by Gale Sears
“No,” Arel said immediately. “She loves Agnes. She’ll do anything to help her.”
“We just have to keep praying that Natasha Ivanovna is as true as she is beautiful,” Erland said. His chuckle turned into a cough and he grimaced in pain. He laid his head on the table to control the spasms.
Johannes rubbed his back as the other brothers watched helplessly. Finally Erland quieted. He made a pillow of his bony arms and closed his eyes. Johannes kept his hand protectively on his brother’s back.
“What should we do?” Arel whispered.
“Let him rest,” Johannes answered.
At that moment Andre Andreyevitch came into the tent. A few prisoners glanced over at him, then back to their bowls, many stopped talking, and even the kitchen orderlies found jobs to occupy them elsewhere.
The assistant commandant looked imperiously around the room. When his eyes found Golubev and the Little Mother, he motioned for them to join him. The gang bosses ambled forward, showing just the right amount of humility. As bowls clattered and the conversations resumed, the assistant commandant spoke to the bosses. The look on his face was angry and all the prisoners hoped their names were not on his lips.
The bosses turned and Arel knew that the Little Mother would be calling out Agnes and Alexandria, and that Golubev would be summoning them.
“Erland, sit up,” he said gently, reaching across the table and taking Erland’s hand. “Johannes, put his mittens on him. His hands are like ice.”
Johannes was able to rouse Erland and get his mittens on just as Golubev came to their table.
“You four . . . the assistant wants to see you in the mill office.” He leaned over the table and growled at them. “You’d better not be in any trouble, because I can’t afford to lose you off the gang.”
They didn’t answer, but stood to go out. Johannes supported Erland by grabbing a wad of fabric at the back of his jacket and holding his arm. His body was so emaciated it was like handling a marionette.
As they walked out into the frigid afternoon, Agnes and Alexandria fell in line behind them. None of them spoke and they all kept their heads down. They walked into the warm mill office and the scent of pine was overwhelming. Andre Andreyevitch stood with his back to the stove and a smile on his face. When he saw Erland, the smile dropped.
“Sit him down. Sit him down in the clerk’s chair.”
Johannes maneuvered Erland into the chair, taking care not to bump his brother’s thin arms against the wood.
“I’ve sent the clerk and the mill foreman on an errand into town.” He moved to check Erland’s condition. “They weren’t too happy, but what of that?”
Erland straightened as the assistant commandant approached. “I’m fine, sir . . . just a little tired.”
“I can send you back to the infirmary.”
“No, sir, thank you. I’d rather stay with my brothers.”
“Are you sure?”
Erland nodded.
Andre Andreyevitch shook his head, then turned and picked up an old sack. He set it onto the clerk’s desk. Something solid clunked inside it when he set it down. He opened the top of the bag, reached in, and pulled out a charming birch-bark box. It had been lovingly crafted by a country artisan with carvings all around the sides and a perfect replica of a squirrel carved on the top.
Agnes gasped. How did he know? How did he know that Natasha’s pet name for her was “little squirrel”? She could not stop the tears, and she felt Arel’s arm around her waist.
“Are you all right, Comrade Lindlof?” Andre Andreyevitch asked.
Agnes steadied herself and removed her coat. “Yes, sir, I’m just not used to the warmth.”
“Of course,” he said, “how silly of me. Please—all of you—take off your coats.”
Everyone complied except Erland.
When he had their attention again, Andre Andreyevitch continued. “I have finally come up with a plan for you to retrieve your money, if”—he looked meaningfully at Agnes—“by some mad chance, your friend has found it.” He put his hand on the box. “You will send this box to your friend, and she will send the money back to you in it.”
They all stared at him as though he were mad. Johannes finally spoke.
“But Natasha Ivanovna must write to us first.”
Andre smiled. “Alexandria will write a letter to the camp as though she were Natasha Ivanovna. It will have the needed addresses, and I will fake the post. The censors never really check the outside that carefully, they are more interested in the letter’s content.” They all nodded. “Then Agnes will write to her friend and put two letters in the box.”
“Two letters?” Agnes questioned.
Andre Andreyevitch nodded, removing the lid from the box. “One here.” He pointed inside the empty box. “And one here.” He flipped the box over and pressed the carved pinecone on the bottom of the box. No one heard the latch move, but, as they watched, Andre Andreyevitch pushed the bottom panel to the side, revealing a two-inch gap between the false bottom and the actual bottom.
The brothers smiled at each other, but Agnes shook her head. “Others have told me that the guards go through all boxes and packages thoroughly, and prisoners are never allowed to keep any box, or jar, or container.”
“Yes, that’s true.” Andre grinned. “But, you see, all empty boxes and containers are brought to the assistant commandant.”
“That’s convenient,” Oskar said.
Agnes persisted. “But what if they find the secret compartment while they’re going through the contents?”
Andre Andreyevitch gave a little shake of his head. “You give our guards too much credit for intelligence, Comrade Lindlof. Here again, we will have a safeguard. You will instruct your friend to put into the box the typical things most prisoners receive: sugar, salt, baked goods, paper, pencils, letters, and photos—that sort of thing. Then, on the very top, she will lay a couple of two-ruble notes.”
