by Gale Sears
© 2010 Gale Sears.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, Deseret Book Company, P.O. Box 30178, Salt Lake City Utah 30178. This work is not an official publication of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The views expressed herein are the responsibility of the author and do not necessarily represent the position of the Church or of Deseret Book. Deseret Book is a registered trademark of Deseret Book Company.
All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
To my sister Teri
for all the years of wisdom, love, and laughter
Map by Bryan Beach
© 2010 Gale Sears
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, Deseret Book Company, P. O. Box 30178, Salt Lake City, Utah 84130. This work is not an official publication of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The views expressed herein are the responsibility of the author and do not necessarily represent the position of the Church or of Deseret Book Company.
This novel is based on a true story and contains real historical figures, facts, and places, in addition to fictional characters, places, and events which are a product of the author’s imagination.
Deseret Book is a registered trademark of Deseret Book Company.
Visit us at DeseretBook.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Sears, Gale.
The silence of God / Gale Sears.
p. cm.
Summary: At the turn of the century St. Petersburg offered the best of Imperial Russia. Few realized that the glitz and glamour of the Silver Age would soon dissolve into mass rebellion and revolution. For the wealthy Lindlof family, the only Latter-day Saints living in St. Petersburg at the time, life would never be the same—changed forever by an ideology that would persist for more than a century. The ravages of the Bolshevik Revolution are seen through the eyes of Agnes Lindlof and her lifelong friend, Natasha, in a powerful, extraordinary novel of devotion and loyalty.
ISBN 978-1-60641-655-6 (hardbound : alk. paper)
1. Mormons—Soviet Union—Fiction. 2. Soviet Union—Religion—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3619.E256S58 2010
813'.6—dc22 2010003417
Printed in the United States of America R. R. Donnelley, Crawfordsville, IN
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Bibliography
Acknowledgments
I extend my thanks to the many people who helped make this book a reality: my first readers—George Sears, Teri Boldt, Shauna Chymboryk, and Roderic Buttimore; G.G. Vandagriff for her endorsement; Kahlile Mehr for the history concerning the Lindlof family, and for his great knowledge of the LDS Church in Russia; Elder Dennis Neuenschwander for his guidance with background information and doctrine; my tour guides in St. Petersburg and Moscow, Ylena Gavrilova and Vera Zhuravleva, for bringing the history and the heart of Russia to life, and for answering my many questions.
A special thanks to Jana Erickson at Deseret Book for her encouragement, Heather Ward and Tonya Facemyer for the great look of the book both inside and out, and Lisa Mangum for her deft editing hand.
Author’s Note
Sometimes we are given a precious gift. Such is the case when, in my research into the fascinating and splendid history of Russia, I found the story of Johan and Alma Lindlof. The first members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in Russia, they and their children endured during some of the most difficult times in history for people of faith.
The book is one of fiction, but the Lindlof family was a real family and were eyewitnesses to the tumultuous years surrounding the Bolshevik Revolution. The events depicted in the novel actually happened to them. To these elements I have been true.
It was an honor for me to place their story on paper.
Prologue
Kievan Rus
988 a.d.
Smoke and superstition whispered through the forest the morning that Perun fell. The thunder god’s great carved image stood mute in the village gathering place—blank eyes staring east to where the sun would rise, and through the misted world a warrior ran—Erlendr, messenger of the prince. Erlendr of the beautiful form and long yellow hair, descendant of the Norsemen who had come to mingle and fight with the tribes of Kievan Rus.
As he neared the village, he heard the crackle of morning cooking fires and smelled roasting meat. But food would have to wait.
He called in a clear voice. “Men and women of Kiev, come to the gathering place! Come! Your prince is riding out from the fortress! He brings his new bride!”
Murmurs passed among the villagers who drew into the open area. His bride? Our prince has many brides. What will this one be like?
From the depth of the forest they heard the sound of horse’s hooves, jangling bells, and beating drums. The worshippers in the gathering place fell silent as every heart pounded in cadence with the drum—pounded hard against their ribs as the sound drew near.
Prince Vladimir’s giant black horse broke cover first, tossing its head and snorting. It squealed and turned in circles when it saw the blazing cooking fires, its massive hooves pounding the soggy grass into pulp. The creature’s leather harness was adorned with silver bells, which made a sweet sound in the morning stillness, but did not allay the villagers’ trepidation, and the nearest group stepped back. A young child started wailing, its eyes fixed on the stamping beast, while the rest of those gathered stared in wonder at the horse’s magnificent rider.
