by Gale Sears
“It would be too dangerous for anyone to help us, Father,” Andre Andreyevitch said. “Besides, you have done much already. We will manage.”
The priest turned to Arel. “He should stay down for a few days. Then take it slowly.”
“Yes, Father.”
“God go with you.”
“And with you,” Arel answered.
The priest hesitated as though he had something more to say or a question to ask. Finally, he picked up the bucket, nodded to the men, and left.
“I’ll go and chop some wood for the widow,” Andre Andreyevitch said. He grabbed another piece of bread and headed for the door.
“I will come and help in a moment,” Arel replied. “I want to make sure my brother is settled.”
When Andre Andreyevitch was gone, Arel brought a second ragged blanket and laid it over his brother. He lifted Bruno’s head and gave him a drink of water, and then he made sure the two small shed windows were closed tightly.
“Soon the little mother will come with hot soup, and I will be just outside chopping wood,” Arel said.
Bruno nodded. “About time you did some work.”
Arel chuckled and gave him another sip of water.
Bruno took his hand. “In a couple of days I will be able to help you.”
Arel gave him a doubtful look. “In a couple of days I hope to be heading home.”
“Yes,” Bruno said. “We’re going to see the family again.” He took a deep breath. “I will see them again, thanks to your blessing.”
“The Lord’s blessing,” Arel countered. “It will take us some time, little brother, but we’ll make it.”
Bruno closed his eyes. “I wonder if we’ll find it much changed?”
“Changed? What do you mean—changed at home?”
“I mean everything.”
Arel heard the thwack of an ax against wood. “Yes. I’m sure everything will be different,” he said softly. He tucked the blanket around Bruno’s shoulders. “Rest now.” He turned to help with the chopping.
Notes
1. Russian troops were defeated by German forces in the battle of Riga on September 3, 1917, just two days after I have the Lindlof boys deserting. By this point in the war, dispirited Russian soldiers were deserting by the thousands and it was not uncommon for officers to use brutal (and deadly) force to keep soldiers in line. Although Bruno and Arel Lindlof could have been soldiers in the war, their participation is fictional.
It was because the deserting Russian soldiers kept their weapons when they returned home that there was an armed populace when the revolution occurred.
2. Women’s Death Battalion: All female combat units formed by the Provisional Government. Fifteen formations were created in 1917 including the 1st Russian Women’s Battalion of Death. The women who joined believed they would be fighting to defend Mother Russia, when in reality they were pawns of the Provisional Government to stand against the Bolsheviks, shame the Russian soldiers into maintaining the fight on the Eastern Front, and guard the offices of the Provisional Government located in the Winter Palace.
Chapter Seven
Petrograd
September 20, 1917
“I don’t understand why your mother comes every day to check the death lists,” Natasha Ivanovna whispered to Agnes. “They only change the standings once a week.”
Agnes looked at her mother walking ahead of them and holding the hands of Alexandria and Linda Alise. “You saw her face. It brings her comfort. When she comes and looks at the posting and doesn’t see their names, it brings her comfort.”
“It’s a ritual then?”
Agnes stiffened. “Yes, it’s like a ritual, if you want to call it that.”
Natasha noted the tension in Agnes’s voice. “I’m sorry, did I offend you?”
“I just don’t see why you came with us today if you find our little ritual so pathetic.”
Natasha stopped walking. “Oh, my friend.” Agnes turned to look at her. “I’m sorry.” She walked quickly to Agnes and took her gloved hands. “I don’t find your ritual pathetic at all. I find it . . .”
“What?” Agnes snapped, pulling her hands away. “Sad? Meaningless?”
“No. I—”
“I don’t believe you. You have been cross all afternoon, Natasha Ivanovna.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“And what about all your rituals? What about all the meetings you attend with Sergey Antonovich, all the banners you carry and the slogans you call out?”
“Those aren’t rituals.”
“Aren’t they? ‘All Power to the Soviets!’ How many times a day do I hear that pathetic sentiment chanted in the street? And how many really know what that means?”
Natasha quickly scrutinized the people closest to them on the walkway. “Agnes, stop.”
“I suppose you find much of what our family does pathetic—believing in God and saying prayers. You think we are mindless sheep. Well, what of the way Sergey Antonovich leads you around? You are blinded by his brightness.”
Alma Lindlof was beside her daughter. “Agnes? Natasha? What’s the matter?”
Agnes quieted immediately. She took a deep breath and looked away from Natasha. “Nothing, Mother . . . truly. We just had a little disagreement about something.”
“Friends should never disagree,” Mrs. Lindlof stated flatly, as though surprised by the very idea. “Friends are dear treasures, especially lifelong friends like you and Natasha.”
Agnes’s eyes welled with tears. “Yes, Mother.”
Natasha could feel the stony glares of Alexandria and Linda Alise, questioning her part in the misunderstanding. She avoided looking at them, looking instead to Mrs. Lindlof. “Yes, yes of course, you’re right. It was my fault. I’m sorry, Agnes.”
“Agnes?” her mother prompted. “Have you nothing to say?”
“Yes. I’m sorry too.”
“Good. That’s settled then,” Alma Lindlof said, patting her daughter on the arm.