“Is that a bribe?” Alexandria broke in.
Andre Andreyevitch smiled. “No, just the opposite. The guards aren’t allowed to touch money—too much temptation for thievery. Any box containing money is immediately brought to me without being searched.”
Agnes looked at the eight-inch square box and nodded. She picked up the lid and ran her hand over the squirrel carving. “I think this might work.”
Alexandria clapped and Erland looked hopefully at his siblings.
Andre Andreyevitch handed Agnes the other part of the box. “Your brothers tell me that you and your friend, Natasha Ivanovna, are good at figuring riddles.”
Agnes smiled. “Yes, Assistant Commandant, we’re very good.” She pressed the pinecone on the bottom of the box to see how it worked, then replaced the lid and handed the box back to him. “Won’t the guards who do the post wonder how we came by such an item?”
Andre Andreyevitch shook his head. “It may be your letters inside the box, Comrade Lindlof, but it will be my handwriting on the wrapping. I will bypass the checkers and send it out from my office.”
“Then why the two letters?”
“One can never be too careful, right? What if the box is checked along the way, or at the post station in Petrograd? The censors will read the letter inside the box and find nothing remarkable about it, but your friend will be able to discern the hidden meaning.”
Agnes nodded. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be questioning your planning. We’re very grateful for your help.”
“I’m glad for your questions. It makes me consider everything. Please, if you think of any other questions, let me know, all right?” Agnes nodded again, and Andre Andreyevitch looked around at the other members of the family. “It’s time to put you back to work. If anyone asks why I called you, say that someone made a negative report about your behavior and I had to check i
t.”
Arel stepped forward and extended his hand. Andre Andreyevitch took it. “Thank you, Andre Andreyevitch. You are a blessing to us.”
“Just keep praying that this works.” He looked at Alexandria. “Get started writing the letter from Natasha Ivanovna, and you”—he looked at Agnes—“start creating the riddle and letter for your friend.”
As they left the mill office, Agnes knew that they all felt a whispered hope—a hope that had eluded them for months. God had guided things to this point. They just had to keep faith that He would not forsake them.
Erland stepped out into the snowy work area whistling a well-known Bolshevik rally song.
“What are you whistling that for?” Oskar asked, swatting at him with his hat.
“Put on your hat,” Erland scolded. “You’ll catch your death.”
Oskar shoved the hat on his head. “Well, stop whistling that song.”
“But, brother, I want everyone to think I’m a happy little Bolshevik so that no one is surprised when they let me stroll out of this camp.”
The siblings laughed and Agnes was amazed and heartened to hear Erland teasing again. There was hope! Somehow all the complicated plans would work, and come spring they would find themselves reunited with their parents and Linda Alise.
They heard the work whistle blow, and Johannes growled at them to lower their heads and put on somber looks. Agnes did as she was told, knowing the serious mask hid a heart that, for the first time in a long time, felt happiness.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Petrograd
March 18, 1918
“Lenin had to bring peace, Sergey Antonovich. The Bolsheviks promised peace and Trotsky couldn’t stall the German command any longer.” Dmitri Borisovitch stood by the window while Sergey paced near Natasha’s desk. The seamstresses had left the Smolny for the streetcar an hour before and Natasha envied them. For the past twenty minutes she had been sitting and listening to Sergey and Dmitri argue about the Brest-Litovsk war treaty.
Sergey slammed his fist down on her desk. “After all the months of wrangling, Trotsky knew it was useless. Did you know the Russian delegation signed the final draft without even reading it?”
Dmitri nodded. “But it’s peace, Sergey Antonovich.”
Sergey rounded on him. “Peace? At what cost? Lithuania, Livonia, Estonia—gone. Twenty-five percent of our fertile farming area. Sixty million people. Seventy-five percent of our iron ore and coal deposits! It is a high price for peace!” He kicked a chair across the room.
A dark figure appeared in the doorway. “I agree with you, Comrade Vershinin. The treaty is a hangman’s noose around our neck, but what could we do?”
“Commissar Trotsky!” Sergey gasped. “I’m . . . I’m sorry. I’ve just been so angry since hearing the report.”
Leon Trotsky walked into the room, and Natasha stood. She noted the strain on the man’s face and felt a rush of pity for the futility of his efforts. A government cannot force men to change their hearts. She shook her head to clear the thought.
“Are you all right, Comrade Gavrilova?” Trotsky asked as he came to her side.
“Yes, Commissar. I . . . we’ve all been upset by the report.”
“I understand. But we will not give up hope, will we?”
“No, Commissar.”
“We thought our glorious Socialist revolution would inspire the workers of other countries, especially the workers of Germany. We thought the proletariat would rise up against their imperialist government and the war would end.” He rearranged a few things on Natasha’s desk. “That did not happen.”
“But the Soviet ideal will continue here,” Dmitri Borisovitch stated emphatically.
