“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.