He Who Walks in Shadow

by Brett J. Talley

  “What the hell was that?” William spat.

  “That,” Weston said, “was desperation.”

  “And theft,” William replied. “I had a woman try to convince me she’d sell a pair of diamond earrings for a few dollars. Fakes.”

  “Those weren’t fakes. The same thing happened in Europe when Moscow fell. The cream of Russian civilization fled with nothing but the clothes on their backs and the diamonds around their necks. But even the market for rare jewels can be flooded. You just witnessed the wealthy of the old order, cut down by the very capitalism the Bolsheviks abhor.”

  William and I looked back at the crowds of desperate people, a thin sliver of paper between them and freedom, between life and the advancing Red Army. I’ve rarely seen such horror, but even worse awaited me as we made our way to the military train that would carry us to Irkutsk.

  The streets were thick with carts carrying the dead and wounded from Vladivostok station. They had been streaming in for days, every arriving train bearing more casualties from western battles. So many shattered bodies. Men shorn of arms and legs. The stench of death, the sickly sweet smell of rotting flesh, both of the still-living and the long-dead, all thrown together in a horrid testament to the evils of war. The snow drifted down gently around them, reminding me in one macabre instant of Christmastime. And now, with the collapse of the Eastern resistance and the fall of Omsk, this stream of broken men would soon become a flood. As bad as things were in Russia’s great eastern port, darker days were coming.

  “Let’s just get to the station,” Carter said, perhaps sensing our growing discomfort. “The sooner we are away from here, the better.”

  “I know we’ve come a long way, but perhaps…” I was certain of our purpose, but the chaos surrounding us made me question whether we could accomplish it. Carter cut me off.

  “I will understand,” he said, turning to William and me, “if either of you wishes to abandon this errand, foolish as it may be. Certainly our time is even shorter than we thought. But I must continue, no matter what the cost. So, if you are with me, I need your word now. There’s no turning back once we get on that train.”

  My doubts notwithstanding, I was unwilling to challenge Carter so directly. If he was determined to see this through, who was I to disagree? And William, he would never go against Carter. No, our answer was clear. He saw it in both our eyes, nodded to each of us, and we continued on our path.

  The station was on the edge of town, a scene of even greater din and clamor. The dead and dying were being removed as quickly as the men who bore them could act. Each body was replaced with supplies—guns, bullets, food—all desperately needed on the front lines. Above the screams of the wounded could be heard the shouted orders of the officers, each tinged with the threat of severe punishment if the men did not move faster.

  We entered the station to find it deserted but for a man in a booth at the far end. The floors were covered by old newspapers and discarded flyers from happier—and busier—times. The high dome of the station with its great windows must have been something to see in a different age. Now the place was but a tomb to the old regime, a monument to what had been and a warning of what was to come. The man, despite his lack of customers, sat at attention, as if at any moment he expected ticket buyers such as ourselves to appear.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Carter began, “we need to speak to someone about passage on your train.”

  The man stared at him in seeming bemusement, then said, “Ya ne govoryu po-Angliski.”

  William leaned over Carter’s shoulder and began to speak to the man in his own tongue. Carter and I waited. Without William, we would have been lost.

  “He says that there are no tickets for the trains. He says the army has taken them all for their own purposes.”

  “Tell him we understand that,” Carter said. “Tell him we are on a mission for the army and need to find someone in authority to speak with.”

  William nodded and turned back to the man, relaying the message. He gestured to a door to our left. “He says a Captain Aleksandrov is in charge. Says we can find him on the loading dock.”

  We nodded our thanks to the man, while William added a spasiba for the three of us.

  We walked back into the chill wind and gently falling snow. Before I could ask how we would know this Aleksandrov, we came upon a man standing on the platform, watching the loading and unloading. He had the obvious air of command, and if he was not the Captain, he would certainly know his whereabouts.

  William led the way, excused himself in Russian, and began to explain our situation. A quizzical smile spread across the man’s face before he held up a hand to stop him.