Trotsky looked into his eager face and smiled. “Well, for a while anyway.” He absently picked up a blue book from Natasha’s desk. “The Bolsheviks never planned for Russia to stand alone. The dream is for a worldwide dictatorship of the proletariat.” He set the book down and Natasha unobtrusively slid a flyer over the top of it. Trotsky’s mind seemed to wander. “Workers of the world unite. The worldwide dictatorship of the proletariat . . . a lofty goal.” He shook his head. “Well . . . anyway, Germany will now turn its anger and guns away from us and we shall have time to work on our own problems.” He looked at Natasha Ivanovna and smiled. “And we will hope that Germany loses the war and keeps nothing of what she took.”
“It is what she deserves,” Natasha answered coldly.
Trotsky gave her a wry smile. “We will have you write something about it, Comrade Gavrilova.”
“I would be glad to.”
“But first you will write to the Russian people—a stirring proclamation of the Bolshevik fulfillment of peace.”
“Yes, Commissar.”
“And Comrade Vershinin, you will give speeches.” He turned to Dmitri. “And you . . .”
Dmitri shrugged. “Yes, I know . . . I will keep looking for film.”
Commissar Trotsky gave him a puzzled look while Natasha and Sergey laughed. Sergey thumped Dmitri on the back. “Dmitri Borisovitch is our filmmaker on the agitprop train.”
“Ah, of course,” Trotsky answered. “You’re the one who brought pictures from the Winter Palace on the day of the revolution.”
Dmitri brightened. “Yes. That was me.”
“Well, with the three of you, we should have the entire country enlightened in no time.”
“We’ll do our best, Commissar,” Sergey said, and Natasha noted the commitment in his voice.
A courier came to the door, stopping abruptly when he saw Trotsky. “Commissar Trotsky, Chairman Lenin wishes to speak with you.”
“Yes, I’ll be right there.” He turned back to the three. “It’s late. You should be off to your homes. Go. Go on, now. Get some sleep. We need you bright and healthy.”
“Yes, Commissar,” Natasha said. She was grateful for his command because it meant she wouldn’t have to stay and listen to any more of Sergey’s diatribe about the war treaty. As Trotsky was leaving the room, she slipped the blue book into the pocket of her coat. She said good-bye to Dmitri and Sergey, and headed for the streetcar. She too was upset by the unfolding events in the country, but those worries occupied only a little corner of her head. She put her hand on the book in her pocket and took a deep breath of cold night air. The weeks were flying by and soon it would be April. Normally the thought of the approaching spring made her smile, but all it did now was bring a wash of anxiety.
She heard the sound of the approaching streetcar and ran to catch it.
* * *
It was late when Natasha arrived home. The house was still and cold. She grabbed one of her mother’s currant rolls and crept up the stairs to her bedroom. She had removed her coat and slipped the blue book into its hiding place when a soft tap came to her door. Natasha jumped. “Yes?” she said softly.
“May I speak with you?” came her mother’s voice.
Natasha opened the door. “Yes, of course.”
Her mother entered the room. She carried a package. “This came for you today in the post.”
Natasha’s heart started beating so fast she had to place her hands on her chest to calm it. “I’ve never received a package.”
Her mother held it out to her. “I’m sure it’s from Agnes Lindlof. It doesn’t have her name, but it is from Ekaterinburg and that town is in Siberia.”
Natasha took the package. “Oh, Mother. It means she’s alive.”
They were speaking in hushed voices, but Svetlana moved her daughter away from the door. “Your father is asleep, but still, we must be very quiet.” She tucked a strand of Natasha’s hair behind her ear. “No loud weeping.”
Natasha grinned through tears. She sat on her bed and patted the coverlet for her mother to join her. She ran her hand along the brown f
elt wrapping tied with cord. She removed the large address card from under the cording, and frowned. “This isn’t Agnes’s handwriting.” She looked again at the box. “Would you bring me my scissors, please . . . out of my sewing basket.” Her mother went to retrieve them and Natasha worked to keep up her spirits.
“It has to be from her,” her mother said, returning with the scissors.
Natasha nodded and cut the string that attached the address card to the package. She studied it again before handing it to her mother. She cut the knot of the main cord and slipped the binding off the felt. Her hands were trembling as she removed the covering. When she saw the birch-bark box with the carving of the squirrel, the tears came freely.
“It is from her.” She took the lid carefully from the box and saw the letter sitting inside with her name beautifully penned on the cover. “Oh, my dear, dear friend.” She wiped her eyes on her sleeve, took out the letter, and opened it. She steadied her voice and read.
Dearest Natasha,
I and the others are well.
Natasha looked up quickly. “The others? They must all be together then!”
Her mother put her hands over her heart. “That is a miracle, isn’t it?”
Natasha continued reading.
We are working for the people and it is good.
“I’m sure the Bolshevik censors liked that,” Svetlana commented. “Your friend is very smart.”
Natasha ran her fingers over the squirrel carving. “Yes, she is.”
You have always been a Treasure to me, dear friend. I remember whenever I was sad or Down, you would always say, “Poor Makar. The Pinecones always fall on the head of poor Makar.”
Natasha paused, staring at the letter. “I never said that.” She read on.
Or, you would tell me a riddle to cheer me up, like this one: I’m weightless, but you can see me. Put me in a bucket and I’ll make it lighter.
Please write to me, and if you would, please return the box filled with good things.
Your friend,
