded father, she felt a hand on her arm. Nikolai, with a slice of bread for her. “Thank you.” She ripped the bread in two and gave half to the boy.

Nikolai frowned. “If you’re not careful, generosity will kill you almost as quickly as typhus.”

“But you shared with me.”

“I’m your brother.”

She didn’t argue. Nikolai had a point—she needed every bit of food she got. She couldn’t save everyone, but she didn’t want the little boy to end up with the piles of corpses that lined the railway, so she didn’t begrudge him the bread. She moved to the next sleigh, and Nikolai came with her.

“Are the lead sleighs starting?” The sun was up. It would be a shame to waste daylight hours.

“Slowly. Have you heard the news?”

“What news?”

“The Czechs turned Kolchak over to the Social Revolutionaries in Irkutsk. The SRs hate Kolchak.” Nikolai folded his arms across his chest. “I can’t believe they did that. Cowards.”

She knew the legion. They weren’t cowards, but they’d been in Russia a long time. “This isn’t their fight.”

Nikolai huffed. “Maybe not. But we could use their help. They gave us food and medicine and offered to take Kappel and hide him among their wounded until he gets over his frostbite. But they won’t turn and fight the Bolsheviks. That’s what we need—men to hold the line with us, not bandages and tinned bully beef.”

Nadia hurried to tie off the bandages she’d wrapped around a soldier’s frostbitten fingers. “You’ve made contact with the legion?”

Nikolai sighed. “You want to go with them, I suppose?”

“Yes!” Maybe it was the Sixth Regiment, and she could be with Filip again in a matter of hours. “Please, Nikolai, I have to find him.”

The corner of Nikolai’s lips pulled into a smile. “Fine. If you want your watchmaker husband, I’ll help you find him. Anything to get you out of this.” He looked at the desperate bunch of soldiers and refugees, and she followed his gaze. Guilt tugged at her. She was useful here, helping with the wounded. But something far stronger pulled her to her husband.

Chaos greeted them when they reached the nearest station. Throngs of desperate refugees pushed toward the trains, and uniformed legionnaires held them at bay.

Nikolai helped her maneuver through the crowd until she stood before one of the guards.

She used her best Czech. “My husband is in the Sixth Regiment, but we were separated. Can you get me to him?”

The man rolled his eyes. “Yes, you and the last seven women who’ve spoken to me are married to someone in a regiment farther east. Our trains are full. We don’t have room for anyone else. You’ll have to do your best on sleigh or foot.”

“But I really am married to a legionnaire. Sergeant Filip Sedlák. His commanding officer is Karel Kral. If you don’t believe me, send a telegram. His best friend is Dalek Pokorný, and he’s a telegraph clerk—he’ll tell you I’m not lying.”

“Telegrams are for official purposes only.” The guard rattled off the response as if he said it regularly.

“But I helped the legion when they took Omsk in 1918. And I served as a nurse. I can help your wounded.”

“We’ve already moved the wounded farther east. And I’ve heard that before too—everyone wanting to sneak on board is either a nurse or one of the missing grand duchesses. Move on. Our trains are full.”

Nikolai dug in his pocket and tried to put something into the man’s hand. Money. A lot of it.

The legionnaire shoved it back. “I don’t take bribes.”

“Please,” Nikolai said. “She really did marry one of your men. Back in 1918, in the Ukraine.”

“I have my orders. And even if I didn’t, the only way we’d have room for her was if we kicked off one of our own men. You wouldn’t expect us to do that, would you?”

“What about a letter?” She had to let Filip know where she was. “Could you get a letter to him?”

The guard’s face softened. “I can try.”

Finding paper, pen, and ink proved more of a challenge than Nadia had expected. Nikolai bought a sheet of paper at the telegraph office, but by then, the Czech’s engine was whistling. She had only a minute to borrow pen and ink and scrawl out a message before the legion would be gone again. Nikolai ran to give it to one of the guards, and then the train disappeared.

Would her letter reach Filip? And if it did, would it be legible, or would the ink be smeared because she hadn’t had time to let it dry? As the train pulled away, she told herself that she’d have another chance, and she almost believed it.

***

The White Army drew closer and closer to Irkutsk, moving on sleighs and on foot. The legion stayed ahead of them, keeping control of the railroad. Both skirmished with the Red Army, but Nikolai kept Nadia far from the firing line.

With each dawn, she wondered if the coming day would be the one when Filip found her. But a week passed, and he didn’t appear.

Eventually, the White Army gained control of Innokentievskaia Station. The next station to the east was Glaskov, across the river from Irkutsk.

Nikolai motioned her away from the wounded men she was tending. “I’m going to Irkutsk to negotiate. It’s dangerous, but there are still Czechs passing through. Maybe you can find your husband. Would you like to come?”

Nadia looked at the wounded men around her. They needed her. But no matter how hard she worked, there would always be more wounded to care for. The ice would always find new victims, as would disease and bullets. She wanted to help, but more than that, she wanted Filip, regardless of the risk. “Yes, I’d like to come.”

She joined Nikolai, Sokolov, Fedorov, and Tanya. While the men met with the leaders of Irkutsk, Tanya and Nadia went to the train depot in search of Czechs.

“The Sixth Regiment cleared out over a week ago.” A legionnaire waved his hand to the east. “Probably halfway to Chita by now.”

She was a week behind Filip. A week and several hundred miles. “Can you arrange for me to follow them?”

The man shook his head but looked sympathetic. “I’m sorry. I can send a letter for you, but it might not catch him until he gets to Vladivostok.”

Nadia wrote another letter, but it felt like a goodbye rather than a plea for help. Vladivostok. It was over two thousand miles away. In perfect health, with a well-stocked sleigh and team of horses, she might make it. On foot, after starving for nearly a year? She didn’t like her chances.

She couldn’t leave the White Army, or she’d be vulnerable to bandits. Yet staying with them meant the Reds were a constant threat. Things were going badly for the Whites. General Kappel had died when his frostbite had turned to gangrene, and even the ministrations of a Czech doctor hadn’t been able to save him. Voitsekhovsky was their new leader, the man who had sent Nikolai and the others to negotiate. But even if Irkutsk’s current leaders cooperated, the larger enemy, the Red Army, would continue its pursuit. They wouldn’t stop until all of Russia was under Bolshevik control.

They spent the night in a broken boxcar. The back wheels were gone, so it balanced at an angle on the ground near the train depot, no longer on the tracks.

Nikolai sat beside her. It was dark, but it wasn’t late. He and the others had delivered the White Army’s demands to the Irkutsk government, but they hadn’t yet received an answer.

“If the White Army never recovers, would you consider emigration?” she asked.

“You mean if we lose?”

“Yes.” She hated to sound so defeatist, but it was hard to have faith in an army so desperate for food, ammunition, and clothing. The only things the White Army had in abundance were typhus, dysentery, and frostbite cases. Maybe courage too, but courage alone didn’t win wars.

Nikolai sighed. “I don’t think I can leave Russia without breaking my soul in two. Our family’s lands are here. This is where our ancestors lived and bled and died. You heard Papa tell the stories, same as I did.”

She remembered the stories. And she had the same concerns. Her Russian soul was connected to the Russian soil in a way that couldn’t be easily severed. She’d been willing to emigrate when her family was dead, but now that Nikolai was alive, the thought of leaving him hurt more than the ever-present ache of hunger or the sharp sting of the Siberian winter.

Nikolai continued. “I don’t think the Bolsheviks will ever forgive me for being born a baron’s son and fighting against them. If I stay, my only inheritance in Russia will be a grave. So I suppose I’ll have to leave, because I don’t think we can win. The war’s lost, Nadia. It’s not over yet, but we can’t win anymore. We’re here to negotiate safe passage. We told them we won’t attack Irkutsk if they let our wounded through unscathed, release Kolchak, and give us 250 million rubles.”

“That much?”

“It’s about a third of what they took from the Czechs. If we take the city, we’ll take all the gold. They’d have trouble moving it before we arrived in force.”

“Do you think they’ll agree?”

Sokolov shook his head. “I doubt it. The Red Army is right behind us. They’ll be in Irkutsk soon. If Revkom makes an agreement with us, they’ll face reprisals from the Red Army.”

“Revkom?”

“A Bolshevik revolutionary committee. Took over from the Political Centre the end of January.”

“So they have Kolchak?” Nadia remembered Filip’s reservations about Kolchak, but Gajda had liked him, and Filip thought Gajda the best officer in all the legion. But that had been a long time ago, and things changed swiftly during civil wars.

“Yes.”

Kolchak in the hands of the SRs of the Political Centre had been bad. Kolchak in the hands of the Bolsheviks of Revkom sounded far worse. “What would you do if they released Kolchak to you?”

Sokolov pulled a blanket around his shoulders. “I suppose we’d bring him with us. Maybe on the other side of Baikal, we can regroup. Block the tunnels and hold off the Red Army. There are plenty of supplies in Vladivostok. If we could get those and convince the peasants to rally to our cause, maybe we could negotiate a peace with the Reds.”

