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.