“Don’t change the subject. As long as you persist in trying to damage the railroad, we can have nothing to do with each other. It would be best if we part ways once we reach New York.”
He couldn’t let that happen. He spoke the language of Americans but didn’t understand their customs or business environment. He had no allies here. Somehow, between now and the time they reached New York, he must find a way to get through to her.
“Don’t abandon me,” he said. “We can find an answer to this dilemma, but I am a stranger here, and I need your help.”
His plea was carried away on the wind. Natalia turned to head back to the boarding area without looking back.
16
Dimitri’s plea disturbed Natalia more than she cared to admit, because she would never consider doing anything to hurt the railroad.
Would she?
Her refusal to take action hurt Dimitri’s feelings, but couldn’t he understand that he’d hurt her as well? His obsessive nagging left her feeling used and dismissed, as though she meant nothing to him aside from her influence at the bank.
She pondered the problem all night and into the next day. The train passed through northern Colorado and into Kansas while she worried. She believed what Dimitri said about the atrocity and the possibility that it could occur again. That meant she had to think of a solution short of destroying the railway and the bank’s reputation all in one poisonous swoop.
That evening it was particularly crowded in the dining car, but she spotted Dimitri immediately. He sat across from an older man with a long beard and a yarmulke on his head.
Dimitri stood and gestured her over. “This is Yitzhak Menshikov,” he said when she arrived at the table. “He is from Russia, but look! Here we are, two Russians who have met each other in the middle of a Kansas cornfield. Is not the world a grand place?”
Dimitri’s enthusiasm cracked through her gloomy mood,and she joined them. The three of them spoke in Russian because Mr. Menshikov confessed that even after twenty years in America, he still struggled with the language. He insisted she call him Yitzhak, and soon she learned his story of leaving his tiny village in search of more freedom in America. He found it as a clothmaker, and now he was wealthy enough to pay for passage for other members of his family to come to America. He was heading to New York, where he would meet his nephews as they arrived at Ellis Island.
“They will breathe free air here,” Yitzhak said, his voice trembling with emotion.
Natalia listened in fascination as Yitzhak explained how he funded his textile business by collecting investments from members in his synagogue. It was different from how the bank loaned money, but it had paid huge dividends for both Yitzhak and his investors. Now he shipped bolts of fabric all over the country.
“None of this could have happened back home,” he said. “A Jew could have his property seized and his children turned out of school. Life is better here.”
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 andhear 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 theshop. 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.