Natasha glanced at Agnes as she gave her mother a forced smile, realizing that her friend had meant every word of her invective against her and that she’d apologized only to lessen any worry or sadness her mother carried. Natasha was miserable. She and Agnes would always be friends, but their friendship was changing. Perhaps the playful bonds of youth could not stand against the sharp differences that now molded their characters.
“Now, I have a favor to ask of the two friends,” Mrs. Lindlof said innocently. “Would you please take Linda Alise home while I go with Alexandria to find a new pair of gloves?”
“I want to find a new pair of gloves,” Linda Alise whined.
“You don’t require gloves,” Mrs. Lindlof stated. “Tonight, Alexandria is going with friends to the ballet at the Mariinsky Theater and must have indoor gloves.”
“I don’t mean I want to buy any gloves,” Linda Alise answered in frustration. “I just want to go with you to shop.”
“Not today,” her mother said kindly. “You have lessons waiting at home that must be finished.”
Natasha watched the sour expression on Linda Alise’s face deepen. The girl was fourteen years old, yet she often acted much younger.
Agnes stepped in. “Come on, sister. Natasha and I will play our riddle game with you while we walk.”
Linda Alise’s mind changed abruptly. “Really? You never play that game with me.”
“Well, today we will test your brilliance.” She reached out and took her sister’s hand.
Natasha admired her friend’s ability to set aside her own heartaches and irritations for the needs of someone else. It was a quality she herself found difficult to emulate. The truth was she had been irritated during the outing, and her words had been colored by that annoyance. It had started wh
en she saw how Mrs. Lindlof and her daughters were dressed: smart hats, heavy cloth coats, and warm mittens. Natasha had given her own excess clothing to the factory workers and wondered why Agnes’s family did not do the same. And as the outing progressed, she had been put off by the women’s easy chatter. They did not intentionally exclude her, but the flow of words formed a language that they easily interpreted, and often she could not. Natasha squirmed as she evaluated her peevish behavior. As they’d stood around the large board where the names of the war dead were posted, she’d dallied in the background, envious of the Lindlofs’ attachment to each other.
As Linda Alise was giving her sister instructions on what type of gloves to buy, Natasha went to Agnes and put her arm around her waist. “Agnes, I’m sorry. I have been cross today—jealous and out of sorts. It made me say terrible things. I do treasure our friendship.”
Agnes lowered her eyes and nodded. “I’m sorry too. I’m ashamed of the things I said.”
“No. And what you said is true. I do let Sergey lead my thinking at times. There is no halfway for him, and I need to be careful of his influence.”
Agnes looked up. “Oh, yes, Natasha Ivanovna. I worry about you. There is so much passion and anger now. Johannes said that he saw a young man who was a counterrevolutionary being horsewhipped by some Bolsheviks. I don’t want you caught up in anything that would hurt you.”
Natasha gave her a squeeze. “Dear friend, how I wish for your sake we could live in a world of beauty and kindness.”
“I think that will only be in heaven.”
“I’m ready,” Linda Alise said cheerily as she came up beside her sister. “Do you have a riddle ready for me?”
“Yes,” Agnes said as they started walking. “No tears, no trials, no turmoil.”
Linda Alise frowned at her. “That’s not a riddle. That’s a Sunday lesson from Father.”
Agnes smiled at her. “We’re starting easy. So, what’s the answer?”
Linda Alise shrugged. “Heaven, of course.”
* * *
“Wait! Wait, don’t tell me!” Linda Alise shrieked as Natasha Ivanovna laughed.
“You’ve been trying to figure this one out for the past eight blocks,” Agnes said. “There is a time limit, you know.”
“That’s true,” Natasha confirmed. “If you’re going to play, you have to play by the rules.”
“But this one is so difficult,” Linda Alise protested.
Agnes nodded in agreement. “Natasha Ivanovna is the grand duchess of riddles.”
Linda Alise frowned at her. “Are you giving me a clue? Don’t do that. I want to figure it out by myself.” She stopped walking. “Treasured pictures that will never be sold, encased in a heart of flowered gold.”
“Hurry, or it will be Easter before you figure it out,” Natasha said solemnly.
Linda Alise’s face brightened. “I know!” she shouted.
“Amazing!” Agnes teased.
“It’s the Faberge eggs that the tsar gives to his family for Easter!”
“But which egg?” Agnes encouraged.
“The one with the lily of the valley and the pictures of his family that magically pop up from the inside!”
“Well done!” Natasha congratulated.
Linda Alise beamed. “I love this game! No wonder you two have been playing it for so many years.”
“Hello there, you three!” Alma Lindlof’s voice interrupted the merriment. She and Alexandria were soon beside the trio. “You’ve certainly been taking your time,” she scolded good-naturedly. “We’ve been to the shop, made our purchase, and nearly arrived home ahead of you.”
“We were just having so much fun playing our game,” Linda Alise defended.
“Yes, and now you have schoolwork to finish, Alexandria has to dress for the evening, and Agnes and I must prepare supper.”
They started walking. When they turned the corner onto the Griboyedov promenade they saw Erland standing out in front of the Lindlofs’ apartment.
