The Silence of God

by Gale Sears

  “A Mormon philosophy book?”

  “Yes, a treatise on the basic tenets of our faith. It is written by a professor, James Talmage, considered to be one of America’s great scholars.” He waited patiently. “If nothing else, it will help you practice your English.”

  She took the book. She figured she could put it on the shelf in her bedroom where it would soon be lost among the clutter. She looked down at the title written on the dark blue cover: Articles of Faith. “Thank you, Mr. Lindlof. I . . . I will look at it.”

  “I think it will surprise you.” He turned and walked from the room.

  Natasha looked over at Agnes who was placing lumps of dough into the bread pans. “Here, let me help you, little squirrel.” She stood. “And I promise, no more talk of politics.” She set the book to the side. “In fact, I only want to hear about flowers and dog collars and the odd things you saw today on the prospect.”

  Notes

  1. When Natasha schools Agnes about the “peasant ideology of sharing,” she is referring to the Mir, a system which dictated how a village community of peasant farmers functioned in pre-revolutionary Russia.

  2. The book Articles of Faith by James E. Talmage first appeared in print in 1899. Its subject matter was taken from addresses delivered by Professor Talmage to university-level theology classes. The book is a study of the thirteen Articles of Faith set forth by the Prophet Joseph Smith.

  3. Lenin’s book The State and the Revolution was written in the summer of 1917 and published in 1918. It describes and defines the writings of Friedrich Engels and Karl Marx in relation to the theories of communism, the need for a proletarian revolution, and the role of the state in society. Johan Lindlof is aware of the book prior to its publication date in deference to my time line.

  Chapter Six

  Riga—the Eastern Front

  September 1, 1917

  “You are a madman!” Arel Lindlof hissed at his brother as he squatted next to him in the trench. “The colonel will shoot you if you try to run away.”

  “I don’t care,” Bruno spat back. “I don’t care.” He glared at Arel with red-rimmed eyes, and he swiped away the yellow ooze from his nose with a dirty hand. “I’m going home. I won’t stay in this madness for another winter. I can’t.” Tears streaked the grime on Bruno’s face and the eyes of the despairing soldiers nearby were locked on the pitiful sight.

  Cold weather had set in, turning the barren landscape brittle and brown, and in the night rain had fallen. The men watched as the death detail floated through the early-morning fog like ghosts. They watched as twenty-three bodies were taken from the trench to the mass grave. The boots and coats of the dead did not go with them.

  “There are more of us dying from sickness and starvation than German bullets,” Bruno growled.

  Arel could not dispute that fact so he changed the subject. “Look, Bruno, stay by me for just a few more days. I’m sure the war will be over soon.”

  Bruno stared at the ground.

  “I’m sure of it,” Arel insisted.

  An older soldier with a full beard and creases around his eyes broke into Arel’s speech. “Well, perhaps soon, comrade, but not in a few days. I came out of Riga and overheard a report that the Germans are on the doorstep. We will be taking a stand here.”

  A soldier with a skeletal face turned his head slowly in their direction. “Stand, Andre Andreyevitch? I don’t even have a rifle. Kerensky and his Provisional Government are liars and cowards. They tell us we must stay in the war, but do they send us food and equipment? No. We common soldiers are not worth their time. I say, give me the Bolsheviks and peace.”

  “Peace?” the older soldier cut in. “You think you’ll have peace if the Bolsheviks come to power?”

  “Yes,” the skeleton said, his rasping voice grinding the word to dust. “Yes. Peace, land, and bread.” Several heads nodded. “They’ve promised to get us out of this senseless war.”

  Andre Andreyevitch shook his head. “I’ve lived long enough to know that the promises of politicians are hollow. Their hearts are well-meaning, but their hands are empty.”

  The thin man wagged his head. “Oh, we have a great thinker standing in the mud.” He pointed at Andre. “Your brain won’t keep you from starving and freezing along with the rest of us.”

  “Go get a rifle from the grave detail, you little rat, and quit complaining,” Andre Andreyevitch snarled.

  The other man glowered and moved to a different position on the line.

