Chad Thumann - The Undesirables

“Raise,” Wally finally announced, tossing another bottle cap on the pile.

“Call,” Bobby said, matching Wally’s bottle cap with one of his own.

“I’m out,” Jack groaned, laying his cards facedown on the table.

“I guess that just leaves me,” mused Max. “I guess I’ll see your duty chip and raise you one more.” He tossed two bottle caps into the center of the table.

Wally sighed. He tossed another cap on the pile. Bobby nodded and did the same.

Max eyed Wally before laying out his cards. “Two pair.” He had two kings and two queens.

Wally beamed and put down his hand. “Straight.” He had a three to a seven, all in order, a great hand. He leaned over to scoop up the duty chips.

“Hold on a second,” Jack griped, hoping to save his friend Bobby at least. “Bobby? What you got?”

Bobby looked at his cards. His second draw had been extraordinarily lucky. All five of his cards were now spades, a flush to beat Wally’s straight. But he just frowned.

“I got nothing,” he said. He dropped the cards facedown. “Take your winnings, Wally. The duty’s all mine. Guess I better start plowing the runway.”

Grinning now, Wally scooped the duty chips into his pile as Bobby got up and started bundling himself into his parka, sweater, and hat.

The train broke down fifty miles east of Tikhvin. No one seemed to mind. In fact, it was a relief to get out of the crowded boxcars. Soldiers stumbled down the railroad embankment and lay down in the grass.

It was a beautiful, warm day. April had come, and spring had finally sprung. White clouds surrounded the bright sun but never eclipsed it. Karen closed her eyes and relished the warmth of the sun on her cheeks. Somehow her fingers had found Petr’s, and she enjoyed the feel of his grip.

There had been hundreds of soldiers on the train, perhaps even a thousand, but they hardly made a sound. All Karen could hear were the grinding chirps of the cicadas and the distant clang of an engineer trying to repair the locomotive. She hoped the engineer didn’t succeed. She was so content lying in the grass, she could have stayed there for hours.

The other soldiers seemed to feel the same way. They were veterans—all of them—which meant they had fought the Germans, and they had lost. Most of them were all that remained of their platoons, companies, and even battalions, so they were being shipped back for reassignment. They’d all seen their fair share of death, and they knew they would be seeing it again. In their past was the war, in their future was the war, but right now was peace. They all just wanted the warmth of the sun and the smell of the grass to last as long as possible. But even in the most peaceful repose, some men grew restless. They began to mutter and to move. The sound of voices and laughter rose up in the sky, silencing the cicadas.

And then came the sound of music.

“Look,” Petr said, gently tugging at Karen’s hand.

Karen didn’t want to look. She wanted to lie there forever, to forget about the war—and about the impossible journey before her. She began to wonder whether she could stay in Russia, after all. Maybe if she went far enough east, the Nazis would never reach her. Just keep going east, no real goal, just east. That would be so much easier than figuring out how to get back to America.

Karen giggled when she thought of America. She used to think it was so large. Her aunt was an opera singer who lived in San Francisco. Karen visited her every Thanksgiving, and it seemed so far away. It took three days by train. Now Karen realized that three days was nothing. It had taken far longer than that just to get from Leningrad to Tikhvin. How long would it take her to cross Siberia, to cross Alaska? Was there even a train in Siberia?

Of course there was. The Trans-Siberian Railway was famous. But even if she could get a ticket, that train went to China, not to Alaska. The Japanese had invaded China. It was as bad as it was in Russia. If Karen was going to escape, she needed to go northeast, not southeast. But that seemed impossible. Better to just keep running, keep hiding, outrun the Nazis.

The Russians couldn’t win. Everyone knew that now. Maybe she could convince Petr to come with her. They could find a little cabin in the woods, like the hunting shack. They could hide there, Petr could hunt deer, and they could just wait in peace until the war was over.

“Look,” Petr repeated, tugging Karen’s hand again.

Karen propped her elbows behind her and lifted her head. The music was coming from an accordion. Soldiers had surrounded the accordion player, smiling and clapping along with the music. They were so happy. Karen remembered the water-bucket lines, when everyone in Leningrad started singing that silly song. Maybe her father was right. Maybe music was more important than bread or fire or security.

