by Gale Sears
Alexandria collapsed into weeping.
“Dear Father,” Arel prayed, “please, bring us your peace. Please bring peace to Oskar and to Alexandria.” Tears filled his voice, but the words pierced through to every heart. “Bless Erland . . . dear Erland. And, if it is Thy will, take him home to Thee. We love him and know that he will find rest with Thee . . . that his sorrows will be at an end.”
As Arel was speaking these words, Agnes opened her eyes and looked at Erland. His body went slack in Oskar’s arms and his face relaxed. Oskar moaned and wrapped his big arms around his brother’s shrunken frame. Agnes felt a tangible peace surround them, as warm and encompassing as the heat from the stove.
A knock came to the door.
“You two, step back!” Andre Andreyevitch snapped at Johannes and Arel. “Women, dry your tears.”
Agnes knew the assistant commandant was doing what was necessary to maintain the ruse and keep them all safe, but she could see what it was costing him. He knew their hearts were wounded with the death of their brother and though he may have wanted to give them time to grieve, he could not.
Andre Andreyevitch opened the door and the first guard of the compound stepped inside. “Commandant, the wagon for the sick prisoner is at the front.”
Andre Andreyevitch stood straighter. “The prisoner has died.” He pointed at the brothers. “The three of you carry the man to the wagon.”
Oskar would not relinquish Erland’s body, so Arel and Johannes helped him to stand, then followed him numbly outside.
“And get a blanket to wrap around him,” Andre Andreyevitch told the guard.
“But why? He’s dead.”
“Just do as you’re told.”
“And the prisoners?”
Andre Andreyevitch swallowed. “They will each receive two days in the cell.”
“Only two days? Such disobedience requires five days at least.”
“Are you questioning my command?”
“No, sir.”
“Then follow my orders.”
The guard scowled, but left the office without another word.
He pointed at Agnes and Alexandria. “And you two get back to work.”
The two stumbled forward in a daze. They came out into the yard to find several prisoners milling about as if unsure what to do. Andre Andreyevitch set things to right quickly.
“All of you, back to work! Gang bosses, get your people working!”
The order was followed immediately.
The sisters stood staring at the wagon as it pulled away until the Little Mother barked at them to get back to work.
Andre Andreyevitch came up behind the two as they made their way to the mill yard. He spoke in a low whisper. “My heart is aching for you, but there’s nothing I can do. You understand, don’t you?”
Agnes and Alexandria nodded.
“I actually came to the mill today to give you a message.” He waited as they passed by a guard. Just before they reached the large doors of the mill, he spoke. “Agnes, you will find your name on the listing for the post. A certain box has arrived.”
Agnes gasped and turned to look at him, but the assistant commandant was already walking away, barking harsh orders at any derelict prisoner.
* * *
Agnes stood in the assistant commandant’s office. It was late and “lights out” would be issued at any moment. She did not know exactly what time it was as none of the prisoners had clocks or watches. Time was kept by the ruling power.
Andre Andreyevitch slid open the bottom of the birch-bark box and three cloth bundles and a letter fell out onto the desk.
Agnes was stunned. The plan had worked! Her emotions were too mangled to feel the complete joy of the moment, but she did know that this money could save the rest of them.
Andre Andreyevitch pushed the bundles across the table to her. She picked up the letter and pressed it to her heart, then slid one bundle into each of her boots. The smallest of the bundles she pushed back to the assistant commandant. He shook his head.
“We insist,” Agnes answered. “If you were caught helping us, you would be shot. Take it, please. My friend Natasha has used some of the money to buy the goods and pay for the post, but I’m sure there is enough left to help you out of most difficulties.”
“Miss Lindlof . . .”
“Please. I know you would help us for nothing, but we won’t allow it.”
Andre Andreyevitch smiled. “Behind that angel face is a firm determination.”
“Yes. Now, put it away quickly before a wood sprite comes in and steals it.”
The assistant commandant took the bundle and hid it under some papers in the side drawer of his desk. He then took off the lid of the box and began to rummage through it.
The office door opened and the commandant of the camp came into the room. Agnes’s heart crashed against her ribs as she stared in horror at the bottom of the box still in its open position.
“Good evening, Commandant,” Andre Andreyevitch said with formal correctness, smoothly sliding the bottom of the box back into its proper place. “May I help you?”
The weasel-eyed leader came close to Agnes, stripping the head scarf from her head and running his hand across the back of her neck. “Such a shame we make them cut their hair. Bet yours was luscious wasn’t it, hey? What do you say to that?”
