by Gale Sears
Natasha knew that any anger Sergey had felt toward her was swept away by the threat of attack, and she was willing to forgive his unkind slight. Perhaps he’d called her “stupid girl” out of frustration—everyone was on edge.
Sergey stood as soon as she did. He wrapped her in his arms and kissed the top of her head. “We’ll get through this.”
“Yes, of course,” she replied.
He pulled her more tightly against him. “It’s been difficult. I’m sorry.”
She couldn’t breathe. She stepped back and put her hands on his chest. “I understand, Sergey, I do. The revolution is the most important thing.”
He covered her hands with his. “Yes. Yes, that’s it.” He was just about to kiss her when Nicholai Lvovitch came up. He held out a pistol to each of them.
“The women are getting together to be trained, Natasha Ivanovna. You must join them.” He looked at Sergey. “And you are to join Dmitri and me for a drink of vodka.”
* * *
Natasha sat in her secret hiding place reading her book. “Article 13—We believe in being honest, true, chaste, benevolent, virtuous, and in doing good to all men . . .” Something flew past the compartment window and she looked up. Her heart thudded against her ribs and she strained to look toward the back of the train to see if the object had been something other than a bird. The tension on the train was palpable, and as soon as the women’s training session had ended, she’d sought solitude.
As the hours passed and Medvenka drew closer, she grew hopeful that they would arrive without incident. It was foolish not to have considered the dangers of the trip, and surely her father had been aware that a train full of Bolshevik faithful would be a target for opposing factions. Of course, they were accustomed to the anarchists and saboteurs in Petrograd, sneaking about in the shadows for fear of the large numbers of Red Guards. Natasha shivered. Out here they were isolated and the White Army was strong. She yelped in fear when Sergey Antonovich pushed open the door and leaned against the door frame.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. Nicholai Lvovitch told me I might find you here.” He stepped into the room and locked the door. Natasha noted Sergey’s voice. His speech was slurred and louder than normal, and she doubted that he’d shared only one drink with his friends.
Sergey walked to the printing press and frowned at her. “How do I get over there?”
“You have to climb across the seat.”
“Ah.” He made his way clumsily to the small rectangular piece of seat directly across from her. He sat down and composed himself. “You shouldn’t go off by yourself, Natasha. Safety in numbers, you know.”
Natasha nodded. “You’re probably right. I just needed to think things through.” A piece of red fabric flew past the window. “Did you see that?”
“Yes, of course. I think the engineer is throwing out the red flags. He doesn’t want to be caught with them.”
Natasha felt sick. She put her hand on the pistol sitting at her side. “I don’t know if I could shoot someone.”
“I’ll protect you.” Sergey leaned forward to take her hand. “What’s this?” He picked up the blue book.
Natasha forced herself to remain calm. “It’s just a book.”
Sergey flipped through the pages. “Not just a book. It’s in English.” He stopped to read over a page. He looked slowly up at her. “It’s a religious book.”
“Actually the content is more philosophical.”
He glowered at her. “Do you think I’m stupid?”
She could see the vodka fueling his anger. “No, of course not. I admire your brilliance.”
He ignored her attempt at flattery. He flipped to another page and read silently, his lips pressed together in a hard line. “Is this what’s been twisting your mind? Is this what’s been turning you from our cause?”
“I haven’t turned from—”
Sergey slammed the book against his hand. “Don’t lie!”
She pressed herself back against the seat. “Sergey, be calm. Let’s talk about this calmly.”
His tone became menacing. “And here I admired your intellect. I admired all the words you wrote . . . and your beauty.” He went down on his knees in front of her. “And all the time you were laughing at me behind my back. Laughing at everything I was passionate about.” He grabbed the side of her neck and forced her mouth down to his.
She pushed him away. “Stop! Sergey, stop!”
He slid his hand to her throat and held the book up for her to see. “Do you think I’m going to let this come between us?”
She whimpered. “It’s just a book . . . please . . . give it to me.”
“Where did you get it? Who gave it to you?” Her silence angered him and he shook her. “Answer me!”
“Agnes’s father.”
His grip loosened and momentary doubt crossed his face. “What?”
“Mr. Lindlof.”
Sergey swore and threw the book against the compartment door. “Will I never be rid of that hateful family?”
“What do you mean?”
His grip tightened again and he pulled her down onto her knees. “Who do you think sent in the report on them?”
Natasha saw smug triumph in his eyes. “No. Impossible.”
His free hand slid around her back and he pressed her to him. “I knew how you cared for them, and how they were polluting your mind. I had no other choice.”
Angry tears jumped into her eyes. She tried to hit him, but he pinned her arms. She struggled and screamed, but he was stronger, and he covered her screams with his mouth.
The compartment door was kicked open and Nicholai Lvovitch came stumbling in.
Natasha gasped for breath. “Help! Help me, Nicholai Lvovitch!”
Nicholai took out his pistol and aimed it at Sergey Antonovich. “Let her go!”
Sergey stood and pulled Natasha up by her hair. “Get out! This has nothing to do with you!”
“Leave it!” Nicholai roared. “The White Army is stopping the train!”
