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.