From Chapter 1
The whole of Russia had gone mad.
And, if Anton Klassen didn't get off this stalled passenger train soon, he feared he would join his comrades in their race toward insanity. He had lost all feeling in his right arm long ago, pinned by a sleeping soldier's bobbing head of greasy black hair. He nudged his elbow into the side of the snoring, vodka-reeking man who'd made a pillow of Anton's shoulder, but he failed to dislodge the parasite. At least his seatmate couldn't ask questions while he slept.
He always hated the questions.
The inevitable questions.
Just once he hoped for an answer that might satisfy even himself.
A force stronger than Anton's personal resolve pulled his gaze, once again, to the gauze bandage that swaddled the end of the soldier's right arm.
Anton instinctively fisted then fanned all ten of his fingers across his pant legs. He didn't know which disgusted him more-the void beneath the corporal's frayed uniform sleeve, or the accusing outline of his own whole and healthy hands.
In the month's time he'd been back in the Molotschna Colony on business for the family's harness factory, all the news reports and gossip in the streets of his quiet village claimed a reign of chaos now stormed Petrograd , threatening to overtake all of Russia . He had hoped to return to his flat in the capital city of St. Petersburg and find the rumors untrue. Instead, the frosted windows of the halted railroad car confined him in a microcosm of Russia 's lunacy. In the aisle next to him, a babushka clutched a chicken in one arm, a prized goat in the other. The combined misery of the two farm animals was enough to make him want to tug his mink shopka over his ears. Peasants and gypsies and militia all wrestled to occupy a non-existent extra inch or two. No matter how much he'd been willing to pay, he'd gotten only a laugh when he tried to buy a berth in a private car when he left his Ukrainian village. And the smell of traveling two days, and sitting for one more, probably had the power to lay waste to all of Kaiser Wilhelm's army.
Anton looked out into the night. Through the rimed window, the world seemed more hallucination than reality. Thick frost sent moonlight spearing across a barren potato field and into the front lines of the forest beyond.
A constellation of lanterns dotted a path alongside the tracks. Within their misty spotlights, vendors from a nearby village peddled their harvest of foodstuffs to the rail passengers, despite the wee-morning hour. Steam rose from the carts and makeshift stands laden with belly-warming fares such as Chebiriki , peroshke , boiled eggs, potatoes, or borscht . Anton's stomach growled. He'd finished off the last of the food his father's wife had packed for him several hours ago, fully expecting to be in Petrograd by the dinner hour.
Was it only last evening that, without announcement or fanfare, their train had chugged to a stop in the middle of the Pskov countryside? Not even the conductors gave indication of why, although delays were more the norm than anomaly on Russia 's rails. Tonight, however, even the interminable length of time it usually took to remove run-of-the-mill impediments such as dead cows or snowdrifts had long passed. And, the ever-accommodating natives grew more and more restless as the night dragged on. It didn't help matters that the toilets had been locked as a matter of procedure when the train first ground to a stop.
Anton weighed his hunger and other urges of nature against the discomfort he knew he would face if he were to disembark. He'd been lucky to get this seat. Though he had the funds to pay several times the fare for a sleeping berth, there'd been no space to be had, for any price, in anything other than obshye class. He knew full well his small square of bench space would be swallowed up by this human sea as soon as he stood.
Still, the thought of a warm peroshke made his mouth water. What good would a seat do him if he starved in it?
Propping the sleeping soldier upright with one hand, Anton hauled his outerwear and rucksack up from their resting place between his feet. Ever so slowly, he rose.
The babushka , her barnyard creatures still in tow, melted into his vacant space with a nod and a " spaceebah ." A smile washed over the sleeping soldier's lips as he nestled into his new seatmate's amply padded shoulder.
Anton wedged his way through the human clog until he stood on the platform between the cars. He paused at the top of the steps, sucked in a gulp of sub-freezing air. It iced his throat and pricked at his lungs, but he welcomed the jar to his senses. Coal dust, axle grease, and roasted potatoes combined to give off an oddly comforting scent. Anton shrugged into his coat, slipped on his gloves, and left the train, walking toward the first food cart.
Dark, tired eyes stared out from layers of woolen scarves and skirts and sweaters and coats. The muffled voice, with a tinge of femininity, named her price for the vegetable-filled dumplings over which she kept guard.