  Andre Andreyevitch swore. “We have braver soldiers in the women’s death battalion.”

  “My cousin is a member of that group,” a soldier nearby piped in. “She sent a picture. They look like men in their uniforms and their shaved heads. Three hundred or so women. Can you imagine?”

  Bruno stared at the soldier in disbelief. “Women? Women in battle?”

  “No, no. They’re not coming out here,” the soldier corrected. “They’re defending Petrograd . . . well, the government offices actually. They must be a sight, I’ll tell you. Most don’t have boots because the military supply couldn’t get their sizes, so the girls just wear their own shoes.”

  Other soldiers were beginning to bunch around to hear the talk of women and shoes.

  “Yes, it’s true, comrades—uniforms, shaved heads, and pink dancing shoes,” the young man continued, happy with the attention.

  Some of the men chuckled at the thought, while others mumbled comments about the rotten government and the tragedy of women shaving their heads. Suddenly the commanding officer shoved through the group of men, grabbing the young soldier and pressing him back against the side of the trench. “What is this nonsense?” he snarled. “Think you’re in a bar in Petrograd swapping stories?”

  Arel pulled Bruno away from the knot of soldiers and the angry colonel.

  “I said, what are you about, young fool?” The officer’s grip around the struggling soldier’s throat made it impossible for him to answer, but the colonel persisted. “Answer me.” The officer was from the old guard and sure of his authority. “I said answer me.”

  The boy was strangling.

  “He was just telling us a story,” Andre Andreyevitch intervened.

  The officer backhanded him across his cheek. “Did I ask you?”

  Andre Andreyevitch staggered to the side, blood dripping from his lip.

  Released from the choke hold, the young soldier slumped to the ground, gasping for air, as the men in the group stiffened and stepped forward.

  The officer pulled out his pistol. “Get back there! What are you about?” He fired, and a soldier in a fur cap went down.

  Bruno screamed and ran forward—directly into the sights of the waiting pistol.

  “Bruno, no!” Arel yelled, struggling to grab his brother’s coat.

  Andre Andreyevitch swung his arm in a wide arc, knocking the gun out of the officer’s hand. The look on the colonel’s face changed from consternation to disbelief to fear. He fumbled to unsheathe his sword.

  The sound of an incoming artillery shell pulled everyone’s attention to the battlefield. The shell exploded a hundred feet to the left of their position, blowing all of them against the back of the trench or onto the slimy ground. The officer scrambled to his feet and stumbled down the line, screaming orders.

  Crying and muttering at his younger brother, Arel stood and pulled Bruno to his feet. “What were you doing, idiot? Going against the colonel? What good does it do that I pray for you if you’re going to behave like such an idiot?”

  Another shell hit and then another. “Flamethrowers!” someone yelled, and the terrified cry of “Poison gas!” coursed down the line.

  “We don’t have gas masks!” Bruno cried. He grabbed Arel and shoved him over the back side of the trench. “Run!”

  “F
all back! Fall back!” Andre Andreyevitch called out, and soldiers began pouring out of the trench in waves, abandoning starvation, doubt, and duty. Weak, yet determined, they ran, fighting for breath and life.

  Arel fell and Bruno pulled him up.

  “Stop! Stop there!” they heard the colonel ordering. “Hold your line!”

  No one obeyed.

  Bullets began zinging past as Arel and Bruno ran with their comrades. With a grunt, Bruno fell onto his knees, but was up a moment later, lurching forward. Andre Andreyevitch grabbed him around the upper arm and dragged him forward until they were even with Arel.

  “Hey! Hey!” The older soldier had to yell to be heard above the din. “Your brother’s been hit!”

  Arel checked his panic and spun around. Hit? What did the man mean? Bruno was up and moving. He heard a bullet zip past his head and looked to see who was firing. The colonel was doggedly pursuing the retreating men, firing at them with intent. Arel stared as the butcher aimed straight at him.

  Suddenly a soldier shoved the colonel from the side, and he crumpled into the mud. Before the officer could rise, the gaunt man rushed forward, stabbing him with a bayonet. Several others kicked the downed officer, and another pulled the pistol from his hand.

