by Gale Sears
Natasha’s face broke into a broad smile. “Yes, that was it! That was how it started! And the little orphan girl was taken in by a mean woman with two daughters.”
“Three daughters.”
Natasha nodded. “Ah, yes, three daughters.”
“‘The eldest was called One-Eye, the middle was Two-Eyes, and the youngest Three-Eyes,’” her mother recited.
Natasha clapped her hands. “And they were always spying on the orphan girl to make sure she got her work done.”
Natasha’s mother chuckled. “Yes. You wanted to poke their eyes out with a stick.”
“I remember.”
Svetlana Karlovna smoothed a wrinkle from the coverlet. “What made you think of that story?”
“Last night I dreamed about the orphan girl and the cow. But it was all mixed up and I couldn’t remember the ending.” Natasha watched as her mother made the sign of the cross on her pillow, knowing that she was blessing it to give her daughter a better night’s sleep. Such empty superstitions. “So what happened?” Natasha asked, a note of irritation in her voice.
“The mean woman gave the poor peasant girl many chores to do, and if she didn’t finish them by the end of the day, the woman would beat her.”
Natasha nodded. “But the magical cow helped her.”
“Yes. The girl went out to the pasture, put her arms around the cow’s neck, and cried. Then the cow spoke to her and asked her why she was so sad. She told the cow all her sorrows, and the cow promised that she would help.”
At that moment, Natasha’s father came to the bedroom doorway. “Natasha, I must leave in a half an hour. Will you be ready?”
Natasha straightened. “Yes, sir, of course.”
“When is breakfast, Svetlana?”
“Things are ready now. I have everything finished.” Natasha’s mother moved quickly to follow her husband. She stopped at the door and turned back. “I can tell you the end of the story after supper tonight, if you’d like.”
Natasha found her mother’s eagerness a bit pathetic, but forced a bright tone into her reply. “Yes, that would be fine. Only tell me one thing beforehand. Does it turn out well?”
“Well?” Natasha’s mother questioned. She shrugged. “I suppose that depends on who you are in the story.”
“Svetlana?” Ivan Alexseyevitch called from the kitchen.
Svetlana Karlovna jumped. “Yes, I’m coming!” And she was gone.
Natasha sighed and went to dress. Her mother was the peasant girl from every story: a pretty, but unpretentious, face; plain clothes and country shoes; and a simple, predictable response for every situation. As Natasha stood at the mirror to brush out her hair, she examined her features. Where was her mother in her? She had her father’s dark hair and eyes, her father’s intellect, and her father’s temperament. Perhaps if there had been another child, Natasha thought, he or she might have favored Mother’s side of the family. She shook her head. Pity the boy who inherited such a meager personality.
She finished her grooming and turned to choose her reading book for the day. She moved to the shelf and closed her eyes. She would play her game. She ran her hand along the line of books, stopping at one and drawing it out. She opened her eyes expectantly, and then glared at the blue book in her hand. It was the book Agnes’s father had given her, and this was the second time it had presented itself for choosing. The last time she’d quickly lifted her fingers from the cover, choosing instead the book on its right.
Natasha blew out a breath of air. Several times she had thought of throwing the gift into the trash bin, but always relented when she imagined the pained expression on Agnes’s face if she ever found out. Her friend did not need any more pain in her life right now. She spent the majority of her day caring for Bruno whose recovery was erratic. While Arel’s body had responded to the medicine and food, and strengthened daily, Bruno’s body seemed unable to conquer the vicissitudes of the war.
Natasha opened the book. It was one of the few books she owned in English, so even if the words were rubbish, it would afford good practice of the language. She looked down at the page to which she’d opened. The Articles of Faith, Appendix 2—notes relating to Chapter 2. Natural to Believe in God.
“Natasha?” her father called up the stairs. “Time to leave.”
Natasha closed the book quickly. “Yes! Yes, sir. I will be right down.” She placed the Talmage book back into the line and chose a book of short stories by Chekhov.
Natural to Believe in God—what did that mean?
A calm feeling poured into her body. It was a summer feeling—the feeling of running in a meadow.
“Natasha?”
“Yes! I’m coming!” she called back. She gathered her belongings and rushed downstairs.
Her mother helped her on with her coat, scolding her for making her father wait, and shoved a roll into her pocket.
Natasha and her father stepped out onto the street. Her father opened his umbrella and took her arm. The beautiful snowflakes had turned into a chill sleet and people passing by hunched into their coats and grumbled about the horrid weather. Natasha leaned against her father’s shoulder, sad to discover that the sensation of calm she’d felt in her bedroom had vanished.
Notes
1. Fairy tales are woven into the heart and soul of the Russian people; even Russia’s great writer Alexander Pushkin wrote a book of fairy tales in the 1800s. The tale of the orphan girl and the white cow is a fairy tale which Natasha and her mother would have known.
Chapter Nine
Petrograd
October 15, 1917
Sergey Antonovich looked dashing in his long bohemian coat. His listeners spent as much time looking at him as they did listening to his fiery words, and he was a compelling speaker.
The lecture hall at the university was filled with students, sailors, and factory workers. Several speakers had preceded him, but their words had turned colorless and meager after Sergey’s opening lines.
