by Gale Sears
“The tsar will not help us!” was being shouted and screamed by a hundred voices.
Oskar tried to drag his brother to a place of safety, but he was terrified, and his thoughts would not stay still. Where can I go? Where can I go? He stumbled and fell backward against a corpse: a young mother shot in the neck—her child still alive in her death grip. As Oskar sat staring at the grisly sight, a university student pried the howling infant from the woman’s fingers and disappeared into the melee.
People cursed as they tripped over the prostrate brothers. “Get moving!” someone yelled, and Oskar jumped to his feet, aimlessly dragging his brother’s body over the rough cobbles. “Dear Lord, please help me!” he cried. His view fixed on the Alexander Column in the middle of the square, and he immediately headed in that direction.
Two more people were shot as they ran past. They crumpled onto the stones and Oskar howled in desolation. “Where is our tsar?” he screamed. The words from a hundred mouths pierced his head and heart like a spike. Our tsar will not help us! In that instant, the tsar’s mask of protective father was stripped away, never to be replaced.
Oskar put his hand on his brother’s face. “I’m sorry, Johannes. I’m sorry.” He began moving again, and with every tug on his brother’s body he cried out his loss and rage.
He was two feet from the column, his lungs searing with exertion, when the bullet struck. All he felt was a heavy punch that knocked his legs out from under him. He hit the ground, hard. Women’s skirts and men’s boots swirled around as he crawled to Johannes. He laid his head on his brother’s chest as a voice whispered into his ear, It is a good thing Natasha Ivanovna Gavrilova listened to her father.
Then light and sound disappeared.
* * *
He felt, rather than heard, the words of his father’s blessing pouring through his body like amber light, clearing his head and pushing air into his lungs. He stretched his fingers, sliding them over the soft, cool fabric. He heard a woman’s voice call out, but he couldn’t understand the words. Blue light shimmered in front of his eyes, and he breathed deeply just to feel the sensation.
“Oskar?” said a voice from far away. “Oskar Lindlof, open your eyes.”
Why is Mother bossing me around? Can’t she just let me sleep?
“Oskar, open your eyes. Oh, please, son, open your eyes.”
Don’t be upset, Mother. If it’s that important to you, of course I’ll open my eyes.
“Johannes! Come here. Come here, everyone! He’s waking up.”
Oskar opened his eyes a slit and images wavered behind a gray blur. Someone took his hand and Johannes’s face came into view.
“Johannes? Weren’t you dead?” Oskar whispered.
Several voices laughed weakly as Johannes leaned close. “Yes, and now I’m a resurrected being.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” his mother’s voice chided. “The first words to him have to be a joke?”
“Well, he asked the question,” Johannes protested. Oskar smiled. “And look, it’s cheered up his day.”
“Step back and let your father talk to him.”
Oskar blinked several times and an unfamiliar room came into focus. “Where am I?”
“In the infirmary, son.” His father’s deep voice was calm and reassuring.
“Why?” Oskar’s voice croaked back.
“Would you like some water?”
“Yes, sir.” He tried to position himself higher on the pillows and a sharp pain twisted the flesh of his upper leg. He cried out involuntarily.
His father put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Here now. Stay still, son. Let me help you sit up.”
As they slowly accomplished this task, Oskar gritted his teeth and took in his surroundings. It was a large room with pale green walls and seven other beds. His mind skipped back and forth from wondering if they used the same green paint as on the Winter Palace, to being angry about the pain in his leg, and finally to evaluating the other sick people in the room. He couldn’t see them well because his many family members blocked the view. Perhaps that was best. The one man he could see had a large bandage covering his head and his skin was the color of old cheese.
Oskar pulled his attention back to his father’s face. “What’s wrong with me?”
Johan turned to the others. “Alma, will you please take the children home? Johannes and I will stay.”
Alma nodded, but Arel protested. “I’m not a child. I’m thirteen.”
