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.
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.”