Klim went back to the cabin and sat down beside Nina. “Can you wait a little?” he asked in a wavering voice. “Tomorrow, I’ll find a doctor for you.”
She closed her eyes. “Tell me about something… the way you used to. About China.”
Klim took a deep breath. “China is a very mysterious country. A country where the women wear trousers and the men wear skirts—”
He had imagined so many times how he would eventually be reunited with Nina, and he had kept himself alive with these fantasies. She would be happy to see him, and everything would be fine again even if they had to live on a razor’s edge in constant fear. But everything had turned out so badly!
His mind simply refused to accept the fact that in all likelihood, this was the end. The woman he had loved so much was gone, murdered by a scoundrel from the Cheka.
14. THE SIEGE OF KAZAN
That night, Nina felt better and managed to sleep. Klim held her hand, trying to imagine that his own vital energy was being passed to her in some mysterious way. He looked into the humid darkness behind the porthole, listening to the drone of the engine and praying, “Faster—faster—”
They reached Kazan at dawn. The Nakhimovets anchored in the middle of the river, and Pukhov went ashore by boat to receive further orders from the high command.
Klim went on deck. Between the city and the river bank was a dreary-looking plain crisscrossed by the light ruts of roads. On the pier, crowds of people were running to and fro with lanterns and flashlights. Dogs barked, and a rumble like heavy thunder could be heard in the distance.
“That’s our artillery,” one of the sailors said, approaching Klim. “Haven’t you heard it before?”
The sailor had been to Kazan many times, and now, he told Klim how to find the Shamov Hospital, which, he said, was the best in the city.
A fiery flash lit up the sullen clouds, and several powerful explosions came from the direction of the city: first one, then a second, and a third. A cloud of black smoke rose over the distant roofs.
Pukhov came back to the ship.
“What’s going on over there?” Klim asked.
“The Red Army have shelled railroad cars.” Pukhov swallowed nervously. “The Czechs are already on the outskirts of Kazan, and we don’t have enough soldiers to resist them. Get the Chinese together quickly. We’re leaving now.”
“Where to?”
“We’re going to the center of Kazan, and you’re coming with us.”
“But listen, I—”
Pukhov glared furiously at Klim. “One more word about your girlfriend, and I’ll shoot you.”
Nina raised her head as Klim ran into the cabin.
“Listen to me,” he whispered hurriedly. “Here’s the money, and here’s the address of the hospital. Pukhov has ordered the Chinese to go ashore, damn him—and he wants me to interpret for him. As soon as we leave, give the sailors some money and have them take you to the pier. There are always cabs there waiting for customers. Just say you need to get to the Shamov Hospital.”
“But what about you?” Nina said, looking at him fearfully.
Klim put his arms around her and kissed her. “I’ll come and find you later. Don’t worry about me. You have to get to the hospital—spend all the money you have if necessary, but get yourself a doctor. Do you think you can manage?”
Nina nodded.
“Rogov, damn you! Where are you?” came a voice from the corridor.
Klim stood up without letting go of Nina’s hand. “I love you, do you understand? I need you. Please do as I say.”
“Rogov!” The cabin’s door banged open, and Pukhov appeared on the threshold with a revolver in his hand. “Are you crazy?” he shouted. “The Czechs are on their way!”
“Don’t yell at me,” snapped Klim.
They went on deck where the Chinese were already lined up in formation.
“Dear comrades!” Pukhov shouted. “You are entrusted with an extremely important task. We have been ordered to evacuate valuable property from the city. We need to take this mission very seriously. If we succeed, anyone showing outstanding service will be rewarded. Long live the world revolution! Now, to the boats!”
The beautiful, ancient city of Kazan was almost empty with only the occasional small cavalry unit or truck sweeping through the straight streets every now and again. There was the smell of burning in the air.
Pukhov and the local commissar—a man whose eyebrows met in the middle—were urging the Chinese forward. “Come on! Come on!”
Sweat flew down the men’s dusty foreheads. They passed a flask of water between them and drank as they ran.
“Where are we going now?” Klim asked the commissar.
“To the state bank.”
The gloomy sky was split by a deafening howl, and a second later, an explosion struck close at hand.
“The Whites!” yelped Pukhov.
The heavy-browed commissar rushed to Klim. “Tell the Chinese that that was our troops shelling the approach roads to the river bank to give us a chance to take state property out of the city.”
They turned onto Prolomnaya Street. Several carts were standing outside a large columned building. All around sailors and soldiers were running back and forth. One of them dropped a tightly packed bag. Small coins scattered all over the pavement, but nobody bothered to pick them up.
“Comrade Tarasov has brought the Chinese,” somebody shouted. “Let them take on the loading.”
The dim lobby of the bank was piled with wooden boxes. Klim noticed writing on their sides in charcoaclass="underline" “State Bank” or “Winter Palace” or “Anichkov Palace.” Khitruk had told him that during the German offensive, the Bolsheviks had seized imperial treasures from the capital and moved them somewhere inland. Maybe they had sent them to Kazan?
Tarasov ordered the Chinese to take one box at a time and load it carefully onto a tramcar that had just come in. Klim heard him explaining to Pukhov, “Until we have electricity, it’s easier to transport everything by tram. The rails go right up to the pier.”
Pukhov nodded grimly. He pulled a sheet of paper from his map-case, wrote something with his indelible pencil, and slipped the note behind the wooden slat on the bank front door.
We are now leaving the city of Kazan, but on our return, we will drive out the Whites. Anyone found to have helped them will be hanged.
So, the Reds are retreating, thought Klim.
Pukhov grasped a box and tried to lift it, the veins in his temples standing out with the effort.
“What are you staring at?” he shouted at Klim. “Help me!”
The box was extremely heavy. Together, they dragged it to the tramcar.
“Get inside and help take things on from that end,” Pukhov ordered.
Klim stepped up the footboard.
“Hurry! Hurry!” the tram driver groaned.
The aisle and seats of the tramcar were already filled with boxes. Tarasov gave Klim a heavy bundle wrapped in sackcloth.
“Be careful—it’s a statue,” he said. “The crate broke, and we don’t have a hammer and nails to fix it. Just take it like this.”
Klim made his way into the center of the tramcar where there was free space.
A loud crash came overhead so powerful and unexpected that Klim missed his footing and fell, showered with pieces of broken window glass. The tramcar jerked and bounced down the street.
Klim was lying flat on top of the boxes. In the rearview mirror of the cabin, he could see the wild eyes of the tram driver. The tramcar turned onto another street where houses were ablaze at its far end.