Romanov(71)

Zash grinned. “Let no one ever call you tame!” He managed to take the treasures from me. Blood gurgled from a hole in his upper left arm, but besides that he seemed uninjured. He and Alexei opened the door and entered the train.

And I rode. Wild. Free. Untamed.





32


The horse tired quickly. Only another few minutes of riding alongside the train and foam formed at the edge of her saddle and bit. She wouldn’t keep the train’s pace for much longer. But if I dismounted, would she return to Yurovsky?

The ground sloped away and I veered farther from the tracks to keep a clear riding path. The forest line grew tight ahead and I risked losing the train if I remained astride the horse. The slope ended so I reined her near the train again. With one hand I unbuckled her bridle. Next I pulled at the saddle’s cinch. I undid what I could without completely unseating myself.

I steered her to the train and reached for the rail. It was farther than I thought. It’d be nice to have Zash’s help.

No. I could do this on my own. “Let no one call you tame.”

I released the reins and committed to the transfer, gripping the rail with both hands. The horse veered away from the locomotive and I pushed off her flanks with my feet to send me fully onto the center hitch between cars. Success. The horse immediately abandoned the gallop, drifted into the trees, and started nibbling grass. The bit slipped out of her mouth and she shook herself free of the bridle before a curve in the tracks took her from my view.

I gave a little wave before I turned to the door. Neither Zash nor Alexei had come out to check on me, which struck me as odd. I hauled my weight against the door lever until my ribs reminded me that I’d just slammed them against a saddle horn. With a hissing inhale I tried the door again and the lever slid down. When I opened the door, I understood why Zash had not come back outside.

He sat at gunpoint, cornered by three workmen. Alexei formed a rigid shield between them.

My entrance drew everyone’s attention. This boxcar had no seats—only crates of goods and some scattered luggage. One of the armed men lifted his gun and pointed it at me. I wasn’t in the mood to be intimidated—not after escaping Yurovsky. So I raised an eyebrow. “Zdravstvutye, gentlemen.”

“Not another word,” said the man who aimed at me. It could have been the shudder of the train, but did I detect a tremble? “Who are you and who are these men?”

I knew I looked a wreck—thin and ragged from traveling and meager rations. My shaved head didn’t buy me any favors. I shoved the rib pain out of my mind and produced an impish smile. “Which would you prefer: that I don’t speak another word or that I answer your inquiries?”

He gaped at the others. One man gave a “Go ahead” type of nod. So he turned back to me, though his gun arm had drooped a bit. “Answer.”

During his moment of indecision, I took in the situation and urged my brain to stay sharp. These men wore regular clothing and seemed nervous, which implied they weren’t Bolsheviks. Their guns aimed mostly at Zash, who was dressed as a Bolshevik, and no one aimed directly at Alexei, who still wore part of his tsarevich uniform. These men weren’t enemies. They were frightened that we were.

And the best rule of thumb was to tell the truth unless you absolutely had to lie. Truth was easier to keep track of, and no matter how good one was at lying, it could often be detected.

“I am Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova. This”—I gestured to Alexei—“is my brother, Tsarevich Alexei Nikolaevich Romanov. We have been imprisoned at the Ipatiev House in Ekaterinburg by the Red Army. Two days ago Commandant Yakov Yurovsky of the Red Army slaughtered”—I forced past the sudden quiver in my voice—“our family without trial. We are the only survivors.”

My response earned the reaction I had intended. Slack jaws. Wide eyes. Sinking pistols. “And what about him?” One of the other men jutted his barrel toward Zash.

Zash’s head hung low. I took a breath. “He was a guard at the Ipatiev House who helped us escape and is continuing to aid us.”

Zash looked up, hope in his eyes. Relief in his posture.

“He’s dressed like a Bolshevik,” one of the men said.

“And for that, I’m glad, because he is far less conspicuous in public than we are.” I folded my arms. “Do you have any other questions, or may I bandage his arm now?”

The men lowered their guns and backed away enough for me to approach Zash. He’d been disarmed but not mistreated. Yurovsky’s bullet had grazed his arm and torn through his shirt, so I ripped the rest of the sleeve off and used it as a bandage. I tried not to tense knowing the three men stood behind me. But so did Alexei, and he’d keep us safe.

“You were telling the truth,” one man said to Alexei.

Alexei lifted his chin. “I do not lie to my people.” Such a bold statement coming from the mouth of a thirteen-year-old boy was enough to defuse the tension. The men seated themselves on crates. Only once they sat did Alexei sit himself. I was glad we’d given him the numbing spell, otherwise no one would likely listen to him.

“So who are you? Part of the White Army, I presume?” Alexei sat upright but not stiff. Like a soldier. Like a leader.

The two quieter men deferred to the first man who had pointed his gun at me. He seemed to be their spokesman, but I wasn’t sure about leader. “I am Kostya. Yes, we are with the White Army.”