Vladimir sat tall and sure on the back of his high-spirited steed. The prince’s long, unbound hair and bushy beard added fierceness to his form. He was dressed in wool leggings and shirt, covered with a leather tunic that was branded with the images of elk, bear,
and wolf. A red fox cloak covered the ruler’s large shoulders, flowing down to drape over the rump of his horse. His sword was slung across his back, and a dagger hung on his belt. Vladimir reined in his horse and shoved his hand into the air. In his grasp was a beautiful silver object encrusted with pearls.
More members of the royal entourage poured into the clearing: warriors, women on horses, drum beaters, men in brown tunics, and men with axes. The villagers looked to each other. Why the ax carriers? Would someone be losing their head this morning?
The drums stopped, and the villagers gasped as the prince’s bride rode into the clearing. Riding stately upon another of the prince’s black horses came the lady from Constantinople. Her long, dark hair fell to her waist, and she wore it unbraided under a diadem of silver leaves encrusted with rubies and pearls. Her silver gown shimmered beneath a heavy gold cloak that had been exquisitely embroidered with hundreds of images which looked much like the object the prince of Kiev was holding aloft. In the crook of her arm, the bride held a wooden panel painted with the face of a man. The people wondered if it was her brother or perhaps her father.
Vladimir rode his horse to the side of his bride. “My people!” he called. “I present to you, Anna, Greek imperial princess, sister to Basil the second, emperor of Byzantium.” He looked at her proudly. “My consort and co-ruler of Kievan Rus!”
The people cheered their consent and welcome.
“She brings great gifts from Constantinople. A gold coin for every member of the village and two pigs for every household!”
The people cheered more loudly.
Prince Vladimir dismounted, and the people grew quiet as he walked among them. He pressed the silver object against his chest. “She also brings something much greater.”
What could be greater than gold and pigs? the villagers wondered.
The prince moved to the statue of Perun in the center of the gathering. “The time of darkness for the Rus is over. For years my heart has longed not only for stability with our neighbors but also for connection between our own people. Kievan Rus is growing. Our people spread across the mountains and the steppe like clouds across the sky, so we must have something to keep us strong and united!” He strode about the gathering place and every eye followed him. “I counseled with my boyars, and we have sent emissaries to the far reaches of the world to study the beliefs of our neighbors, their belief in one great God. The emissaries traveled far in search of knowledge—to the synagogues of Jerusalem, the mosques of the Bulgars, the Christian cathedrals of Rome—and indeed they saw marvelous things, but none, they say, as marvelous as what they beheld in Constantinople. They reported to me that God dwells there with the Byzantine people.”
The drummers began a throbbing cadence and the brown-robed figures moved forward to form a circle around the god Perun, turning their backs on the great carved figure. The villagers stepped back, waiting for the fire arrows of Perun to fall from the sky and kill the disrespectful men. Who was this god that lived with the Byzantine people? Did these brown-robed men truly think the Byzantine god was more powerful than Perun? The villagers’ attention was diverted as the beautiful, and now frightening, Anna was helped down from her horse.
She walked calmly around the gathering place, her heavily embroidered cloak dragging over the muddy ground.
“Dear people, I come here as your ruler and your friend.” Her soothing voice carried to all, and they smiled to hear her speak to them in their own tongue.
“In my hands I carry a sacred image.” She held the painted panel out to them, and they squinted to get a better look when it passed near. The skin, hair, and beard of the man were dark, and he wasn’t handsome, but there seemed to be a light shining from his face.
“This is the Apostle Paul, a messenger from the Son of the one great God. This Hebrew man came to my people almost a thousand years ago. He told us stories of one Jesus of Nazareth, the Son of God, born into the world to bring light, to heal our wickedness, to promise life after death.”
A murmur passed through the group. Stories and legends of a Jewish man with mystical powers had been told by adventurers on the trade routes, but their tales were mostly fantastical and not taken for truth, and the holy men who might have brought messages of soberness, deigned not to venture into the dangerous, uncivilized regions of the north. The people of Kiev looked at one another. Had they heard the words correctly? The consort’s accent was strange, so they could not be sure. Had she said that Jesus promised life after death?