“Yes, that’s true,” his father answered. “You are not a child. That’s why I need you to help your mother—especially with Erland.”
Erland looked up abruptly. “What did I do?”
“Nothing,” his mother assured him. “Come on now, everyone, say good-bye to your brother. You will see him later.”
Oskar’s head ached, but he cherished the tender pats and kisses he received from his younger siblings. Four-year-old Alexandria started crying as she moved close for her farewell. And the baby started in too. Alexandria’s tears came from sympathy, while Linda Alise’s weeping was unadulterated fear. He didn’t blame her. He had never been in an infirmary before and even he was finding it stark and melancholy. His littlest sister quieted when Agnes held her close. Sweet Agnes. She stood bravely by the bed gently patting Linda Alise on the back.
“You’re going to be all right now, Oskar. I’ve said many prayers.”
Oskar put his hand on her arm. “Thank you, Agnes. We won’t have to worry then, will we?”
She smiled at him. “No.” She stepped away from the bed, then turned back quickly. “Oh! I almost forgot! Natasha Ivanovna sent you a card to cheer you up.” She shifted Linda Alise on her hip and rummaged a letter out of her pocket. “She felt terrible that you were injured, so she made you this.”
Oskar took the letter and grinned. “Hmm, even though I tease her all the time?” Agnes laughed. “Well, that was nice of her.” He opened the envelope and took out the letter. He began to chuckle as he read.
Agnes looked indignant. “Don’t laugh at my friend.”
“No, no. It’s wonderful. She’s drawn a picture of me riding off on one of the Cossack’s horses. And she sent me a riddle to figure out while I’m recovering.”
Agnes brightened. “How fun!”
“Fun for you and Natasha,” Oskar said. “I’m afraid trying to figure out a riddle might make me sicker.”
“Oh, Oskar, riddles aren’t hard. I’ll help you. What does it say?”
Alma Lindlof touched Agnes on the shoulder. “Not now, little riddler, he needs his rest.”
Agnes stepped back. “Yes, Mother.”
Alma kissed Oskar on the cheek, and he could tell she was holding back tears. “I will bring you some bread and soup.”
At the mention of food, Oskar’s stomach ached. “Ah yes! I’m starving.”
Johannes laughed. “Now that’s a good sign, Mother.”
Alma nodded. “I will get the children settled and come back with food.”
With the family gone, Oskar was painfully aware that he would have to face the consequences of his disobedience. His throat was dry, and when he spoke, his voice was raspy. “I’m sorry, Father . . . Johannes. I was wrong to not listen. I’m sorry.”
His father handed him a glass of water. “Yes, you were wrong, and now we’re done with that. You had no way of knowing. Drink your water.” He turned to look out the hospital’s small window. “You’re alive. That’s all I care about.” He turned back. “You and Johannes are both alive.”
Oskar handed his father the empty glass, then looked over at Johannes. “What happened? I thought you were dead.”
Johannes nodded. “So did I, but it turns out I was just knocked unconscious. I guess you must have pulled me to safety before being shot.”
“S
hot? I was shot?” Oskar pushed back the covers to gape at the bandages covering his upper thigh. “I don’t remember.”
“The bullet just missed your main artery,” Johannes continued. “Even still, you about bled to death before the ambulance wagons arrived.”
“Johannes, not so much. He’s young.”
“No, Father,” Oskar said firmly. “I want to know everything.” He looked at his father straight on. “And I am not so young anymore.”
His father’s view wandered back to the window.
“How long have I been here, Johannes?”
“Two days.”
“Two days?” Oskar grimaced as pain jabbed into his leg. “I don’t remember. All I remember were voices screaming, and people shoving and running.” He paused in painful silence. “How many were hurt?”
Johannes looked at his father, but realized he would make no reply. He pulled the covers back over his brother and sat down on the bed. “They don’t have an exact count yet—some reports say a hundred dead, some say five hundred with several thousand injured.”
