“Get ready,” Jens said.
Valentina nodded but her heart was pounding. Lydia was on Jens’s back, arms tight around his neck. His hand was gripping Valentina’s. She gave her husband and daughter a tense smile. “I’m ready.” Her breath curled between them like an icy curtain, and she clutched his fingers.
The train came. Only three freight wagons behind the engine. As it reached the bend in the river it slowed, just as the man in the tunnel had promised it would. The wagons bucked and rattled, lurching to one side, and Jens began to run alongside the track. Valentina matched him stride for stride, but his legs were longer and she had to struggle. The engine growled at their shoulders. Valentina glanced across at the driver and saw that he was shaking a stick at them, as if he would beat them off the train. At the front of the first wagon a metal ladder was fixed on its outside wall, and Jens reached out with his free hand as it passed him, seizing it effortlessly. Instantly he was whisked off his feet. For one split second he hung by one hand, with Lydia on his back and his pack, as well as Valentina’s, slung over his shoulder. His other hand still held tight to his wife.
“Jump!” he screamed.
But her legs were at full stretch. She jumped. Stumbled, lost her footing. Felt her arm almost wrench from its socket. She was being dragged at full speed along the ground. Ripping, tearing, battering.
She let go. She felt her fingers slide out of his, felt her life slide from her grasp. She lay on the ice-covered ground and watched everything she loved in this life surge away from her. As the track straightened the engine gathered speed, pistons pumping, and bellowed its annoyance. The figures of Jens and Lydia disappeared.
She pulled herself to her feet to watch the train until the last possible moment, before it vanished from sight, unaware that she was trembling or that the skin of her legs was torn to shreds.
“Jens!” she screamed. “Lydia!”
She tried to breathe. Couldn’t begin to. She’d lost everything. After all it had cost her to get this far, now when her life was ready to start again, she had lost it all. Automatically, she began to run. She would damn well run all the way to China if she had to. Her feet pounding on the ground, she stumbled again, but she caught herself and this time kept going. Thoughts rushed through her head. They had each other. Jens and Lydia. They’d be together. Together forever. Safe.
Her lungs began to hurt and she became aware of where she was, alone in the middle of nowhere. She had nothing except the certain knowledge: that Jens and Lydia were together, that they would take care of each other. It held her on her feet.
But the pain of being without them was killing her. Still she ran and ran and ran, and just when a ragged black shadow began to slide in around the edges of her vision, she saw in the distance the end of the train again. She blinked. It was still there, not moving on the line, gray smoke belching once more into the sky.
She ran. It came closer, closer, her heart thundering in her chest. She reached the end wagon, but still it didn’t move, shuddering impatiently on the track. She reached the second wagon, lungs bursting, the first. Then the ladder. She grasped it tight. Nothing happened; the train remained still. Tentatively, she slid herself farther along until she made a sudden dash to the engine itself.
Standing there, with a gun to the head of the driver, was Jens. He smiled at her. “You took your time getting here,” he said.
TURN THE PAGE FOR AN EXCERPT FROM
KATE FURNIVALL’S NOVEL
The Russina Concubine
THE STORY OF LYDIA IVANOVA’S EARLY YEARS IN CHINA
AVAILABLE IN PAPERBACK NOW
FROM BERKLEY BOOKS
THE TRAIN GROWLED TO A HALT. GRAY STEAM BELCHED from its heaving engine into the white sky, and the twenty-four freight carriages behind bucked and rattled as they lurched shrieking to a standstill.The sound of horses and of shouted commands echoed across the stillness of the empty frozen landscape.
“Why have we stopped?” Valentina Friis whispered to her husband.
Her breath curled between them like an icy curtain. It seemed to her despairing mind to be the only part of her that still had any strength to move. She clutched his hand. Not for warmth this time, but because she needed to know he was still there at her side. He shook his head, his face blue with cold because his coat was wrapped tightly around the sleeping child in his arms.
“This is not the end,” he said.
“Promise me,” she breathed.
