Dochkin could return us to that night. I could catch Zash before he tied himself to Yurovsky and tell him what was about to happen. And then I could kill Yurovsky.
We could all heal once we found Dochkin.
“I’m sorry I can’t tell you yet, Nastya. Truly. I can barely even ask your forgiveness.”
“Which I cannot give,” I said in a low voice. “You know that, don’t you?” Forgiveness. What did that even mean in a time like this? Papa always told us to forgive our captors. To show them love. Would he apply that to Zash? To Yurovsky? I could forgive the soldiers for doing their duty and guarding us. I could forgive them for not knowing us and for being deceived by propaganda.
But Zash knew us. Zash knew me. He’d given the impression he . . . possibly loved me.
“I can’t expect you to forgive me, but I can still ask. Perhaps your heart will change.”
“This has nothing to do with my heart. This is about your actions.” Some things were not forgivable. At least not by me. He could plead with Iisus as much as he desired. But I was human. And my heart was broken. All my forgiveness had leaked away.
“Is there nothing I can do?” he whispered.
I lifted my chin. “You can save Alexei’s life. And then disappear from mine.”
He nodded and we continued in silence. Resigned. His humility ate at me—causing an odd mixture of regret and disgust. He had no right to be humble. He had no right to ask for forgiveness. He owed the help he was giving. It was not charity. It was not kindness.
It was penance.
So then why did I feel as though I not only had caused him more sorrow and myself more sorrow . . . but also had grieved Papa’s heart?
Papa’s dead, my bitterness reminded me. He can’t grieve or rejoice any longer.
30
“Yurovsky will be watching the train stations.” Alexei sank onto a log as Zash pulled a loaf of bread from one of the packs—the last loaf brought to the Ipatiev House by the sisters. I recalled the rescue notes between us and the White Army officer. The forged letters that Zash claimed had been penned by Bolsheviks.
Zash broke the loaf into thirds and handed out the pieces. I was pleased to see he gave the greatest third to Alexei. “He’s too busy hunting us.”
The bruise on Alexei’s head had spread and the swelling seemed to have grown. We needed to get to Dochkin as soon as possible.
“If not him, there will at least be guards,” Alexei said.
I tore off a corner of the bread. Dry and dissatisfying . . . like my bitterness. “Could we go in disguise?” Revda was only a few hours away. My feet ached and my knees trembled at the idea of walking again. I’d not had enough sustenance to withstand this type of physical exertion.
Zash scooped the soft middle from his piece of bread. “Alexei’s right. If they are watching for us, they will find us.”
I waited for one of them to offer an alternative. A better idea. It didn’t come. “We can’t walk to Dochkin. We have no way of knowing how far west he lives.” Not for the first time, I silently sent up a thank-you that Zash had had the sense to pull out his compass when the spell disappeared.
“Disguises won’t work, but I agree that we still need to take the train.” Alexei nibbled at his loaf. “But speaking of disguise . . . what is Nastya wearing?”
I straightened my reindeer clothing, imagining how much softer it would be without my bejeweled corset underneath. “It’s from Vira.”
“It’s from our tribe,” Zash said.
“Your tribe?” Alexei snapped his fingers. “That explains your good looks. Siberian.”
“You’re one of very few who would think so positively of the Siberian coloring.” Zash finished his bread and picked the crumbs off his lap.
“So . . . your family was nomadic?” Alexei asked. I forgot he hadn’t been awake when Vira and Zash gave me the clothing.
“Seminomadic. I was, too, until the revolution. Vira did spell mastery for the tribe and I worked with the other men, breeding reindeer, trading pelts for spell ink and other needs. Working with my hands . . .” He glanced at his palms as if their lines now held shame. “But when spell mastery was made illegal and spell masters were being hunted, I joined the ranks.”
“Why would you—?” Alexei let out a hiss of pain and bent over his bread. I gripped my log to keep myself from rushing to his side. Years of hearing his groans and agony had taught me that I could not help take it away. But I could help him keep his honor. Alexei hated coddling, so I remained in my seat.
