by Gale Sears
“Brother Cannon and I arrived a bit early in order to choose a secluded spot for our prayer. If you will all follow me.”
They walked along a side path, passing flowering bushes and beautiful marble statues. In an area of the garden that was fairly deserted, Elder Lyman stopped near a statue of a woman holding a sunstone. “This reminded me of the sunstones on the Nauvoo Temple, so Brother Cannon and I decided it would be a fitting place for our prayer of dedication.” He kissed Alexandria on the forehead and handed her over to Sister Lindlof. “Now, Sister Lindlof, please don’t worry if the younger children get fussy. Their presence here is a blessing, and I understand they will probably get bored during such an extended prayer. I will not be troubled by them in the least, so set your mind at ease.” He addressed the others in the group. “Brother Cannon will be acting as scribe, so please don’t mind as he scratches away.”
Brother Cannon had pulled his supplies from a satchel and was sitting down on a nearby bench. He looked up at Elder Lyman. “I will attempt to be as quiet as possible.”
Elder Lyman smiled at him, and then looked over at Brother Lindlof. “It is fitting that you and your sweet family should be present at this dedication, Brother Lindlof. You are the only Latter-day Saints in all of Russia. It must be lonely, and I know you have prayed for kindred worshippers. God is very aware of this great land—vast and beautiful, and filled with His children whose hearts are true and good.” He looked at the group. “The Prophet Joseph wrote that the vast empire of Russia was attached to some of the most important things concerning the advancement and building up of the kingdom of God in these last days.” The apostle took a deep breath. “Joseph was never able to expand on that statement, but I believe it to be true. Since arriving here I have felt a great power in this country.”
Agnes felt proud at the apostle’s words.
“And in February of this year,” he continued, “Tsar Nicholas II issued a proclamation of freedom of conscience. This is a very significant act—a miracle really. It means that people will be able to look about for truth and testimony.” Emotion showed on the apostle’s face. “Nearly a thousand years ago, Prince Vladimir of Kiev brought Christianity to this wondrous land, and since that time the Orthodox Christian churches here have kept the light of faith alive. We honor their devotion.” He paused. “Now, shall we see what the fulness of the gospel may offer them?” He held out his hands to the small fellowship of believers. “If we can gather close, I shall begin.”
Under the stately trees through whose foliage could be seen the blue heavens, Elder Lyman lowered his head and began praying. He offered a fervent petition for the Lord to open the great land so that His servants might preach the gospel in Russia. He dedicated the land for this purpose and turned the key that salvation and truth might be brought in. He prayed that religious liberty might be given so that all might worship unhindered and without persecution, and he petitioned the Lord to send servants full of wisdom and faith to declare the gospel to the Russians in their own language.
He prayed for the tsar and his family that they might be preserved from violence, and that this ruler might live to extend the religious freedom that his subjects needed so that all men might exercise their agency. He called upon the Lord to bless the great empire—in many respects the greatest in the world—and endow its rulers with wisdom and virtue, that there might be peace and progress, that darkness would flee, and that the voices of His servants could sound the glad tidings to the uttermost parts of the great land.
As the prayer ended, a profound stillness encircled the gathering. Agnes opened her eyes and lifted her head. She found her mother and father weeping, and, to her surprise, Alexandria asleep on her mother’s shoulder. Erland sat on the ground, apart from the group, with his head in his hands.
Agnes went to see if he was sick, and she reached him the same time as Johannes did. Her big brother knelt by Erland’s side and placed a hand on his back.
“Erland, are you sick?”
Erland shook his head and looked up at his brother. His eyes were red-rimmed from crying, and his dirty hands had smudged the tears on his face. “He loves us, doesn’t he?”
“Who?” Johannes questioned.
“The apostle.”
“Did you understand the prayer?” Johannes asked, surprised by his little brother’s uncharacteristic demeanor.
“No, not most of it, but I felt that the apostle loves us.”
“I felt that too,” Agnes said softly.
“Me too,” Johannes agreed, helping Erland to stand. “Here, wipe your face with my handkerchief.”
“Are you all right, son?” Brother Lindlof asked as he moved to his children.
Erland nodded as he wiped his face.
Agnes piped up. “It’s just that he was . . . Well, it’s just that the prayer was . . .”
Johan Lindlof smiled. “I know what you’re trying to say, Agnes.”
“You do?”
“Yes. It’s very hard to find the words, isn’t it?”
Agnes nodded.
“Indeed,” Johan continued, looking over at his oldest son, “I think we will be pondering the words of that prayer for many years.”
At that moment, Sister Lindlof rushed up to them. “Johan! I don’t know what got into me. I just invited everyone to supper at our home!”
Johan chuckled. “Calm down. Calm down, my dear. You always make enough food to feed all the tsar’s relatives. A dinner party will be marvelous—the perfect ending to a perfect day.”
Johannes hoisted Erland up piggyback. “I will never forget this day for as long as I live, Father.” He nodded at Agnes, and then walked over to talk with the missionaries.
