A Waltz with Traitors

“That’s the thing, Zeman. I wasn’t thinking about you and what you want. I was thinking about her and what she might want.”

Dalek cleared his throat. “And that is why she married Filip instead of Jakub. A useful lesson for anyone who is still in search of a wife.”

Zeman glared and stalked to the other side of the car. He leaned on a sandbag and looked away.

Filip sighed. He hadn’t meant to cause discord. That was the last thing they needed when facing a German Army intent on cutting them off and annihilating them.

Maybe he should have let Zeman marry Nadia. Filip felt responsible for her now, and he didn’t need the extra burden. But he might have felt responsible for her anyway had she been forced to marry Zeman. It would have been too much like his sister, Eliška, all over again. Filip had gone off to war with a black eye after confronting her brute of a husband, and he may have only made her situation worse. Had he made things worse for Nadia too?

Nadia, his wife, if only for a month or two. Zeman was right. She was exquisite. What would it be like to touch that smooth skin, warm as honey and flawless as new silk? Her hair, her eyes, her lips, her neck. He could stare at beauty like that for hours, the way one watched the ripples of a river or the flames of a fire.

And like with a river or a fire, if he wasn’t careful, he’d end up drowned or burned. Having a pretty wife wasn’t a blessing when she thought her husband little better than the mulch on a stable floor.

The train slowed to a crawl. Their car was open to the elements, so the reduced speed converted the wind from a biting blast to a mild chill. Lieutenant Kral climbed inside, and all the men stood to face him.

“We’ll arrive soon. Bakhmach Station is where the lines from the west merge, then go east into Russia. Red guardsmen are holding one of the lines open. I’ve received mixed reports of their reliability, but for now, they’re working with us. Most of the German Army is to the west, but reports have come through of advance units already reaching Bakhmach. We can’t get the station by radio, so we’re not sure who has it. Our job is to keep the trains moving and throw out anyone not willing to cooperate.”

“For how long?” Dalek asked.

“Until the entire legion is evacuated.”

“What do we know of the First Division?” Filip asked.

“Communication has been sporadic. There was a battle in Kiev, with our men trying to hold the bridge over the Dnieper and the Germans trying to take it. We took some losses, but so did they.”

“Enough to stop them?” Dalek asked, a hopeful tone to his voice.

“As I said, communication has been off and on. But I expect the Germans are still at their heels.”

Dalek leaned against the stack of sandbags. “So the First Division is pulling back from Kiev toward Bakhmach, moving east. We’re going to Bakhmach, moving west. And the Germans are everywhere.”

“Add in the Bolsheviks fighting the Ukrainian Nationalists, and that about sums it up.” Kral looked around. “We’re unlikely to get more information until we reach Bakhmach. Stay together and follow orders. If something happens and you get separated, make for Russia—Kursk or Penza. We’ll try to gather stragglers here, but it will be easier to do in Russia, without the German Army to contend with.” Kral paused for questions, but there were none. “Sedlák, take a patrol to the left. See what you find and report back. Zeman, you take the rest and go right.”

The engine slowed further. Filip checked his Mosin-Nagant rifle. Not all the men had firearms, but most at least had grenades. And sometimes the eyes were the most valuable weapon. Everyone had those.

“I’ve never fought in a town before.” Anton stood next to Filip, checking the bolt of his rifle.

“You’ll be behind walls instead of inside a trench. Keep out of sight as much as possible. Don’t walk in the middle of the street because then they can shoot you from both sides. And don’t stop moving unless you’re sheltered.”

Anton nodded. He didn’t say much, not normally. Filip couldn’t tell if he was nervous or just clarifying tactics.

Filip was nervous. He’d done scout work before—that was the Družina’s specialty—but he usually went in quietly. He’d fought in battles before too, but always with a more thorough briefing. This time he was blind and exposed.

The train halted completely. They were on the outskirts of town, rather than at the station. He didn’t see anyone, which didn’t guarantee no one could see him, but they would have to risk it. “Come on.”