“What hurts?” I asked.
“My head,” he croaked. “The throbs grow sharper. And each time, I can’t . . . can’t seem to think.”
I took in the sun’s location in the sky. It had been almost eighteen hours since we’d left Vira’s house. “The numbing spell is likely wearing off—”
“I know!” he snapped. “You think I can’t feel it?”
I recoiled. Alexei never snapped—at least not at me.
“Prosti. Forgive me.” He lifted his head and tenderly tapped his head wound with the tips of his fingers. “I’m irritable.”
“Of course.” I moved to him this time. “We do not have long. Can you manage another hour or two without the spell?”
He nodded, but it seemed sluggish.
“Perhaps you should ride in the stretcher. It’s dry now.” Zash looked helpless across from us, watching our pain.
“No, I like watching you carry it.” Alexei smirked, feeding Joy a piece of bread.
Zash rolled his eyes. “But of course, Your Imperial Highness.” He gathered our belongings and pointed forward. “Onward to Revda!” He led us at a march—a pretty good one, too.
“Back straight, soldier!” Alexei marched after him. “Joy! Nastya! Get in line!” Joy circled their ankles, her tongue hanging out as she panted in delight.
I couldn’t stop the grin as I took up the rear. Alexei was so much like Papa—only with more humor. In a situation such as this, I didn’t know how he managed it.
We walked and I ached. My stomach still felt empty, but at least the horizon held the hope of a train ride—movement and forward motion with promised rest.
Our silly march lost its posture pretty quickly, weighed down by packs and pain. Alexei slowed, so I slowed, so Zash slowed. Zash stayed at the front—the trailblazer. Joy trotted by his heels now and Alexei and I walked side by side.
“You’re having a hard time with Zash, aren’t you?” Alexei asked. The slap and sway of undergrowth muffled most of our conversation.
I shoved a little branch out of our way. “How can you be so amiable with him? He was part of the firing squad.”
“I suppose I’ve seen a lot more soldiers than you. I understand that they are often ordered to do things they don’t want to do.”
“But kill us? Kill me?”
He took his time stepping over a log, ensuring good placement for his feet before committing. A single fall could send him back onto that stretcher—or even dead before we reached Dochkin. “I don’t think he wanted to do it, Nastya.”
“So why did he? I thought he loved us!” We’d shared something precious.
“I think he still does. He’s broken, too. I can see it as clearly as I see yours and feel mine. The Bolsheviks killed his best friend, whom he then had to bury. And then they asked him to murder people he had grown to care about. It broke him so much that he’s no longer with the Bolsheviks. He’s left his post—abandoned Yurovsky. Do you know what that could cost him?”
I shook my head. “I hadn’t really thought of it that way.”
“It could cost him his family. His livelihood. If caught, his life. That should say plenty about how much he regrets taking part in the slaughter.”
Alexei’s perspective didn’t ease my hurt. Of course I didn’t want Zash’s family—Vira—to suffer. And I didn’t want him dead. I didn’t know what I wanted. I wanted all of this undone. That was the only thing that could fix me.
“We ne
ed him,” Alexei said.
“I know,” my lips said.
I know, my head said.
I want him, my heart said. I wanted him back—the way things were before Ivan died and Yurovsky took over.
As we walked I couldn’t help but glance over my shoulder now and again. A presence whispered up and down my spine, threatening failure. Clawing at us. Yurovsky was not far off. I could feel him catching up.
* * *
The train whistle met our ears before the station. Zash had led us around the town, keeping to the forest, until we stood opposite the train station. It was situated at the edge of Revda with the tracks between it and the forest, where we currently hid.
Two Bolshevik soldiers sat on a bench near the platform, sharing a smoke and scanning the passersby every few minutes.
“You and Alexei will not be able to board from the platform. It seems Yurovsky has sent a telegram to every train station.” Zash pressed against a tree trunk, several trees deep from the tracks, with enough view. “You must travel up the tracks and board once it’s moving.”