The squeal of brakes on the track affirmed his words. Fear printed itself onto Sergey’s face. He made his way to the door, shoving Nicholai Lvovitch aside with a snarl. He ran down the corridor, wrenching the pistol from his pocket.
They could hear gunfire and men shouting. Nicholai Lvovitch nodded at her. “Come on, Natasha. I’ll help you.”
She grabbed the gun and shoved it into her satchel. She clambered across the seat and jumped down by his side. “What should we do?”
“We’ll jump from the train before it stops and run for the woods. There’s thick cover in the trees.” Nicholai moved quickly down the corridor.
Natasha scooped her book off the floor and followed. “Dear Lord, watch over us,” she prayed as she ran.
The train was only moving a few miles an hour, so when Nicholai reached the exit portal, he didn’t hesitate. Natasha tamped down her fear and followed, stumbling and rolling into the tall grass and undergrowth. When she regained her bearings, she located Nicholai a few yards ahead of her. She heard the sounds of a major engagement happening on the other side of the train and thought perhaps she and Nicholai might have time to make it to the woods, but when she glanced back, she was horrified to see three mounted soldiers wheeling around the back side of the train, obviously intent on killing anyone attempting to escape. Someone shot at the riders from inside the train and the soldiers became focused on saving their own skins. They were unaware of the two figures disappearing into the dark shelter of the forest.
Notes
1. The White Army: The anti-Bolshevik military forces typically formed from remnants of the former tsarist army. This fighting force was the nemesis of the Communists during Russia’s civil war from 1917 to 1921.
Chapter Forty-One
Kursk
May 23, 1918
“Get up!”
Natasha felt something hard kicking at her leg.
“Get up!” the voice came again insistent and harsh.
Natasha opened her eyes and saw the farm woman and her thin son staring at her.
“You have to get out of my barn!” the woman hissed. “The White Army is coming!”
Natasha sat up.
“If they find you here . . .” The woman threw Natasha her satchel. “They’ll burn my place down!”
Nicholai Lvovitch was shoving his coat into his carry sack. He ran his hand over his newly acquired beard and jerked his head at her to get up. She quickly put on her boots and stood.
“Thank you for helping us,” she said to the woman.
“Yes, yes. Now get going.”
The thin boy held out a small piece of bread to her, his sunken eyes never leaving the morsel.
Natasha shook her head. “No, you eat it. I still have some of what you gave me last night.”
The boy shoved the bread into his mouth and ran from the barn.
Natasha and the woman joined Nicholai at the barn’s entrance. The woman pointed. “Take that trail into the woods. In a mile or so you’ll come to a wagon track. Another three or four miles and you’ll come to Kursk.”
Nicholai nodded. “Thank you.”
“You can catch the train there. Now, go!” She shoved them out into the early morning dimness.
Natasha followed Nicholai into the forest. She felt woozy from waking so abruptly and from lack of food, but she kept her pace. Over the past days she had learned to trust Nicholai Lvovitch’s sense of direction and knowledge of the land, and she knew he was grateful for the money she had sewn in the hem of her skirt.
They had stopped at a small home one night, asking for food and a place to stay. The farmer was surly and unwelcoming until Natasha offered him a gold coin. Since then, the two escapees had relied on each other for survival.
They had heard from a family sympathetic with the Bolshevik struggle that most of the people from the Red Train had been taken captive and were locked up somewhere in Medvenka. She and Nicholai did not talk about the night of their escape, but kept their focus and energy on getting back to Petrograd; though Natasha found that focus could not keep away the bad dreams. The first night in the forest, as she lay curled under her coat, she’d dreamed of Sergey Antonovich’s hand around her throat, and last night she’d walked with him by the Griboyedov canal. As they’d talked about the great ideals of Socialism, she’d watched as Red Guards sawed the crosses off the St. Nicholas Cathedral.
“Are you listening to me, Natasha Ivanovna?”
Nicholai’s words brought her to the present. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”
He held a branch until she had moved past it. “We will probably be in Kursk by early evening. We should plan what to do.”
“Eat supper,” Natasha answered.
Nicholai chuckled. “Yes, I’d like that. Six days of walking and very few meals.”
“I want meat pies and apples and cake.”
“Stop, Natasha Ivanovna! I may start running and you could never keep up.”
“Don’t challenge me, Nicholai Lvovitch. My friend Agnes and I used to—” She stopped talking abruptly, checked her emotions, and walked on in silence.
After a time, Nicholai cleared his throat. “I . . . I’m sorry about your friend.” Natasha nodded, and he continued, emotion washing his tired face. “And I’m sorry about the church and your cousin in Sel’tso Saterno.” He began weeping. “I’ve been wrong about so many things.” His sobs grew more intense and he bent over and put his hands on his knees.
Natasha moved to him and patted his back, knowing that years of fear and anguish were escaping with the sudden apology. “It’s all right, Nicholai Lvovitch. Many have believed the lies. It all seemed like a grand cause, didn’t it?”
He nodded and wiped his face on his sleeve. He took a deep breath of cool morning air and calmed his emotions.