Oskar felt like vomiting. He lay back on his pillows and sucked air into his lungs. “Why didn’t he come? Why didn’t the tsar come out to hear us?”
Johannes lowered his head. “He wasn’t at the palace. He’d taken his family to Tsarskoe Selo.”
Oskar choked back a sob. “Safely away in the Tsar’s Village.” Tears ran from the corners of his eyes. “Just like that little old woman said.” There was silence for several moments. “I wonder if she’s dead.”
“I’m sure Tsar Nicholas never meant for any of this to happen,” Father said sadly.
“How can you defend him?” Oskar demanded. “His blindness has murdered hundreds of his people! They were reaching out for help. Their blood is on his hands.” The next words came at a cost. “We will never love him again.”
“Oskar!”
“No, Father, he’s right,” Johannes said flatly. “The people may have to endure more years of Romanov rule, but only the country people will say the tsar’s name with any kindness again.”
“Joseph Smith taught that we must honor the laws and rules of our country,” Johan said.
Johannes nodded. “Yes. But we can also encourage change if change is needed.”
Oskar was agitated. “Father, the Prophet Joseph honored the laws of America, and he was murdered! He and his brother Hyrum—killed without mercy!”
“Shut up there!” a visitor of another patient called. “This is a hospital not a union house!”
Johannes held up his hand in apology, then turned to his brother. “We must not talk of this now, Oskar. You must rest so your wound will heal.”
Oskar slumped back onto his pillow, tears streaming from his eyes. “And what about here?” he asked, laying his hand on his chest. “What do I do about the pain here?”
It took Johannes many moments to compose himself before he could answer. “That wound may never heal.”
Timidly their father approached them. “I . . . I think I’ll get back to the shop.” He put his hand on Johannes’s shoulder and smiled at Oskar. “Now that I know you’re both all right.”
Oskar reached out for his father’s hand. “I’m sorry, Father. Sorry that I disobeyed you, and sorry for what I said about the tsar. Maybe he’ll change. Maybe things will get better.”
Johan gave his son a smile. “We can pray for that.”
Oskar forced brightness into his voice. “And thank you for the priesthood blessing. I should be ready to come home tomorrow.”
His father chuckled. “Ah, the strength of youth.” He patted his son’s hand and turned to leave. “I’ll tell your mother to hurry along with your soup.”
“Yes, thank you. I’m starving.” As Oskar watched his father walk away, he noticed for the first time that he moved at a slower pace. “He doesn’t understand what’s happening.”
Johannes shook his head. “No. It will be hard for his generation to admit the need for change.”
Oskar closed his eyes. “I love my country.”
“I know you do.”
“But I want to see her strong and healthy, and her people content.”
Johannes chuckled. “Such words from a fifteen-year-old.”
“If only the gospel would come, Johannes. Don’t you want to see Elder Lyman’s prayer fulfilled?”
“Yes, but there is much upheaval in Russia right now. People are listening to other voices—finding promise in talk of revolution. It is not a safe time. It might be years before the missionaries are sent to us. We have to trust God.”
Oskar did not respond.
Johannes smiled at his younger brother’s earnest discontent. “Sleep now, brother. Get your strength back. We’ll just have to wait and see what the months and years bring.”
Notes
1. Lenin referred to the workers’ uprising of January 1905 as “the dress rehearsal” for the revolution of October 1917. Prior to the revolt of workers in 1905 there had been strikes, insurrections, and the emergence of a great soviet (worker’s council) led by Leon Trotsky. Provoked by horrible economic conditions and political oppression, workers in St. Petersburg marched to the Winter Palace to petition Tsar Nicholas for relief. They were led by a respected Orthodox priest, Father Georgii Gapon, who had been ministering to factory workers and organizing them into unions. On January 22, 1905, an estimated 200,000 workers marched to the Palace of the Tsar. The tsar’s Imperial Guards used swords and rifles against the peaceful crowd. It is estimated that between 500 to 1,000 men, women, and children were killed or wounded. After the incident, which became known as Bloody Sunday, Tsar Nicholas and his family never again lived in the Winter Palace. Though participation in the march by Oskar and Johannes Lindlof was possible, the account of their involvement is fictional.
