by Gale Sears
“It’s Maslenitsa!” Agnes cheered. “I asked them to find one and they did!”
Alexandria led with a lantern held high, and Johannes and Linda Alise followed carrying the ugly female scarecrow with her big head and paper dress.
“Maslenitsa? But it’s months before her festival,” Natasha said.
“I know!” Agnes answered, dancing about as her siblings drew nearer. “But we’re going to celebrate everything tonight! Christmas and Easter and New Year’s and the end of winter! Everything!”
Tears were sparkling in Agnes’s eyes and Natasha felt a momentary rush of sadness. She chided herself. If this was the way her friend chose to shake off the melancholy season, who was she to question? She grabbed Agnes’s waist and joined the circle of revelers now gathering around Maslenitsa. Arel grabbed Natasha’s other side to close the circle.
“Arel Lindlof!” Agnes hissed at him. “You let go of her this instant!”
Arel ignored her.
Johannes’s voice sounded clear and strong in the cold, still night. “This is Maslenitsa, the witch of winter!” The circle of dancers booed and hissed and shouted insults. “She holds in her ugly hands the last vestiges of winter!” More boos and shouts. “But I tell you, Maslenitsa, that your reign is over!” The crowd cheered as Johannes took out two long wooden matches and lit them in the flame of the lantern. “This year, winter is leaving early!”
The dancers began moving clockwise as Johannes put the matches to the dry straw and the scarecrow burst into flame. The dancers shouted and sang as the ugly witch of winter perished.
Natasha’s blood warmed as she danced and she wished for the long dark winter to end, for the cold to give way to the breath of spring, and for the gray of snow and ice to be brushed over with the green of life.
She held tightly to Agnes and Arel as they danced, feeling safe in their embrace.
Notes
1. Ded Moroz and Snegurochka: Ded Moroz plays a role similar to Santa Claus. The translation of his name means Grandfather Frost. Ded Moroz is usually accompanied on his journeys by his granddaughter, Snegurochka. Her name translates to Snow Maiden.
During the reign of the Communists many Russian traditional holidays were canceled or modified. This was especially true of religious holidays such as Christmas or Easter. Even marriage was taken from the church and made secular. Couples declared their allegiance to the state and proclaimed their vows under the red flag.
Chapter Twenty
Petrograd
January 3, 1918
There was thunder, or bombs falling, or someone was pounding . . . pounding on a door. Natasha sat up in the darkness, her heart thumping against her chest. She lurched out of bed, getting caught in the coverlet and falling with a thud onto the floor. It was cold. The fire in her small stove had gone out hours before. She heard footsteps in the hallway and her door opened.
“Natasha?”
“Yes?”
Her father came to her. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. I fell out of bed. What time is it?”
“About three.”
There was another crash of wood.
“What’s happening? The sounds are coming from the Lindlofs’ home.”
Her father helped her to stand. “I’ll go and see. Stay here.”
She heard the sound of shattering glass and angry voices. Her heart jumped so violently it made her cry out. She saw her mother run past her doorway.
“Mother?”
Svetlana Karlovna did not stop. “They’ve come for them!”
She ran on and Natasha heard her footsteps flying down the stairs. The panic in her mother’s voice made Natasha stagger back against the bed. They’ve come for them. She found the matches on her side table, but her body was trembling so violently it took several attempts before she got the candle lit. She found her boots and pulled them on. She grabbed her coat and threw it over her shoulders as she ran down the stairs.
Yelling, gruff voices, and crying assaulted her ears as she reached the front door and threw it open. The cold was piercing, and she shuddered involuntarily. Two police trucks were idling on the street, their barred doors thrown open. Johannes Lindlof was being shoved inside by a Cheka police officer.
Natasha ran forward. “Johannes!”
“Natasha, no!” She heard her father yell and she spun around to find him. Someone knocked her sideways, and she had a blurred picture of her father and mother with a man pointing a rifle at them, before falling onto her hands and knees in the snow.