Peasants could take hardships. Nadia had seen that in the hospital. But they’d been at war for years. They wanted to plant and grow, not fight and flee. “Few Siberian peasants have reason to support Kolchak.”

“Well, he’s better than the Bolsheviks.”

No one wanted to risk their life for someone who wasn’t quite as bad as the other option. They wanted to fight for someone they supported wholeheartedly.

“Any word on your husband?” Sokolov asked.

“His regiment left, and the mail isn’t moving much faster than the men. I might have to chase him all the way to Vladivostok.” She would follow Filip until she couldn’t take another step forward, but she was beginning to think her last step would come long before she found him again.

Chapter Forty-Two

Another train depot, another thousand notes stuck to the walls of the station, and none of them from Nadia.

Filip headed back to his teplushka. He paused when he spotted a pile of corpses stacked like logs on the side of the train depot. They couldn’t be buried until the ground thawed in the spring. Filip bent to examine them. Unlike his efforts in the station, here he hoped he wouldn’t find sign of his wife.

He finished with the frozen bodies and straightened. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could stomach looking at piles of dead Russians, especially when some of the bodies were children. But what if he passed Nadia’s body and never learned the truth?

Dalek practically barreled into Filip as he turned from the deceased refugees. Dalek was breathing hard, as though he’d been running. In his hand, he held a piece of paper. “It’s from her.”

Filip grabbed the letter. The words were mostly German, and the ink was so smudged he could barely read it.

Dearest Filip,

I’m trying my best to chase you to Vladivostok and, if I must, to Prague. But I have no money and very few friends. You can find me tending Voitsekhovsky’s wounded. The Fifth Regiment won’t take me. If this letter reaches you, please help me find you again. I love you, and I miss you.

A thousand kisses,

Nadia

“She’s alive,” were the first words that escaped Filip’s mouth.

“I would assume so, if she’s writing a letter.”

Nadia was alive. Powerful emotion made his throat feel raspy. Relief, regret, and for the first time in months, hope. He couldn’t cry, not in front of Dalek, but he closed his eyes and said a silent prayer of gratitude. She was out there waiting for him, and now he had a place to begin his search.

He wanted to march back to the Fifth Regiment and give them a serious reprimand for turning his wife away, but the Sixth Regiment was under similar orders. No refugees could be taken on the trains. There were barely spots for the legionnaires. Filip read the words again. “Voitsekhovsky? The Russian colonel with us in Chelyabinsk?”

“He’s a White general now, took over after Kappel died.”

If she was with the White Army, Filip could get to her in a matter of days. No trains moved west now, but with a horse or a sleigh . . .

He ran all the way to Kral’s quarters, and Dalek followed. Filip burst into the office and held the letter up. “I know where my wife is.”

Kral took the letter and read it through. “It might be best to telegraph Fifth Regiment, and you can wait for her here.”

Filip shook his head. “You know what a mess the rails are. I need to go to her.”

“By yourself?”

By himself, across Siberia, in the winter. It wasn’t the wisest course of action, but he was desperate to reach his wife. “Yes.”

“I’ll go with him,” Dalek said.

Kral nodded. “I’d rather you both stay, but I understand. Let me write a few letters so you can get back to us.”

Chapter Forty-Three

Revkom gave their answer a few days after Nikolai’s delegation made their offer. They would not turn over the gold, nor would they release Kolchak.

Nikolai seemed to have a permanent frown etched onto his face now, so different from the mischievous boy from Nadia’s memory. But she, too, was changed. War did that to people. It sucked out the laughter and smothered the joy. “I’ll take you and Tanya back,” he said. “I’m sorry the Czechs wouldn’t help you.”

Was Nadia better off staying with the White Army or chasing the legion and hoping Filip would send help? Staying in Irkutsk was dangerous, and thousands of other refugees fought for the food and shelter she would need. But would she ever find Filip if she returned to the Whites?

There was another possibility she had to consider. A year had passed since her abduction, and Filip was a soldier, vulnerable to bullets and subject to the myriad epidemics that raged across Siberia. He might be dead.

Sokolov tugged at the cuff of his glove. “We could use a pair of lookouts.”

“No.” Nikolai’s reply was immediate. “I’m taking her back where she’ll be safe.” He huffed. “Safer than with us anyhow. I doubt anywhere in Russia is safe right now.”

“She was useful when we escaped from our labor battalion.” Sokolov crossed his arms.

“She’s not a soldier.”

Nadia cleared her throat so the two of them would stop talking over her. “What are you planning? Perhaps I should be the one to decide whether or not I can help.”

Nikolai glanced outside the boxcar, then lowered his voice. “Revkom isn’t cooperating, so Voitsekhovsky will attack. And if Voitsekhovsky takes the city, we’ll take the gold.”

“Unless Revkom tries to move it.” Sokolov planted his legs in a firm stance, as if digging in for an argument.

“They can’t move it by rail. We’re blocking the way west, and to the east are the Czechs, the Japanese, and Semenov.” Nikolai rubbed his hands together for warmth. “Voitsekhovsky might take the city, but he can’t hold it. Most of the gold is still in boxcars under heavy guard—heavier than we could get past. But one of Revkom’s men managed to transfer part of it to his personal boxcar.”

Sokolov smiled. “And Tanya saw where.”

“So you’re planning to take it?”

Nikolai nodded. “An army can’t fight without money. With that gold, we can buy real boots for our men instead of the rags and bark they’re using now. Rifles, ammunition, artillery. A chance to save Russia from the Bolsheviks.”

He was just like Papa, only Papa hadn’t included Nadia in his plans. “Let me help.” She was a Linsky—how could she not do everything in her power to save her homeland?

“I’d rather you return to the camp.”

“So I can freeze to death with the rest of them? Or catch typhus?” She wanted to help her brother. She’d already lost him once. She didn’t want to lose him again, not when her efforts might mean the difference between success and failure. “Let me stay.”

Nikolai looked at her for a long time. Finally, he nodded. “Just as lookout.”

***

Nadia stood in the shadows of an old boxcar at Glaskov Station. The official Allied delegations had all moved on, but foreign troops still occupied Glaskov. The main tracks of the Trans-Siberian line were closely guarded, but the sidings weren’t, not always. Across the river, Irkutsk was under siege law—anyone caught outside could be killed on sight. That wasn’t so different from being part of a labor battalion. She’d faced that before. This time, at least, she had her brother and three others with her, people she trusted. And in her pocket, she carried a grenade. She’d never had that in the labor camps. And Glaskov wasn’t under Revkom’s control, not completely, so they were likely to get a warning before anyone fired at them.

Tanya waited along the track, ahead of where Nikolai, Sokolov, and Fedorov planned to move the boxcar. Nadia waited behind. Her role was simply to make sure no one approached from that direction. The whistled trill she and Nikolai had used in the woods of Lavanda Selo would serve as warning should anyone appear.

The wind howled through the deserted siding, shifting snow and making the ice of the river creak. Would she live to see spring? She could hardly remember what it was like to be completely warm. Nor could she recall how it felt to be completely safe.

Nikolai and the other men worked to move the boxcar. They wedged levers under the wheels, budging it an inch or two at a time. Once they built some momentum, they’d push it, aided by the slight slope of the terrain. And if they moved the boxcar far enough away, the owner might not find it again until after the gold had been hidden to await the White Army’s arrival.

Filip could have disguised the boxcar with a little paint, if paint could be kept liquid in weather like this. Her thoughts always turned to her husband, maybe because she wanted so badly to be with him again. In the meantime, she would carry on the best she could with the cause he had once fought for. She understood why the legion had withdrawn from the civil war, but she also felt abandoned, especially now that she was with the White Army, seeing their plight firsthand. If no one would help them, how could they defeat the Bolsheviks?

The tools clanged against the track and the wheels, the noise carrying over the wind but only barely. Then the noise stopped. Maybe they were pushing it now. She was too far away to see the boxcar, and she was supposed to keep her eyes the other direction.

Shouts cut through the night, and a motor revved. The voices came from the far side of the boxcar, where Tanya kept watch. Something had gone wrong. She didn’t have a pistol, just the grenade, so she ducked into the shadows of a nearby train.

An automobile’s headlights pierced the darkness, exposing the slow-moving boxcar and Nadia’s brother. Several guards rushed toward the train, and two tackled Nikolai, dragging him to the ground.

“Stand up,” one of the men ordered. He wore a long black coat, and she recognized his voice. Orlov. Had he recognized Nikolai?

They hauled Nikolai to his feet and held him in the light. Blood trailed from his lip. One of the guards shoved him into the boxcar, hard, whipping his body into the wood. Nikolai groaned.

“Your father told me you died, Nikolai Ilyich Linsky.”

Nadia shuddered. There was little hope for Nikolai anyway because he’d been caught stealing the gold, but Orlov’s recognition sealed his doom.

“He believed me dead. I was captured, and when Russia fell apart, none of my messages made it through.”

Orlov huffed. “Fell apart? Russia is in the process of being reborn. The revolution will right the wrongs of the past.”

Nikolai spat on the ground. “Your revolution is a disaster.”

