by Gale Sears
Thick snow obscured everything in the darkness, and she only saw the white flakes because of the glow of a single streetlight. If the answer was a lie, then she had to flip it for the actual answer—the truth. But it wasn’t reasonable that Agnes would give her such an esoteric clue.
Natasha stared again at the first line on the paper. Whoever makes it, tells it not. “It has to be something one actually makes . . . something tangible . . . and once you’ve made it, you don’t tell anyone about it. Something you want to hide, but something you want someone else to take.” She growled in frustration and began pacing again. “Think, Natasha, think! You’ve had harder riddles than this. Please, please, please. Help me figure this out!” she pleaded. She rubbed her temples. “And when the person takes it, they don’t know what they’ve taken. Something fake . . . something untrue. Fake diamonds! No, you don’t make diamonds. A bad promissory note . . . false money.” She stopped. She held up the paper of riddles. It can save us. “Money,” she whispered. “Whoever makes it, tells it not. Whoever takes it, knows it not. And whoever knows it, wants it not.” Counterfeit money. “So very smart, little squirrel.” And because of the arrow pointing south she knew the true answer wasn’t counterfeit money, but real money.
It can save us. Everything fell into place. She looked at the first numbered clue. She knew it was a location—the Rostral Columns. If the Lindlof family had secreted away money, then the other three riddles might be hiding places. Hadn’t Agnes said they were hiding money in case their goods were taken from the home? A sense of surety ran through Natasha. The childish riddles that she and Agnes had played all their lives might indeed be the means of saving them.
Her optimism was blunted as she thought of dear Mr. Lindlof trying to come up with a plan to save his family—a way to get them all safely to Finland—and the fear he must have felt to settle on such a desperate solution. And what of sweet Agnes, scribbling riddles in the middle of the night to let her know in case something went wrong. Yes, and something had gone wrong. The Bolsheviks had come in the middle of the night to arrest the entire family, and the money had been lost to them.
In her mind’s eye, Natasha saw Erland running from the policeman, Arel with the bloody cloth to his cheek, and Agnes stumbling into her arms. She shook her head. No. She wouldn’t dwell on those images or be debilitated by sadness or deterred by the impossibility of the task. Somehow she would find out where her friends were being kept, and if there was money hidden at the three locations, she would use it to barter for their freedom.
When she thought of all the barriers confronting her, the logical thing would be to give up, but that she would never do. Agnes had entrusted her with the family’s last hope, and she would not fail her friend.
Natasha put the note back into the blue book and placed it under her pillow. She would figure out the other clues, but not tonight. Tonight her mind needed to work on unraveling an essential piece of the puzzle—finding an undetected route to the Rostral Columns.
Notes
1. Father John of Kronstadt (October 19, 1829–December 20, 1908): A Russian Orthodox monk. Father John lived simply, preaching basic doctrines of kindness and service. Nine years prior to the revolution, he prophesied that if Russia ceased to be Holy Russia the country would disintegrate into warring tribal factions.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Ural Mountains
January 1918
The train swayed along the endless track, locked in the colorless bite of winter. Agnes was cold. The hard benches inside the train car offered no comfort or relief. It was as if they said, “You deserve this. Bad people deserve bad treatment, and you are an enemy of the people.” She had never felt like an enemy to anyone. When she was at school at the Smolny she tried to be kind, even when one of the girls had ceaselessly taunted her. Hadn’t she borne that with quiet meekness? Hadn’t she returned charity for mistreatment? Hadn’t she followed the Savior’s teachings? Someone started coughing—a raspy cough that went on and on. Agnes closed her eyes. Lord, where are you? It wasn’t the first time that thought had come to her mind over the past several weeks.