Someone grabbed her roughly and pushed her to her parents.
“Stay back,” a disembodied voice commanded.
She turned her face to the Lindlof home as Oskar and Linda Alise came out the front door. Linda Alise was crying so hard she stumbled over the threshold. Oskar caught her and whispered something into her ear. The face of the fourteen-year-old girl was so pale with fear it shone against the dark night, but she nodded at Oskar’s words and stood straighter.
“Father,” Natasha cried, grabbing his coat sleeve. “Father, do something!”
“I can’t.”
“But you must! You must!”
“Now is not the time.”
As Oskar and Linda Alise climbed into the lead police truck, Alexandria stepped out into the night. She wore a flowing green cape and held tightly to a little brown suitcase. She carried herself with such aloof assurance that only one of the policemen dared to approach her.
“Comrade, your suitcase—”
She cut him short. “I am not your comrade, and the head officer has already checked this. It carries nothing of importance to you.”
The policeman stepped back, blinking, and Alexandria climbed regally into the truck.
Arel came next. He held a cloth against his cheek, and even though the light from the doorway was meager, Natasha could see that the cloth was bloodstained. Her mind pulled up images of the New Year’s celebration—of Arel in his bear mask, of him sliding next to her at the dinner table, of the kiss he placed so sweetly at the corner of her mouth.
As soon as his eyes found her, he did not look away. He walked more slowly and it seemed as though he was trying to record in his memory each detail of her face. When he reached the truck, he stopped and held up a hand to her. His expression was one of sadness and innocent longing. She raised a hand to him just as a policeman rushed forward and pushed him into the truck.
Suddenly there was a crash from inside the house and Erland burst out into the night, followed by a police officer yelling curses and aiming his rife at Erland’s back. Alma Lindlof came to the doorway, screaming for her son to stop and pleading for the man not to shoot. Svetlana Karlovna stepped sideways into the path of the policeman and he slipped on the ice and fell.
He scrambled to his feet, cursing and threatening her. “Stay out of my way, woman, or I’ll shoot you too!”
Natasha stood frozen in place as her father yanked her mother back toward the house. She heard gunshots and turned numbly in the direction Erland had run. She expected to see him lying in a heap, but he had stopped abruptly and flung his hands into the air. The pursuing policeman ran up and jabbed him in the stomach with the butt of his rifle. Erland shouted in pain and doubled over.
Nausea moved into her throat and Natasha put her hands on her knees and sucked cold air into her body. At the sound of her name, she looked up and saw Agnes being herded toward the truck. Without thinking, Natasha ran toward her. A boxy policeman with a broad country face blocked her way.
“Stay back!” he barked.
“Please, please, please,” Natasha whispered, looking up into his young face. “Please, comrade, I’m a Bolshevik. My father, Professor Gavrilov, is the head of a soviet.” Tears sprang from her eyes and froze on her cheeks. Her voice rose in volume and intensity.
“This is my dearest friend!” The policeman did not move. “I am a Bolshevik! Let me see her!”
The policeman swallowed and his eyes flicked to Natasha’s face, but he set his jaw and shook his head. “I have my orders.”
An anguished cry strangled in Natasha’s throat.
“Now, now, comrade, we must not be callous to friendship,” an oily voice said, and Natasha looked around for the source. She caught the eye of the head Cheka officer and he smiled a cold smile. His large hands were clamped around the upper arms of Johan and Alma Lindlof as he dragged them from their home. The officer stared at Natasha with unmasked lust, and she took a step back and lowered her head. He laughed. “So, you are a Bolshevik, and yet you are friendly with upper-class, merchant scum. Not a good idea, comrade.”
Natasha focused on Agnes’s innocent face. “Why are you taking them? Why?” she pleaded.
“Natasha, be quiet!” her father hissed.
Natasha ignored him. “They are good people. They work hard and they cause no trouble.”