One of the guards pummeled the end of his rifle into Nikolai’s stomach, making him double over. It was all Nadia could do to stay quiet. When other agents brought Sokolov and Fedorov to stand beside her brother, Nadia’s hope sank. Had Tanya, at least, escaped? Could she help Nadia mount a rescue if Nadia could figure out what to do?

Then Tanya appeared and walked to Orlov’s side. Sokolov said something, but Nadia didn’t catch the words, only the venomous tone.

“I’m sorry,” Tanya said. “But I have to watch out for myself now. Three tsarist officers in exchange for a pardon. The Bolsheviks are going to win this war, and I want to be on the winning side.”

Nadia felt as if she’d been kicked in the gut. Tanya had betrayed them?

Nadia had to do something. She didn’t dare throw her grenade at them—she might injure the Bolsheviks, but she’d also hurt her brother.

As Orlov and Tanya spoke, Nadia tiptoed around the automobile. The ice on the river cooperated, creaking loudly enough to cover the sound of her footsteps.

“Lock them up.” Orlov’s command carried over the bitter wind.

Nadia slipped behind the steering wheel. The windshield wouldn’t protect her from a bullet, but she was behind the light—they’d have trouble seeing her. “Let them go!” she shouted through the still-open door.

Tanya said something that Nadia couldn’t hear, and Orlov laughed, making a sound that was low and cheerless. “So two of Baron Linsky’s children are in Irkutsk. This time, I won’t be commuting any sentences. You’ll be executed together, just like your parents.”

If they were going to execute her for counterrevolutionary activities, Nadia wanted to be guilty of more than a past that contained luxury, wanted to be punished for something she had done rather than something she’d been born to. “You will release them, or I’ll destroy the boxcar and you’ll lose all the gold inside.” She’d only driven once, the summer before the war, when Nikolai and Oleg had taken her driving in Oleg’s Russo-Baltique. This was a different model, but the boxcar was straight ahead. She wouldn’t have to do much steering, and the engine was already running. It might not work, but maybe the threat would be enough.

“You expect me to believe that you’d drive an automobile into the boxcar? You might kill yourself. Or the prisoners.” Orlov’s words made her pause but only for a moment.

Honor. Family. Russia. She knew what she would do. “My great-great-grandfather helped burn Moscow so Napoleon couldn’t have it. He started the blaze with his own palace. And my grandfather helped scuttle the Black Sea Fleet to keep the British out of Sevastopol Harbor. The Russian blood in my veins knows all about hard sacrifices. If you think for one moment I won’t destroy all of us to keep that gold out of Bolshevik hands, try me.” It would be only a small victory, only a small portion of the gold, but it would be a victory, nonetheless.

Orlov ignored her. Did he not believe her?

Nadia worked the clutch and held in the throttle. The tires slipped for a second before catching on the snow. She aimed for Orlov and Tanya. The Cheka agent and the traitor. They dashed away. She could have followed Orlov and had the satisfaction of running down the man who had shot her parents and her aunt, but keeping the gold out of Bolshevik hands was more important than revenge.

Gunshots and shouts flew all around her, but she aimed for the back corner of the boxcar. Smashing into it head-on might not push it into the river, but knocking the end off the tracks, that just might work.

Her brother called her name. She couldn’t tell if he was telling her to stop or telling her to keep going. Run, Nikolai. Her diversion was his best chance of escape.

The automobile rammed into the back corner of the boxcar, smashing into it with a crash of glass and buckling metal. Nadia’s body jerked forward, into the steering wheel, but she kept a steady pressure on the accelerator. Boxcar and automobile seemed to converge, but she didn’t let up until the automobile twisted past the train car.

She was headed straight for the river. She stomped on the brake pedal and the automobile spun. When it finally came to a stop, she was on the ice.

Something warm and wet ran down her face. Pieces of the windshield had left their mark in her skin. Her chest and neck ached. The thud of a bullet plowing into the upholstery knocked her back into action.

She scrambled from the automobile. The ice groaned and cracked.

The boxcar containing part of the imperial treasury sat eight meters away. She’d pushed it off the track, and now it, too, sat on the ice.

But the ice held.

The wind whipped her short hair into her face, and even in the dark, the Cheka men aimed their pistols at her, trying to strike her down.

She dropped to her knees and took out the only weapon she had. She pulled the pin. Then she tossed the grenade so it rolled underneath the boxcar.

One.

She had a tremendous headache.

Two.

The ice looked as though it were spinning.

Three.

The blood on her face grew cold.

Four.

The grenade exploded underneath the boxcar. The boom echoed across the ice, and the blast slammed Nadia into the uneven surface of the frozen river. After the initial sound, another crack split the air, followed by a series of groans, screeches, and sharp splinters.

Dizziness kept her on the cold, hard ice, but she fought against it, raising her head in time to see the boxcar slide through a hole in the ice and into the Angara River.

***

Nadia remembered little of her arrest. She’d been in too much pain. Her body had been slammed around the car, then smashed into the ice. But she heard one of the guards refer to her as a dangerous counterrevolutionary, and she felt a strange sense of pride as she was locked into a cell with Nikolai, Sokolov, and Fedorov.

Sokolov had been shot in the thigh while trying to escape during the scuffle in the train yard. Nikolai had been shot in the arm. She tore her skirt to make bandages and did what she could for them, but they were given no medical supplies. Then they slept.

She woke to the sound of a distant gunshot. Then another. Then another. In a nearby cell, a woman sobbed.

Nikolai stared out the window.

“What was it?”

“Admiral Kolchak, his prime minister, and their chief interrogator. They were taken onto the ice and executed.”

The supreme ruler of Siberia, executed on the ice. She shouldn’t have been surprised. If the former tsar hadn’t been safe, who was?

“And our fate?”

Nikolai frowned. “I imagine it will be the same.” He sat next to her on the cold stone floor. “Their revolution promised so much, but it hasn’t brought justice or hope. It’s just created monsters.”

Nadia checked her brother’s bandages as she thought of his words. The Bolsheviks had torn apart the old regime. And along with the darkness of the autocracy, they’d taken apart the beauty of the culture. They’d replaced it with a new form of oppression, something that made all miserable and hungry and fearful, without the faith or elegance of the old Russian spirit. They’d promised change, and they’d brought it. But they hadn’t created progress.

Nikolai smiled his thanks when she finished with his wound. “I wonder if this is what it felt like when Constantinople fell or when Napoleon marched into Moscow.”

It felt like a final defeat for her, for her country. Maybe it was. She and her family lived in dark times. Her parents and Alexander had died in a merciless set of wars, and it seemed that she and Nikolai would soon follow them. But they weren’t the first people to experience hardship and despair. They wouldn’t be the last. Since finding Nikolai again, Nadia had learned to trust in God. He was there. He was real. And somehow, He would make everything right in the end. In a world torn by war, He offered peace, and in a conflict fought with cruelty, He offered mercy. “Maybe all the darkness makes it easier to recognize the light.”

“Maybe. Do you remember what Mama used to say?”

Nadia nodded. “God is always there, even when it’s too dark to see Him.”

“She was right, you know. I could feel Him. When I was wounded and scared, lying on a battlefield. When I was hungry and heartsick in a German war prison. And on that day when I wanted to give up, and instead, I found you.”

Nikolai took her hand. “You’ve surprised me a lot lately. Whatever happens, I want you to know that it is an honor to be your brother. You would have made Mama and Papa proud.”

Nadia’s body still ached. She still missed her husband and her parents. She still feared the bullets that would execute her and her cellmates. She couldn’t see God or hear Him, but sitting on the floor of that cold, hopeless prison, she felt Him. He saw her and heard her, and He was with her, even in the dark.

Chapter Forty-Four

Dalek rattled the locked door of what had been the YMCA’s Irkutsk office, then peeked through a window. The office looked deserted.

Well, he wasn’t going to risk breaking into an abandoned office. Even if Nadia had made it this far east, there was no guarantee she would have visited the YMCA. The office was just one place on a list of possibilities. Filip and Anton were checking other locations: the Red Cross office, the train depot, the legion’s headquarters.

Dalek hoped Nadia was in Irkutsk, because he didn’t want to go any farther west. Irkutsk wasn’t safe, but at least the legion rearguard was nearby. Beyond Irkutsk, it was pure chaos. Dalek was determined to help Filip find his wife, but he was acutely aware of the risks they took in searching for her.

The legion was negotiating with the Bolsheviks for safe passage out of Russia. It should have been an easy thing—the legion just wanted to go home, and the Bolsheviks would rather let the Czechoslovaks pass than waste blood and ammunition on them. But neither side trusted the other, and a similar truce had been broken in Chelyabinsk twenty-one months ago.

Chelyabinsk. That was one reason he’d joined Filip and encouraged Anton to come too. Filip had saved Dalek’s life in Chelyabinsk. Beyond that, Dalek had wronged Filip and Nadia when he’d made an assumption about Nadia and Petrov. If he hadn’t come to the wrong conclusion, would things have turned out differently? It could have been worse—Filip might have gone looking for her a year ago, and he might have gotten himself killed. There was no way to know what a slight change in events might have led to.