“Yes, Commandant.”
He chuckled. “Yes, of course . . . luscious. What is your name?”
“Prisoner 146377, Commandant.”
He swore. “Not that. Your name.”
“Agnes Irene, sir.”
“Agnes Irene? What kind of name is that?”
Andre Andreyevitch broke in. “Is there something you needed, sir?”
The commandant turned to glare at him. “Yes, there is something! I just don’t come in here unless I have a reason.” He pointed at Agnes. “What is she doing in here so late at night? Were you planning something naughty with the little Matryoshka doll, Lieutenant?”
Agnes saw color come into Andre Andreyevitch’s face and anger snap into his eyes. “No, sir,” he said sternly. “Prisoner 146377 had a parcel which contained some questionable items.”
The commandant displayed comic disappointment. “That’s all?”
“Yes, sir.”
The signal was sounded for “lights out” and the commandant gave Andre Andreyevitch a malicious grin. “Oh, now see . . . you may have to keep her all night anyway.” He walked over to peruse the contents of the box. He took out Natasha’s letter, the ruble notes, the socks and gloves, a can of tobacco, a bag of dried apple slices, chocolate bars, three tins of salmon, a small icon of Jesus, and a jar of caviar.
“Hey, hey, what’s this?” he said, tossing the jar of caviar into the air. “A prisoner can’t have caviar! What do we think . . . we’re in the middle of a bourgeois dining room?” He put the jar in his pocket. “That would never do. The members of your gang would tear you apart for that. And this?” He picked up the tin of tobacco. “Disgusting. Women don’t smoke. Surely you don’t smoke . . . a beauty like you?” He glanced at Agnes and shook his head. “No, of course not.” He put the tobacco in his pocket along with one of the chocolate bars and a tin of salmon. He picked up the icon of Jesus. “Throw that in the trash. No need for that.” He handed it to Andre Andreyevitch. He looked at Agnes and smiled. “And those ruble notes will go into your account.”
“I have an account?”
“Of course, comrade. We keep all your money safe for you for when you leave here. If you leave here.” He took her head scarf out of his pocket and dangled it in front of her face. He glanced back at the assistant commandant. “Don’t wear this one out, Lieutenant. She looks like a white lily from the hothouse.”
Agnes grabbed the scarf from hi
s hand, and he laughed at the embarrassment in her face.
“Oh, how I miss the frothy women of the tsarist regime. The Bolsheviks have turned all the women into such equals that they’ve begun to look like men.” He rubbed his hand across her cheek. “Not this one though . . . not this one. Little Matryoshka doll.”
Agnes pulled her head back, but the commandant grabbed her hair, leaning in and nuzzling her neck.
Andre Andreyevitch stood abruptly. “The reason you came in, Commandant?”
The commandant chuckled and stepped back without releasing Agnes’s hair. He ran his fingers over her lips as he spoke. “I’m cutting the bread ration. You will inform the kitchen.” He turned to Andre Andreyevitch, who nodded. “You’d better tell this morsel to inform her package sender about what is and isn’t allowed.” He took the jar of caviar from his pocket, kissed it, and walked from the room.
Agnes stood looking at the floor.
“I’m sorry,” Andre Andreyevitch said softly. His voice was mellow and tender, and Agnes nodded.
“May I go now?”
“Yes.” He handed her all the remaining goods—even the icon of Jesus—and she wrapped the treasures in her scarf. She kept the icon in her hand.
“Do you have a hiding place for the bundles of treasure?”
“Yes,” Agnes answered. “We’ve been planning.”
“Good.” He brought out the second tin of salmon from behind his back and walked near to give it to her. “You can’t actually have this tin, so I would suggest you give it to the guard outside the door. He’s a good person to have on your side. Tell him I said to escort you back to your dormitory.”
“Yes, sir.” She turned to go, and then hesitated. “Thank you for your help today.” She watched remorse cross his face.
“I wish I didn’t have to put Arel and Johannes in the cell, but . . .”
“No, we understand. We do. Your authority would be questioned if you didn’t punish them. They will be all right, Andre Andreyevitch.”
The assistant commandant shook his head. “Where does your strength come from, Agnes Lindlof? Does it come from your faith?”
Agnes looked at the image of Jesus in her hand. “Yes.”
“How? In all this madness, with all this sorrow—how can you still believe?”
She looked up. “I hear His voice.”
Andre Andreyevitch’s eyes narrowed.