At that moment, the policeman who’d gone after Erland pulled him past her, and Natasha saw a bloody lip and a bruise purpling on the left side of his face. “Erland,” she said tenderly, reaching out to take his hand.
“Long live the Bolsheviks,” he growled at her, and the policeman punched him in the kidney and shoved his crumpled body into the second truck.
“Stop! Stop it!” Natasha screamed.
Johan Lindlof’s voice came reassuringly out of the dark. “Be still, Natasha Ivanovna. They’re just taking us in for questioning. Everything will be all right.”
“Get in the truck, old man,” the head officer snapped as he yanked Johan and Alma to the second truck. His voice carried none of the former silkiness, and Natasha wanted to hit him hard in the face for his rough handling of the dear couple, but she held her anger and forced subservience into her voice.
“Please, comrade. Please, let me speak to my friend.”
The head officer turned from depositing the Lindlofs in the truck and leered at her. Natasha’s skin crawled with disgust, but she kept her face placid, even when the brute grabbed Agnes by the back of the neck and shoved her forward. Natasha concentrated only on the fact that her friend would soon be within reach. Agnes stumbled on a rough patch in the sidewalk and fell weeping into Natasha’s arms.
“Have they hurt you?” Natasha whispered.
“No.”
“We will get this figured out, little squirrel. My father will see to it.”
“Here, Natasha,” Agnes whispered urgently, shoving a wadded up piece of paper into her hand. “Take this.”
Natasha closed her fingers quickly around the paper. “What is it?”
“It can save us.”
“What’s that there?” the officer barked, stepping close to Natasha and grabbing her wrist.
She cried out. “It’s nothing. Just a note. A silly schoolgirl’s note.” She didn’t actually know what it was, but she didn’t think Agnes would be foolish enough to write anything incriminating in a letter. She kept her fingers clamped tightly around the missive.
The officer pried it out of her hand.
“They’re just riddles,” Agnes confessed. “We’ve shared riddles all our lives.”
“You, shut up.” The officer unfolded the paper and read over the content. He smirked at Agnes’s angelic face. “How old are you—twelve?” He shoved the paper back at Natasha and put his large hands on Agnes’s waist. “You don’t look twelve.” He drew her close to his body. “You don’t feel twelve.”
“Leave her alone!” Natasha commanded. “Or my father will have to report you.”
The officer looked over to see Natasha’s father and mother coming near. His men were all at the trucks now, waiting impatiently for the last prisoner, and a chance to get out of the cold. The officer let go of Agnes’s waist, taking her arm and squeezing it so tightly that Agnes whimpered. “Don’t get any ideas about reporting anything, Professor, or you might just find a few reports filed about your family.”
Professor Gavrilov stood silently beside his daughter, and Natasha noted the anger washing his face. She looked quickly back to see Agnes step up into the truck. Agnes glanced back and nodded.
The bars were shut and locked, the policemen piled into the trucks, and the vehicles pulled away.
Agnes leaned over for one last look through the bars, and Natasha shuddered as a strand of her friend’s golden-brown hair caught the faintest glint of light.
Natasha’s mind could not accept the reality of what had happened. Just a few days ago they had celebrated the New Year with gaiety and hope, and now there was only a sense of emptiness.
“Natasha, come inside. I want to speak to you.” Her father’s voice was filled with anger and disapproval.
“No.” She wanted no part of a lecture, besides she felt as if going inside was a betrayal. Go inside to a warm bed and security while her friend and her family were being taken away into an unknown darkness? No. She also feared that if she went into her house, her mind would snap. She already felt it slipping in and out of reason.
“Natasha!”
“No.” She looked over at the Lindlofs’ door and saw that it had been nailed shut and a notice placed on it. She moved numbly over and read the sign out loud.
For crimes against the state—
this property and all its contents are herby confiscated.
All possessions will be shared equally by the people.
Her mother came to her side.
“The law of consecration cannot be mandated,” Natasha said.
“Please, dear one, you don’t know what you’re saying.”