For now, they just needed to find Nadia, and then they could go home. He wasn’t sure what Prague would be like after so many years, but it was free now. In that respect, it would be glorious. Once they got home, Dalek would find his wife. Klára wasn’t much of a letter writer, but he’d heard from her every few months since the armistice had been signed. She still felt like a stranger, but she was a stranger he wanted to know better. He planned to find them a home with a large fireplace and an enormous stove—maybe several of each. He was sick of being cold. He had money—a lot of it—after investing in trade along the railroad for the past year and insisting on payment in yen or francs instead of rubles. Inflation made Russian money almost worthless.

Dalek shivered as the wind drew away the last vestiges of warmth. It was joined by an internal chill when a hostile voice spoke from behind him.

“You’re that Czech telegraph clerk who sent me to Moscow when I was a commissar assigned to the legion, aren’t you?”

Dalek slowly turned to see Orlov and a second Cheka agent. Dalek wanted to lie, but the man clearly recognized him. The telegram was almost two years in the past, but Orlov still seemed angry. His eyes were tapered slits, and his feet were planted firmly on the frozen dirt walkway. His pistol was out, aimed at Dalek.

Dalek’s rifle was slung over his shoulder. Orlov would shoot before Dalek could aim.

“Come.” Orlov motioned with his pistol to a narrow space between two buildings.

Dalek didn’t move. He preferred the open street, where he was visible to anyone brave enough to venture outside in the awful temperature. The alley looked like a good place for Orlov to finish Dalek off out of sight.

“Don’t think I won’t shoot here. I’ve friends in Revkom. They won’t punish me.”

Dalek stepped off the street, as directed. The result might be the same, but he’d play the game a bit longer, hoping for time and mercy. Orlov’s associate took his rifle.

“I want to know why,” Orlov demanded. “Why did you send me to Moscow? Were you planning rebellion, even then?”

Dalek shook his head. “We didn’t rebel until Trotsky threatened to conscript us all for his army and his work battalions.”

“Then why did you want me gone?”

The end of Orlov’s pistol was persuasive, and Dalek didn’t think the truth would do any harm, not now. “Because we were hiding a former aristocrat. You killed her family, and we didn’t want you to kill her.”

Dalek’s heart hammered in his chest as Orlov considered his words.

“Nadia Ilyinichna Linskaya?”

Dalek nodded, surprised Orlov remembered her after all this time. Nadia wasn’t dangerous, so why was Orlov obsessed with her?

“She’s a beautiful woman, isn’t she? Or at least she was then.” Orlov relaxed slightly but kept his pistol pointed at Dalek. “Her family haunted my childhood. And we’ve crossed paths three times since the revolution. The first time, in the Ukraine, I didn’t really want to kill her. I was going to execute her father and send the women away. But one of my subordinates insisted we destroy the entire family, and I was afraid if I refused, I’d have a mutiny on my hands. She did me a favor, in a way. The same subordinate wanted to have his way with her before we sent her to join her parents. He was far humbler after her escape.”

Dalek had already heard most of the story. Orlov might not have been a bloodthirsty executioner, but a desire for power and a fear of failure had made him acquiesce to rape and murder.

Orlov leaned against the bricks of the nearest building. “I found her again about a year ago. I could have killed her then. I should have, but I kept remembering what a waste the Cheka had made of the tsar’s children. I sent her to a work camp, where she could be of help to the revolution. She escaped.”

“Good for her.” Somehow, she’d escaped, and somehow, she’d gotten a note to Filip. Now they just had to find her.

Orlov frowned. “It seems that between our second and third meetings, she became the dangerous counterrevolutionary she was accused of being back in the Ukraine. I arrested her again last night. Our fourth and final meeting will be tomorrow when she’ll be transferred to the Ushakovka Republic.”

Dalek hadn’t been warm in days, but his blood suddenly felt like sleet. In Omsk, the phrase transferred to the Republic of Irtysh meant someone had been killed and stuck through the ice of the Irtysh River. The Ushakovka was a tributary of the Angara River, and it cut through Irkutsk. “Tomorrow?” That didn’t give Dalek and the others much time to find her, but if they only had to check the jails, that cut down their search. He had to find Anton and Filip.

Orlov squeezed the trigger of his pistol and pain exploded in Dalek’s abdomen.

Dalek gasped and collapsed against the wall. He gripped his wound, trying in vain to stop the red streak spreading across his stomach. He shuddered in agony and slid to the ground. His legs wouldn’t work anymore, nor would his mouth. The pain paralyzed everything.

Orlov stood over him. “This time, the legion won’t be able to save her. This time, she really deserves execution.”

Orlov had delivered the type of wound that killed people. He and his associate turned and left Dalek to die in the shadows. Dalek squeezed his eyes shut. Death seemed certain, but maybe his friends would find him. He lifted one bloodied finger and pressed it into the dirt. He could write a message in blood. Nadia arrested. Execution tomorrow on Ushakovka. But he didn’t even finish the first letter before another wave of pain made him collapse completely.

***

Filip found Anton outside the old legion headquarters.

“They’ve cleared out,” Anton said.

“Same with the Red Cross. And I doubt Dalek had better luck with the YMCA.” They’d have to find the White Army and hope for cooperation. Taking his wife back would relieve them of a mouth to feed, and based on what he’d heard, that would be a blessing for them. But would they release a nurse when they had so many wounded and ill?

Dalek should have returned by now, unless the YMCA was still functioning. And if it was, Filip wanted to know what they had to say. “Should we find Dalek?”

Anton nodded. He had always been solemn, but since his wife’s death, he’d become even more withdrawn. Mail from Vladivostok brought no news of his son, which had to make things even worse. Filip understood a little about the horror of uncertainty. He’d felt it himself, was still feeling it, even with one letter telling him Nadia still lived.

The streets weren’t deserted, but the few people they passed seemed wary, fearful. Little wonder, with the White and Red Armies both likely to take control of the city in turns. Filip didn’t want to be around when that happened. But more than that, he didn’t want to leave without his wife.

“Is that . . . ?” Anton’s voice trailed off, and he sprinted across the street.

Filip followed, not recognizing what Anton ran toward until he was halfway across the road.

Slumped in the shadows was a body wearing boots that looked an awful lot like the ones Filip saw every night in the teplushka at the end of Dalek’s bunk. An icy sweat broke out down Filip’s neck and under his arms. “Dalek!”

Anton reached the figure and knelt to examine him. Filip arrived a few seconds later.

Dalek’s eyes fluttered open as Anton pushed aside coat, jacket, and gymnastyorka to get to the wound. Dalek locked eyes with Filip. “Orlov arrested your wife.” The words were raspy and quiet.

“Nadia’s here? And Orlov?”

Dalek looked at his wound.

“Orlov shot you?”

“He remembered . . . our last meeting. Going to execute her . . . tomorrow. The Ushakovka.”

“What time? What part of the river?”

“That’s . . . all I know.”

“Don’t make him talk.” Anton’s hands moved with desperation as he tried to bind up the wound.

Dalek was shot and bleeding. Nadia was a captive of the Cheka. And daylight was already fading. “Should we take him to the depot?” Legion trains still sat at the station. The local hospital was probably full of typhus cases, but the Fifth Regiment would have doctors. Between the two of them, they could carry Dalek back.

Anton tied a knot in the rag he’d used around Dalek’s abdomen and nodded.

Filip grabbed Dalek under the armpits, and Anton took his legs. Dalek was heavy and quickly grew unresponsive. Deadweight. Filip hoped he wasn’t really dead.

A pair of new worries ate at Filip. Dalek had come to Irkutsk to help him. He had forged that telegram for the same reason. If Dalek died, it would be Filip’s fault.

And Nadia was here, in Irkutsk, scheduled to die tomorrow, but Filip didn’t know where or when.

Chapter Forty-Five

Orlov and three guards roused Nadia and the others before daybreak. They weren’t given time to wash or eat. They were simply marched from the prison and taken onto the ice of the Ushakovka River. Most rivers froze with smooth surfaces, but not the Angara and its tributaries near Lake Baikal. Chunks of ice floated from the lake and connected into a rough frozen plane, adding one more difficulty to their walk that morning. Waiting at their destination were two additional guards, standing in the light of an automobile’s headlights, poking at a hole in the ice to keep it from freezing over.

Since the moment she’d been arrested, Nadia had known what would happen, but that didn’t make the cut of the wind any less sharp or the taste of defeat any less bitter.

Orlov clasped his hands behind his back. “Yesterday, a troika found you each guilty of counterrevolutionary activities. You’ve been sentenced to death.”

Nadia squeezed her eyes shut. The sentence wasn’t a surprise, but death came with regrets.

“Any last requests?”

She almost asked if they could mail a letter for her so she could tell Filip not to look for her anymore, tell him their marriage had been but a temporary affair after all, but she didn’t trust the Bolsheviks. If they knew Filip was married to a counterrevolutionary, it might cause trouble for him. He would have to remain ignorant of her fate, for his own good.

“Your glorious revolution doesn’t allow the accused to attend their own trial?” Nikolai stood tall, just as Papa had when facing the executioner.