Anna interpreted the rumbling voices and the looks of disbelief. “Christ Jesus, the Son of God did many miracles when He was on the earth: healing the crippled and the blind, feeding thousands of people with a loaf of bread, raising the dead—”
“Impossible!” someone shouted.
Prince Vladimir moved to stand beside his regal wife, and the noise stopped. “I know it seems impossible, my people, but you must realize that this is not a god of stone or wood, but a living God.” He moved again to the statue of Perun. “A God made without hands.”
“Where is he then?” a man called.
Princess Anna turned and looked at him kindly. “The Jewish leaders were afraid of Him, afraid of His power. They convinced their Roman rulers that Jesus must be put to death, so the Romans crucified Him.”
The gathering grew quiet. They all knew the cruel stories of Roman crucifixion.
“He died?” a voice finally broke the silence. “How can He be a god if He died?”
The empress moved around the group again, tears glistening in her eyes. “The Apostle Paul saw the Christ and spoke to Him after His death.”
No one dared contradict their new ruler, but how could anyone believe such unnatural foolishness? A dead person coming rotted from the ground to speak to another? It was madness. The villagers were sad that their prince had married a mad woman, yet as they looked at the empress’s face, she did not seem mad. Her body was still, her hands gentle, and her eyes soft with surety.
Prince Vladimir put his arm around his dark-eyed beauty and spoke. “The Greeks have a written text which holds the history of the Hebrews. It has many testimonies of people who actually knew the man Jesus and saw Him alive again after His death.”
Many of the women wept—hoping the prince’s words were true, hoping that their dead children would come alive again.
The prince held the silver object above his head. “This is a symbol of the cross upon which the Romans killed the Son of God. But this lady and I are symbols of the living Son of God, for we have been baptized into His kingdom.”
Baptized? This was an unknown word.
“A holy man has taken me into the water and put me down into it as though I were in a grave—as though I had died. But then my burier brought me up out of the water into new life!” He paused, and all the villagers stared at him. When the prince spoke again his deep voice rumbled with emotion. “I have been a pagan all my life. I have many pagan wives and hundreds of concubines, I have placed pagan statues around all of my dwellings, I have lived a life of excess and cruelty, but that old life has been washed away. I am done with excess. I have put away my pagan wives and concubines. And now the old gods will be rooted out, and we will worship the one true God of power and Christ His Son!” Vladimir gestured to the brown-robed men. “You will be taught the words of truth by these holy men, and tomorrow we will meet at the river where you will all be baptized into a new faith.” Vladimir motioned to the ax carriers and they stepped forward.
Is he going to cut off our heads if we don’t want to be baptized? the people wondered.
The prince made a sharp indication with his head toward the statue of Perun. “Chop it down.”
The ax carriers stepped back. They were big men, but fear showed in their eyes.
“It is only wood,” Vladimir told them, but still they did not advance toward the sacrifi
cial circle.
Many of the villagers backed away, their faces shadowed with confusion and terror.
Suddenly Erlendr moved forward. Erlendr of the beautiful form. Erlendr the admired. He took an ax from one of the quailing men and walked with determination past his ruler to the waiting god. In one fluid motion, Erlendr raised the giant weapon and let it fall at the base of the idol. A deep gash scored Perun’s side. Men cried out and women screamed, but Erlendr swung again and hacked away a large chunk of wood. No one stopped him. The people were mesmerized by the look of passion and assurance in the Norseman’s vivid blue eyes.
The second ax carrier fell to his knees as Prince Vladimir took the weapon out of his hand. “You will see, my people! It is only wood!” he yelled as he raised the ax.
The two men were powerful and the axes sharp. Soon there was only one narrow shard of wood keeping the statue standing. Prince Vladimir moved forward, put his hand on the statue’s head, and shoved the wood to the ground. The people waited for the wrath of Perun; it did not come. Warriors brought out leather cords, wrapped them around the fallen god, and tied the bindings to the tail of Vladimir’s horse. The prince mounted his horse and dragged the statue to the river. Princess Anna followed with the holy men, while the people trudged behind, stunned into muteness.
They came to the river Dnieper, which flowed swift and cold with the spring thaw. Perun was untied from the horse’s tail and hoisted onto the shoulders of four of Vladimir’s strongest warriors. When the men reached the river’s edge, they lowered the statue into their hands, swung it back and forth several times, and heaved it into the deep water. There was a loud crack when it hit and white sprays of water flew high into the air. Then, there was silence. The water rippled and swirled, and flowed on.