Natasha yelled out into the night. “The government cannot force men to live a communal law! And the government can’t come in the middle of the night and take innocent people away!”
“Natasha, don’t.”
“Did you hear that, Father? Did you hear?”
“He’s gone into the house, Natasha.”
Natasha paced back and forth, her eyes darting from the Lindlofs’ door to the deserted street. Her voice came loud and wild. “Interesting how none of the neighbors came out to help.” She yelled again at the dark houses. “Didn’t he give you bread, and potatoes, and cabbage? Didn’t he and his sons find wood for you so your families wouldn’t freeze?”
Her mother was frantic. “Natasha, stop. Please, dear one. This is not good.”
“He gave you bread!” Natasha screamed into the deserted street. “I want to see them.” Her body shuddered with cold. “I want to see them! I want to see my friend!” Her mind slid out of focus and she saw Ded Moroz handing out presents, the family singing together in the warm kitchen, and Agnes in her beautiful snow maiden costume. A knife point of pain pressed into her heart, but no tears flowed to ease the pressure. Think, Natasha, think. You must figure out a way to free your friends. She looked over to find her mother staring at her. “Father will be able to get them out, won’t he?”
Her mother looked away. “I think he’ll do what he can.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I know, but it’s all I can give you.”
A piercing wind blew across the canal and Natasha’s ears and cheeks ached with cold.
“Ah, look,” her mother said. “There is white on your cheeks where your tears ran down.” She covered Natasha’s cheeks with her fur mittens. “Frostbite. Please, we need to go inside now. Tomorrow we will see what we can do.”
Natasha looked into her mother’s face and saw calm determination. “If there is a God,” Natasha said bitterly, “where was He? Where was He when this family who loves Him so much was taken away?”
Her mother did not respond for several moments. “Was it His name on the orders?” she asked gently as she r
emoved her hands from her daughter’s face.
“I don’t understand.”
“God didn’t send the trucks or the policemen, Natasha. Someone in the Soviet Council did that.”
Natasha stared at her.
“God gives men the right to choose, and sometimes they choose badly.”
Natasha’s mind went to the fairy tale of the peasant girl and the magical cow. “‘There are in this world good people, people who are not so bad, and those who simply have no shame,’” she quoted.
Her mother nodded. “And sometimes the choices of others cause innocent people to suffer.” She put her arm around her daughter’s waist. “We need to go inside.”
Natasha stiffened. “I don’t want to speak to Father.”
“We’ll tell him you’re not feeling well.”
Natasha nodded and allowed herself to be led away. “I don’t know what to think anymore,” she said impassively into the night. Her mind had shut down, but her heart hurt so badly that it was hard to breathe. Still the tears did not come.
Notes
1. Cheka: The secret police force established by Lenin in December 1917. The name derives from Chrezvychaynaya Komissiya (or “Extraordinary Commission”), which was eventually expanded to “All Russian Extraordinary Commission for the Struggle Against Sabotage and the Counter-Revolution.”
2. The story of the Lindlofs’ 1918 arrest by Cheka police was documented, as was the fate of the Lindlof children.
Chapter Twenty-One
Petrograd
January 3, 1918
Natasha Ivanovna fell asleep as the rising sun sent shafts of light along the frozen Neva River. Thousands of others woke, had their tea and black bread, and tromped off to work under a brilliant blue sky—many saw the flashes of sunlight on the spires of the Admiralty Building or the Peter and Paul Cathedral—but exhaustion and grief had shut down Natasha’s mind and senses, sending her mercifully into a land of forgetfulness. She slept with the open book from Agnes’s father under one hand and the note from her friend in the other.
Svetlana Karlovna stood in her daughter’s doorway, reluctant to carry out the assignment she’d been given. Just let her sleep, she thought, but Ivan Alexseyevitch had returned home from the Smolny desiring that his daughter be woken and sent to him immediately. Svetlana was acutely aware that the task had been given to her as a test of obedience, and for Natasha’s sake, she would not refuse it and cause any more anger and contention.