He gave his wife a smile and together they clung to the rough timbered wall of the cattle wagon that enclosed them, pressing their eyes to the slender gaps between the planks. All around them others did the same. Desperate eyes. Eyes that had already seen too much.
“They mean to kill us,” the bearded man on Valentina’s right stated in a flat voice. He spoke with a heavy Georgian accent and wore his astrakhan hat well down over his ears. “Why else would we stop in the middle of nowhere?”
“Oh sweet Mary, mother of God, protect us.”
It was the wail of an old woman still huddled on the filthy floor and wrapped in so many shawls she looked like a fat little Buddha. But underneath the stinking rags was little more than skin and bone.
“No, babushka,” another male voice insisted. It came from the rear end of the carriage where the ice-ridden wind tore relentlessly through the slats, bringing the breath of Siberia into their lungs. “No, it’ll be General Korilov. He knows we’re on this godforsaken cattle train starving to death. He won’t let us die. He’s a great commander.”
A murmur of approval ran around the clutch of gaunt faces, bringing a spark of belief to the dull eyes, and a young boy with dirty blond hair who had been lying listlessly in one corner leapt to his feet and started to cry with relief. It had been a long time since anyone had wasted energy on tears.
“Dear God, I pray you are right,” said a hollow-eyed man with a stained bandage on the stump of his arm. At night he groaned endlessly in his sleep, but by day he was silent and tense. “We’re at war,” he said curtly. “General Lavr Kornilov cannot be everywhere.”
“But I tell you he’s here. You’ll see.”
“Is he right, Jens?” Valentina tilted her face up to her husband.
She was only twenty-four, small and fragile, but possessed sensuous dark eyes that could, with a glance, for a brief moment, make a man forget the cold and the hunger that gnawed at his insides or the weight of a child in his arms. Jens Friis was ten years older than his wife and fearful for her safety if the roving Bolshevik soldiers took one look at her beautiful face. He bent his head and brushed a kiss on her forehead.
“We shall soon know,” he said.
The red beard on his unshaven cheek was rough against Valentina’s cracked lips, but she welcomed the feel of it and the smell of his unwashed body. They reminded her that she had not died and gone to hell. Because hell was exactly what this felt like. The thought that this nightmare journey across thousands of miles of snow and ice might go on forever, through the whole of eternity, that this was her cruel damnation for defying her parents, was one that haunted her, awake and asleep.
Suddenly the great sliding door of the wagon was thrust open and fierce voices shouted, “Vse is vagona, bistro.” Out of the wagons.
THE LIGHT BLINDED VALENTINA. THERE WAS SO MUCH OF it. After the perpetually twilit world inside the wagon, it rushed at her from the huge arc of sky, skidded off the snow, and robbed her of vision. She blinked hard and forced the scene around her into focus.
What she saw chilled her heart.
A row of rifles. All aimed directly at the ragged passengers as they scrambled off the train and huddled in anxious groups, their coats pulled tight to keep out the cold and the fear. Jens reached up to help the old woman down from their wagon, but before he could take her hand she was pushed from behind and landed facedown in the snow. She made no sound, no cry. But she was quickly yanked onto her feet by the soldier who had thrown open the wagon door and shaken as carelessly as a d
og shakes a bone.
Valentina exchanged a look with her husband. Without a word they slid their child from Jens’s shoulder and stood her between them, hiding her in the folds of their long coats as they moved forward together.
“Mama?” It was a whisper. Though only five years old, the girl had already learned the need for silence. For stillness.
“Hush, Lydia,” Valentina murmured but could not resist a glance down at her daughter. All she saw was a pair of wide tawny eyes in a heart-shaped bone-white face and little booted feet swallowed up by the snow. She pressed closer against her husband and the face no longer existed. Only the small hand clutching her own told her otherwise.
THE MAN FROM GEORGIA IN THE WAGON WAS RIGHT. This was truly the middle of nowhere. A godforsaken landscape of nothing but snow and ice and the occasional windswept rock face glistening black. In the far distance a bank of skeletal trees stood like a reminder that life could exist here. But this was no place to live.
