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  Going out the back door with Pierre in his uniform, Geiser walked to the front of the train under everyone’s eyes. Nobody paid attention to these two crew members. Geiser and Pierre climbed aboard. “The fellows would’ve been the only ones to know you’re not one of us,” he whispered to Pierre, “and they’re still playing cards.” They had reached a small door, and now the brakeman opened it, and Pierre saw a cramped men’s toilet. “You’re going to have to live in here for the next few days,” Geiser said. “Now get in. I’m going to find you some food, because once the train starts I won’t be able to bring you anything. Too risky.”

  Pierre walked in, and Geiser shut the door on him and locked it. The crude accommodations stank, and he could hardly stand up because the ceiling was so low. He sat down on the commode and tried to stretch his legs, but could not. Yet, he felt strangely elated. An incongruous vision of himself as a lad in Georgia passed through his mind: of himself on a stallion, riding the winds. Actually, the memory was not so incongruous. This was his life: not the dull propriety of Marguerite’s cottage, or even the dinner parties at Boris’s flat. He was not a member of the jeunesse dorée, but of the Caucasian wilds. This, at least, was a ride to freedom, a risk.

  When he heard a key turn in the lock, Pierre reared his head quickly, his adrenaline flowing freely. But it was only Geiser, bringing raisins, water, two lemons, and some dry beef—a paltry supply. “That’s all I can get without rousing suspicions,” the brakeman said defiantly, as if reading Pierre’s mind. “Now listen here: I’ve put up the ‘Out of Order’ sign, and I’m going to tell the fellows that we have a backed-up toilet. We’re going to have our hands full with this convoy, so I know no one will try to fix it before we reach France. Just don’t make any noise.”

  This time when the door locked, Pierre thought: When I get out, we’ll be in the war zone. How will I find out if she’s all right? He added to himself: Only in the midst of such a conflict would the meticulous German army accept the fact of a non-functioning toilet. When men are about to offer their lives for their country, the indignity of backed-up facilities recedes to a mere inconvenience. He began to laugh, soundlessly.

  Boris would have enjoyed the irony of Pierre’s predicament. But he, Boris, did not live life, he dabbled in it. It was a game for him, a charade. But for me, Pierre thought grimly, it is simply life.

  The train was filled to the brim. Soldiers and officers jostled one another in the hallways and crowded the compartments. At least cattle are incapable of feeling or thinking in their boxcars, Natalia thought with bitterness. With her special military dispensation, she sat in the officers’ car, the only woman among a company of two hundred fifty men off to the front in eastern France. Heinrich Püder, next to her, had explained to his comrades that his cousin, Frau Hildegard Mannteuffel, was going to Switzerland to consult a doctor for her child, and so no one bothered her, a concerned, exhausted young mother on a mission of pain and anguish. She was grateful.

  There had been a single instant of panic. Püder’s own colonel had unexpectedly remained behind, and another, not normally attached to the group going westward, was now at the head of this company for the duration of the voyage. He traveled in a private car, but Natalia had seen him at the station in Darmstadt: a tall, thickset man some forty-five years old, with wiry black hair and small blue eyes like marbles. A paunch struggled beneath the trim uniform. Natalia had seen Püder’s surprise and been frozen with terror when the senior officer approached her, clicking his heels and bowing over her hand, his hard eyes glittering at her. He had said: “What a rare pleasure, gnädige Frau, to meet you at last! I much admired your father, the great general.”

  “I could not have known that they would send Lothar Ballhausen,” Püder told her afterward in a frantic whisper. “But he can’t hurt you if you stay away and don’t hold lengthy conversations with him. I knew him in Berlin, and he served for a while under my uncle. He has the reputation of being a highly skilled combat technician.”

  Damn, she thought. The regular colonel had known nothing personal about von Wedekind, whose exploits had taken him far from this branch of the army, and Püder, her benefactor, had not found it necessary to brief her in particulars concerning her “father.” But Heinrich Püder could not always remain by her side. He had to keep an eye on his platoons and report to Ballhausen. It was up to her.

