by Gale Sears
Chapter Twenty-Six
Petrograd
February 1, 1918
“What is the foundation of the rights of man? The Lord Almighty has organized man for the express purpose of becoming an independent being like unto Himself, and has given him his individual agency. Man is made in the likeness of his Creator, the great archetype of the human species, who bestowed upon him the principles of eternity, planting immortality within him, and leaving him at liberty to act in the way that seemeth good unto him—to choose or refuse for himself, to be a Latter-day Saint or a Wesleyan Methodist, to belong to the Church of England, the oldest daughter of the Mother Church, the old Mother herself, to her sister the Greek Church, or to be an infidel and belong to no church.”
Natasha looked up from her reading as her bedroom door opened. She slipped the blue book under her bedcovers, but not before her mother noticed.
“Are you feeling better?”
“Some.”
“May I sit with you?”
“Well, I . . .”
“Natasha, I know about your book.” Svetlana Karlovna approached the bed. “And I know it means a great deal to you.”
“How do you know that?”
“You’ve hidden it from your father so he wouldn’t take it away from you.”
Emotion filled Natasha’s face as she brought the book out from under the covers. “Mr. Lindlof gave it to me.”
“Ah.” Her mother sat down on the end of the bed. “But why else do you treasure it?”
Natasha ran her fingers over the impressed gold letters that spelled out Articles of Faith. “I didn’t at first. I was going to throw it away . . . but . . . I couldn’t.”
“And now?”
Natasha’s eyes filled with tears. “Now it is precious to me and I don’t understand why. It goes against everything Father has taught me, against atheism, and against many of the things I write for the Bolsheviks.”
Her mother moved further onto the bed, pressing her back against the wall, and bringing her knees to her chest. She looked like a young girl and Natasha smiled.
“It surprises me that you would care for such a naïve book, Natasha, even though the English must intrigue you.”
“But mother, it’s not naïve. The writer, Professor James Talmage, is brilliant. I’m sure that’s why Mr. Lindlof gave it to me. He knew I would be captured by the science and philosophy.”
“It sounds like a very odd book.”
“No, it isn’t. I’m just not explaining it well.” She gathered her thoughts. “Professor Talmage is a scholar and an apostle.”
“What do you mean . . . apostle? Such as the apostles of Christ?”
“Yes. Arel Lindlof once told me that in their church they believe in modern-day prophets and apostles. In fact . . .” She hesitated before saying the name, “Agnes told me about a time when a Mormon apostle came to Russia. She met him—an Elder Lyman.”
“An American apostle?”
“Yes. She and her family were with him in the Summer Garden when he said a prayer for Russia.”
“Oh, Natasha, you must speak more slowly.”
Natasha tampered her enthusiasm. “Sorry, Mother. It just feels like I’ve opened a door into a whole new room—ten rooms—rooms I never knew existed.”
“And these rooms are filled with scholars and prophets and apostles who come to say prayers for Russia?”
Natasha smiled. “Yes.”
“Why would a small American church be interested in Russia?”
“Agnes said that Joseph Smith—”
“Joseph Smith?” The blunt American name was difficult to say, and Svetlana attempted it again. “Joseph Smith? And who is he?”
“Was. He’s dead now, but he was the first Mormon prophet.” Natasha could tell by the look on her mother’s face that she was trying to absorb concepts that she herself had been intently pondering for weeks now. “Is it too much?”
“No, I want to hear about it, only, not everything at once.”
Natasha nodded, deciding to leave out Joseph’s First Vision, visits of angels, and gold plates. She smiled to think of how much spiritual information the Lindlofs had managed to sneak into her head over the years. “Joseph Smith was a young man from Vermont, America, who was inspired by God to start a new church.”
“When was this?”
“I think Agnes said the Church started in the early 1830s . . . I can’t remember exactly. Then in 1843, the Prophet was prompted to send missionaries to Russia.”
“I never heard about missionaries coming here.”
“They didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Joseph Smith was killed before they could come.”
“What do you mean, killed?”
“He was shot dead by an angry mob while he was in jail. He and his brother were both killed.”
Her mother looked stricken and she made the sign of the cross several times as if to ward off evil. “Were they bad men—this Joseph and his brother?”
“I don’t think so. Agnes always spoke about Joseph Smith with great tenderness.” Natasha ran her hand over the book, working to control her emotions. “Besides, we know very well that innocent people are sometimes mistreated and put into prison.”
Svetlana nodded. “Yes, we do know that.” They were silent for a time. “But an apostle finally did come?”
“Yes, Elder Lyman in 1903, when Agnes was eight years old.”
Her mother got a curious look on her face. “I think I might remember that day. The Lindlofs came out of their home all dressed in good clothes . . . and a huge carriage came to fetch them. I asked where they were going, and Alma said to the Summer Garden for an outing. Alma was pregnant with Linda Alise, and I remember thinking it odd that she was going out in her condition.” Svetlana’s face brightened. “Yes! It was that day. They came back in the afternoon for dinner, and several men were with them. I was so curious I pretended to sweep the threshold so I could see what was going on. I remember a large, good-looking man in American dress.” She sat reminiscing. “That must have been him,” she said quietly. “That must have been Elder Lyman, the apostle.”