Orlov frowned. “This is war. You were lucky to get a trial.”

No one spoke for a long moment.

Orlov motioned to two guards, who seized Sokolov and Fedorov. Both declined blindfolds. Sokolov met her eyes and gave her that sympathetic smile she had grown used to from him. Fedorov held his head erect and glared at his executioners.

The Cheka agents raised their revolvers and fired. The shots echoed through Nadia’s soul. Sokolov and Fedorov fell to the frozen surface of the river, and the guards kicked their bodies through the hole into the rushing black water below.

They’d survived five and a half years of war only to end their lives in the predawn gray of a Siberian winter, shot by misguided guards trying to protect a revolution that had brought their country nothing but misery.

Nikolai took Nadia’s hand and squeezed it. “I wish it hadn’t come to this for any of us, but especially for you.”

The guards grabbed them and hauled them closer to the opening in the river. Smears of blood from her slain friends stained the ice.

“I suppose we’ll see each other again soon.” Nadia filled her lungs with frigid air. “And our parents.”

“Yes. And it won’t be so cold in heaven.”

“When they shot Mama and Papa, I felt like a frightened little mouse. But I’m not scared this time.” And she wasn’t. Sad, yes. But not scared.

Nikolai took her hand again. “You may have been a mouse before. But now you’re a tiger. And though a tiger might be cornered, the hunter is still frightened.” Nikolai scowled at Orlov. The Cheka agent didn’t look frightened, not in the least. Even so, Nadia was ready to die bravely. Soon it would all be over. She could be brave for a few more seconds.

“Ready.” Orlov ignored Nikolai’s glare and focused on his men.

Two raised their revolvers, one aiming at Nikolai, the other at Nadia.

A shot sounded, a headlight blinked out, and Nadia flinched. Nikolai jerked on her hand, pulling her behind him so he could shield her with his body.

Another shot and one of the guards fell. Then another.

“Shoot them!” Orlov shouted.

Nikolai fell to the ice. She went down after him, hoping he was simply diving for cover. Only one headlight shone, but it was enough for her to see red spreading across Nikolai’s chest.

She’d known it would happen, but seeing her brother struggle for breath still tore at her heart. She’d already mourned for him once, but the hurt came back just as strong as when she’d been told of his death in battle.

Something painful snarled into her arm, throwing her away from her brother. Moments before, she’d taken comfort in the fact that her execution would be quick. She’d been mistaken. It seemed they would kill her a piece at a time.

The guards were all shadows, dark shapes highlighted by the automobile’s light, but there weren’t so many of them now. What had happened?

“Nadia!”

Her mind was playing tricks on her. Or maybe Filip was dead, and his voice was calling to her from the other side.

Another shot sounded, then another. Filip’s voice called to her again, but it wasn’t his face she saw when a shadow stepped closer and stood over her. It was Orlov. He pointed his pistol at her brain.

She had wanted to die bravely, standing tall until her life was snuffed out. Now she would be shot like a wounded animal.

“No!” That voice again. It couldn’t be Filip. She just wished it were him, wished she could see him one last time.

Orlov jerked, and his revolver fell onto the ice, then slid through the hole and into the water below. He glared at her, then lurched forward with erratic movements. He fell to his knees beside the hole in the ice.

Gravity, or perhaps vengeful ghosts, pulled him toward the exposed river. At the last moment, he lunged at her, grabbed her ankle, and dragged her with him.

She screamed and tried to grasp the ice, but the frozen surface offered no handholds. She went over the edge and into the black river below.

The icy water was like a physical blow, and it swallowed her whole. She gasped without meaning to and choked, and her lungs filled with water. She clawed at the edge of the cut ice, and when she kicked in a panic, she felt Orlov’s grip fall away. Something yanked on her injured arm, sending jolts of anguish all along the limb. Her sleeve was caught in a fissure, holding her while the frigid current buffeted her body and aggravating her pain.

Solid ice lay above her, and the river’s pull was too strong for her to fight. Everything was swallowed up in a cold, dark agony.

***

Filip dropped his rifle and dove across the ice.

The hole showed the ice’s thickness. No one could break it from below. He doubted he could break it from above. And the current was swift enough to carry away anyone who fell in.

He reached in anyway and grasped for anything solid. The water was so cold it burned. He prayed, begging God for a miracle. He’d come so close to saving her. Could she really be gone, swept away only seconds before he could reach her?

He shimmied forward so he could reach farther, using both arms. Only Anton’s weight as his friend gripped his legs kept him from going in after her.

There. He clenched a bit of fabric and held. He tugged it closer, then grabbed an arm.

“I’ve got her!” He hoped it was Nadia and not one of the other bodies that had been shoved under the ice. He pulled and scooted, trying to draw her out.

Nadia. But her eyes were closed, and her waterlogged clothing was unbelievably heavy. It took both of them to haul her from the river.

She coughed and sputtered as they laid her on the ice. Filip supported her as her body expelled the liquid from her lungs. He could barely feel his hands after plunging them into the river. She’d been completely immersed—what would that type of exposure do to her?

“The wet clothes have to come off.” Anton pulled at her boots. “And we have to get out of here. Quickly.”

Filip yanked at the fur coat she wore. It was already frozen onto the ice. He pulled her out of the coat, put his hat on her head, and started on the rest of her clothes. His chilled fingers were clumsy and couldn’t manage buttons, so he tore. Her eyes fluttered open, and her hands went to the front of her blouse, trying to fight him.

“Nadia, we have to get the wet things off you.” In her current state, she didn’t have the strength to stop him, but it felt wrong to take a woman’s clothes off when she wanted them on, no matter the circumstances.

Filip removed his thick coat and rolled her into that. The sleeves were wet, but the rest was dry. “She’s been shot.” There wasn’t much blood, but that might have been because of the dip in the river, not because it wasn’t serious. He scooped her up and took her to the back seat of the automobile.

“Rub her torso and keep her awake,” Anton ordered. Filip knew that, but it was hard to think straight when it was his wife he was desperately fighting to save.

“Nadia, say something.” He held her face in his hands. Her skin was discolored and felt like ice, her lips were blue, and her eyes were only open a fraction. “Stay with me.”

A blanket lay on the back seat of the automobile, and he used it as a towel. Anton brought clothes stripped from one of the bodies still on the ice, and Filip grabbed a shirt to use as a bandage on her arm, then rubbed her back and shoulders. Her body shook in violent waves.

“We can’t leave any evidence that we were here,” Filip said. Anton would know what to do. All the bodies had to go through the ice. Then they’d drive the automobile to the train and hope no one recognized it. The sun hadn’t yet peeked over the horizon, and the lack of light would be their ally.

“Nadia?” She didn’t respond, but her lungs still pulled air into her body. She was so thin, almost skeletal. As his hands moved over her skin, trying to keep the blood moving, he felt the difference from all his memories. Wherever she’d been the last year, she hadn’t been eating enough.

Anton slipped behind the wheel, and the automobile lurched forward. “All the men were dead. I couldn’t get her coat because it’s frozen onto the ice, but everything else is gone.” Everything but their rifles and the rest of Nadia’s frozen clothes, which Anton had put on the seat beside him. Not so long ago, Filip wouldn’t have relinquished his rifle for anything. Here, he’d almost forgotten about it.

Nadia’s face seemed to turn white instead of blue. “She needs a fire.”

“Here.” Anton handed him a vacuum flask. “See if there’s anything inside.”

It must have belonged to one of the guards. Something swirled within. He opened it, felt steam, and forced small sips into his wife’s mouth. She sputtered, but the movement had to help, didn’t it?

“Nadia?” He tried her name again. She still didn’t reply, but she looked at him for a moment before her eyes closed again. Confusion was normal with cold or with injury, but it was also a sign of danger. Filip held her icy hands under his shirt, trying to warm them. They swayed and jerked in the back of the automobile as Anton sped over the uneven river.

“Can you feel your feet?” Filip grabbed them. They were blue, so he wrapped them and slipped them into a pair of men’s boots.

Her breathing was normal now, and the shakes had turned to shivers. He gathered her up and held her so he could keep her warm, and because he had wanted to pull her close to him since the moment he’d seen her again.

“Filip? How . . . how did you find me?”

Words. Maybe that meant she was out of danger. Filip kept his hands moving, hoping the friction would warm her further, and handed her the flask. She was able to hold it on her own now. “Dalek ran into Orlov. He said you’d been arrested and were to be executed. But we didn’t know where or when. We were in the wrong spot when the headlights turned on. I’m sorry.”

“The other prisoners?”

“Dead. We tried to save them, but we were too late.”

“Orlov? He didn’t come back out of the ice?”

“No.”

“And Nikolai?”

“Who’s Nikolai?”

“My brother. We found each other again. He tried to shield me when they fired. He saved my life, you know. And so did you.”

“You’re the only one we rescued.” They’d barely managed that.

Nadia shivered again, and her teeth chattered. She wasn’t out of danger yet. “What happened to his body?”

“We had to put all the bodies through the ice. Yesterday, the legion made a deal with the Bolsheviks. A truce that lets us leave. If anyone finds out we had a firefight with a Cheka officer and rescued one of his prisoners, we could put the whole legion at risk.”