Anton bit off his right glove and held it between his teeth while he fished his pocket for kopeks. Taking the vareniky wrapped in a roll of newsprint, he walked toward the forest edge in search of a quiet spot. He tried to stay close enough to make it back on board should the locomotive bellow to life, yet sufficiently secluded from the train's thousand bored and curious eyes as to eat his midnight snack in peace-and to smell the fresh night air-a sort of reprieve before his return to the asphyxiation of the train.
Why couldn't his father simply allow him to run the business from St. Petersburg without the bi-monthly reports, in person? One would think a man who had been trying to ignore his only child for nearly three decades might be happy to see him a few thousand versts to the north.
But that would assume that Johann Klassen trusted Anton, or at the least, respected him. Then, again, how could he find anything to appreciate about the unwanted child who had destroyed his life.
Using his rucksack as a cushion, Anton wedged himself into a comfortable spot in the vee of a two-trunked birch tree then peeled back the wrapper and picked out the dumplings one-by-one. Between bites, he stared into the black woods, listened to the pops and cracks of the forest floor. This woodland world held a universe all its own. He wondered what secrets these trees guarded.
Ever so briefly, a light flickered in the forest bowels. Then it vanished.
At first, Anton thought he'd imagined it. Just his tired eyes playing tricks on him.
But there, he caught sight of it again.
He trained his gaze to follow the pale beam. Back and forth. Slow. Fast. Slow again. This way, then that. Careening. Dancing. Playing tag among the trees. In and out-a wild zigzag pattern akin to the summer lightening bug's trail.
The more Anton stared, the more certain he became. The light came from a lantern. Someone was out there.
In all likelihood, some drunk from the train had wandered off to relieve himself in the woods and gotten lost. Anton looked back over his shoulder at his railcar and debated re-embarking. Still, his gaze couldn't escape the mesmerizing pull of the undulating glow.
What if a woman or a child carried the lamp-a little girl, perhaps, lost and panicked to the point of terror, desperate in her attempt to find the way out of what must seem a haunted forest. What kind of gentleman, what kind of Christian would he be to turn and walk away without so much as look-see? Anton cast another glance toward the train then eased himself away from the tree. Dangling his rucksack over his right arm, he stealthed his way, one slow step at a time, in the direction of the light.
When he got within twelve meters or so, Anton hugged the shadow side of a tree and looked out at the small illuminated clearing.
The lantern bearer proved to be neither woman nor child, but a man. A man, rather small in stature and in military dress.
From this distance, and owing to the fact that Anton had never served in any branch of the service, he wasn't certain what rank the man held. He didn't appear to be drunk, however, for he paced the small clearing in a straight line, his posture erect. The man was talking to himself, or perhaps praying. Anton couldn't make out his words.
Judging by the way the man paused and scrubbed his hand over his face, then combed his fingers through his hair, it was obvious he was embroiled in intense spiritual hand-to-hand combat. At last, the man collapsed to his knees. Nesting his lantern on the loam of the forest floor, he cradled his head in his hands
Anton felt a wash of shame for his voyeurism. He himself had such quarrels with himself, and the Almighty. And he had no desire to share those conversations with anyone besides himself. He turned, intending to leave, and snapped a twig beneath his footfall.
The stranger looked up. " Zdrastvootya . Show yourself!"
Anton winced, but stepped forward into the light at the command.
"Sir, I'm sorry to disturb you," Anton said. "I saw you pacing, and I was. . .concerned. I'm sorry. I'll leave you-."
"Stay." The stranger genuflected and moved to rise. He brushed away the dried leaves that clung to the knees of his trousers, yanked on the tail of his coat, pulled himself up straight.
Even in the pale light, something about the man's full russet beard and moustache, his piercing gaze, struck Anton as being very familiar. An off-center row of buttons traveled down the left side of his uniform's long belted coat. Gold ropes and braid adorned the epaulets and a red crest breast badge decorated his left chest. Anton guessed he would stand a good head and shoulders above this man, but, despite a rather diminutive physique, the officer commanded an air of authority that went beyond his military uniform.
A grand and horrifying recognition seized Anton and drove him to a deep bow to Tsar Nikolai Alexandrovich Romanov, the Imperial Ruler of all of Russia.
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