Alexei seemed to barely be listening. He crouched on the ground, curled in on himself, wheezing through the discomfort. It had been only an hour, but the swelling in his head seemed to have spread even farther, bulging over his temple and forehead.
“What of his numbing spell?” I asked. “I can’t lift him onto the train. He needs to be able to do it on his own.”
“Use it when the train whistles for the first time. That will give it enough time to take effect. Once I purchase tickets, I will come find you and we’ll board together.”
My heart pounded with the familiar thrill of danger and mischief, but it sent a rain of nausea into my stomach—the same feeling that came when I examined a plan filled with flaws. Nastya the shvibzik never enacted plans that could fail. She thought through every angle and abandoned them if needed. That always kept the mischief successful and of the best quality.
But with the train, we had no other plan. We had no way to avoid the Bolsheviks or board the train without arousing suspicion. We needed to get on it while it was moving because if one whisper of our presence made its way to the conductor, he would stop the locomotive. We would be caught.
And killed.
Zash’s plan was all we had, and I didn’t like it one bit.
He and I hoisted Alexei up on the stretcher and headed through the forest up the tracks. As we walked the steam engine pulled into the Revda platform and stopped with a deafening hiss. We walked until we were several train lengths up the tracks.
“You will have to run to board,” Zash said. “We will load Alexei and Joy first and then I will help you, Nastya.”
I nodded, swallowing hard, as we eased Alexei to the ground. Then Zash walked away from us. Back toward the platform to risk his neck. I couldn’t find my bitterness in this moment, not when I thought of all he’d been doing for us and the things Alexei said.
Instead of seeing the mental picture of Zash pulling the trigger on me, now I saw a flash of him holding Ivan’s dead body and weeping. He wanted to save us as badly as we wanted to be saved.
Perhaps I’d been clinging to my bitterness because it felt like a betrayal to my family to forgive Zash. To thank him. To enjoy his company. I wasn’t ready to let go yet, but something inside me was softening. Was growing thankful that he had these ideas to go buy us tickets and risk being recognized.
I remembered him on his knees, the pistol under his chin. He really must have changed. Because to help Alexei and me was to turn against his duties as a soldier. To turn against his very country—at least in the eyes of the Bolsheviks.
Time passed slowly. I stared along the tree line long after Zash had disappeared beyond a curve of the tracks. I couldn’t see the train. I couldn’t see the platform. I felt blind and foolish and endangered.
“Nastya . . .” Alexei’s soft plea startled me. Joy rushed to his side and licked his face.
“What do you need?”
“The spell.” His whisper barely rose above the soft breath of wind. “Please.”
I peered back down the tracks. “Soon, Alexei. Any moment.” I pulled the spell from Zash’s pack. He said to use it when the train released its first whistle. But Alexei didn’t ask for relief unless he truly needed it.
I picked at the folded piece of paper that held the numbing spell. Alexei would need to be able to help us load him into the train. The spell needed time to assuage the pain. And the last time I had waited to use a spell—per the request of Papa—my family had been shot.
So I unpeeled the piece of paper, slipped the spell from the parchment with my finger, and pressed it to Alexei’s skin. The effects were immediate, just like last time. A balm to my heart as his tense form relaxed.
No sooner had he pushed himself upright than the train whistle blew. I shot to my feet. Did that mean it would be leaving? Where was Zash? I peered down the way, but no steam rose over the trees. Soon, though, it would.
We needed to be ready to board that train with or without Zash. If he had been caught . . . My throat closed. We couldn’t leave without him. I couldn’t abandon him to be murdered by an angry Bolshevik. That realization frightened me.
“Where’s Zash?” Alexei asked through deep breaths.
“He’ll be here soon.” I bounced on my toes and kept to the tree line, sticking my head out as far as I dared. It didn’t provide me with much more view.
The train whistle blew again, and this time an explosion of steam burst into the sky.