“And where was I?” Natasha asked, fascinated by her mother’s story.
Svetlana shook her head. “I don’t remember. With your father somewhere, I suppose.” She crossed herself again. “What if it were true? What if I saw an apostle of God?”
Natasha was confused by the longing she heard in her mother’s voice. “But your faith is in the Orthodox Church.”
Her mother looked at her straight on. “And how do you see the Church, Natasha?”
Natasha found it an odd question. “It doesn’t really matter what I think.”
“Today, it does. I want to hear.”
Natasha sighed. “Everything is structured, static. The devout are good people, but it seems that you do things only because of tradition—all the bowing, lighting of candles, and kissing icons—it seems . . .”
“Lifeless?”
Natasha stared at her mother’s innocent face, then nodded. “Yes, lifeless.”
Tears formed in her mother’s eyes. “I have always felt that there was something more. In my heart there has been a question, an emptiness.” She brushed the tears from her cheeks. “I want to open a door into new rooms, Natasha. I was foolish not to ask questions of Alma Lindlof . . . or perhaps I was afraid of what your father would do.” She held out her hand for the book, and Natasha gave it to her. “What is it called?”
“Articles of Faith.”
“Written by Professor Talmage?”
“Yes. But everything is based on the thirteen articles of faith set down by Joseph Smith.”
“The Prophet Joseph Smith.”
“Yes.”
Svetlana handed the book back to her daughter. “Will you read them to me—these articles of faith?”
“Really?”
“Yes. I would like to hear what the Lindlofs believed.”
Natasha opened the book to page one and began reading. She read slowly as it took her time to translate from the English into Russian. “Article One: We believe in God, the Eternal Father, and in His Son, Jesus Christ, and in the Holy Ghost. Article Two: We believe that men will be punished for their own sins, and not for Adam’s transgression. Article Three: We believe that through the Atonement of Christ, all mankind may be saved, by obedience to the laws and ordinances of the Gospel.” Natasha glanced up to see her mother’s hand move toward her chest, and she was sure that her mother was going to cross herself again as was her custom, but her hand merely rested on her chest as if to measure the beating of her heart.
“So simple,” Svetlana whispered. “So pure and so simple.”
Natasha laid the book on her lap, surprised by the thought that had jumped into her mind. She hesitated, not wanting to change what she and her mother were sharing, but the words would not be silenced. “Mother, I need to tell you something.”
“Yes, Natasha, what is it?”
“Father must not know.”
Svetlana did not answer.
“You must promise me this.”
Her mother finally nodded, and Natasha smiled and took her hand.
“The night the Lindlofs were taken away, Agnes gave me something.”
“What?”
“Riddles.” She brought out the folded paper from the back of the book. “But they’re not just riddles. They’re clues to money the Lindlofs hid before they were arrested.”
Her mother frowned at her. “How do you know this?”
Natasha got quickly out of bed and ran to her dresser. “The night I was at the university—the night I fell—I wasn’t going to father’s office, I was following the clue to the Rostral Columns.” She returned to the bed and handed her mother the bundle. “And I found this. Open it.” She watched excitedly as her mother undid the ties and unrolled the cloth. Ruble notes plus silver and gold rings, and a few gold coins winked up at them.
“Oh my,” her mother said.
Natasha slid back under the covers. “Yes. Against her father’s wishes, Agnes told me they were trying to escape to Finland, and they were afraid the remains of their goods might be confiscated by the Bolsheviks.”
“And the hidden money?”
“No. She didn’t tell me about that. Only after I’d solved the first two riddles did I figure out what they were trying to do. Of course they never thought they’d be arrested.” She handed her mother the paper. “When Agnes gave me the riddles she said, ‘It can save us.’” Tears rolled down Natasha’s cheeks, but her words were defiant. “And that’s what I’m going to do—find the money that can save them.”
Svetlana handed her daughter a handkerchief. “But you don’t know where they’re being held, and Johan and Alma are in Finland by now.”
“I know, but I can’t worry about that.” She blew her nose. “I can only do what my friend has asked me to do. . . . Then I’ll wait until I can give the money to them.”
Svetlana Karlovna sat looking at the riddles. “How can I help you?”
Natasha’s heart filled with love for her mother. This was not letting things brush past—this was not being timid and following orders. She’d seen her mother assert herself a few times, but in this she was putting herself in danger. “Thank you, Mama.”
Svetlana nodded. “What is it you need?”
“Help in solving the other two riddles.”
“But you and Agnes were the ones to do riddles. I have no skill at it.”
“I think you can look at them with new eyes.”
“Old eyes and an old head.”
“You are not old.” Natasha gave her mother a saucy look. “And I think you are much wiser than you let on. Now stop stalling and look at riddle number two. It’s a location, and I think I have a few things figured out, but I’m not sure.”