  “Your Russian is very good, my friend, but perhaps not as good as my English.”

  “And much preferable,” Carter said with a laugh, “as my friend and I here speak not a word of the former.”

  “Understandable. It is not an easy language, as I know well. My parents moved to England when I was young, so I struggle with its finer points even now. I returned on the eve of the Great War, to defend my homeland. I never thought,” he said, gesturing to the tumult around him, “that I would be defending her from my own brothers. And I certainly did not expect to see three Americans here, in Vladivostok, seeking my assistance. What brings you to this godforsaken place?”

  “We come at the behest of General Denikin,” Carter said, handing him the pass. “We seek passage to Irkutsk, on an urgent errand for him, an old friend from well before the revolution.”

  “General Denikin? I’m sorry to say that I’m not even sure he still lives. And besides, I do not believe he would have called you to Irkutsk if he knew the situation there now. What you see here is but a fraction of the chaos there. We will hold her as long as we can, but Irkutsk will be overrun by the Red Army by the spring, if not sooner. It may not see Christmas. I must advise you to abandon this plan.”

  I watched as Aleksandrov handed Carter the pass, who shook his head.

  “I’m sorry Captain, I can’t do that. We have obligations, and we must see them through.”

  Aleksandrov’s eyes narrowed, and something of the friendliness he had offered us melted away even in the freezing cold.

  “I don’t know what those obligations entail, and I won’t bother to ask since, if I judge you rightly, you wouldn’t tell me in any event. But I must ask you, are they worth your life? Are they worth the lives of your friends? If you travel to Irkutsk, you are putting all of them at risk. I’ll tell you what I should not, but what every Bolshevik knows already. Transbaikal is lost, my friends. We intend to halt the retreat at Chita and establish a new line there. But even that plan is suspect, and Chita lies several hundred miles east of Irkutsk. Go if you must, but know well what you face if you do. There is no help for you beyond the Baikal.”

  “I thank you for your assistance, Captain. And I thank you for your warning.”

  Aleksandrov nodded, not bothering to argue further.

  “This train departs within the half-hour. The accommodations leave something to be desired, but they are the best I can do. I have no doubt you will find Colonel Rostov in Irkutsk. It is his home, and he will never leave it. I only hope that the same will not be said of you.”

  Aleksandrov turned to his duties, and Carter glanced at William and me. We were committed, and he saw it in our eyes. We entered the train and made our way to the corner of a half-empty troop car. There we passed the next few nights as the train traveled inexorably west into the jaws of the advancing Red Army, a menace that now far outshone in our eyes anything we might find in Tunguska.

  How naïve we were.

  Chapter 11

  Journal of Henry Armitage

  July 24, 1933

  Rachel and I arrived in Berlin’s Tempelhof airport late on the night of July 23, 1933. A storm came with us. The howling wind cut through us, and torrential rain rode on it. By the time we hailed a cab, we were soaked to the bone. We had not much dried when we arrived at the Ho
tel Esplanade at the Pottsdamer Platz. I would have preferred to go straight to our room and straight to bed, but alas, fate was not to be so kind.

  We entered the hotel and came upon an explosion of sound and light. The roar of a live band poured through the open double doors of what I could see—even with a mere glance—was an ornate ballroom.

  “Looks like we came to the right place,” Rachel said to me with a sly grin and playful eyes.

  “Maybe for you, young lady. I think my dancing days are done.”

  “My dear Henry,” she said, putting her hand on my shoulder, “I dare say there’s more to you than you let on.”

  I wouldn’t have expected an opportunity to test that hypothesis, but one came sooner than I imagined. Before I could even open my mouth to respond, a young man in a black military uniform appeared. He clicked his heels, bowed, and said, “Dr. Armitage, Mrs. Jones, welcome to Berlin. Please, forgive my intrusion.”