The wheels clattered over a crossing and Agnes imagined a bridge and a river. They were moving down the eastern side of the Ural Mountains and into Siberia. Agnes pulled her ragged coat tighter and retied the shawl around her shoulders. It did no good. Even with her many layers of clothing, the cold seeped through and settled on her skin. Her broken heart generated no heat and could not be called upon to revive her. She didn’t want to die, but could see no escape if the cold continued to whisper in her ears and encase her body. Her eyes moved slowly over to find Erland, curled in the corner of the boxcar like a mongrel dog. Several men sat off to the side of him, but ignored him as though he didn’t exist.
Agnes wanted to go to him and feed him warm soup, but she had nothing. She feared to move, and standing was out of the question. She crept her hand along the bench until she found Alexandria’s ankle. She laid her hand on her sister’s felt boot and patted it three times. Alexandria stirred, but didn’t wake. Agnes worked to keep her mind inside the dim interior of the boxcar. Anything outside of that was deep, dark water in which she’d drown. Her numb lips formed letters and she whispered their names. “Johannes, Oskar, Arel, Erland, Alexandria.” If she kept saying their names she would keep them alive. We are all going together. That’s a good thing. At least to the same town or village. . . . That’s what we’ve been told. All of us here on this train. Well, not all of us. “Johannes, Oskar, Arel . . .”
“Agnes.”
Was she speaking her own name out loud?
“Agnes,” the voice came again.
“What?” she barked hoarsely.
“Shh . . . it’s Arel.” He took her hand. “Here’s a biscuit.” He joggled her hand. “Here, can you feel it? Grab it with your fingers.”
Her fingers curved inward involuntarily.
“Good girl. Now, eat it.”
“Why?”
“It’s food. Eat it.”
Arel’s voice went away, and she slowly brought the biscuit to her mouth. “Do what your brothers tell you to do,” her father had said. No! No! I can’t think of Father. That way lies madness. I can’t think of his words or I’ll see his face . . . and Mother’s face. “Where are you?” she whimpered.
Alexandria stirred and sat up. She too had a biscuit in her hand. “Porter, some tea, please,” she said in an imperious, but groggy voice.
Agnes chuckled and her sister started giggling. How is this possible? Agnes wondered, looking at their bleak surroundings, and even bleaker circumstances. Perhaps we’re going mad. Would there be warmth in madness?
Alexandria slid her arm through Agnes’s. “What would I do without my big sister to help me?”
Agnes ate the stale biscuit in silence. Her physical presence had to be enough for her sister; she had nothing else to offer.
The train whistle sounded and it seemed a hundred miles away. It’s dancing off into the dark night to find an ear to hear it, Agnes’s tired brain conjured. “Somewhere in a simple wooden house is a peasant family huddled around their giant stove, eating dried apples and blini, and the youngest child will perk up her ears and say, ‘Listen, Papa. The great train is calling.’”
“What are you mumbling, Agnes?” Alexandria questioned. “Are you all right?”
“What? Yes. Yes, I’m fine.” Agnes went back to eating her biscuit, wondering if the green-eyed soldier from the women’s battalion was safely back at home, sleeping by the warm stove, and taking care of the family cow. Dear Father, where are we? Can you see us? Please . . . take care of us . . . of Papa and Mama . . . and Linda Alise . . . I . . .
She was in the Summer Garden and Elder Lyman was speaking of God’s love for the Russian people. A soft breeze blew against her face and she heard Mother Russia singing. The boxcar swayed ba
ck and forth, back and forth, back and forth, and her body slumped to the side. She felt hands lift her legs and place them on the bench. She saw Natasha Ivanovna’s face and her long hair braided with flowers, then . . . nothing.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Petrograd
January 26, 1918
Sergey Antonovitch sat close to Natasha Ivanovna in the council meeting. Several times he reached over and touched the back of her hand—his glances encouraging her participation in the discussion. She made a few simple comments, but her mind was thinking of the task she had set for herself that night and not of preparations for the agitprop train. It was the perfect opportunity. The room at the university where the meeting was being held was only a few blocks from the Rostral Columns. It was bitter cold and the late afternoon sky was dark with clouds swollen with snow. Few people would be out.