  Now she was too numb to feel horror. Fear was such a part of her existence that she could only think one step at a time, one minute at a time. Every nerve ending was alert, every muscle taut. When Püder left, she fell into a kind of stupor and closed her eyes, hoping that the other officers would witness her distress and leave her tactfully alone, without attempting to engage her in dangerous conversation. Why hadn’t Püder been a simple lieutenant with undistinguished relatives, instead of a man whose uncle had been a well-known general? She hoped that these men were too young to have known von Wedekind.

  Truly, she thought, Püder was a good man. If anyone were to learn of the deception, not only would his career come to an abrupt stop, but he might even be accused of treason. Why was he helping her? He was certainly behaving properly. She decided that this must be the first time a woman in distress had appealed to him—and that few men, especially among those who led lives of rigid conformity, could resist being cast in the role of Sir Galahad. She smiled then, amused in spite of the danger.

  Arkady lay asleep in her arms, a restless sleep punctuated by small gasps. The fingers that touched her shoulder startled her, and she looked up, expecting Püder. To her surprise, it was Colonel Ballhausen. Her hand reached out to Arkady’s head and remained there, protectively.

  “The babe is well?” Ballhausen asked.

  Natalia could not speak. Why had Püder allowed Ballhausen to come without accompanying him? She tried to smile. “He just slept for an hour,” she replied.

  “Then let us step outside for a moment, Frau Mannteuffel. Enlisted men don’t crowd the area outside the officers’ compartment. We could talk for a while.”

  Uncertainly, with Arkady in her arms, Natalia rose to follow him into the corridor. His face was square, uncompromising. He leaned against the window and looked at her. A sergeant walked by and she had to move to make way for him, brushing next to Ballhausen in the process. When he had gone, she stepped back, avoiding body contact.

  “Heinrich is a fine officer,” Ballhausen said pleasantly. “I am lucky to have him so conveniently on board.”

  “He is a fine man in every way,” Natalia said warmly.

  Ballhausen smiled. “Ah, yes, of course you would think that, being his cousin. What was it like growing up with him?”

  “He was good and kind to me, like an older brother.” Natalia spoke calmly, but her throat was constricted with fear, a wild, animal apprehension.

  You must have grieved a long time for your revered father, Ballhausen continued. “General von Wedekind’s heart attack shocked everyone.”

  This time, Natalia turned her face to him and allowed the tears to rise to the surface of her large brown eyes. “Please,” she said with genuine pleading, “I would prefer not to discuss it. It is still too painful.”

  “Naturally, gnädige Frau. I am a boor.” Ballhausen was silent for a while, and for Natalia, these minutes ticked off into hours, the hours before a certain execution. “The babe is going to Lausanne to see a specialist?” he said at length.

  “Yes. It was so kind of you to let us onto the train, Colonel.”

  “It was a pleasure. Beautiful women adorn a convoy, Frau Mannteuffel.”

  She smiled wanly, and then, to her infinite relief, Arkady started to toss about in her arms and began to cry. “I’ll have to sit down again,” she said, holding him tightly and looking nervously at Ballhausen. “It was nice to chat.”

  “I have a comfortable car. Next time you must allow me to offer you a small collation there. It is less crowded. I take my meals there, with one or two other officers. Do you drink cognac, gnädige Fra
u?”

  Without thinking, she nodded, her face white and lifeless. Ballhausen started to laugh. “Heinrich hadn’t told me his cousin was spirited!” he cried. “But I like that! I have some marvelous Napoleon: You will enjoy it.”

  But she had already turned and gone back into her own compartment. He stared after her, the smile fading from his face.

  Natalia rocked Arkady in her arms. His face was streaked with tears, and he refused to drink from the bottle of condensed milk. He cried and cried, his whimpers becoming more frenzied. Fear crept up Natalia’s chest and rose into her throat, choking her. To reassure him with the sound of her voice, she Said, in the unfamiliar German words: “Soon, Liebchen, soon. You’ll feel better.”

  This was not good, this crying. Already she had disturbed everyone in her compartment and attracted undue attention. She scooped the frail, struggling Arkady into her arms and pushed into the hall, which smelled of garlic and sausage. Püder was nowhere to be seen.

