Others had the same thought, only they’d had it sooner. Legionnaires crowded on the running boards of the steam engine, demanding the train be stopped, and already it was slowing. Soldiers poured off the legion trains to demand justice.
A Czech sergeant took charge. “Turn over the man responsible,” he demanded.
The Hungarians laughed. Again.
Legionnaires boarded the Hungarian trains and hauled the men off. There were more Czechs and Slovaks than Hungarians, and they finally seemed to realize that. A few armed legionnaires prodded the Hungarians with their rifles and murmurs went up and down the line. One of the Hungarians pointed to a comrade. “He did it.”
A group of Czechoslovaks rushed toward the guilty party, who disappeared behind the press of livid soldiers.
“They should string him up.” Dalek crossed his arms.
“Without a trial? What if he’s not the one responsible?”
“He didn’t deny it.”
Filip tried to push his way closer. Part of him wanted an eye for an eye, a life for a life, but he could already imagine Kral’s argument against lynching. The legion was supposed to remain neutral, and punishing a murderer wasn’t within their jurisdiction. Anger didn’t negate the need for a trial or a hearing. Filip had to stop the escalation.
Men from both trains had rushed into the growing melee. Shouts echoed between the trains as fists swung and connected. In the press of brawling soldiers, someone knocked Filip back, and he stayed on his feet only because Dalek held him upright. A discordant yell filled his ears, and the scent of sour bodies brushed his nose. A Hungarian pulled his fist back and glared at Filip, who worked in a quick uppercut before the man could complete his swing.
A whistle sounded, and heavy footsteps pounded along the platforms as the red guard arrived.
“Come on, break it up.” Filip grabbed the shoulder of the nearest Czech and pulled him from the fracas. “The Soviets are here. They’ll take care of it.”
Between Filip, the sergeant, and the arriving red guards, the crowd was soon separated, the Czechs and Slovaks in front of their trains and the Hungarians in front of theirs. The man who had thrown the hunk of metal lay on the ground between them, unmoving.
Dalek stepped closer and bent to check the man’s pulse. Dalek had a cut above his left eye, and half the men on both sides had something similar: bloody noses, swollen eyelids, burst lips.
Dalek met Filip’s eyes and shook his head.
Dead.
The man probably deserved it. He’d committed manslaughter—and then laughed about it. But what kind of hornet’s nest had they just stirred up?
The red guard rounded up some of the Hungarians and the ten legionnaires closest to the body, including Dalek. Filip made to follow, but Dalek waved him off.
“Tell Kral,” he mouthed.
***
Like most towns along the Trans-Siberian Railroad, Chelyabinsk was composed of two parts: the original settlement and a newer district built up around the station. Dalek had found Chelyabinsk unimpressive from the depot. As the red guard marched him and the others into the older part of town, he thought it even worse. The dirt streets were wide but choked with weeds, and Russian winters had turned the wooden boards on most buildings a dull gray. Businesses were boarded up, and the streets were almost deserted. Where were the peasants selling their vegetables and the craftsmen hawking their goods?
One of the other Czechs noticed Dalek’s gaze. “The Reds are running the town. No one trusts them not to steal whatever they’re trying to sell, so just about everyone has closed shop.”
“How does anyone eat?”
The other man shrugged.
Tension between the Hungarians and the Czechs was palpable. One red guardsman looked ready to shoot the lot of them. A second seemed to be bracing for another fight to break out. So far, the Soviets they’d met hadn’t been hostile; they’d just delayed trains and resented the legion for using so many engines. But in most past encounters, the legion had outnumbered the Soviets, at least on a local level. What would happen when the numbers were reversed?
The red guardsman guided them to a street with buildings of stone instead of wood. In the distance, onion-domed church spires hovered in the skyline. The guardsmen herded the group into a building with a white facade, and two Soviet officials waited within. One was tall, with a neatly trimmed mustache and slouched shoulders—probably an army man. The other looked like a slovenly peasant who’d been shoved into a too-small uniform.
“What seems to be the problem?”
The guards, the Hungarians, and the Czechs all gave their version of the double deaths at the train station.
“You agree that one of your comrades threw a piece of metal from the train?” the taller of the two officials asked the Hungarians.
“Yes. Malik said he hoped to kill one of the traitors before we left.”
That brought a murmur of whispers. A more serious level of malice was involved on the Hungarian’s part. The man beside Dalek grabbed his arm. “But that’s a Czech name.”