Filip climbed from the ore car and dropped to the ground, then made for the nearest shelter, some type of warehouse. Bits of gravel and rock crunched behind him as the other men followed. The sky was cloudy and dark, threatening rain or snow. He paused behind a wooden building and checked his men. Seven of them. “I assume the train station is that way.” He pointed along the track toward the center of town. “We’ll get the most important information there. Best if we observe first, then coordinate with the others if we need to attack. Dalek, Emil, get to the roof and observe from there. You have field glasses?”

Dalek nodded.

“Good. Watch yourselves. Don’t make silhouettes. You three”—he pointed to Petr and two recruits recently released from camps for Slavic war prisoners—“keep to the edge of town, note where the civilians are, and come back if you run into anything military. But find out who.” The Germans would want them dead, but the Ukrainians or the Russians might cooperate. “Use our standard small-group tactics. Two of you cover while the other moves.”

“Just like when we were tailing the grand duchess.” One of the new recruits chuckled. “But we’ll be avoiding bullets instead of glares.”

Filip almost laughed until it hit him that the grand duchess was Nadia, his wife in name only, and that they hadn’t delivered her to safety as they’d intended. The manor had become the Cheka’s killing ground the very next day, and Nadia had barely escaped.

He’d left everything behind once, except his pack and his rifle. He supposed that was something he and Nadia had in common. Maybe the only thing. But he’d crept away rather than run for his life, and his parents hadn’t been murdered. He’d deserted to the Družina and trusted them to look past his uniform and give him a chance to fight for something he didn’t despise. Nadia had fled to the Czechoslovak Legion for a chance to live. He’d found brotherhood and purpose. Only time could tell what Nadia would find.

Dalek and Emil disappeared behind a door with crooked hinges, and Petr’s group rushed ahead.

“You want me with you?” Anton asked.

“Yes. We’re taking a more direct route to the train station.”

Filip led Anton around the building and through a narrow alley. Had Dalek been the one following him, he would have made some quip about how “more direct” sounded a lot like “more dangerous,” but Anton didn’t seem to believe in unnecessary chatter. Unless it involved his wife. The two of them had plenty to say to each other, which didn’t at all ease the weight Filip felt from being assigned to lead this patrol. Anton and Veronika were happy. They wouldn’t be happy anymore if Filip fouled up and Anton ended up dead.

Of course, the lovebirds also wouldn’t be happy if the Germans captured Anton and shot him as a traitor. Technically, he was. Like Filip, Anton was a subject of Austria-Hungary. Or he had been in 1914; things were less clear now. Anton hadn’t voluntarily crossed the lines the way Filip had. When in a hopeless position, his unit had been captured by the Russians and made war prisoners. But regardless of whether defection or defeat had brought Anton to Russia, joining the Czechoslovak Legion would earn him a death sentence if caught.

“They’re up.”

Filip turned at Anton’s remark and caught sight of Dalek and Emil on the roof of the warehouse. In other circumstances, he would have waited for them to make their observations and report, but Kral was desperate for news. They didn’t have time for in-depth planning. They would have to rely on boldness instead.

Filip and Anton moved forward, doing their best to stay out of sight. The town was quiet—too quiet. If life in the town hadn’t been somehow interrupted, people would be going about their business as usual, selling, buying, cleaning, living. Instead, the streets were deserted.

“Hold up here and cover me.” Filip approached a house surrounded by a fence and sheltered by pine and hornbeam.

No one answered his knock. He pushed the door open, leading with his bayonet, then took a deep breath and rushed in. The room was abandoned. No one at the wooden table or beside the stove, but the stove still emitted warmth, and the air smelled of smoke. He moved aside a curtain that partitioned the room; no one was in the bed either.

He went back outside. Instinct made him pull his rifle to his shoulder as a man ran toward them. “Anton, get down! Never mind, it’s Dalek.” He lowered his weapon.

At the false alarm, a sly grin appeared briefly on Anton’s face before fading into his normal placid expression. “No one inside?”

“No. But it hasn’t been empty for long.”

Dalek hopped a fence and joined them.

“What is it?” Filip asked.

Dalek pointed toward the town center. “There’s a machine gun at the station, about two blocks from here. Manned by German soldiers.”