  Arel’s mind slipped sideways and he stood frozen in place like a child watching a dogfight.

  Someone yelled at him. “Get moving, soldier! Now!”

  A yellow mist of poison gas crawled over the colonel’s body, and panic pushed Arel away from the grisly scene. Bruno cried out in pain as Arel ducked under his injured arm and gripped him around the waist. Andre Andreyevitch took Bruno’s other arm, and the three stumbled off across the uneven pasture. They ran east, away from the chaos and toward the rising sun.

  * * *

  The peasant woman brought the soldiers black bread, pickled cucumbers, and a cross.

  “Thank you, little mother,” Andre Andreyevitch said, handing the food to Arel and setting aside the cross, “but we need a doctor. The boy must be looked after.”

  She shook her head at the bearded man. “As I told you before, the doctor was killed in the war. No one has come since to fill his place.”

  Arel stopped pacing. “Perhaps another town?”

  The woman shook her head again. “There is no doctor, but our priest knows something of medicine.”

  Andre Andreyevitch was about to refuse when Arel broke in. “Yes. Yes, go and get him, please.”

  The woman left and Arel resumed pacing. “I should have stayed with him. I should have been the one.”

  “Shut up about that, friend,” Andre Andreyevitch said. “War is war—the bullet does not care who it hits.” He moved an old wooden box to the wall of the shed and sat down. “Eat something. You need to build your strength.” He held out a large piece of bread.

  “I can’t,” Arel answered.

  “You must, comrade. How will you get your brother home if you don’t have strength?”

  Arel took the bread and slumped onto the ground next to the makeshift pallet they’d arranged for Bruno. He stared at the blood-soaked wad of cloth he’d bound around his brother’s shoulder. What will I tell my family if he dies? If I had gone with him when he wanted to run, he wouldn’t be lying here bleeding to death. He glanced at his brother’s face, sickened by the clammy gray skin and bloodless lips.

  Arel’s thoughts came in disjointed fragments. Bruno, the best looking of all the Lindlof children. Bruno, my partner in fun. Oh, the tricks we played on Agnes and Natasha Ivanovna. Natasha Ivanovna . . . so beautiful. When we were boys, we both tried to win her favor. But how can Bruno love her? She is a Bolshevik and doesn’t believe in God. Poor Bruno. Poor me.

  Arel sat back against the wall of the shed, brought his knees to his chest, and put his head on his arms. Exhaustion was making him weep.

  The shed door opened and Agnes walked in. She wore her pink dancing dress and shoes, but her head was bald. Her ears protruded from either side of her skull, and her blue eyes were filled with tears. She looked at him without flinching, and then she raised her hand and pointed at him.

  Arel gasped and sat up, shaking the dream away. A man was kneeling by Bruno’s pallet, poking at the wounded shoulder. Bruno was moaning in pain.

  “Hey! Get away from there!” Arel yelled, lunging forward and bumping the man sideways.

  “It’s all right, Arel,” Andre Andreyevitch said from his place. “It’s the priest. He’s come to help.”

  Arel tried to clear the ache of sleep from his brain. He saw the long black dress of the priest and the full beard. How long have I been asleep? I didn’t even hear him come into the shed. “I’m sorry, Father. I . . .”

  “It’s all right,” the priest answered. “You’ve had a hard time of it.”

  The deep base of his voice was soothing and reassuring, and Arel’s fears retreated a step. He moved to Bruno’s side. The priest had removed Bruno’s shirt and was washing the skin clean with vodka.

  “The man tells me this is your brother.”

  “Yes,” Arel answered.

  “And that you are running away from the war.”

  Arel’s eyes flew over to Andre Andreyevitch, and the man made a brief inclination of his head.

  “Yes,” Arel affirmed. “One of our own officers shot my brother.”

  “The world is a mad place,” the priest said softly. “Now, I need you to hold your brother on his side as I examine the entrance wound. It seems as though the bullet’s gone straight through, but I want it clean. With his body in such a weakened state, we can’t afford infection.”