“It’s very short.”
“It is.”
Svetlana read. “‘The African kings fly to the north river’s shore.’” She read it again, and then shook her head. “I have no idea what that means.”
Natasha smiled. “That’s why it’s a riddle. The meaning is hidden. For example, there are two objects because ‘kings’ is plural, and ‘the north river’s shore,’ I think, could mean the north bank of a river.”
“So, two African kings on the north bank of a river?”
“Yes, but ‘African kings’ are probably not actual kings. And why Africa?”
“Maybe they’re African jungle kings.”
Natasha sat straighter. “Yes! Lions! Where are there two lion statues on the north bank of a river?”
Svetlana shook her head. “But lions don’t fly, and Agnes wrote that these creatures fly to the bank of the river.”
Creatures. The word stuck in Natasha’s brain. Lions that fly. Part lion, part bird. “Griffins.”
Svetlana’s face registered surprise and delight. “Griffins! Yes. It must be. The two griffins on the north end of the bridge over the Griboyedov canal.”
Natasha gasped. “The Bank Bridge!”
Svetlana looked in wonder at the simple riddle. “Your friend is very smart.”
Natasha gave her mother an exuberant hug. “Yes, she is!”
“And you think they’ve hidden money there?”
“I’m sure of it.” Natasha took the paper. “And now for the final hiding place.” She read.
One season.
One place.
Two women of grace
Stand present and past—
Laurels extending, abundance expanding.
Two creatures divided
One vanquished, one free.
She looked up from the paper into her mother’s stupefied face. “That’s all of it.”
“All of it? It’s quite enough,” her mother said. “I don’t even know where to begin.”
“It will take a little time, but we’ll work it out. You are much better at this than you give yourself credit.”
They heard the front door open and close. “Svetlana Karlovna?”
Natasha hid the paper, and her mother scrambled from the bed.
“Oh dear! What time is it?”
Natasha glanced at the clock on her dresser. “Just before four.”
“Svetlana?” came a more pointed call.
Her mother rushed to the door. “He’s early and I haven’t even started the tea.” She opened the door and called down the stairs. “Yes. I’m here Ivan Alexseyevitch. I was just checking on Natasha.”
Natasha followed her mother to the top of the stairs. “Mama, thank you for today. I’m glad I no longer have to face this alone.”
Her mother turned and gathered her into her arms. “We will pray for a good outcome.” She kissed both of Natasha’s cheeks, and then hurried down the stairs.
Pray for a good outcome. Was there an actual, omniscient Being that listened to the prayers of her mother, the prayers of the tsar, the prayers of her friend? Surely it was impossible, but . . . perhaps not. Natasha’s mind still had doubts, but her heart clung to the hope that the prayers of her dear friend did find access to an unknown realm.
Natasha turned back into her room and saw the blue book on the bed. She picked it up and thumbed through the pages. Was there an answer here? How could faith stand against the logic and power of government? How could faith feed men, or take away their poverty? She opened the book and read.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Petrograd
February 2, 1918
Sergey Antonovich’s
apartment was cold. He sat at his table in his coat and mittens reading Pravda and drinking weak tea. He’d only had enough wood to heat the one pot of water and then it was gone. He cursed the tsar, the greedy bourgeois merchants, and the Provisional Government for bringing such hardship to the people. He gulped down the last of the tepid tea and looked at the clock—one in the afternoon, and though a pale light came through the window, there was no heat to it. Hang on for two more months, Sergey told himself. Two more months and warmer weather will come and you’ll be on the train.
He heard footsteps in the hallway and a knock at his door. Who could that be? He was not expecting anyone.
He opened the door to find Dmitri Borisovitch and Nicholai Lvovitch, their arms full of wooden slats and their faces beaming.
Sergey laughed. “Ah, comrades! What’s all this?”
“It’s wood, Sergey Antonovich!” Dmitri Borisovitch said, stepping into the room.
“We knew your stove had been starving of late, so we came to feed it.”
Sergey laughed again. “What did you do, tear down someone’s house?”
“Fence,” Nicholai said pragmatically, dumping the slats by the stove.
“You did not,” Sergey asserted.
“Oh, yes, we did,” Dmitri countered. “As comrades, we have no need for fences that separate us, so we are taking them down.”
“Here are a few dry pieces to get things started,” Nicholai stated, handing Sergey some smaller slats he’d just broken apart with his beefy hands.
“Thanks, Nicholai.” Sergey put the wood in the stove and started it. “Thanks to both of you.”
“Ah, there’s more!” Dmitri said dramatically. He reached into his pocket and brought out a packet wrapped in butcher paper. “Sausage!”
Sergey was stunned. “How did you manage that?”
“We took wood to the butcher.”
“You are lucky not to have been caught by one of the members of the Housing Committee.”
Dmitri scoffed. “Those lunks? They’re too busy being important and monitoring how much electricity is being used. They don’t see what goes on under their noses.”
Sergey shook his head. “All I’m saying is that it’s hard to run on slick streets.”