“Where is he?” Alexei pushed himself to his feet, testing his movements. “You can’t lift me into the train on your own.”
“I will have to.”
“We don’t even have to board. We’ll wait for the next one.”
“Yurovsky could be close behind us. We have to take this chance.” But what if Zash didn’t make it? Was Alexei’s safety worth sacrificing for the sake of Zash’s? What was my duty here?
Then I knew.
It was Alexei. It would always be Alexei. “Come. Let’s get ready.”
I grabbed what packs I could—the ones with the food and a bedroll. I left the stretcher. It would be useless without Zash to help me carry it. Still, I prayed he would appear. I wasn’t ready to face survival alone. And we needed those train tickets.
The chug of the locomotive started slow. Distant. Then it grew closer.
We stepped up to the edge of the trees, ready to run. Alexei held Joy tight in his arms. The very moment the train engine crawled into view around the distant curve, Zash burst through the underbrush.
“Spasibo, Iisus!” I gasped. “Where have you been?”
He barely paused but snatched up the remaining belongings. “They were selling no tickets,” he panted. “We will have to board anyway and bribe the conductor.”
The train came closer. Louder. Drowning out sound and thought until Zash’s voice cut the air. “Nastya.”
I turned to him. He already had Alexei in his arms, but his face was pale. “Yurovsky’s here.”
The train crawled past us and Zash began to run. I stood stunned for a long moment, car after car passing me. Then panic sent me running after him.
Yurovsky. Here. He knew we were here. What good was boarding the train now? He’d only come after it and stop it! He’d send Bolsheviks after us. He’d telegram the next station. There was nothing we could do.
The locomotive picked up speed and Zash ran parallel to a hitch between train cars with a small landing. Alexei reached for the support pole with his free hand and Zash tossed him onto the landing, stumbling moments after. I ran faster than the train, catching up to them, but my energy wouldn’t last long.
I pulled a pack off my shoulder as I reached the hitch and tossed it to Alexei. Joy pressed against the train car, trying to keep her feet.
“Get on!” Zash shouted from behind me.
I reached for the bar, but my skirt tangled around my knees. I hoisted it up and tried again. My fing
ers wrapped around the warm metal. Alexei reached for me from his spot by the closed door—a gesture of help with no promise of success. He was too weak.
My other hand managed to find a hold, then hands lifted me from behind—just the momentum I needed to land awkwardly on the bumpy hitch between the two cars. I gained my balance and spun to grab the stretcher from Zash. His arms and legs pumped and his chest heaved. Even so, the train started inching beyond him.
“Climb on!” I cried.
He reached for the bar but couldn’t seem to keep up. I looped my left arm through it and then reached for him with my right, stretched until my ribs screamed. He grabbed my forearm and I pulled. My shoulder strained and threatened to pop from its socket. Zash put on a burst of speed.
A gunshot split the air, mixing with the whistle of the train.
Zash dropped like a stone.
His body tumbled away from the train. Beyond him rode two Bolsheviks on horseback, and four soldiers ran on foot. The rider with the smoking pistol was Yurovsky.
31
I didn’t scream. I didn’t panic. Instead, my mind entered that cool calm that came when everything went wrong. A sharp, almost painful clarity.
Yurovsky shouted something to his Bolshevik companion and pointed up to the train. The soldier took off, toward us. Even from this distance I could tell his eyes were focused ahead—toward the engine. He was going to stop the train.
I yanked the rolled-up stretcher from its place lodged against the door, gripping the long wooden poles with my shaking hands. I leaned back so the rider wouldn’t see me, straining my ears for his hoofbeats over the chugging of the train.
Just as he came into view, I swung the stretcher poles in an arc. They collided with his chin with a loud crack, jarring my entire body. I almost dropped the stretcher as the soldier went tumbling off his horse. A thunk of metal told me he’d had an unfortunate collision with the spinning train gears. I didn’t have time to feel sick to my stomach.
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