“We should let Kral know.” Filip looked toward the train they’d left behind. “Who wants to go back and tell him?”

Dalek chuckled. “You’re the corporal, so you can order. But neither of us is foolish enough to volunteer when we can wait here behind a sturdy stone wall instead.”

“Why did Kral put you under me? You’re as bad as the Bolsheviks. No respect for the chain of command.” Even if Dalek had been different, it would have been challenging for Filip to command someone he’d known since they were boys learning the pommel horse and the vault. There hadn’t been any rank back then, just friendship, and a taste for mischief and adventure.

“You don’t think the Bolsheviks have a hierarchy?” Dalek asked. “They may preach equality, but so far, that just seems like an excuse to steal from anyone who has more than they do.”

“I’ll go.” Filip glanced up and down the street. “You two can wait here. It’s as good a place as any. Kral needs to know what he’s up against.”

As if it knew it was under discussion, the machine gun went into action. Filip ducked, even though he knew it wasn’t aimed at him.

“Change of plans, brothers. It sounds like Zeman’s group just ran into that gun.” Filip looked back to the warehouse. “Is Emil still there?”

“Unless he’s been shot.” Dalek had moved closer to the ground, too, in response to the gunfire.

“See if he can signal Petr’s group. I think we’ll need all of us. Anton and I will move closer, and I want the rest of our group to join us.”

Dalek ran off, back to the warehouse.

“You’ve known each other long?” Anton asked as they moved forward, hunched over and hugging the sides of the buildings.

“Since we were seven.”

“Has he changed much since then?”

“Well, he’s taller, and he’s gotten better at the parallel bars, but no, not much has changed. He still can’t decide if he’s a comedian or a cynic. I suppose both are useful at times.” Filip held up a hand, and the two men slowed. A shadow passed in front of a second-story window across the street. Filip aimed his rifle but held his fire. The shadow could be anyone—a child, a woman, or a sniper.

“Can you tell if it’s a soldier?” Filip asked.

“No.” Anton squinted.

They waited until Petr’s group approached from the west. The figure in the window moved again, revealing a flash of field-gray uniform. Filip fired. The German soldier slumped forward, and his rifle fell, clattering into the dirt below.

“I’ll fetch it.” Anton ran across the road to pick up the Gewehr 98. Everyone in their group was armed, but plenty of men in the legion weren’t. If they could collect a few more rifles, they’d be better able to fight their way into Russia.

Dalek and all the others arrived, and after hearing their reports, Filip led the group forward. He kept the point position, and the rest of the squad fanned out, covering each other’s movements as they flitted among deserted houses and shops. The rat-tat-tat of the machine gun sounded off and on. Either Zeman’s group was still alive and probing, or Kral had sent in reinforcements.

According to Emil, the machine gun was positioned to cover anyone approaching from the tracks. That was undoubtedly what Zeman’s group had done, so Filip would attack from the other direction.

The machine gun lulled right as Filip reached one of the station’s windows. He waited. He wanted the gun’s noise to cover the sound of breaking glass, but he didn’t want to wait too long. The Germans would have lookouts.

The instant the machine gun fired again, Filip smashed the glass with the butt of his rifle and went through the window. Emil and Anton ran to join him, then followed him inside. They weren’t in the main part of the station yet, which gave them time. They ducked under the ticket counters and waited for the others to join them.

“Who has grenades?”

Dalek, Emil, and Petr raised their hands. Filip nodded, then peeked over the counter. The Germans had set the machine gun in a window. It was a good position. Anyone approaching it from outside would have a devil of a time trying to get close enough to lob a grenade or shoot the gunners.

Filip pointed. “Dalek, there’s your target.” He didn’t know how well Petr or Emil could aim, but Dalek had been good at hitting carriages carrying government bureaucrats when they were younger. He assumed that talent hadn’t disappeared and that throwing a grenade would be much the same as hurling rocks or rotten eggs.

Dalek slipped closer. “You’ll cover me?”

“Of course.”

Dalek nodded.