She was quiet for a long moment. Had Filip known the man who’d shielded her was her brother, he would have buried him properly. Or at least he would have tried, had there been time. But between worry about Nadia freezing and concern that someone would find out what they’d done, time was something they’d had very little of that morning.

She leaned her head on his shoulder. He tightened his embrace, needing to convince himself that she was really there. He closed his eyes for a moment as relief cascaded over him. After all the hurt when he’d thought she’d betrayed him, all the worry when he’d been unsure where to find her, and all the terror as he’d fought to save her from the executioner and the river, she was alive and in his arms.

Chapter Forty-Six

Nadia sat by the hospital car’s stove for a long time, trying to warm herself. Her husband stood beside her. The plunge into the river had numbed her body but not her feelings. She had Filip again, but she’d lost Nikolai. Sokolov and Fedorov too. Relief and joy clashed with grief and horror until she wasn’t sure how to feel, wasn’t sure what to think.

A Czech doctor removed the bullet in her arm and stitched her wound. The pain lingered, but eventually, the cold went away. Her own boots and coat were gone. She wore Filip’s ushanka, one of the Cheka guards’ leather greatcoats, and trousers and gymnastyorka scrounged from somewhere. A pair of boots several sizes too big warmed her feet and stayed on thanks to multiple layers of torn blanket wrapped around her skin in place of socks.

Her blouse and skirt dried near the fire. In one pocket, she found Nikolai’s medal. She held it in her hand, squeezing so tightly that it left an imprint on her skin. It was all she had left of her brother, all she had left of her family, all she had left of her past.

Dalek lay in one of the hospital car’s beds. The accommodations were an improvement over the straw-covered boxcars the legion had used in 1918, but his wound was grievous. Filip had told Nadia about Orlov’s revenge, and guilt mixed with worry. Dalek had angered Orlov with a telegram meant to protect her. Now she felt a need to watch over him. She went to his bedside. Earlier, he’d been sleeping, but he opened his eyes as she approached.

A weary smile pulled at his blond mustache. “I’m glad to see that one of the grand duchesses escaped.”

“I’m not a grand duchess. Not even a princess.” According to the Communists, she was a former person condemned to death.

“No.” Dalek’s voice was weak but sincere. “You’re more important than that, because you’re one of us.”

Nadia smiled. She had nothing but a Cross of St. George, 4th class, to remind her of her past, but once again, the legion was offering her a future.

A legion train went east that afternoon, with the hospital car and several passenger cars. Anton convinced the officer in charge to let two more legionnaires and one dependent squeeze aboard. Nadia was still weak but felt an urgency to leave Irkutsk. Orlov might be dead, but she was still a counterrevolutionary with a death sentence chasing her. Filip helped her into a third-class carriage, and the three of them shared a bench meant for two.

As the train picked up speed, Anton and Filip told her what had happened to Veronika, Emil, and other friends. She wept for Veronika and prayed for baby Marek. Filip didn’t press her, but she could sense his desire to know what had happened over the past year. A part of her didn’t want to tell, but she knew secrets would only come back to hurt them later. Like a sliver, they would only become more dangerous if buried.

She went backward, explaining what she and Nikolai had been doing with the gold and why she’d been arrested. Then she spoke of her time in the labor battalion and her escape. Only after the rest of the story was told did she go back to that day when she’d wandered too far looking for firewood and been taken by the group of bandits. She gripped the wooden bench in front of them as she spoke, needing something sturdy to hang on to.

Filip had taken her role in distracting the labor battalion guard well enough, but when she told him what the bandits had done to her, he sat there stunned. She waited for him to say something. She needed him to tell her that he still loved her and that the past wouldn’t change the future they’d planned together.

He seemed unable to speak.

She held in the tears until he rose and rushed from the compartment.

***

Filip stood on the open gangway between his car and the next. The cold air bit at his lungs, painfully sharp but not as painful as what he’d just heard.

He’d promised to protect Nadia.

He’d utterly failed her.

He hadn’t even tried to find her until she’d been missing for nearly a year. Instead, he’d doubted her and left her at the mercy of roaming bandits and the Cheka. But he wouldn’t fail her this time. He’d find the men who took her, and he’d kill them. It wouldn’t fix the past, and it wouldn’t bring back the baby she’d been carrying, but it would restore her honor.

The door opened, and Anton joined him on the platform. “Filip, what’s going on?”

“I’m going to track down those men and kill them.”

“What?”

“You heard what they did to her.”

Anton’s breath came out in a puff of fog. “Do you have any idea how many bandits are roaming Siberia? You’ll never find them.”

“Then I’ll die trying.”

“Oh, you’ll die, all right, and that won’t do your wife any good. If you leave this train, you’ll end up in a work camp or in a pile of frozen corpses off to the side of a train depot. You can’t survive on your own, Filip, and the legion is withdrawing.”

“Then I’ll join up with an ataman.”

“The men who took her were probably working with an ataman. You’d join that type of scum? Don’t be a fool.”

“I was a fool when I didn’t go looking for her.” And she’d suffered enormous hardships because of it. “I won’t let her down again.”

“If you leave this train, you’ll be letting her down far more than you did before. She doesn’t need revenge, Filip; she needs you.”

“And what of honor?” She was Russian nobility. Honor was everything. She’d said so herself when she’d told of how she’d destroyed the Bolshevik gold.

Anton folded his arms across his chest. “You’ve found your wife again. You get another chance. Do you have any idea what I’d give for another chance at life with Veronika? Finding Nadia was a miracle. Don’t throw that away.”

Did Filip want another chance at life with Nadia? Of course he did. But the crimes she’d suffered . . . How could he walk away from that and expect her to walk away from it, too, with no justice?

“At least talk to her,” Anton said. “Because if you leave, you’ll never see her again. And right now, she’s sitting on that bench convinced you don’t want her anymore because of what those men did to her.”

“That’s not true.”

“Then tell her.” Anton went back inside, leaving Filip with the rhythmic swoosh and click of the train moving east, ever farther from the men who’d taken and ravaged his wife. The men who had escaped justice. The men he wanted to punish.

Filip had two choices: he could seek justice, vengeance, and honor, or he could have a future.

He wanted justice. He also wanted a future with Nadia—but how could she be happy with a man who had failed her so completely? Leaving would ensure his death. But would staying be any better? His choices, his inaction, his inability to protect her, they would always hang between them. Filip had seen what living with failure could do to a person. It had destroyed his father. It would destroy him, and it would destroy his marriage.

The air was bitterly cold, especially without a hat. Nadia still had his. His nose and fingers grew numb, but his thoughts didn’t. They were just as tumultuous as they’d been since the moment he’d seen her again. She was thinner now, her hair not so glossy and far shorter, her face changed by hunger. But she was still beautiful, still resilient. And he still loved her.

He went back inside. He’d say goodbye, at least, before he went seeking vengeance that he knew he wouldn’t find. Anton saw him first and stood, walking away to give Filip and Nadia some privacy.

Nadia stared out the window but looked up when he approached. She kept whatever emotions she was feeling hidden other than the redness of her eyes. Had she been weeping? He sat next to her, and she remained silent, waiting.

“If you’ll tell me what you can about those men, I’ll go look for them. See that they’re punished and that your honor is avenged.”

“Filip . . . I don’t think that’s wise.” Her voice was small.

“Duty and honor demand it, don’t they?”

She shook her head, looking weary. “Duty and honor demanded you serve in the emperor’s army. But that didn’t stop you from defecting to the Družina, did it? Because it was the right thing to do.”

“That was different. I also had a duty to my people. But I failed you, Nadia, and I don’t want to fail you again.”

“Then stay.”

It was such a simple request, one he wanted to follow. And yet . . . “What about those men?”

“It’s not worth it, Filip.”

“You’re worth it.” She was worth several deaths. “You’re worth it, and yet, when you disappeared, I didn’t even look for you.”

Her eyes widened with surprise, but she didn’t speak.

“I was shot on patrol the day you were taken. It was days before I knew you were gone. Dalek overheard your conversation with your old fiancé. Between that and the missing annulment paper, we assumed you’d run off with Petrov and were on your way to Shanghai.”

Nadia’s face fell. “You thought I abandoned you? I would never do that.”

“But you didn’t marry me by choice. And I made mistakes, and he was promising a better life than I can ever give you. So I doubted, and you suffered. Finding those men will be my penance.”

She took a shuddering breath. “I’ve seen what war is like without the legion’s brotherhood. It is danger and chaos and misery. If you leave, you’ll disappear forever.”

“If I don’t leave, how can I redeem myself? I promised to protect you, Nadia, and I didn’t.”

“You don’t have to redeem yourself, Filip. You can’t. But God can, and He will. This war has taken a lot of things from me. My family, my heritage, a year with you—a baby. I don’t want it to take our future too. Let it go, Filip. I’m ready for peace.”