She recalled what Petr had claimed—things didn’t make happiness; people did. And, Karen hoped, maybe music. Otherwise, her father had died in vain.

“We should dance,” Petr suggested.

Karen was horrified. Petr couldn’t be serious, could he? She looked at him, and although he was smiling, he was serious. And he was beautiful. His eyes were sparkling, and his joy and enthusiasm were infectious.

Karen attempted to inoculate herself from that infection. “But I don’t know how to dance.”

Petr, still smiling, looked her over with an appraising eye. “That’s a lie,” he playfully accused her. “You’re a musician. You probably dance all the time.”

Karen did dance and quite often, in New York. She loved to dance at her father’s parties, after concerts. She loved jazz and Big Band music, and she especially loved dancing with Bobby.

But that was years ago, and this was different. “I don’t know how to dance like that.” She pointed.

Several soldiers were dancing, but they were thrusting their hands out before them and squatting and kicking out their heels in an impressive acrobatic display.

Petr laughed. “No one but the Cossacks know how to dance like that.”

He grabbed Karen’s hand and pulled her to her feet despite her resistance. He kept dragging her and didn’t stop until they’d broken through the ring of clapping soldiers and joined the Cossacks. The soldiers cheered at the sight of Karen—she wasn’t the only girl present, but she was the only one dancing. Her appearance reinvigorated the accordion player, and he increased the tempo.

Karen tried to mimic Petr as he placed her arm in his and led her back and forth. It felt more like skipping than dancing to Karen, and she was reminded of the square dances she’d seen in cowboy movies. But this was much faster than a square dance, and she had to admit it was thrilling to be the center of attention. Even the Cossacks turned toward her, jumping and yelling and clapping and smiling at her. The music got faster, and Petr swung her more quickly. She felt dizzy.

But she didn’t stop. Her legs tired underneath her, but she didn’t feel the sharp pain that usually accompanies exhaustion. Something about the music and the clapping and the cheering transformed the pain into euphoria. She didn’t realize she couldn’t keep going until her feet collapsed beneath her, and she tumbled, gasping, into the grass. But the crowd just cheered even louder. She looked over and saw that Petr had fallen beside her. They gazed at each other, smiling and trying to catch their breath.

And then the cheering changed. It became a chant. “Kiss her, kiss her, kiss her, kiss her!” yelled the crowd, clapping to accentuate each word, and the accordion player played along with the chant.

Karen saw that Petr had stopped smiling. He’d turned beet red with embarrassment. But that only made him look cuter. So she decided to rescue him from his predicament. She grabbed him by his hair and kissed him on the lips. She’d intended it as a simple gesture to help a friend out of a jam. But when their mouths touched, she had a sudden guilty urge to kiss him harder, like she’d once kissed Bobby. The thought of Bobby shamed Karen, and she reluctantly pulled her lips away. The crowd erupted into cheers of joy and finally parted to let Karen and Petr escape their impromptu dance circle.

“Thank you,” Petr said to her when they’d settled back onto the grass of the railroad embankment. “They wouldn’t have let us go otherwise.”

“No, thank you,” Karen insisted. “You were right. That was fun.”

The train still wasn’t repaired by dusk. The engineers didn’t really know what they were doing, it seemed. They’d banged on the locomotive with a crowbar for about an hour before declaring that they needed to wait for specialized equipment.

They used the train tracks as a telegraph device, reporting their condition to the next station down the line. But even they couldn’t predict when help would arrive. Like the soldiers, the engineers didn’t really seem to be in any hurry at all.

That night Karen, Petr, and the rest of the soldiers ate gruel. The provisions were stored on the train, and military cooks lit fires to boil the oats seasoned with beef bouillon. It was really more soup than gruel, the oats thin and unfulfilling. Karen, remembering her meals of axle grease and wallpaper glue, found it delicious. But most of the soldiers complained, including Petr.

The moon rose, and still no help arrived. The soldiers lay back on the hill. Those lucky enough to have bedrolls used them, while others used the grass as their mattress and their bread bags as pillows.

Karen was tired, but she found it hard to sleep. Bugs were in the grass and in the air, buzzing near her ears and nostrils. They didn’t bite—they were harmless—but they tickled when they landed on her nose or crawled over her legs.