Filled with serenity, the company moved toward the garden entrance to find their carriages. Agnes lolled behind, listening contently to the murmur of voices on the summer breeze. She smiled as she heard again the voice of Mother Russia entwining itself into the conversation. Agnes twirled around and around. Her heart was happy, for now missionaries would come to Russia and there would be many families who would join the Church. Her best friend and neighbor, Natasha Ivanovna Gavrilova would be one of the first to be taught the gospel! And then, of course, Natasha’s parents would want to be baptized. Agnes stopped short. The tsar! Surely the tsar would want to hear about the beautiful prayer that Elder Lyman had just given, and then the Grand Duchesses Olga and Tatyana would be baptized right away, and Marie and Anastasia when they were eight, and—
“Agnes, hurry along!” her father called.
She twirled one more time and ran to join the group.
Notes
1. The miracle attendant with the baptism of Johan and Alma Lindlof was recorded by the missionary who baptized them, August Joel Hoglund. He wrote of the entire incident in a letter to the Swedish Mission Office. It was also recorded in an article in the Latter-day Saints’ Millennial Star.
2. In October 1843 the Prophet Joseph Smith posted an article in the Times and Seasons concerning missionaries being called to Russia and asked faithful Saints for donations.
3. LDS apostle Elder Francis Lyman pronounced two prayers of dedication for Russia, one on August 6, 1903, in the Summer Gardens in St. Petersburg, and one on August 9 of the same year in the garden outside the Kremlin in Moscow. I have combined selections from each prayer. Both prayers were recorded by Brother Joseph Cannon, and published in the Times and Seasons. An article about the visit also appears in the August 20, 1903 Millennial Star.
4. The Russian naming system requires that people have three names: a given name, a patronymic, and a family name (surname). The patronymic uses the father’s name followed by a suffix meaning either “son of” or “daughter of.” Males use either “-ovich” or “-ovitch,” while females use “-ovna,” e.g. “Ivanovitch,” which means “son of Ivan,” or “Ivanovna,” which means “daugh
ter of Ivan.” In standard usage, both the given name and patronymic are used together when referring to a person, but for the sake of brevity and English-language convention, I often use the given name alone.
Chapter Two
St. Petersburg
January 22, 1905
People poured like rivers of water from the lanes and prospects—surging forward within a tide of intent; thousands upon thousands of people marching toward the center of the tsar’s solitude. Men, women, and children pushed into the maelstrom by hunger and hopelessness. They held aloft the tsar’s image amidst sacred icons and flowing banners. Many shouted, many sang “God save the tsar,” many hearts prayed silently—Surely he will hear our petition. Surely he cannot ignore the suffering of his people. Onto the Nevsky and Voznesensky Prospect the workers’ boots stamped the snow into gray sludge. It was only one o’clock in the afternoon, yet the sun had already begun its descent toward darkness.
“Oskar! Stop!” Johannes yelled as he ran after his brother. He shoved past a mass of human beings. “What are you doing?” he gasped, yanking his sibling back by his coat sleeve. “You are defying Father’s word. He says you are not to march with the workers!”
Oskar glared at him.
“Don’t look at me like that. You know what the Church teaches, and it teaches you to honor your mother and your father!”
Oskar tried to yank his arm free. “Let me go! I am honoring them by being a part of this!”
“Of anarchy?” Johannes spat.
“It’s not anarchy.”
People bumped them on every side, and Johannes shoved his brother into an alcove of a storefront. “What would you call it then? Thousands of people marching against the tsar?”
“We’re not marching against the tsar. We just want him to hear our voice.”
“Our voice? What are you talking about, little brother? These people are poor and desperate; you’ve never gone hungry in your life.”
“Does that mean I can’t care about my countrymen who eat only bread and porridge?” Oskar bit down on his rage. “And just because I sleep in a bed every night, does that mean I can’t care about the men who sleep in squalor on the factory floors or in tenement housing? And just because I have a warm coat, does that mean I can’t care about the beggar in rags?”
A cheer went up a few hundred feet from them as a group of university students pushed their way into the throng. “To the people!” they shouted.
Oskar’s eyes flashed and he moved to follow.
Johannes grabbed him by his coat lapels. “Oskar, you’re only fifteen!”
“So what? Look into this crowd, brother. There are families marching with their young children. Our little neighbor, Natasha Gavrilova begged her father to let her come along, and she’s only eleven. She’s a brave little citizen!”
“And her father said no, just as our father said no. Yet here you are, defying him and placing yourself in danger.”
“We are not violent. No one carries a weapon. We just want the tsar to hear our voice. To hear the voice of a hundred thousand Russians!”
“Oskar, I know you’ve seen the placards posted all across the city. The people have been warned that if they march to the palace they will be met by resolute measures.”
Oskar looked past his brother. “Johannes, just see how many are uniting. Do you think the tsar will not hear the voices of so many? They will call out to him like the cathedral bells.”
Johannes growled. “Brother, you are young. You are caught up. You don’t realize the danger!” He shook him. “Do you think that these people will go peacefully to the Winter Palace, knock on the front door, and ask to see the tsar? And do you think the tsar’s Cossack guards will simply invite you all in for tea?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Oskar said, struggling to break free. “Of course we don’t believe that. Father Gapon leads us. He’s written to the tsar and has asked him to stand before the people and accept our petition, that’s all.”