The war had taken a lot from him too. War had been the defining feature of his life since 1914. He wanted to go home, but it was hard to move past the conflicts, the hurts, the betrayals, the monumental cruelties. Yet, in a strange twist, the war had also given him an independent country, a beloved wife, and a burgeoning faith. And maybe faith was more than attending mass with his grandparents, saying grace before meals with his wife, and desperate pleas to God when no one else could help. Maybe faith was also a belief that God could somehow wipe away all the sin, pain, and error that haunted Filip’s life.

He glanced at Nadia. Those few months when they’d been together as a married couple had been the best of his life. Duty suggested he find justice for her, but it also suggested he stay with her and do everything he could to make her future a good one. If she could leave it all behind, then shouldn’t he try to do the same? To trust God to help and bless them, despite his failures? “Peace. And Czechoslovakia. Is that what you want?”

She studied his face, and when she spoke, her words were mere whispers. “I just want you to love me again.”

He put his hand on her arm, the uninjured one. “I never stopped loving you, Nadia. Even when I thought you’d abandoned me. Under all the hurt, the love never went away.”

She looked down, blinking rapidly. “Even knowing what those men did?”

He took her hand and brought it to his mouth, pressing his lips into one of the scabs lining the back of her fingers. “I only hope you can forgive me for doubting you and not finding you sooner.”

She nodded. Her emotions weren’t so hidden now. Relief and joy washed over her face, and she gave him a smile, one that contained forgiveness and hope. He pulled her onto his lap and wrapped an arm around her waist. With his other hand, he caressed her cheek. He hesitated to do more. She was wounded, and hard months and a plummet into an icy river had left her body frail.

She leaned into his hand. “You can hold me a little tighter, Filip. I’m not going to break. Not now that I have you again.”

One of her hands went to the back of his neck, and her fingers brushed across his skin. He’d missed her touch, craved it, longed for it with an ache that never lost its intensity. He pulled her closer, and when their lips met, Filip knew everything was going to be all right. He felt in her an exact mirror of his own sentiments: love, desire, and a determination to forge ahead together. Their time apart hadn’t destroyed what they’d built. Love remained, powerful and resilient, and it would carry them forward.

They sat in the back of the train, but before long, someone noticed their kiss and the men around them began to cheer. Filip didn’t let that distract him from his efforts at reacquainting himself with his wife’s mouth. But the emotion that cheer represented fit the moment perfectly. He had Nadia. And together they were going to their new country.

Chapter Forty-Seven

Anton stood outside another institution in Vladivostok, the fourth he’d visited that day in an attempt to find his son. Filip and Nadia were searching, too, as a pair because Filip didn’t want to leave Nadia by herself. He didn’t trust Russia anymore, if he ever had.

The city was clogged with refugees. The American military presence was withdrawing, and that created an air of uncertainty tinged with panic. Men in uniforms from a dozen nations wandered about, speaking in a variety of tongues, using assorted currencies, and believing in a wide range of ideologies. The women were almost as diverse, but often more desperate than the men. Few could spare thoughts for anything other than survival. What chance did a boy like Marek have in a city like this?

A harried woman glanced his way when he came inside the wooden building. “May I help you?” The words were accented Russian. This particular orphanage was run by the American Red Cross, and by the look of things, they were withdrawing along with their army.

“I’m looking for my son.” Larisa had told him which hospital Marek had been admitted to. Marek’s name wasn’t on the list of patients who had died there, but the list was sprinkled with entries like “unknown woman, approximately 20 years old, died Sept. 30, 1918,” and “unknown infant, male, died Feb. 9, 1919.” The nurses at the hospital said they would have turned over a healthy, unclaimed child to an orphanage. Marek might be dead, but Anton couldn’t give up until he’d searched every cot in Vladivostok.

“His name?”

“Marek Tothova. He’d be twenty months old. His mother died last summer. Typhus.”

The woman pulled a list from a drawer and studied it. “If his mother died of typhus, are you sure the boy didn’t as well?”

“I never heard.”

“We have five unclaimed boys about that age. No Mareks, but two are without names. What does your son look like?”

“He was only three months old when I last saw him.” Anton braced his hands on the desk. “Brown hair. His eyes were blue when he was a baby, but I hear that can change, and my wife’s eyes were brown.”

“That’s not much of a description. And none of them have hair at present. We’ve shaved their heads to prevent lice.”

“Maybe I’ll know him if I see him.”

“We can’t let you take the wrong child.”

He struggled to remember anything else that might identify his son. “He had a blanket. It was red and white.” Veronika had chosen the fabric to match the legion’s colors: red like blood and white like snow. In the course of a typhus epidemic, the blanket might have been burned. Or it might have simply been washed, because if Vladivostok was anything like the rest of Siberia, a replacement would be hard to find.

The woman told him to wait. What were the chances that one of the boys was Marek? He needed a miracle. Filip had gotten one when he’d found his wife again. And Dalek had gotten one when he’d survived Orlov’s shot. Were there any miracles waiting for him, or was heaven, like every supply officer in Russia, out of stock?

The woman returned with a small faded blanket. It was more gray and pink than white and red, but the size was right. “Was this your son’s?”

Anton took the blanket and examined the seams. Neat and even and done by hand instead of by machine. “These look like my wife’s stitches.”

“Good. The nurse says she’ll be glad to be rid of that one. Used to climb on everything. Broke his leg a few months back.”

“Is he all right?”

The woman shrugged. “Follow me.”

Despite being full of babies and toddlers, silence filled the ward when they arrived.

“Why don’t they cry or babble?” Anton asked.

The woman shrugged again. “We don’t have the staff to tend them when they cry. They stop trying to get our attention after a few weeks.”

What had little Marek been subjected to? Loss of his mother, typhus, neglect, and a broken leg? A pit grew in Anton’s stomach. It seemed he had finally found his son, but suffering like that could follow a child the rest of his life.

The woman stopped before a crib with a lethargic boy lying on his side, sucking his thumb. Brown eyes. Stubble on his skull that might be brown. A face that was thinner than it should be. And yet . . . the eyebrows, the nose. “He looks like his mother.”

Anton reached for the child and lifted him from the crib. He should have weighed more. Food must be scarce in the orphanage, just as it was elsewhere in Russia. Marek took his thumb from his mouth and studied Anton with an intent expression. He didn’t make a single sound. “Does he speak?”

“No.”

“Does he walk?”

“Not since his fall.”

Anton pulled the boy to his chest. He was small and skinny and underdeveloped, but he was his son. He felt it as much as saw it. “May I have his things?”

The woman handed Anton the blanket. “This is all he has.”

Anton nodded and shifted the boy to his hip so he could carry him more securely. He had no idea how to care for a baby. He would give his son lots of food and talk with him and tell him stories about his mother. He hoped that would be a good start.

He couldn’t read the papers the woman handed him, but he signed them anyway. Whatever it took to get his son.

“Good luck,” she said.

Anton nodded. Then he tucked his son into his coat, left the orphanage, and headed for the barracks. “Marek, it seems that heaven is not out of miracles after all. Somehow, we’re going to figure this out.” Two solemn eyes peered at him from the folds of his greatcoat. There was no fear in those eyes. Soon, Anton hoped, there would be trust.

***

Nadia stood on the deck of the troopship President Grant as Vladivostok harbor faded from sight. It had taken six weeks to travel from Irkutsk to Vladivostok. They’d spent another few weeks there, awaiting evacuation. Now, finally, they were leaving aboard an American vessel. Their departure was none too soon. Most foreigners were withdrawing, but not the Japanese, and they were growing more repressive and volatile by the day.

Notes from Dalek’s violin carried across the deck, danced around the thick smokestack, and mingled among the masts. Nearby, Anton pointed to seagulls and spoke softly to his son. She’d been shocked upon seeing Marek again. So quiet, so thin, with a leg that hadn’t healed properly from a break. But he seemed to learn a new word every day, and he’d taken his first steps the night before. His mother might have gone on to heaven, and he might never walk without a limp, but there was something innately sweet about the little boy, and he was blossoming under his father’s care. Love was a powerful antidote to the depravations of war.

Recovery for Dalek, reunion for Anton, and repatriation for all of them.

Filip stood behind her, his arms around her waist, his chin next to her cheek. “This might be your last sight of Russia.”

“I know.”

“Will you miss it?”

Russia was her home, and deep down, her soul was tied to the land, tied to the history and the music and the art. It always would be. “The Russia I love disappeared.” It had been buried, by a war, then by a pair of revolutions. Maybe it wasn’t gone forever, but it would never be the same again. “I’m ready for a new home.” A new home, a new country, a new chance to make a life with Filip. They were really on their way now, though the ship would stop in China and India, then transit the Suez Canal before reaching Trieste. After that, they’d have a final train journey that would take them to Prague.

“And I’m ready to return.”

“You’ve been gone a long time.” They weren’t scheduled to arrive until June. It would be nearly six years since Filip’s call-up. She leaned her face against his. He needed a shave, but he smelled clean, and his arms were strong and warm, and he was hers. “Will your family recognize you?”

“I haven’t changed that much, not physically.” He sighed. “In other ways, perhaps. I had such high ideals when the legion formed. Getting stuck in the middle of a civil war somehow tarnished it, but we got our country. And you taught me about faith. I guess those are the things that matter most.” He pressed his lips into her temple. “That, and finding you again.”