  “No,” Rachel said with no small amount of hesitation, “not at all.” She looked at me for direction, but I had none to offer. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch your name.”

  “It is not important, ma’am,” the young man said, his smile never wavering. “It is my privilege to invite you to a small gathering.” We waved his hand towards the ballroom where raucous laughter did much to undercut his assertion about the size of the party.

  “Well, we thank you for that,” Rachel said, “but how did you know who we are?”

  The smile remained, but the corners of the soldier’s mouth seemed to tick up ever so slightly as he said, “Oh, Mrs. Jones, we in Germany are most interested in our visitors, particularly those with such a fine pedigree. Now, if you please, I know you must want to change out of these wet clothes. I’ll be waiting.”

  “So much for a discreet entrance,” Rachel said as we made our way to our room.

  “Yes, it would seem as though we were expected.”

  “Nothing for it now, though.”

  “Should we go to this party?”

  Rachel glanced over her shoulder at the man in a suit standing at the end of the hallway trying—a little too hard, it would seem—to appear inconspicuous.

  “I don’t think we have a choice.”

  “Right. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

  “Maybe I’ll get to see you in those dancing shoes after all,” she said with a grin as she opened the door of her room, located next to mine.

  I frowned, and she laughed.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later I emerged in a suit identical to the one I had been wearing, sans the soaking rain. I waited on Rachel in the lobby, and when she appeared, with her dress trailing down the grand staircase as she walked, the golden-globed necklace Carter had given her more than a decade before catching the light, I was struck speechless. It is a strange thing, one that so many a father or uncle has experienced—for I considered Rachel to be my own kin as strongly as if it were true—to watch a child grow into adulthood. Where had the little girl with skinned knees and pigtails gone? I suppose she had vanished many, many years before.

  “Another thing my father taught me,” she said upon seeing my expression, “was to always have at least one nice thing to wear. You never know when you’ll be invited to a party.”

  “Quite,” I mumbled. “And you still wear that necklace.”

  Her hand went to the globe that hung around her neck on a golden chain. Her fingers ran over the indentations of the Arabic script, as I knew they had done unnumbered times before.

  “Always.”

  She glanced over my shoulder, and I didn’t have to follow her eyes to know where she was looking. “I see our friend is waiting on us.”

  “He hasn’t left. I suppose we shouldn’t keep him in suspense.”

  “Certainly not. Lieutenant!” she called, sounding positively ecstatic to see him. “The party is waiting.”

  “Of course,” he said, gesturing to the double doors.

  We followed him into the grand ballroom. It was a stunningly beautiful chamber. Six chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their sparkling electric lights adding to the glow of a full moon that beamed down from the newly broken clouds through the glass dome that was the hall’s ceiling. The light glittered off the gilded walls, imbuing the assembled revelers with a golden glow.

  Nor was it an inconsequential gathering. It seemed as though all of Berlin society was present, and all were dressed to the nines. I felt a rare moment of self-doubt, embarrassed at my ill-fitting suit. But Rachel was radiant. She belonged in this place.

  As I glanced around the ballroom, I noticed a man in expensive attire, a beautiful young woman in a gossamer dress hanging from his arm. He was surrounded by party-goers, many of them in military uniforms. But what made me notice him was the fact that he was looking intently at us. He mumbled something to the young lady—who also turned and glanced in our direction, with no shortage of disdain, I thought—and then started walking towards us. Before he’d gone five feet his face erupted in a brilliant smile.

  “Dr. Henry Armitage,” he cried, throwing his arms wide, “and you, madam, must be Mrs. Rachel Jones.” He bent and kissed Rachel’s hand before turning to me and grasping mine. “We’ve been expecting you.”

  The lieutenant, who had not left our side, saluted the man before turning to us. “May I introduce to you Dr. Erich Zann, of the University of Berlin.”

  “Charmed,” Rachel said, “though I must say I’m surprised to find a welcoming party for Dr. Armitage and me. We didn’t exactly come announced.”