Natasha glanced over at Dmitri Borisovitch and Nicholai Lvovitch, amused by their open adoration. She pulled her thoughts to the speech.
“Yes, comrades, we hoped Kerensky and his government would have served the proletariat, but what have we received? The factories do not belong to the people, the bourgeoisie still own the land, and thousands are starving on the streets of Petrograd!”
An angry cheer went up.
“Every soldier, every worker, every real Socialist, realizes that there are only two alternatives to the present situation. Either the power will remain in the hands of the bourgeois-landlord—and this will mean every kind of repression for the workers, soldiers, and peasants, continuation of the war, and inevitable hunger and death—”
Shouts and jeers from the floor.
“Or . . . or, the power will be transferred to the hands of the revolutionary workers, soldiers, and peasants. In that case, it will mean a complete abolition of landlord tyranny, immediate check of the capitalists, immediate proposal of a just peace. Then the land is assured to the peasants, then control of industry is assured to the workers, then bread is assured to the hungry! I say to you that we must either drop ‘All Power to the Soviets’ or make an insurrection—there is no middle course!”
Dmitri and Nicholai stood and cheered with the rest.
“And in the muddy trenches of the front, our men give their last feeble breaths to fight for Mother Russia—noble, forsaken souls who fight without coats or boots or food!”
A roar of condemnation arose, and Natasha saw many of the sailors shake their fists and stamp their feet. Natasha’s stomach clenched as she thought about the wretched condition of Agnes’s brothers when they’d returned from the front. She would never forget the scene of Arel weeping in his mother’s arms. She was jostled sideways as Dmitri and Nicholai joined the factory w
orkers as they called out, “Peace, Land, and Bread!” Yelling matches erupted as some of the anti-Bolshevik students shouted their distrust. It took several minutes for the pandemonium to quiet.
“The Provisional Government does not care how many young men it slaughters! Kerensky does not care how many rotting corpses are piled up on the eastern front!”
The yelling broke out again.
“Will the Bolsheviks leave the soldiers out in the barren wasteland to fight a senseless war?”
“No!” the audience yelled.
“Will the Bolsheviks forget the poor peasant toiling in the field?”
“No!”
“Will the Bolsheviks allow the factory workers and their families to starve on the streets?”
“No! No! No!”
“So, comrades, as Soviets, will we hold a revolver to the head of the government?”
“Yes!”
“As Soviets, will we rise up and take the land from the bourgeois landowners?”
“Yes!”
“What is Kerensky? A usurper, whose place is in the Peter and Paul Fortress! A traitor to the workers, soldiers, and peasants who believed in him! Kerensky is finished! Long live the worldwide proletariat struggle! Long live the revolution!”
A storm of shouting and cheers swept through the crowd and chanting began of “All Power to the Soviets!” Signs and posters of the Bolsheviks were lifted into the air, as the counterrevolutionary factions were shoved about. A score of students rushed onto the stage—many to congratulate Sergey Antonovich on his brilliant speech, many just to be near him.
Natasha was caught up in the fervor, but she did not add her voice to the cacophony. In the back of her mind she heard Agnes’s words about shouting slogans, and it tempered her enthusiasm. The storm swirled around her, but she was in the center and it was calm, quiet. Her mind was not thinking of Kerensky or the revolution—not even thinking of the handsome Sergey Antonovich—instead, her thoughts touched soothingly on the precepts of consecration as she considered the qualities of men’s hearts. The shouting continued, but Natasha Ivanovna sat pondering the words from a small blue book that was again presenting itself.
Notes
1. Much of Sergey Antonovich’s speech is compiled from speeches given by Lenin.
2. Following is a partial list of the factions vying for power in post-tsarist Russia:
Cadets: Constitutional Democrats or “Party of the People’s Freedom.” Composed mostly of liberals from the propertied classes, the Cadet party formed the first Provisional Government. The Bolsheviks saw them as puppets of the bourgeois elite.
Left Socialist Revolutionaries: Followed the theoretical ideas of the Bolsheviks, but were reluctant to follow their tactics. This was the party of the peasant and firmly supported the confiscation of the great landed estates without compensation, and disposing of the properties by the peasants themselves.
Bolsheviks: The majority formed at the split of the Russian Social Democratic Labour Party. See the notes to chapter three for more information.
Mensheviks: The minority formed at the split of the Russian Social Democratic Labour Party. See the notes to chapter three for more information.
Red Guards: The armed factory workers of Russia. At every crisis in the revolution the Red Guards appeared in the streets, untrained and undisciplined, but full of revolutionary zeal.
White Guards: Bourgeois volunteers who emerged in the last stages of the revolution to defend private property from the Bolshevik attempt to abolish it.
Chapter Ten
Petrograd
October 18, 1917
“Natasha, will you bring me another cloth?”
Agnes held out a limp rag, warmed with Bruno’s fever, and waited. Natasha reached into the basin of cold water and drew out a square piece of fabric. She squeezed out the excess water and traded her friend for the used one. Agnes placed the cloth on Bruno’s forehead. He groaned. Natasha swallowed down her concern as she noted the gray pallor of his skin. It matched the dingy color of his nightshirt—the gray of the afternoon clouds—the drab color of death. She chided herself for such morbid thoughts, turning her focus to her friend.