“Prague, Czechoslovakia.” Nadia tried the name out on her tongue and was satisfied. “Will your family like me?”

“They’ll love you. And we don’t have to stay with them permanently, but until we find our own place, they’ll be happy to make room for the two of us.”

Nadia pulled one of his hands to her abdomen. “I think it will be the three of us within a few months of arrival.”

“But we’ve barely had a moment to ourselves . . .” Filip shifted positions and turned her so they were facing each other. He glanced at her abdomen, then at her face, and his mouth broke into a grin. “That bathhouse in Chita.”

“That’s my assumption.” She had worried that their time apart had damaged all the emotional and physical connections they’d built before her abduction. But in Chita, there had been no flashbacks, no terrors. Just Filip and her and a love that was strong enough to overcome the hurt of the past and promise them a joyful future.

Filip took her hand in his. “I would go anywhere and do anything for you. Do you know that?”

“Yes.” She did know that. Despite the differences of their pasts, Filip loved her. And she loved him. She looked back toward Russia. Vladivostok was a mere blur on the horizon. “For now, let’s go find that new country you worked so hard to create.”

Author’s Notes

In a war where gains were often measured in yards, it isn’t surprising that the story of the Czechoslovak Legion captured contemporary news coverage. But a century later, their story is largely forgotten. I first heard of the Czechoslovak Legion while watching a series of lectures on the Great War in preparation for writing The Spider and the Sparrow. They were mentioned only briefly, but I instantly knew that theirs was a story I wanted to write.

As I dove into research, I quickly realized I wouldn’t be able to tell the entire story. The various units were too far-flung and involved in too many things to weave everything into one coherent plot. But I also realized that I didn’t have to tell everything. Each of the seventy to eighty legion trains heading east in 1918 had enough history to bring a novel to life. Telling a good story involving part of the legion would be enough, for now, to introduce their history to a new generation of readers.

Though I have done my best to thoroughly research these events, I was limited to English-language sources. Often, different sources told a slightly (or vastly) different version of the same events. In such cases, I’ve done my best to be true to at least one of the accounts. At other times, I found details sparse, and despite my digging, I couldn’t find more than an overview of a particular event or battle. In those cases, I used creative license and filled in the gaps using my best judgment. Most of the events mentioned in this book really happened, but how they happened isn’t always documented. This novel should be taken as historical fiction, not as history.

Most of the characters in this novel are fictional, but their experiences are based on things that happened to real people. Historic individuals include Lenin, Trotsky, Professor Masaryk, General Voitsekhovsky (also spelled Voytsekhovsky, Vojcechovsky, Voitzekhovski, and Wojciechowski), General Gajda, Commissar Sadlucky, František Richter, Admiral Kolchak, the Romanov family, and General Kappel.

The Cheka was small in the beginning of 1918 but grew quickly. Could someone like Baron Linsky have been executed for his aristocratic connections in March 1918? According to some sources, until July 1918, the Cheka was only allowed to execute people for criminal activities. Other sources noted the Cheka having jurisdiction to execute class enemies as early as February of that year.

The Sixth Regiment of the legion really did spend time in Piryatin, Ukraine, before the German advance that prompted the evacuation and fighting around Bakhmach. They even prevented peasants from burning down a nearby manor while stationed there. The evacuation from Ukraine and most of what followed in Penza and Samara is factual—down to weather details at Bakhmach and the multiple telegrams giving multiple instructions to the Penza Soviets.

The main details of the Chelyabinsk incident are from my research, though several different versions exist. Ducháček and Malik (the Czech and Hungarian soldiers who died) are real, as is the overarching story of what happened. Most accounts agree that the legion cut telephone lines, seized important intersections, disarmed guards, and took the armory. Tactical details of how the legion took over the town are fiction, based on common practices at the time.

I found vastly different accounts of the events leading up to the Bolshevik attack at Marianovka. I ended up writing that scene two ways and leaving the one that seemed to work best with the rest of the novel. Also, I found different numbers for legion fatalities. Carl Ackerman gave the number as ten; Edwin Hoyt said six.

This novel follows closely accounts of the 1918 battle for Omsk and the taking of Krasnoyarsk. One source said the Bolsheviks from Tatarsk telegraphed back to Omsk to ask for reinforcements. Another source said they telephoned. In either case, Dalek and Nadia weren’t really involved, but the Bolsheviks were expecting friendly reinforcements and instead ended up with a battalion of hostile Czechoslovaks to contend with.

Different accounts of the series of battles to take the train tunnels around Lake Baikal include different details, but the main events are well documented. The search for sappers was a plot device to get Filip and Anton temporarily with the Seventh Regiment but one that felt plausible. Some accounts say the legion purposely destroyed the train full of explosives at Baikal Station; other accounts say it was an accidental stray bullet.

As portrayed in this novel, most legionnaires were unenthusiastic when asked to stay in Russia to open the Eastern Front again. Their battles in the Urals, their near mutiny, and their growing animosity toward the Kolchak regime follow the sources. Several lines of the argument between Gajda and Kolchak are from the historical record, as is the overall situation described in the novel. The supplies stored in warehouses in Omsk, meant for the White Army but hoarded by corrupt Kolchak officials, eventually made their way to the Red Army.

Siberia during the Russian Civil War was a dangerous place. Bandits, released war prisoners, and Bolshevik partisans would have all been a threat to members of the legion—or their families—who wandered too far from strongholds. Though the term concentration camp is most closely associated with World War II, the term first came into use during the Boer War and was used by the Bolsheviks during the time of this novel. The system of camps and forced labor would grow into the infamous Soviet Gulag.

Kolchak’s telegram to Semenov and the legion’s interception of that telegram are real. Kolchak did eventually end up under the protection of the Sixth Regiment, who turned him over to the Irkutsk authorities when faced with the choice of turning him over or fighting their way east. The kidnapping and killing of the hostages that so angered the population comes from history, as does the story of Kolchak’s execution on the ice.

I found three different numbers in my various research books for the value of the gold in the imperial treasury the legion captured in Kazan, so I used the highest one (650 million rather than 560 million or 400 million), because it showed up in two sources. The fate of the gold is still a subject for speculation. Most of it, and maybe all of it, ended up in Bolshevik hands. But persistent rumors suggest part of it was on a train that plunged into Lake Baikal, or that part of it was buried in the woods.

The exact size of the legion is unknown, but just under 70,000 soldiers and civilians were evacuated. Most sources list about 4,000 dead in Russia and Siberia, though one source claimed closer to half of the legion died. Approximately 1,600 legionnaires married local women during their journey, though, at various times, new marriages were prohibited due to limited space for families. The bulk of the legion served in Russia, but there were also contingents serving in the Italian Front and on the Western Front.

The Great War and the Sovietization of Russia were responsible for multiple name changes. Saint Petersburg became Petrograd early in the war, then later became Leningrad, and is now once again Saint Petersburg. Pressburg became Bratislava (1919), Novonikolayevsk became Novosibirsk (1926), Verkhne-Udinsk became Ulan Ude (1934), Troitskosavsk became Kyakhta (1934), and Mysovaya became Babushkin (1941). Doch was listed by that name in one of my research books, but I could find it on a map only as Velyka Doch. Also, although Ukraine is the correct current usage, I have chosen to use the Ukraine and Kiev (rather than Kyiv) throughout this manuscript because that was the most common usage at the time of the story. I also simplified things by referring to Ukrainian Nationalists rather than to the Rada.

***

Sincere thanks to Terri Ferran, Ron Machado, Tina Peacock, Charissa Stastny, Jaime Theler, Bev Walkling, and Linda White for reading all or parts of the manuscript and providing feedback. Thanks also to Covenant for taking a chance on a longer-than-normal manuscript, especially to my editor, Samantha Millburn.

Thanks also to my readers for making it possible for me to write what I love. If you enjoyed this book, I would be very grateful for your review on websites where books are sold or discussed.

About the Author

A. L. Sowards is the author of multiple historical fiction novels, with settings spanning the globe from the fourteenth to twentieth centuries. Her stories have earned multiple awards and nominations, including a Whitney Award and a Readers’ Favorite gold medal. Sowards grew up in Washington State, spent a few decades in Utah, and now resides in Alaska with her husband, three children, and ever-growing library. She enjoys hiking and swimming, usually manages to keep up with the laundry, and loves it when someone else cooks dinner.

Sowards enjoys connecting with readers and can be found online at ALSowards.com or on Facebook, Goodreads, and Instagram. Readers can sign up for her newsletter at ALSowards.com/newsletter.

Other Books by A. L. Sowards

Duchy of Athens Series

Of Sword and Shadow

Of Daggers and Deception

The Ley Brothers Series

The Rules in Rome

Defiance

Espionage Series

Espionage

Sworn Enemy

Deadly Alliance

Stand-Alones

The Spider and the Sparrow

The Redgrave Murders

Heirs of Falcon Point

Before the Fortress Falls

Short Stories

The Perfect Gift

Content

Sowards A.L. A Waltz with Traitors