  “Well, the party was to happen regardless. But surely you must know, Frau Jones, that we in Germany are always honored by the presence of such a fine academic as Dr. Armitage. And your father,” he said, pausing almost imperceptibly—but not quite—at the mention of Carter, “is known and respected around the world. I was most distressed to hear of his passing. I saw him, only weeks before he died.”

  “Yes,” Rachel said, “I’m quite aware. Though we continue to hold out hope that he is merely missing. Perhaps detained somewhere.”

  Zann’s smile, which had never really faded, seemed to grow even wider. “Perhaps,” he said simply.

  “And I must commend you, Doctor. It must be difficult to monitor the thousands of people who venture in and out of Germany every day, just so you can greet every scholar that comes across your borders.”

  “Well, Dr. Armitage is not just any academic. His reputation precedes him.”

  “As does yours, Dr. Zann,” I said. ”I read your work on Hindu mythology. Most intriguing, though I found your hypothesis linking the religion of ancient India to early German folklore somewhat… tenuous.”

  Zann laughed, perhaps too enthusiastically. “Ah yes, that old thing. I may have been too exotic in some of my conclusions. But I find that youth often suffers from over-exuberance. You can leave us now, lieutenant.” The young man clicked his heels and bowed again before withdrawing.

  “And,” I continued, “I understand that you’ve recently been offered the position of Reich Minister of Cultural History. Quite an honor. They must think rather highly of you in the Reich Chancellery.

  “Yes, well,” Zann said, his smile fading, “we reward loyalty in Germany. Even more, we reward results.”

  “Quite.”

  If Zann had dropped his guard, it didn’t last for long. He grinned at me again, slapping me on the shoulder, “Come, let us have a drink.”

  I glanced around for Rachel, but she was no longer at my side. I would only learn later where she’d gone.

  Diary of Rachel Jones

  I went with Henry to the ballroom of the Esplanade, though everything within me rebelled at the idea. I was fairly certain the young lieutenant was directed to arrest us if we resisted. I had traveled to Germany once before—as a girl with my father, sometime before the war—and had found Berlin to be one of the most beautiful cities in the world. I loved it then, but a pall had fallen over the country. I know little of these Nazis but their
tactics are of force and intimidation. And if a man like Zann—whom I now believe knows something about the disappearance of my father—has found favor with them, then they will always be my enemies.

  Zann was there, of course, as I suspected. His shark-tooth smile and fancy suit could not cover the evil in his heart. If I had doubted before, seeing him was enough. This man was corrupt, and he meant to do us harm. Still, he approached us exuding the thick aroma of false charm, and I was forced to endure this charade as Henry tried to poke holes in his story. That is, until I noticed another young man hovering about us.

  If it had only been his face, or his hair, or even the way his suit hung awkwardly on his too-thin frame, perhaps I would have let it pass. Maybe, if it had only been a passing resemblance, I would have said nothing. But he had William’s eyes. The same spark. The same kindness. And when he smiled… It wasn’t that he looked just like William. God no. Nothing so clichéd, nothing so ridiculous. It was so much more than that.

  I turned so quickly that I think it took him by surprise. “Do you always make a habit of eavesdropping on others’ conversations, or is this a special occasion?” I watched with some pleasure as that grin faded.

  “Oh…no… Sorry ma’am. I didn’t mean any harm.” I winced a bit when he called me “ma’am,” and I had to remind myself that I was far too old for this young man, a college student who knew little of the world. “It’s just I heard you mention Dr. Carter Weston.”

  “No, no offense,” I said. I glanced at Henry, who was still engaged with the German. Then I took the boy by the shoulder and led him away. “What do you know of Dr. Weston?”

  “Well, ma’am…”

  “Please,” I said, interrupting. I grabbed a pair of champagne glasses from a passing waiter and handed him one. “If we are to be friends then we mustn’t be so formal. My name is Rachel. Rachel Jones.”