The Property of a Lady - Elizabeth Adler [35]
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 thought the 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 finger, she smiled trustingly at Solovsky. “Azaylee,” she told him. “My name is Azaylee O’Bryan!”
Instinct told Grigori something was wrong and he stared hard at the child, but she just smiled back at him, twisting the curl around her finger. He knew he should question her again, but then he might look like an ignorant peasant fool in front of these foreigners. “Did you inspect their luggage?” he asked the soldiers instead.
“Our luggage was stolen,” Missie said quickly, “and all our papers. We have only what we are wearing.”
“I apologize for the behavior of my countrymen,” Grigori said formally. “I shall be pleased to give you a document that will ensure your safe travel without further molestation.”
Sending one of the men to fetch the forms from his carriage, he added, “A word of advice. The Crimea is the only gateway left from Russia. But do not linger in St. Petersburg. Go straight to Kursk Station and take the first train south, or it will be too late.”
Missie could hardly believe it as he filled