  Outside, the scenery had shifted. The train was slowing down, pulling into a station—Baden-Baden. They were going south into the Black Forest. Natalia looked out the window, remembering how people used to stop here to take the waters. Now she wished they were not stopping at all.

  A group of German military police were coming toward the train, and she saw them being directed to Ballhausen’s private car. Then, bored, weary and lonely, Natalia looked away, paying them no more attention. Army red tape continued on and on.

  Ballhausen’s private car was several compartments away, Püder was with him when the knock came, and when he saw the military policemen, he said to his superior: “Whatever it is, I can handle it, sir. Last time we were held up by a munitions check. Shall I see to it?”

  “Very well, Heinrich,” the colonel replied with some asperity. He did not like being interrupted for technicalities. Püder clicked his heels, saluted, and exited from the car to the corridor.

  “Now, gentlemen, let us step outside and discuss your problem,” he said. He followed the small group back out to the station platform.

  The four members of the military patrol and Lieutenant Heinrich Püder stood directly below Pierre Riazhin’s hiding place. One of the men said: “I beg your pardon, sir. This matter is hardly a customary military check, but we’ve had this letter from the War Ministry, and so we have to comply.”

  Püder extended his hand and took the paper. His blue eyes scanned it once, twice. “This is absurd!” he said at length. “We’re a military convoy on our way to the front. Surely you don’t think we could have a woman on board whose presence we knew nothing about? Among two hundred and fifty men?”

  “But we were told that you do have a female passenger with you,” the military policeman demurred.

  “Indeed. My cousin, Frau Mannteuffel, the daughter of General von Wedekind. She carries a special dispensation. Would you care to check its authenticity?’’

  The other voice reached Pierre, clear and polite: “Of course not, Lieutenant. Forgive us, but we had to go along with our orders. This paper, signed by Baron Friedrich von Baylen, states that several weeks ago a woman of this description was seen in the company of an officer of your regiment in Darmstadt. Now this woman, a Russian countess, is being sought by the government in Berlin for internment. Her husband is an important man, and it might be possible to negotiate a trade of prisoners with Russia if we can find her. As you’ve read yourself, sir, she’s disappeared with her young son. Our only lead is this officer.”

  “A German officer would not help an enemy alien,” Püder stated dryly. “Certainly no one of this company. Who gave information to that effect?”

  “After the arrest report came out, we combed the area of Darmstadt. No one seemed to remember her, except some waiters at a restaurant on one of the cliffs. Two people had dined there, a German officer and this lady. They remembered the insignia of the company on the man’s sleeve and although they didn’t see a child, the woman they served that evening struck them because of the magnificent jewels around her neck.”

  “Flimsy evidence,” Püder commented ironically. “I myself have taken beautiful ladies for an evening’s outing. That is hardly proof of treason.”

  “I suppose you’re right, Lieutenant,” the other voice said. Pierre felt the hair on his arms and legs bristle. His throat was knotted. At least, he thought, she has a guardian angel. But why is this man risking so much? I should be taking the risks, not this stranger with the formal Prussian voice! That damned Marguerite! Damned Boris, who started it all! He clenched his fist and felt hot sweat break out under his arms and neck. He couldn’t stop his recriminations, the round robin of hatred.

  “I understand your predicament,” Püder was saying. “Naturally, if you wish to be reassured as to my cousin’s identity, you are welcome on board. But she is very tired, so please confine your questions to the minimum.”

  Pierre was shocked: Why couldn’t the man have left well enough alone? Now the entire group was climbing back into the train. Helpless as a caged tiger, Pierre rammed his fists into the sides of his body and gritted his teeth.

  Passing by the colonel’s car, Püder saw that the door was ajar. Ballhausen called to him, and he stepped inside. “What’s all this about?” his superior asked him.

  “Nothing important, sir. A routine check of Hilde’s papers. Women,” he added with a smile, “don’t often travel with military convoys.”

  “No, they don’t.” Lothar Ballhausen’s small blue eyes stared at him.

