avoiding his eyes, wondering nervously if he recognized her. Her mouth felt dry with fear and she thrust her hands behind her back so he would not see them trembling. Solovsky continued to stare at her silently. Her head ached with strain and weariness. They had been on the train for over twelve hours; there was no heat and even though they were bundled in padded coats with babushkas, the traditional headscarves, tied undertheir chins so they looked like ordinary peasant women, only the crowded animal heat of too many bodies had kept them from freezing. Madame Yeventlov had prepared a small package of food for them, but they had not dared take it out during daylight for fear it would be torn from their grasp by the starving peasants, many of whom were drunk on homemade potato vodka. They ate only under cover of darkness. Not knowing how long the journey might take, they were forced to ration the bread and piroshkis, the little pasties filled with potatoes and vegetables. There were no lights on the train and they dared not sleep, afraid for their lives in the pitch-dark night.
They had told themselves it could all be endured; that eventually the train would get to St. Petersburg. Then they would take a train to Yalta on the Crimean coast where the people were still loyal to the “White” Russian cause, and they would be safe. They had no papers and no luggage and very little money, but somehow they would do it. Only now she was about to be interrogated by Solovsky, and all their lives depended on what she said. And as she looked at Solovsky, she knew her story had better be a good one because this man’s eyes told her he had seen and heard it all before.
Solovsky allowed the silence to lengthen as he studied her. Was that a flicker of fear he had seen in her eyes? He shrugged. She had a right to be frightened, being manhandled by those two beasts. And yet what was she doing, a young foreign woman alone on this train in such dangerous times? “Who are you?” he asked finally. “And where are your papers?”
Missie took a deep breath and said, “I am the widow of Morris O’Bryan, an engineer with the American Westinghouse Company, in St. Petersburg. My husband was killed three weeks ago when a bomb destroyed part of the plant. I am with my mother-in-law and my young daughter. We were trying to get home through Finland but there were no more trains. We waited over a week; I thoughtthe only solution was to return to St. Petersburg and see what happens….”
Grigori let her stumble through her story in silence. He had long ago perfected an unblinking stare that destroyed the lies and half truths frightened men wove around themselves. But this girl merely stuck her chin in the air and said haughtily, “Would you please tell your men to allow us to continue our journey in peace!”
Solovsky barked a sudden command and the soldiers hurried back down the corridor, returning moments later with Sofia and Xenia. Viktor padded beside them, showing his fangs in a snarl as they waited nervously for what might happen next.
Grigori inspected them carefully. The old woman was dressed poorly but there was a certain air about her. Despite himself, Grigori felt that old, deep-rooted peasant instinct to doff his cap. Thrusting his hands into his pockets, he turned to the child. He knew children always spoke the truth.
“What is your name, little girl?” he asked in English.
“Her name is Alice Lee O’Bryan,” Missie intercepted hurriedly. Alice Lee was the name of her own dead mother. She held her breath, staring at Xenia; all their lives depended on the next words of a child not yet three years old.
Her palms were slippery with sweat and she dared not look at Sofia as Solovsky asked again, “What is your name, little girl?”
Xenia stared back at him with that blank, dreamy look Missie knew so well. Suddenly her face lighted up and her pansy-gold eyes sparkled with amusement. Twirling a flaxen curl around her plump baby
They had told themselves it could all be endured; that eventually the train would get to St. Petersburg. Then they would take a train to Yalta on the Crimean coast where the people were still loyal to the “White” Russian cause, and they would be safe. They had no papers and no luggage and very little money, but somehow they would do it. Only now she was about to be interrogated by Solovsky, and all their lives depended on what she said. And as she looked at Solovsky, she knew her story had better be a good one because this man’s eyes told her he had seen and heard it all before.
Solovsky allowed the silence to lengthen as he studied her. Was that a flicker of fear he had seen in her eyes? He shrugged. She had a right to be frightened, being manhandled by those two beasts. And yet what was she doing, a young foreign woman alone on this train in such dangerous times? “Who are you?” he asked finally. “And where are your papers?”
Missie took a deep breath and said, “I am the widow of Morris O’Bryan, an engineer with the American Westinghouse Company, in St. Petersburg. My husband was killed three weeks ago when a bomb destroyed part of the plant. I am with my mother-in-law and my young daughter. We were trying to get home through Finland but there were no more trains. We waited over a week; I thoughtthe only solution was to return to St. Petersburg and see what happens….”
Grigori let her stumble through her story in silence. He had long ago perfected an unblinking stare that destroyed the lies and half truths frightened men wove around themselves. But this girl merely stuck her chin in the air and said haughtily, “Would you please tell your men to allow us to continue our journey in peace!”
Solovsky barked a sudden command and the soldiers hurried back down the corridor, returning moments later with Sofia and Xenia. Viktor padded beside them, showing his fangs in a snarl as they waited nervously for what might happen next.
Grigori inspected them carefully. The old woman was dressed poorly but there was a certain air about her. Despite himself, Grigori felt that old, deep-rooted peasant instinct to doff his cap. Thrusting his hands into his pockets, he turned to the child. He knew children always spoke the truth.
“What is your name, little girl?” he asked in English.
“Her name is Alice Lee O’Bryan,” Missie intercepted hurriedly. Alice Lee was the name of her own dead mother. She held her breath, staring at Xenia; all their lives depended on the next words of a child not yet three years old.
Her palms were slippery with sweat and she dared not look at Sofia as Solovsky asked again, “What is your name, little girl?”
Xenia stared back at him with that blank, dreamy look Missie knew so well. Suddenly her face lighted up and her pansy-gold eyes sparkled with amusement. Twirling a flaxen curl around her plump baby
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