“Agnes, you must get some rest. You’ve been here all morning.”
Agnes looked over, a puzzled expression washing her face. “Oh, Natasha, I’m so sorry. We’ve been at this for hours. You must be exhausted.”
“I’m not concerned for myself,” Natasha answered, bringing a small chair over to sit beside Agnes. “I’m concerned for you.”
“I know, and you are a dear friend for helping me, but I’m fine, really. Why don’t you go home for awhile?”
Natasha shook her head. “No. I want to stay.”
Bruno’s body shivered and his arm came up jerkily to his head. “Don’t want it,” he hissed. He knocked off the cloth as he babbled a string of incoherent words.
Agnes stilled his arms while Natasha retrieved the cloth from the floor.
“Should I get someone?”
“No, he’s calming down now. Mother said he did this off and on through the night.”
Bruno’s body relaxed and his eyes opened a little. “Tatyana,” he whispered.
Natasha moved forward. “Did you understand that?” she asked.
Agnes shook her head. “No.” She rubbed her brother’s arm. “It’s all right, Bruno, we’re right here.”
“At the hospital,” he slurred.
“He said hospital,” Natasha reported. “I thought I heard hospital.”
“Yes, me too.”
“Olga,” Bruno rasped.
“Olga?” Agnes repeated, leaning nearer.
“Walking by.”
“Who’s walking by?” Agnes asked softly. Bruno did not respond. “Who’s walking by, Bruno?”
“Tatyana . . . hospital.”
“I heard Tatyana,” Natasha said. “Olga and Tatyana? Is he talking about the grand duchesses?”
“He’s having a fever dream,” Agnes said sadly. “I think he believes that Olga and Tatyana are taking care of him at the royal hospital.”
“That’s odd,” Natasha said before thinking.
“He thought the grand duchesses were very heroic when they became nurses and cared for the wounded soldiers.” Agnes smiled down at Bruno. “We both loved the Imperial family. Bruno and I would pretend to be their servants at Tsarskoe Selo, or sailors on their yacht.” Bruno’s breathing deepened. “Once we actually saw them go by in one of their carriages. We couldn’t stop talking about it for weeks.”
Natasha frowned. “And you liked them even after your brother, Oskar, was hurt in the uprising?”
Agnes paused before answering. “It wasn’t an uprising . . . and, yes, even after that.” She sighed and stretched her back. “We saw them as a family, Natasha Ivanovna. We weren’t political at eight or ten. We were just enchanted by these regal persons who, we thought, lived a fairy-tale life. I decided to keep a diary because the grand duchesses kept diaries; Bruno desired to attend military school because he thought he could impress them in his uniform.” She took Bruno’s hand. “Isn’t he handsome? So handsome and so funny.” She shook her head as if to clear her thoughts. “Once Father was commissioned to make a set of silver inkwells for the tsar’s study at their dacha at Alexandria. Just before they were shipped, Bruno and I wrote notes to Olga and Tatyana and slipped them inside.” She stroked Bruno’s hand. “Silly, I know. Just silly little children.”
“You never told me about doing that,” Natasha said.
Tears fell freely. “It was our secret,” Agnes said. “Besides, you were never really interested in anything to do with the tsar and his family.”
“I was interested,” Natasha protested. “A little.”
Agnes wiped her eyes and gave her frien
d a weak smile. “It’s all right, Natasha. You loved your books and writing your stories, and now you have the revolution and your work with Sergey Antonovich, but I still care deeply about the little Romanov family. I know you must have feelings about what they’ve been through—first house arrest in Tsarskoe Selo and now shipped off to Tobolsk in Siberia . . . and Tsarevitch Alexis with such serious health problems. They’re people, Natasha. They’re a family, and they’ve lost everything. I feel sad for them.” Agnes’s voice filled with emotion but she kept it subdued. “I feel sad for them.”
Arel walked into the room. “Alexandria is cooking while Mother sleeps. She says to come and eat something.”
“But—”
“No arguments. I’m here to give you a rest.”
Natasha looked into Arel’s grayish-blue eyes, seeing nothing but exhaustion and sorrow. He was only a year older than she was, but it seemed that intense suffering had stamped excess years onto his features.
Agnes shook her head. “You are tired too, Arel. It looks like you could fall asleep on your feet.”
Arel straightened. “I am tired—we are all tired—but I’ll be fine. Besides, Alexandria’s insisting.”
Natasha spoke up. “I’ll stay. Agnes, you go and get something to eat and I promise to keep Arel awake.”
Agnes gave her a half-grin. “And you’ll take a rest when I’m done?”
“I will,” Natasha agreed.
“I don’t need someone to prop me up,” Arel said, lifting Agnes out of the chair. “Besides, Father went for the doctor. They should return at any time.”
The women shared a look. There was fear in Agnes’s eyes. She turned and walked quickly from the room.
An awkward silence ensued as Arel checked Bruno’s breathing, and then sat down by the side of the bed. “Has . . . has he come around at all?”
