Romanov(73)

Not a single passenger hesitated.

“This train is to be searched!” he hollered. “All luggage and passengers must disembark!”

Kostya tossed luggage out of the baggage compartment, not too roughly. The last thing we needed were angry passengers coming up to us. I stayed hidden—there was no way I could blend in as a worker or even a passenger. But I listened. Zash’s forcefulness frightened me a little. I’d never heard him shout.

He played his role well.

The moment the passengers and luggage had been removed from the train, the engine started back up. Passengers stared at each other, confused, as car after car inched past them. But no one tried to board again. Within minutes we were gone, leaving them alone with their piles of luggage to haul the remaining two kilometers to the station.

I didn’t know if the conductor had acted under honor, bribe, or threat. All that mattered was that it worked. We were on our way to Moscow.





33


Zash and I were alone—finally alone—in the passenger car.

Alexei and the Whites were forward with the conductor and the coalmen. This train had nothing like the Imperial Train’s wide, open, and airy compartments. This car was filled with chairs with their cushioned backs against the walls, passengers facing inward toward each other. With just the two of us, it still felt roomy, but I couldn’t imagine how it might feel if every seat were filled.

Zash sat in a chair opposite me, his injured arm held tightly across his middle. I suspected he was in pain but not sharing it. I couldn’t let that stop me from doing what I must.

“May I ask you something, Zash?”

“Okay,” he grunted, adjusting his position to bend over his arm a bit more.

“Why did you join the Bolsheviks?” The first time I met him, he seemed so loyal. He hated me and my family. He’d told Alexei he’d joined to provide for Vira, but that didn’t explain his initial anger toward my family. So much had changed since then. I wanted to understand where he came from.

He released a gust of a sigh, then squinted at me as though to assess how vulnerable he could be. The only emotion I felt toward Zash in that moment was curiosity. It was a blessed relief not to feel the thrum of hatred just then.

“Everything seems tied together. I’m not sure where to start.”

I waited, allowing him to sift through his own memories—which were likely equally as painful to recall as my own, this side of Yurovsky’s slaughter.

“My papa and mama died when I was a boy—Mama from an illness in her stomach, and then Papa was trampled only weeks later when the tribe was trying to gather wild reindeer to breed. Accidents like that happened often. My babushka—Vira—took me in. But she had no livelihood. So she took up spell mastery and I gathered items and supplies she needed. She became particularly good at healing spells, as you’ve seen. After the revolution began, we moved to the city so as not to draw any attention to our tribe. They’ve since relocated and we have no way of finding them again.”

Having grown up traveling and cherishing every broad forest or stretch of countryside, I imagined the move from the wild to the city had been hard on Zash. It would have been difficult for me.

“By that point I’d learned of the unrest in St. Petersburg.” He glanced up, almost as an apology.

“Rasputin,” I filled in.

“The people were afraid of spell masters because of him. They blamed the tsar.”

“It wasn’t Papa’s fault,” I jumped in, determined to preserve his memory and character.

Zash shrugged. “I don’t believe it was any one person’s fault. But when the people assassinated Rasputin and your father abdicated the throne, I blamed him. Everything changed. It cost my babushka her livelihood. Imagine having all your passions stripped from you because of a decision from someone with more authority than you.”

“I don’t have to imagine,” I said softly. “Our freedom, our lives, our home—everything was stripped from us, too.”

He grimaced. “I guess you’re right.”

“Go on.” I sensed where his story was going, but I wanted to hear it from his mouth while he was willing to tell it.

“I was practically forced to serve in the army. Babushka had no other income, and with the Red Army growing, I could be shot if I didn’t choose a side. So I chose the Bolsheviks. They promised provision. They promised freedom. They paid well and Babushka was taken care of. The more Bolshevik I became, the less anyone would ever suspect Babushka of spell mastery. I was keeping her safe, trying to convince myself that I was also a Bolshevik because of my beliefs. Only once I started guarding your family did I start to see . . . to see things differently.”

I reached for him. “I’m glad you did.” He moved to take my hand, but then a grunt of pain escaped his lips and he curled in on himself. I lurched forward in my chair. “Zash, are you alright?”

He remained bent over his midsection, fists clenched.

“Does your arm hurt?” It had been only a bullet graze and he’d not even bled through his bandage. Could it have wounded him that severely?

“It’s something else. My insides are . . . tearing themselves apart.”

“Are you motion sick?” That happened to me on a boat once. It felt terrible.

“No.” Each word came through a gasp.