  Püder saluted and proceeded toward Natalia’s car. He encountered her in the corridor, with Arkady in her arms. Her brown eyes widened with unspoken terror. He said gently: “Hilde, my dear, these men don’t wish to disturb you. They simply wish to check your military dispensation.” As her lips parted, he said to the military policemen: “Now, even my own cousin has brown hair and eyes. Really, your trail of clues is somewhat ludicrous, gentlemen. Will you suspect each German brunette of being a Russian countess in flight?”

  Absurdly, while allowing Püder to look through her bag to unearth her papers, Natalia began to laugh. It was a short, hysterical gurgle, more like a death rattle than a sound of mirth. Arkady looked at her, bewildered. She touched the top of his head, so soft and vulnerable, and tried to regain her composure. But the men were examining the documents, and then they nodded and allowed Püder to escort them out to the platform a second time. To Natalia it was a nightmare.

  She leaned against the wall, shutting her eyes. Arkady began to cry, her heart was pounding painfully, her knees weakening. Perhaps it would have been better simply to let him die in Darmstadt. Who was to say this voyage, with its unpredictable outcome, might not kill him anyway? I never should have allowed myself to conceive you, she thought with sudden fierceness. I should never have opened myself to Boris, of all men. I did not want to love, I did not want marriage, I never wished for children. Dancing was enough. She looked at the small boy, her heart full of resentment fostered by terror and nervous tension.

  “You told me you were a widow, that your name was Oblonova,” Heinrich Püder was saying to her in a low voice at her elbow. “Now it seems I have placed myself in jeopardy for a far more important enemy—the Countess Kussova. Why didn’t you tell me the truth?”

  She looked up at him, her eyes filled with such sadness, such anguish that he fell silent. “It was only a small lie,” she said. “But you might not have helped the Countess Kussova, and my son would not now be on his way to safety.”

  “Helping you was a matter of honor,” he said gravely. “Any man worth his mettle would have come to your rescue for the sake of a sick infant. But I am also a romantic: I did not really believe that your son had a father, that the lovely Oblonova was truly married. Women of the stage…. How wrong I was, wasn’t I?” He smiled ruefully and added: “And I had thought surely that the lovely Oblonova would remember a humble soldier on a train.”

  Natalia did not answer. Raising herself on tiptoes, being careful not to cr
ush Arkady, she reached Püder’s lips and met them with her own in a swift, brief kiss. “How could she not remember?” she whispered.

  The note that the young second lieutenant had just handed her read: “Dear Frau Mannteuffel, I should be most honored if you would join me for an aperitif in my compartment. It is the least I can do for the cousin of such a fine officer as Heinrich Püder and for the daughter of my mentor, General von Wedekind.” The signature was curiously flowery.

  Natalia remained frozen on her seat. “Gnädige Frau, the colonel is waiting,” the young man said with hesitant insistency.

  “I shall have to take the baby,” Natalia said. “He can’t stay here without me.” The lieutenant appeared surprised but said nothing. He held the door of the compartment open for her, and the three of them proceeded down the corridor. She had never seen this officer before, but it hardly mattered.

  Natalia knew that now they were speeding westward on the noisy train. Already they had entered occupied France, and the names of the stations had begun to change into that odd German-French blend that characterized Alsace and Lorraine. The lieutenant led the way into a noisy passageway connecting two cars, and Arkady, seeing the rails below his mother’s feet, began to screech. She calmed him with a touch of her cool hand.

  “Here we are, gnädige Frau,” the young man said, stopping at a door. He knocked and, upon hearing a voice from inside, opened it, clicked his heels, saluted, and quickly departed. Natalia saw that the car was luxuriously upholstered, like a prewar Pullman. A table had been set up with bottles on it and a tray heaped with small sandwiches. Suddenly Natalia realized how hungry she was. She stopped inside. Her host rose to greet her, smiling. It was difficult to read the expression on his face, which was diffused with small veinules and enlarged pores. Some men did not enter their middle years with grace. “Set the boy down there on the seat, and tell me about yourself. Have you been married long?” He moved aside some papers to make room for Arkady and helped her to settle him on the cushion. He handed her the plate of sandwiches and she selected one, not looking at him.