  Arel looked at the priest in wonder. Did he study medicine at night after prayers?

  Bruno’s eyes opened a slit, and he groaned when Arel rolled him onto his side. “Don’t . . . don’t,” he rasped.

  “Be still, Bruno. We need to look at the wound.”

  Bruno gritted his teeth as the priest probed the wound, cleaned it, and covered it with several layers of cloth. Blood seeped through to the outer layer almost immediately, and the priest made the sign of the cross.

  “He’s not a bleeder, is he?”

  “Bleeder?”

  “A hemophiliac—like the tsarevitch?”

  “No. No, of course not,” Arel said. “He has always been very healthy.”

  The priest applied more dressing, overlaying it with a band of cloth which extended around the shoulder. When they laid Bruno down, blood streamed from the exit wound. The priest washed it clean and hurriedly applied thick padding, tying it tightly with the strip of cloth.

  “Healthy or not, he cannot afford to lose much more blood,” the holy man offered, pressing down on the wound. Bruno yelled.

  Arel’s panic returned. “We . . . we should give him a blessing,” he sputtered.

  The priest looked over at him. “I have been praying for him since I arrived.”

  Bruno writhed in pain.

  “Of course, and I’m grateful, but . . .”—Arel placed his hands on Bruno’s head—“may I say a prayer for my brother?”

  “Most assuredly.”

  Arel closed his eyes and immediately the prayer was on his lips. In the name of the Lord and by the power of the holy Melchizedek priesthood, he blessed his brother that he would recover to make the journey home. He blessed those traveling with him that they would be guided to find the safest path. He blessed the kind woman who’d given them sanctuary, the priest for his goodness, and Andre Andreyevitch for his courage. He promised Bruno that he would see his family again, but as he opened his mouth to add words of future events, they would not come. Tears streamed down Arel’s face as he felt the warmth and solace of the Spirit confirming that it was enough. Arel finished the prayer in the name of the Savior. He stood quietly for a moment enveloped in the affirmation of the blessing.
/>
  When he looked up, three pairs of eyes were staring at him. The peasant woman stood just inside the doorway, her fingers pressed against her lips—slowly she made the sign of the cross. Andre Andreyevitch’s brow was furrowed, and he leaned forward as if to study Arel more closely. The priest drew his hand away from the bandage on Bruno’s shoulder.

  “I have never heard a prayer such as that,” he said reverently. “Are you a minister?”

  Arel shook his head. “No, Father. All the worthy men of our faith hold the priesthood.”

  The priest looked bewildered. “All the men? I have never heard of such a church.”

  “I would imagine not,” came Bruno’s whispered reply.

  Arel looked down quickly into the eyes of his brother, and smiled. “You are alive then.”

  “I am.”

  The others in the room drew close.

  The peasant woman reached out to touch Arel’s arm. “You have healing power, young master.”

  “No,” Arel replied kindly. “God has healing power.”

  The woman bobbed her head and smiled a toothy smile. “I will bring soup.” She turned quickly and waddled from the room.

  The priest untied the bandage and carefully lifted the cloth from the wound. “The bleeding has slowed,” he said quietly. He looked into Bruno’s face. “I think you will be fine now.”

  Bruno smiled weakly. “Thank you, Father.”

  “Yes, Father, thank you. You have great skill,” Arel said.

  “Skill? Ah, perhaps . . . yes. I suppose that is something.” He looked deeply into Arel’s eyes. “If I could, I would ask about your faith.”

  Arel nodded. “If there was time, I would tell you.”

  The priest handed Andre Andreyevitch extra bandages and the bottle of vodka. He gave the man a stern look. “Not for drinking. Only for cleaning the wound.”

  “Of course,” Andre said indignantly. “What do you take me for?”

  “A Russian,” the priest answered. “I will make sure the village keeps you safe and I will try to find other clothing for you to wear. Perhaps the widow has some of her husband’s old things.” He gathered up the bloody cloths and put them into a bucket. “There is a train out of Aluksne, but that is a hundred miles away. I would drive you, but no one here has an automobile.”