“That’s all?” Johannes scoffed. “Tsar Nicholas is a Romanov. He doesn’t understand or care about your petition. He is above your petition.” He gripped his brother’s coat more tightly. “Listen to me. Father Gapon is a good priest, but he’s just a pawn in this game.”
Oskar’s jaw tightened. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Father Gapon has tried to help the factory workers and the peasants. He himself is leading the march.”
“Yes, he leads you,” Johannes countered, “but you are missing my point. Even the head of the church himself could not convince Tsar Nicholas to come out into a crowd of wolves.”
“We are not—”
Johannes cut him off. “Nicholas was a young boy when his grand-father’s body was brought into the Winter Palace! Alexander II tried to do good things for the people, and still they murdered him . . . blew him apart with an assassin’s bomb! Oskar, think. Nicholas was there. He stood and watched as his grandfather’s blood spilled onto the marble floor.”
“We are not assassins.”
“Do you think you can convince the tsar and tsarina of that? A hundred thousand people pressing in against their front gate?”
“We mean them no harm!”
“Don’t be stupid, Oskar. Do you think there aren’t terrorists in this crowd—members of the People’s Will?”
Oskar shoved his brother hard, causing him to lose hold of his coat. “I’m going!” He turned and became part of the flow of humanity.
Within moments, Johannes was beside him.
“You can’t stop me,” Oskar said, his voice hard with determination.
“I know,” Johannes returned. “So I’m coming with you.”
“No one asked you!” Oskar spat back, his anger unappeased.
“I know,” Johannes answered. “But I am your older brother.”
“Two years older.”
“Older, stronger, and wiser.”
Oskar grunted. “Huh! Has Mother been telling you fairy tales again about the clever older brother?”
Johannes grinned, glad to hear a calmer tone returning to his brother’s voice. They passed St. Isaac’s Cathedral and turned east toward the Winter Palace. Johannes studied the faces of the people around them: gaunt, determined, hopeful, desperate. Please Lord, he prayed. Watch over us. These workers and their families are reaching out to the tsar for his help. Do not let their petition go unnoticed.
“Johannes!” Oskar barked, grabbing his arm. “Look there! Imperial guards on horseback.”
The pace of the enormous mob slowed as the vanguard of the marchers reached the Palace Square and as more and more citizens realized that they were flanked on either side by grim and anxious men with rifles and swords.
“Can you see if Father Gapon has reached the gate?” Oskar asked, straining to see above the heads of a thousand people.
“I can’t see anything. I think there’s a blockade,” Johannes grunted, struggling to stay beside his brother.
They were shoved forward with the momentum of the marchers as an eerie and unsettled stillness enveloped the multitude. A few voices rang out with calls or questions.
“Is the tsar coming out?”
“Has Father Gapon seen him?”
“Some say the tsar is not at the palace!”
Like a wave, voices threw this last sentiment from the front of the crowd to the back.
“Not at the palace?” a man beside Oskar mumbled. “Where is he then?”
An old woman with rotted teeth looked in their direction and sneered. “Probably off to Tsarskoe Selo for a winter holiday. Bundled up the fragile little tsarevitch and the grand duchesses for a pleasant little sleigh ride out to the country palace.” She bobbed her head. “Yes, yes. Far away from this mad crowd.”
The man frowned at her. “Stop babbling, o
ld woman. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The old woman continued to smile. “Read books, I can’t, but read the tsar?” She tapped her forehead with a crooked finger. “He never changes. Read the tsar? Yes. And I say he’s not here.”
“Why have you come here then?” the man spat at her.
“To die perhaps.”
As if with shared breath, the crowd pushed in closer to the palace walls and the old woman was lost from sight.
Johannes grasped Oskar’s hand. “Let’s get out of this.”
Oskar looked at the thousands of people surrounding them. “Impossible.”
Johannes swallowed down his fear. “I believe the old woman, Oskar. I don’t think Tsar Nicholas is at the palace.”
Oskar opened his mouth to speak, then hesitated, looking at his brother’s worried face. “Even if he isn’t here, he’ll surely send one of his ministers of state to listen to us.”
The petitioners surged forward again, and Johannes fell onto his knees.
“Johannes!” Oskar yelled, stooping to help his brother.
From only one hundred feet away, a horse squealed, pinned between a wall and the press of people. The Imperial rider fired shots into the air, and the horse reared, trampling a young girl under its hooves. Men yelled and women screamed as the horrified citizenry attempted to rush back from the gruesome sight. Their effort to retreat was met by a wall of confusion. Shots sounded again, this time from many locations.
People were shouting. “Stop! Stop! Don’t kill us! We mean no harm!”
Before Johannes could get to his feet, he was knocked sideways, and several people fell on top of him. They were up and running immediately, but Johannes did not rise.
Oskar reached him just as a horse and rider charged forward. He yanked his brother out of the horse’s trampling path as the guard fired into the crowd. A bullet grazed a man’s forehead, spraying blood onto Oskar’s coat.