2. The assassination of Tsar Alexander II (Tsar Nicholas’s grandfather) was accomplished by members of The People’s Will, a terrorist organization founded in 1878. The small militant group included workers, students, and members of the military. They wanted to wrench power from the tsar and place it in the hands of the people. On March 13, 1881, several members of the group assassinated Tsar Alexander II as his carriage traveled the roads of St. Petersburg. One bomb stopped the carriage, but did not kill the tsar. After he exited the carriage to inspect the damage from the bomb, another bomb nearly blew off the tsar’s legs. He was rushed to the Winter Palace where his family members watched helplessly as he bled to death. Unfortunately—for it is said this forward-thinking tsar had the plans for a Russian Parliament in his pocket. The Resurrection Church (The Church of Our Savior on the Spilled Blood) was erected over the place where the assassination took place.
3. A foiled assassination attempt by The People’s Will occurred on March 1, 1887, against Tsar Alexander III, Tzar Nicholas’s father. One of the captured would-be assassins was Aleksandr Illyich Ulyanov. He was found guilty by the court and hanged on May 8, 1887, at the age of twenty-one. His younger brother, Vladimir Illyich Ulyanov, would later change his last name to Lenin and become the driving force behind the Bolshevik Revolution.
4. Cossacks: Imperial guards of the tsar. Also the cavalry branch of the army. Regiments of Cossack cavalry fought in the Great War.
Chapter Three
Petrograd (formerly St. Petersburg)
March 15, 1917
“The towers grand where fires burn—Father and Mother of two boys and two girls.”
“Is that your riddle?” Natasha Ivanovna Gavrilova asked with mock disdain. “That’s such an easy one. The answer is the Rostral Columns, of course. The copper bowls on the top are lit to guide boats safely into the mouth of the river.”
Agnes Lindlof stopped in front of the deserted milliner’s shop and scowled at her friend. “And their children?” she insisted, drawing the fur c
ollar of her coat closer around her face.
Natasha returned a crooked grin. “They are the statues at the base of the columns. The male statues represent the rivers Dnieper and Volkhov, and the female statues represent the Volga and the Neva.”
Agnes stamped her foot. “I can never outsmart you! Tu est tres intelligente, mon amie.”
Natasha shook her head. “Don’t speak French.”
“But I love French,” Agnes protested.
“You love French because the tsar and the royals use French more often than their native tongue,” Natasha chided.
“Well . . .”
“And the aristocrats use it because they think it elevates their status. You may be the spoiled daughter of a rich merchant, but you don’t need to act like one.”
“I am not spoiled,” Agnes said in a wounded tone.
Natasha noted the pained look on her friend’s face, and relented. She put her arm around the girl’s waist and gave her a squeeze. “No, you are not spoiled. In fact I think you are the most innocent girl in Petrograd.” Agnes’s expression altered only slightly. “Come on, little squirrel,” Natasha coaxed, “don’t be angry with me.”
Agnes pouted. “But Russian is so harsh, and besides, you speak French.”
Natasha laughed. “Yes, once in awhile, but I also know German and English.”
Agnes narrowed her eyes. “Don’t brag just because you go to the university and are the daughter of a university professor.”
“I’m not bragging. You know English too.”
Agnes turned to look into the empty shop window. “Only a little.” She put her hand on the glass. “Madame Orlovskya used to make the most beautiful hats here. Father bought me my first hat from this shop.”
“Bourgeoisie,” Natasha said teasingly.
Agnes glanced at her. “You don’t like the vacant shops any more than I do.”
“Ah, that’s true,” Natasha answered, continuing their walk down Voznesensky Prospect. “But, I care about the food shops, the fruiter, and the bread makers, while you lament over the chocolatier, the milliners, and the flower shops.”