“Now.” Filip popped up, Dalek with him. Dalek heaved the grenade while Filip shot the first man who turned to them. He ejected his casing and aimed again. Then the grenade went off, and there were no more targets.

“Come on!” Filip kicked open the half-door that separated the ticket counter from the rest of the station and ran toward the gun. One of the fallen soldiers stretched, trying to reach his rifle. Filip shot him. The rest of the men secured the gun emplacement.

“Does it still work?” Filip asked as Anton inspected the machine gun, a Maxim.

“It should.”

Filip crept closer to the windows to look at the tracks. Wind slipped through the broken glass to grab at his face. A few bodies lay on the ground—members of the legion who the Germans had caught while in the open. “Zeman?”

The reply came from across the tracks. “Sedlák?”

“We’ve secured the station, and we’re going out for the wounded. Don’t shoot us, eh?”

Chapter Seven

Nadia woke the next morning unsure where she was. It took her a moment to remember the boxcar and all the events that had led her there. Terror, tragedy, and a bargain with Filip.

The women around her were already moving. About forty of them shared the boxcar, and they’d slept on bunks stacked three high. Light from the cracked door showed a dozen of them washing their faces with cloths moistened in a bucket. A few soft giggles floated up to her.

“That one—sleeping the day away!”

Were they talking about her? She’d retired early and was only now waking up, but she’d spent the night before running for her life. Was it any surprise she needed extra rest? She didn’t want the other women to think she was lazy, but she didn’t want to explain what had happened either. Her parents’ deaths were still too raw. Mama had often spoken of how the Lord would bear their griefs and carry their sorrows, but that morning, both grief and sorrow were heavy enough to crush.

Nadia lay on the top tier of the bunks. She looked below to make sure she wouldn’t kick anyone, then climbed down. She didn’t have a rag, but she had Dima’s handkerchief. She fished it from her pocket and glanced at it, but the dim light made it difficult to judge its cleanliness. Regardless, it would have to do.

She slid next to Veronika and held a hand out to the bucket. “May I use some?”

“Of course. We all take turns with the fetch and carry.” Veronika smiled, and Nadia relaxed a bit. The Czech woman had been kind to her the night before, helping her find a bunk and lending her a blanket.

Nadia washed her face and neck. She would normally wash far more than that but not in front of so many others, nor in an unheated boxcar during winter. She wasn’t sure how clean the water was anyway, with so many people sharing it. She felt her hair. Half of it had come loose, so she pulled the few hairpins that remained from the tangles. She tried to fix it with her fingers.

“I don’t suppose the Bolsheviks let you pack a brush?” Veronica asked.

“No.”

“Throw it into a braid, and we’ll go eat.”

Nadia had never done her own hair before. Maids had arranged it, or Mama. If she’d known how to do it herself, she would have braided it before bed, and it wouldn’t have grown so tangled. She fingered the ends, long enough to reach her navel. “How exactly does one braid hair?”

Veronika’s eyes widened. Another woman snickered and turned away. Nadia’s face grew warm at yet another reminder of how woefully unprepared she was for life on her own.

Veronika glanced at the laughing woman and nibbled her lip. “I’ll show you.” Veronika undid her own hair, which had been braided and wrapped around her head like a crown. Then she braided it again.

When Nadia tried to follow her example, it was an utter mess. She couldn’t see what she was doing, and strands kept slipping through her fingers.

“Here.” Veronika undid her hair yet again. “It’s easier to learn on someone else. Practice on me.”

Nadia took a deep breath and divided Veronika’s hair into three parts. “Your husband is a Slovak?”

“Yes.”

Nadia tried to remember all Anton had said that day she’d fallen from her horse. “And he worked with a doctor for a time?”

Veronika moved her head a bit as if to turn and chat, then stopped. “Yes. While he was in a camp for war prisoners. He wants to become a doctor. Before the war, he hadn’t a hope of getting into school as a Slovak. But maybe things will be different once the war ends.”

“A doctor. You must be proud.” Nadia was managing to keep the bits of hair straight, but she hadn’t divided it evenly. The braid wasn’t anywhere near as neat or as tight as Veronika’s previous one.