No place to die.
The men on horseback didn’t look much like an army. Nothing remotely like the smart officers Valentina was used to seeing in the ballrooms and troikas of St. Petersburg or ice skating on the Neva, showing off their crisp uniforms and impeccable manners. These men were diff erent. Alien to that elegant world she had left behind. These men were hostile. Dangerous. About fifty of them had spread out along the length of the train, alert and hungry as wolves. They wore an assortment of greatcoats against the cold, some gray, others black, and one a deep muddy green. But all cradled the same long-nosed rifle in their arms and had the same fanatical look of hatred in their eyes.
“Bolsheviks,” Jens murmured to Valentina, as they were herded into a group where the fragile sound of prayers trickled like tears. “Pull your hood over your head and hide your hands.”
“My hands?”
“Yes.”
“Why my hands?”
“Comrade Lenin likes to see them scarred and roughened by years of what he calls honest labor.” He touched her arm protectively. “I don’t think piano playing counts, my love.”
Valentina nodded, slipped her hood over her head and her one free hand into her pocket. Her gloves, her once beautiful sable gloves, had been torn to shreds during the months in the forest, that time of traveling on foot by night, eating worms and lichen by day. It had taken its toll on more than just her gloves.
“Jens,” she said softly, “I don’t want to die.”
He shook his head vehemently and his free hand jabbed toward the tall soldier on horseback who was clearly in command. The one in the green greatcoat.
“He’s the one who should die—for leading the peasants into this mass insanity that is tearing Russia apart. Men like him open up the floodgates of brutality and call it justice.”
At that moment the officer called out an order and more of his troops dismounted. Rifle barrels were thrust into faces, thudded against backs. As the train breathed heavily in the silent wilderness, the soldiers pushed and jostled its cargo of hundreds of displaced people into a tight circle fifty yards away from the rail track and then proceeded to strip the wagons of possessions.
“No, please, don’t,” shouted a man at Valentina’s elbow as an armful of tattered blankets and a tiny cooking stove were hurled out of one of the front wagons. Tears were running down his cheeks.
She put out a hand. Held his shoulder. No words could help. All around her, desperate faces were gray and taut.
In front of each wagon the meager pile of possessions grew as the carefully hoarded objects were tossed into the snow and set on fire. Flames, fired by coal from the steam engine and a splash of vodka, devoured the last scraps of their self-respect. Their clothes, the blankets, photographs, a dozen treasured icons of the Virgin Mary and even a miniature painting of Tsar Nicholas II. All blackened, burned, and turned to ash.
“You are traitors. All of you. Traitors to your country.”
The accusation came from the tall officer in the green greatcoat. Though he wore no insignia except a badge of crossed sabers on his peaked cap, there was no mistaking his position of authority. He sat upright on a large heavy-muscled horse, which he controlled effortlessly with an occasional flick of his heel. His eyes were dark and impatient, as if this cargo of White Russians presented him with a task he found distasteful.
“None of you deserve to live,” he said coldly.
A deep moan rose from the crowd. It seemed to sway with shock.
He raised his voice. “You exploited us. You maltreated us. You believed the time would never come when you would have to answer to us, the people of Russia. But you were wrong. You were blind. Where is all your wealth now? Where are your great houses and your fine horses now? The tsar is finished and I swear to you that—”
A single voice rose up from somewhere in the middle of the crowd. “God bless the tsar. God protect the Romanovs.”
A shot rang out. The officer’s rifle had bucked in his hands. A figure in the front row fell to the ground, a dark stain on the snow.
“That man paid for your treachery.” His hostile gaze swept over the stunned crowd with contempt. “You and your kind were parasites on the backs of the starving workers. You created a world of cruelty and tyranny where rich men turned their backs on the cries of the poor. And now you desert your country, like rats fleeing from a burning ship. And you dare to take the youth of Russia with you.” He swung his horse to one side and moved away from the throng of gaunt faces. “Now you will hand over your valuables.”