Natasha held his large hands with her slender fingers. She waited until he looked into her eyes. “You saved my life, Nicholai Lvovitch. I can never repay you for that. That act will do much to wipe out other things in the heavenly books.”
His eyes widened in surprise. “You believe in heaven?”
“‘We believe all things, we hope all things, we have endured many things, and hope to be able to endure all things.’”
“Where is that from?”
She smiled to herself. “I think the Apostle Paul might have said it.”
Nicholai Lvovitch was clearly taken aback. “I never took you for someone who read the Bible.”
She gave him a wry smile. “No, I would suppose not.” She began walking and Nicholai followed.
“Is the blue book you read a small, traveling Bible?”
“No, but it does have many spiritual things in it.” She stepped over a log. “When we have time, I’ll tell you about it.” She walked faster. “But for now, let’s get to Kursk and some warm food.”
“And then the train home!” Nicholai Lvovitch said brightly, the last vestiges of sadness gone from his voice.
Natasha nodded, but did not reply. Home. She wanted to see her mother and eat her cooking. She wanted to sleep in her own bed and take a proper bath, but she did not want to go back to work for the Bolsheviks, she did not want to see the strangers living in the Lindlof home, and she did not want to be without her dearest friend. Agnes’s angel face came unbidden into her mind and Natasha pressed her hand against her chest to ease the pain of loss. She looked at the blue sky and beautiful birch trees and walked on toward Kursk. With every step, words from the thirteenth article of faith whispered in her ear and offered comfort: We have endured many things, and hope to be able to endure all things.
Chapter Forty-Two
Moscow
June 2, 1918
“I have bread, Citizen Plekhanov! Bread!” Nicholai Lvovitch plunked down the satchel on the old man’s table and took off his cap. “Bread, cheese, and a few figs.”
The older man clapped Nicholai on the back. “Wonderful! I’m going to keep you to be my gatherer. What do you think, Natasha Ivanovna? Can I keep him through the winter?”
Natasha folded the newspaper she’d been reading and joined them at the table. “I don’t think his aging parents would like it.”
Plekhanov grinned. “Ah, yes . . . well, I probably could not keep him fed, anyway.” He picked up one of the figs. “These look good. Quite a find!”
“It’s nothing,” Nicholai mumbled shyly.
“Nothing? Ha! Since most of the fruiterers have closed up shop, these are a treasure.”
“Oh, and I brought this for the horse.” Nicholai rummaged in his coat pocket and brought out an apple. “It’s shriveled, but . . .”
Plekhanov took the apple, put his hand over his heart, and gave a little bow. “My old nag is grateful. I will go and give this to her. You two eat.”
Natasha watched the old gentleman as he shuffled to the door. He put on his hat and gave the apple a little flip in the air before exiting.
“I’m glad you said we should come here, Natasha Ivanovna. He’s a good man.”
“Yes, he is. We need to leave tomorrow though. I’ve cabled my parents and they’re expecting me.”
“Of course.” He handed her a slice of bread and some cheese. “I’m glad for the rest, but I take up a lot of space in this little hovel.”
Natasha nodded. “We both have imposed long enough.” She sat at the table to eat her food.
“I can’t figure out this Plekhanov,” Nicholai said with a chuckle. “Is he a Bolshevik, a counterrevolutionary, a Christian—”
“Or a crook?” Plekhanov said brightly as he walked i
nto the room.
Nicholai’s face reddened. “I’m sorry, friend. I wasn’t making judgments.”
“No, no, Nicholai Lvovitch. I’m glad I have you guessing. That’s what I want to do with the Bolsheviks. I want to keep them confused as to who is this Comrade Plekhanov.” He took off his cap and slapped his leg with it.
Natasha laughed. “Plekhanov the fox.”
He winked. “I think soon we will all be hiding our true identities.”
Natasha handed him a fig and nodded. “You are one of the wisest men I know.”
Plekhanov threw back his head and laughed. “And this coming from the daughter of a university professor!”
“Study doesn’t make you wise. My father has read much of the Bible, yet doesn’t believe a word of it. You, on the other hand, have read many of Lenin’s and Trotsky’s writings and think they’re misguided.”
Plekhanov sat at the table. “Here is the problem, little fox cub, the world is a wicked place—a wicked and muddy place. Who is to find their way through? The government says ‘go this way’ and they force a man to be caring and share his crust of bread, but if the government isn’t there with a big stick, the man will eat all the bread himself. It’s just the way in this muddy world.”
“That’s what I’ve always thought,” Nicholai Lvovitch stated. “So, if there is a God, why doesn’t He tell us how to go?”
Plekhanov grew quiet. “Perhaps He tries, Nicholai, but we’re not listening.”
For a few minutes they ate in silence, then Natasha spoke. “Nicholai and I will be leaving tomorrow.”
The old wagon driver’s head bobbed up and down as he tore off a chunk of bread. “Yes, yes. I knew I couldn’t keep you forever. I would, though. Oh, yes, I would.”
“We must get back to our families.”
Plekhanov shoved bread into his mouth. “I understand. But, what will you do there now, Natasha Ivanovna? What will you do in the grand red city of Petrograd? Will you go back to work for the Central Committee?”
