Daniel Yarosh - The Death of Hercules - A DocuNovel

After a few stops and some hours of quiet rolling, the train pulled in to Przemyśl. The locomotive let out a long blast of steam to release steam pressure, signaling a delay. Most of the civilians stepped down to the platform with their luggage. They understood that this railway line from Przemyśl was the only link to Lviv and was under constant attack from Ukrainian troops trying to cut off the city and regain their stronghold. More armed Polish troops boarded the train. They immediately spotted the other soldiers in the car and brought them good news. That Monday, December 2, another local two-day ceasefire agreement had been declared, and they all relaxed. The Polish forces were using the ceasefire to further fortify their positions in Lviv, and the delay was to load munitions and supplies on the train.

Max slumped further in his seat, head down, and tried to sleep. He thought he heard one or another soldier call out to him in Polish, but he pretended not to hear. As the delay went on Max’s anxiety increased and it was hard to keep up his ruse of resting. Finally, in late afternoon with the last of the provisions strapped and secured, the train pulled out of the station.

Looking out the window at dusk, Max could see damaged trucks, bomb craters and burnt fields left over from the internecine combat. After a few more hours of uneventful rocking, the train pulled into Lviv. The soldiers gathered their duffels and left the car. Max waited until they were well clear of the platform, so there would be no chance for a confrontation. He stepped out and walked into the train station.

In contrast to the Krakow station, the Lviv station was quiet and nearly deserted. A few crates of army supplies were guarded by soldiers, but otherwise few civilians were about. An aura of siege and fear hung in the air. Max headed to the ticket booth and bought a second-class ticket to Odessa. It was an overnight ride, so after Max glanced over his shoulder to see the train being unloaded of its supplies, he found bread, beer and some cheese for dinner and sat against the wall watching the crew work.

He brooded over his loss of Deena. She was magical, a bright spirit with a worldly sense he never thought he would see in a woman. How could he let her go? Too late for that. How could he get her back? That was for another time. But her shimmering hair, her radiant skin, her shining eyes stopped him from thinking of anything else.

Finally, the conductor called for passengers for Odessa. Max walked slowly to the train, avoiding looking directly at the other passengers. There were fewer, elderly civilians with larger cases, and some struggled to get them up the steps. There were no Polish soldiers, as this train was headed into Ukrainian territory. Max relaxed a little and was soon asleep.

Max was startled awake by the train wheels screeching, sparks leaping from the tracks, and the sudden deceleration of the train. He looked out the window into blackness, but toward the front of the train he could make out small swinging lights, which he surmised were lanterns. Blinking his eyes awake, he turned to the nearest older man, who seemed concerned, and asked, “Where are we?”

“Almost to Proskuriv,” he said. He looked down nervously, away from Max. “Who are they?” Max asked. The man shrugged and kept his dead down. This did not bode well. They sat in silence, Max pondering his options. Leaping from the train in the middle of the night into a place he did not know seemed like a very desperate move. He still had options, so he sat quietly and fidgeted with his hat.

His mind raced, to his brothers – what would they do? He thought back just a little over a week ago, to their meeting at the café in Lille. It seemed other worldly. He was now overwhelmed with a tide of history and so little a paddle. How could they send him here, alone and with no protection? Yes, he had volunteered, and agreed with them to decide by lots. He was so confident, confusing the war victory with a personal victory. But in this part of the world, there was no victory, nothing normal, and no end of war. Now that he was in the middle of this, he realized that thinking that they could send in one small soldier, snatch up their parents, and spirit them home, was pure cocky fantasy. Bravery has a small friend we call a fool.

He thought of his parents, waiting for him, and this only caused more panic and constricted his breathing. He could picture his mother’s face, warm and smiling. She always knew what he needed, and now he needed a friend. He thought of his father, a confident, serious man of the town. He could not imagine either of them intimidated or commanded. But Max knew from all he saw that events were bigger than his parents, and they had little to protect themselves. In fact, as kulaks , business peasants, they were the target of the Bolsheviks. Too much arrayed against his mother and father for them to withstand. They had no choice but to flee, and they were depending on him. He gave a huge sigh to release the tension in his chest.

He tried to think of Deena but that all seemed irrelevant now. It would be so much better if she were here with him now. She would provide him with a story – lovers escaping away to be married, or a married couple returning to his parent’s house. Anything domestic was better than a single young man on a train, looking for all the world like an army deserter. Is that why he wanted Deena to be with him, to cover him? No, he thought of her smile and the warmth she brought to him. He did dream of their life together. But that was another foolish thought, a mere speck of happiness in this sea of despair. He thought of her returning to her home, and agreed that it was best for her, and that his wishes were selfish. He felt abandoned by unattainable love.

Then his thoughts turned to Zalmund. Zalmund, who he admired and despised at the same time. He admired what he could do and hated what he did. He had no loyalty to anyone, or anything, except his own ideals. Was that wrong? He showed no restraint in his actions or fear in his thoughts. But in this world was that unusual? Men were gassed for a few yards of land, women kidnapped for ransom, children shot in the streets for political leverage. All for a purpose that someone proclaimed louder than others. He also knew that he hated Zalmund because he was jealous of his love with Deena – it made his stomach turn to think of it. But now he had to be like Zalmund, think like him, act like him and feel like him. No remorse, all resolve, and no restraint. He clenched and unclenched his fists to convince himself.

Perspiration formed on his forehead, which he wiped with the sleeve of his coat. He went over and over again his alibi. The waiting in silence nearly broke his nerves. They could hear the shouting from the forward cars, and occasionally the sounds of an outward door opening and someone climbing down the steel steps to the ground.

After thirty minutes of tension, the forward door to the compartment opened and a group of six soldiers, in tattered dirty brown wool overcoats, entered the car carrying long rifles. They wore budenovka spiked army hats with short brim and earlaps. Their leader at the rear wore a komissarka hat with oversized cap and a leather headband with a shiny brim. He had small dagger tattoo under his left eye (which Max recognized as a mark of the Odessa underground) and a pistol stuck into his coat belt. They spoke Russian as they interrogated each passenger down the aisle. From what he overheard, Max surmised they were an Anarchist unit searching for White Russians, Ukrainian People’s Republic soldiers and deserting Red Army soldiers. Desertion was rampant on all sides of the conflict, reflecting the hardships of war, the unyielding dogma of the ideologies, and the poverty of the soldiers.