At a nod of his head, the soldiers started to move among the prisoners. Systematically they seized all jewelry, all watches, all silver cigar cases, anything that had any worth, including all forms of money. Insolent hands searched clothing, under arms, inside mouths, and even between breasts, seeking out the carefully hidden items that meant survival to their owners. Valentina lost the emerald ring secreted in the hem of her dress, while Jens was stripped of his last gold coin in his boot. When it was over, the crowd stood silent except for a dull sobbing. Robbed of hope, they had no voice.
But the officer was pleased. The look of distaste left his face. He turned and issued a sharp command to the man on horseback behind him. Instantly a handful of mounted soldiers began to weave through the crowd, dividing it, churning it into confusion. Valentina clung to the small hand hidden in hers and knew that Jens would die before he released the other one. A faint cry escaped from the child when a big bay horse swung into them and its iron-shod hooves trod dangerously close, but otherwise she hung on fiercely and made no sound.
“What are they doing?” Valentina whispered.
“Taking the men. And the children.”
“Oh God, no.”
But he was right. Only the old men and the women were ignored. The others were being separated out and herded away. Cries of anguish tore through the frozen wasteland and somewhere on the far side of the train a wolf crept forward on its belly, drawn by the scent of blood.
“Jens, no, don’t let them take you. Or her,” Valentina begged.
“Papa?” A small face emerged between them.
“Hush, my love.”
A rifle butt thumped into Jens’s shoulder just as he flicked his coat back over his daughter’s head. He staggered but kept his feet.
“You. Get over there.” The soldier on horseback looked as if he were just longing for an excuse to pull the trigger. He was very young. Very nervous.
Jens stood his ground. “I am not Russian.” He reached into his inside pocket, moving his hand slowly so as not to unsettle the soldier, and drew out his passport.
“See,” Valentina pointed out urgently. “My husband is Danish.”
The soldier frowned, uncertain what to do. But his commander had sharp eyes. He instantly spotted the hesitation. He kicked his horse forward into the panicking crowd and came up alongside the young private.
“Grodensky, why are you wasting time here?” he demanded.
But his attention was not on the so
ldier. It was on Valentina. Her face had tilted up to speak to the mounted soldat and her hood had fallen back, revealing a sweep of long dark hair and a high forehead with pale flawless skin. Months of starvation had heightened her cheekbones and made her eyes huge in her face.
The officer dismounted. Up close, they could see he was younger than he had appeared on horseback, probably still in his thirties, but with the eyes of a much older man. He took the passport and studied it briefly, his gaze flicking from Valentina to Jens and back again.
“But you,” he said roughly to Valentina, “you are Russian?”
Behind them shots were beginning to sound.
“By birth, yes,” she answered without turning her head to the noise. “But now I am Danish. By marriage.” She wanted to edge closer to her husband, to hide the child more securely between them, but did not dare move. Only her fingers tightened on the tiny cold hand in hers.
Without warning, the officer’s rifle slammed into Jens’s stomach and he doubled over with a grunt of pain, but immediately another blow to the back of his head sent him sprawling onto the snow. Blood spattered its icy surface.
Valentina screamed.
Instantly she felt the little hand pull free of her own and saw her daughter throw herself at the officer’s legs with the ferocity of a spitting wildcat, biting and scratching in a frenzy of rage. As if in slow motion, she watched the rifle butt start to descend toward the little head.
“No,” she shouted and snatched the child up into her arms before the blow could fall. But stronger hands tore the young body from her grasp.
“No, no, no!” she screamed. “She is a Danish child. She is not a Russian.”
“She is Russian,” the officer insisted and drew his revolver. “She fights like a Russian.” Casually he placed the gun barrel at the center of the child’s forehead.
The child froze. Only her eyes betrayed her fear. Her little mouth was clamped shut.
“Don’t kill her, I beg you,” Valentina pleaded. “Please don’t kill her. I’ll do ... anything ... anything. If you let her live.”
The Jewel of St. Petersburg Page 45