Mrs. Lindlof shook her head. “What in the world is that boy doing out in front of the house?”
“Father probably sent him outdoors as punishment for one of his pranks,” Agnes said, trying hard not to laugh. “Poor Erland can never keep still and out of trouble.”
As soon as Erland saw the women he ran to them. “Mother, Mother, come,” he said, grabbing her arm and pulling her ahead. He was crying uncontrollably, and Natasha was sure some sort of tragedy waited inside the Lindlof home.
The women ran, Natasha staying a few steps behind.
They burst through the door of the shop and saw the Lindlof men gathered there—all the Lindlof men. There was absolute silence as Arel Lindlof walked to his mother and fell into her arms, weeping.
* * *
“How could they walk over two hundred miles?” Agnes asked. “How?” She paced in front of the apartment, weeping and mumbling, and then weeping again.
Natasha Ivanovna stood as a mute companion, allowing Agnes’s grief to release itself in a gush of words.
“And did you see their bodies? So thin! They’ve wasted away to nothing.” For several minutes Agnes cried. “They have been living in a nightmare. Can you imagine how horrible it must have been? Walking through the forest, hiding from people, afraid of being caught.” She crossed her hands over her chest to keep in the anguish. “They slept on the cold ground without blankets . . . and Bruno shot . . . shot by one of the officers. He doesn’t look good, does he?” New tears coursed down her face. “I mean they both look horrible, but Bruno . . . Bruno looks . . .” She stopped, bending over and placing her hands on her knees. Her breathing came in short gasps and Natasha moved to her, rubbing her back and making soothing sounds.
“My dear friend, perhaps you should go in with your family. Perhaps—”
“No! I can’t go back inside. It hurts me too much to see Arel and Bruno in such a horrible condition.” The sobbing returned.
Natasha cried with her. “I understand. I do.” She felt a knife point of pain in her chest. “Oh, my friend, what can I do?”
Agnes slowly stood up. “I must stay at your house for awhile. I will ask Mother if I can.”
Natasha noticed that the thought seemed to quiet her friend.
Agnes continued. “Perhaps after the doctor comes tomorrow I will be able to help Mother care for them, but not now.”
“Yes, of course you can stay with me.” She held her friend’s hand. “Your brothers are young and strong, Agnes. The doctor will come and give them medicine to get better, and you and your mother will tend to their every need. I’m sure in a short time they will both be well and pestering us again.”
Agnes took a shuddering breath and nodded. “I must get ahold of myself. I will pray and pray and pray that the Lord will help us through this.”
Natasha was stunned. If her friend truly believed that there was some cosmic being that had power over her life, how could she not but hate him for his lack of care and concern? This was a riddle that confused and angered her.
“Please come with me while I talk with Mother. Please, Natasha, I need your strength.”
Natasha set aside her bitter feelings, not for her friend’s hollow faith, but for their years of companionship. She took a deep breath and followed Agnes into the house.
Notes
1. Mariinsky Theater: Erected in 1860 and named in honor of the Tsarina Maria, wife of Alexander II. It is the premier opera and dance theater of St. Petersburg.
2. Agnes makes reference to a young counterrevolutionary being horsewhipped by a group of Bolsheviks. Though the Bolshevik leaders discouraged violence between citizens of differing political factions, the fervor of socialist ideology often translated into physical attacks.
Chapter Eight
Petrograd
October 6, 1917
Natasha Ivanovna stood at her bedroom window watching large snowflakes fall onto the Griboyedov canal promenade. She squinted to see across the canal, barely able to make out the golden domes of the St. Nicholas Cathedral. She loved how the church’s pale blue façade shimmered in the frosty morning light. She shivered and drew her shawl closer around her shoulders, trying to unravel the dream she’d had in the night of a young peasant girl who took care of a magical cow. She was sure it was part of a country fairy tale her mother had told her years before, but she could not remember the details of the story. It was giving her a headache.
There was a tap on her door.
“Yes?”
The door opened and her mother came into the room with a basket of mending. “Good morning.”
“Good morning.”
“Be aware of your gray skirt. It has a three-corner tear near the hem.”
Natasha nodded. “Yes, ma’am, but I won’t get to the mending until this afternoon. Remember Father asked me to go with him to the Smolny to do some work for the Revolutionary Committee.”
“I remember,” her mother said, straightening the runner on the side table. “This afternoon will be fine.” She turned to leave.
“Mother?”
“Yes?”
“Do you remember the story you used to tell me about a peasant girl and a magical cow?”
Svetlana Karlovna smiled and Natasha knew that she was pleased that she’d asked her a question. Usually her mother was content to sit and listen as Natasha and her father discussed economics, politics, and books. She never participated or gave her opinion, and Natasha figured the conversations were beyond her reasoning. But fairy tales were as familiar as the birch trees that surrounded her wooden house in Sel’tso Saterno or the sparrow song she knew as a child.
“Of course, the little orphan girl and the magical cow,” her mother said, nodding shyly and touching her fingers to her lips. “It is the same story my mother told me many times.” She moved to look out at the falling snow. “‘There are in this world good people, people who are not so bad, and those who simply have no shame.’”
