Written on the Wind (The Blackstone Legacy #2)(36)
Dimitri became unusually serious as he met Yitzhak’s gaze. “My friend, I am sorry Russia treated you badly. I wish you could have seen it through my eyes, where the streets of Saint Petersburg rival Paris for charm and Rome for majesty. The cathedrals are a celebration of grandeur, but just outside the city are the rustic churches of the countryside. You can walk through endless fields of grain, feeling like you are the only person in the world, when suddenly the crown of an old wooden church will rise on the horizon. Centuries of people have found solace in those lonely, humble churches. Peasants, soldiers, mothers praying for their children. They are the heartbeat of Russia, and it is in the quiet of a church that I sense their memory.”
Dimitri looked away, and a pain unlike anything she’d ever witnessed darkened his face. “I yearn for home,” he whispered. “My wild, beautiful Russia. It lives in every beat of my heart. When I close my eyes, I see the apple orchards of Mirosa and hear the people of the valley singing on the wind. I remember the lilacs growing in joyful abandon during their brief moment of summer glory.”
He spoke with loving anguish but still smiled through the pain. “Come, Yitzhak,” he said in a chiding tone. “Even you must admit to missing the scent of Russian lilacs.”
The creases in Yitzhak’s face pulled into a sad smile, and he clamped a hand over his chest. “You have stirred a longing for home I never thought to feel again.” He laughed. “Which is ridiculous. No one on earth is more accustomed to wandering than the Jew. As said in the psalms, By the rivers of Babylon we sat and wept when we remembered Zion.”
“Russia is my Zion,” Dimitri said in a fervent voice. “I can never go back, but it is carved on my soul, and I will hear its echoes forever.”
His wistful expression reminded Natalia of her mother, who never truly felt at home in America. Until her dying day, Galina mourned the loss of her homeland. It was the same expression on Dimitri’s face.
How could she help him get the czar’s attention without destroying the railroad? It was going to be hard, but she had position, wealth, and connections. It was time to use them and help Dimitri navigate this audacious quest, but she still didn’t know how to pull it off without ruining her world.
The following morning they stopped to refuel in Quincy, Illinois. Natalia was reluctant to leave the train because of the driving rain, but Dimitri wanted a postcard of the town to send to his mother. They scurried through the downpour and darted around puddles to reach the depot shop a block away.
Natalia blotted the damp from her hat with a handkerchief while gaping at the curious collection of military arms blanketing the walls. The rifles, swords, and flags made it seem like a military museum. An old Union uniform was displayed in one corner, and a mounted cannon pointed into the center of the shop. It gave Natalia the uncomfortable sensation of being in the line of fire.
The elderly shopkeeper must have noticed her distaste. “It’s not loaded and it can’t hurt you,” he teased from behind the front counter.
“Did you serve in the Civil War?” she asked politely.
“First Regiment, Illinois Light Artillery,” he said with pride. “You see that rifle on the wall? I carried that through three years of service until I got wounded at the Chattahoochee River and was shipped home.”
The old veteran grabbed Natalia’s elbow to draw her toward a map on the wall, where red dots marked each battle he’d fought in. Dimitri stood in the far corner twirling a wire rack of postcards and couldn’t rescue her from the shopkeeper’s rambling, but she smiled politely and let him talk. He proceeded to show off his old medals and military insignia.
The profusion of war memorabilia reminded Natalia of her godfather. Admiral McNally’s office also featured mementos from his military service, mostly collected during his years in the Ottoman Empire and the Far East. Instead of carrying a rifle, her godfather was a military attaché, traveling the world to study how other nations organized their defenses and gathered intelligence.
She sucked in a quick gasp. Admiral McNally had been at Alexander’s christening, where he’d been talking to a group of men about the Boxer Rebellion. As a former military attaché, he was well-connected to the hundreds of American officers scattered all over the world, quietly gathering military intelligence and funneling it back to Washington. He might be the key to solving her problem.
She raced over to Dimitri, who still perused the postcards. “We need to go!” She grabbed a handful of postcards and shoved a few dollars at the baffled shopkeeper. She dragged Dimitri onto the tiny porch outside.
“I just thought of something,” she said breathlessly. “About the massacre at the river. If there was a military attaché anywhere in the region, he probably heard about it.”
Dimitri’s brows lowered. “What are you talking about?”
“A military attaché. I don’t know what they call them in Russia or if they even use them, but the American government sends people to observe foreign armies. My godfather used to be just such a man. They collect information and send it home. Sometimes they are very up-front about it, other times less so.”
“Like a spy?”
She shook her head. “Not a spy, just someone who watches and gathers information. Sometimes they are historians trying to document a war, or a doctor observing how an army handles medical issues. Usually they are military officers studying how foreign armies carry out business.”