Professor Prozorov was talking about motion picture cameras and assigned Dmitri Borisovitch to find film stock over the next few months. There was a process to clear the images from used stock and they would certainly do that, but the professor wanted new film also if they could get their hands on some.
Natasha caught only bits of the conversation concerning Lenin’s vision for the use of the camera for propaganda. She was planning her excuse for leaving the meeting and the route she would take to the columns. Each time she saw herself stepping out onto the Mendeleevskaya Boulevard, her heart beat hard against her chest. How much time would it take to get to the columns? What if she’d read the riddles wrong and there was nothing to find? She chided herself silently. Enough, Natasha Ivanovna. Now is the time to be brave for Agnes and her family.
She leaned close to Sergey and whispered in his ear, “How much longer?”
“What?”
“The meeting—how much longer will it last?”
“An hour or so.”
She nodded. “I need to go out.”
“Of course,” he answered, keeping his eyes on the professor.
“And I may walk over to see if my father is in his office.”
Sergey turned to look at her. “Why would you do that?”
“Is there a problem, Comrade Gavrilova?” Professor Prozorov asked, removing his glasses imperiously. The scowl on his face registered displeasure at being interrupted.
The man was an arresting figure with his dark hair and full beard, and since meeting him, Natasha had been intimidated. “No, Professor, sorry. There’s no problem,” she answered as she stood. “I just need to go out.”
Sergey started to rise. “I’ll go with you.”
“No, don’t be silly. They’ll be talking about the speeches and you’ll be needed for that.” She pulled her coat from the back of her chair. “I’ll return shortly.”
Sergey’s eyes narrowed.
“Really,” Natasha assured. “I’ll be fine.” She smiled at him. “Pay attention.” She looked up at Professor Prozorov. “Sorry to interrupt.” She moved to the door and stepped out into the hallway quickly before anyone else could detain her. She shut the door respectfully and took a breath. As she raced down the dim hallway, she put on her hat, mittens, and scarf, retracing in her mind the path she would take: from the building onto Mendeleevskaya Boulevard, then east on Birzhevoy Street, past the Naval Museum, and out onto the square where the huge columns stood flanking each end of the small park. She would have to check both columns as each had a male and female statue allegorically representing Russia’s main rivers. If luck was with her, she would find the correct male statue immediately.
Natasha stopped with her hand on the door handle. She took a deep breath and moved out into the late afternoon gloom. The frigid air stung her cheeks and she hunched into her coat, wrapping her scarf higher on her face. The snow made a squeaking sound under her boots and the loudness made her anxious. Even though she could see no one else on the boulevard, she loathed drawing attention to herself.
She hurried, being careful to maintain her balance on the slick street. An errant wind clawed at her scarf and the bottom of her coat. She kept panic from her mind by repeating the details of her route—east on Birzhevoy Street, past the Naval Museum, and onto the square. In her thoughts the distance seemed compact, but as she moved along, the blocks seemed to stretch into miles. Her breathing was raspy and she heard herself whimpering. Stop it, Natasha Ivanovna. The Naval Museum is not far ahead. Just keep going. Through the darkness she raced, determined not to fail her friend.
How many times had she analyzed the meaning of Agnes’s final words to her? How many times had her friend’s angel face troubled her dreams? The riddles on that paper were significant and were carrying her to a possible means of escape for her friend. It can save us. Natasha set her jaw. She had to have figured it correctly. Her heart would accept no other outcome.
Another stiff wind blew down the corridor of buildings, nearly stopping her progression. Natasha lowered her head and pushed on. She came out into the square and glanced up quickly to find the nearest column. The monolith stood close to the Neva River, whose waters were frozen by winter’s frigid blast. She remembered a day when Mr. and Mrs. Lindlof had included her on a family outing to the frozen river. The boys had pulled the girls about on sledges while the parents ice-skated. They’d gone home to hot soup and kissel.
