“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?”