A large truck drove across the palace bridge, and Natasha glanced up to find the driver frowning at her. He thinks I’m crazy for being out in weather like this. She crossed the street and headed for the column. Her teeth began to chatter and she folded her arms across her chest. At the base of the brightly painted monolith sat the huge marble statue representing the Volga River. She had laughed at Agnes once when she’d admitted feeling anguish for the poor stone giants confronting winter in only thin drapes of fabric.
Natasha set her jaw against sorrow. She made sure she was alone before clambering up onto the column’s stone foundation. She had never been this close to the monument, and the symbolic prows of ships that protruded from the column loomed large overhead. Natasha had to work quickly before anyone came by. She moved around the statue, searching for hiding places in the folds of stone fabric—behind the ankle, behind the bronze oar the bearded figure held. Nothing. She looked quickly into the two ship prows which were low enough for someone to reach, but again—nothing.
Natasha jumped from the stone base and ran toward the other statue. Her feet came out from under her and she vainly grabbed at the air for support. Pain shot through her hip and arm as her body slammed into the ground. She gritted her teeth, fighting to control the pain and keep tears away. Get up! Get up, Natasha Ivanovna! You must not lose this chance. She pushed herself onto her knees with her uninjured hand, pausing to steady herself before standing. Her head throbbed and her hip burned with pain, but she assessed that nothing was broken. She forced herself to move.
Slowly she hobbled forward, whimpering in frustration at her snail’s pace. Without question, Sergey Antonovitch would be suspicious of the time she was gone. What could she tell him? She ignored the pain and walked faster.
As she came around the side of the statue, she was confronted by a group of young men smoking and sharing a bottle of vodka. They seemed as startled by her sudden appearance as she was with theirs. She’d been so intent on her mission, and not falling again, that she hadn’t even heard their subdued voices until she was upon them. Hope and opportunity drained away, and Natasha felt tears pressing against the back of her eyes.
One of the young men broke from the group of five and approached her. “Gave us quite a scare, Miss. We thought you might be the Winter Witch come to freeze our blood.” His friends chuckled, and the slovenly young man gave them a jocular grin. “But you’re not that, are you?”
The man was close enough that Natasha could smell the unwashed stench of him. She stepped back and didn’t answer.
“What are you doing out here in this fre
ezing dark all by yourself?”
“Waiting for my father,” Natasha said firmly.
The young man stopped and glanced around. “Out here?”
“Yes. He’s a professor at the university. His office is just there.” She pointed toward the institute of literature.
A large truck pulled to the side of the road and honked.
“Hey, Pavel!” one of the friends called. “The truck from the factory is here.”
Another of the men drained the last of the vodka and tossed the bottle onto the street as he moved toward the truck. “Come on, Pavel! Work over women.”
“Too bad,” the young man said, leering at Natasha. The horn honked again, and he threw down his cigarette butt and slouched away.
Natasha shuddered as she watched the truck turn onto the Birzhevoy Bridge and head off into the Petrogradskaya District. She was alone again. She looked over at the statue representing the Dnieper River. She pushed back her doubt and moved with determination to the column.
As she began climbing the stone base, her arm and hip throbbed with pain, but she ignored them. She hunted again around the base of the statue: ankles, folds of stone fabric, bronze oar. As she pushed her hand behind the oar, she thought she felt something soft and yielding, but she couldn’t be sure. She withdrew her hand and stripped off her mitten. The subzero air bit into her flesh, but she didn’t care. She shoved her hand back into the space. Her fingers felt only cold, hard surfaces, and then they touched fabric.
She grasped the object and drew it out. She stared at the tied cylinder of cloth in her hand and could not stop the tears of relief. It can save us. She was curious what was inside, but now was not the time to investigate. She put on her mitten and shoved the package into her coat pocket. She felt the shock and adrenaline leave her, and her stiff body complained of each movement as she climbed slowly down to the street. Wiping the tears from her face, she gave the silent marble giant a smile of gratitude and moved off.