“Not like a mad person, Commandant, but as a stillness . . . a voice in my head that whispers peace and compassion.”
“Compassion?”
“Yes. Christ suffered greatly, so He understands my heartaches and my pain.”
“And they aren’t just your own thoughts?”
Pain washed her face and tears fell. “No. My thoughts are of loss and anger and revenge.” She wiped her tears. “The Bolsheviks hope to silence God.”
Andre Andreyevitch nodded.
Agnes’s eyes held sorrow. “The Bolsheviks are fools.” She turned and walked from the room.
Notes
1. The marching orders given by the captain were taken from the book One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn. Solzhenitsyn spent eight years in a Soviet labor camp from 1945 to 1953.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Petrograd
April 13, 1918
Dmitri Borisovitch had collected twenty canisters of film, and Natasha Ivanovna watched him as he strutted around the loading platform at the train station looking as though Lenin had personally patted him on the back. He spoke to her at length about his amazing procurement, then hurried off to snap at the baggage handlers and instruct them on how to place the film in the boxcar.
“He’s going to pass out from exertion,” Natasha said offhandedly.
“He does seem overanxious,” her mother answered.
They had been standing together on the platform watching the bustle and saying little. Natasha was grateful. So many thoughts and feelings were bumping around inside her that she found speech difficult. Even when Sergey Antonovich had come to her, talking with excitement about the journey, she had been reserved. He’d finally tired of her short answers and gone off to find Professor Prozorov.
“I don’t want to go, Mother.”
“I know.”
“I want to be here to receive Agnes’s letters.”
“Of course, but I promise that if letters come, I will keep them safe for you.”
“Thank you.” Natasha looked over at Dmitri Borisovitch as he bossed around one of the baggage handlers. She sighed. “Do you think the box reached them in good order?”
Her mother took her hand. “Natasha, you mustn’t worry about things over which you have no control.”
Natasha nodded.
“You did everything that was asked of you.”
“I did.”
“Then leave it in the hands of God.”
Natasha found it interesting that she no longer felt that coil of resentment snake up her spine when her mother spoke of God, or when she saw a ragged babushka crossing herself when she passed a church. She still did not know if God existed, but over the months, her vehement declarations about Him had faded in certainty.
Natasha watched as her trunk was loaded. “I guess there’s no turning back.”
“Turning back?” her father barked as he came to stand beside them. “Why would you be thinking about that? I’d give my best suit to be going on this journey.”
Natasha forced enthusiasm into her voice. “Of course, I’m honored to be going. I’ve just never been away from you two for so long a time.”
“Nonsense,” her father scoffed. “You’re a grown woman. Besides, you’ll have Sergey Antonovich to look after you.” He handed her a newspaper. “Here, I bought you Pravda to read on the train.”
“Thank you.”
The train whistle blew and a few moments later Professor Prozorov came up to them, shaking hands with Natasha’s father and giving her an unctuous smile. “Fifteen minutes to boarding. Do you have everything?”
“Yes.”
He looked away from her to her father. “We have a printing press on the train, Professor Gavrilov. Did your daughter tell you that?”
“No, she didn’t.”
“Well, I’m surprised. It will mean that her written words will be going out to thousands of ignorant peasants.”
Natasha was standing close enough to her mother to feel her body tense in anger.
“And we have moving picture cameras and film, and an entire boxcar for the visual artist who will be doing the posters. No greater way to use their talent than to serve the state.”
“It is thrilling, indeed,” Natasha’s father said with a more subdued enthusiasm. “The ideals of the Soviets spreading across this vast country—thrilling.”
Professor Prozorov sobered. “Yes, Professor, exactly right . . . well put.”
“And you will be sure to keep watch over my daughter?”
Professor Prozorov looked puzzled. “Why, yes. Yes, of course.” He glanced over at the train. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to check on the final details.”
Professor Gavrilov’s next words halted his departure. “I’ll come with you, if you don’t mind. I’d like to see that printing press.”
“Why, yes, Professor Gavrilov, I’d be glad to show you.” Professor Prozorov turned back to Natasha. “Be sure you’re punctual. You know Russian trains—always right on time.”
“Yes, Professor,” Natasha said flatly.
The two men moved off, and Svetlana Karlovna blew out a breath of air. “Ignorant peasants? How dare he say something like that?”
“I’ve told you, he’s not a nice person,” Natasha stated. “I’m sorry for what he said. People from the city always thin
k they’re better than the country folk.”
“And intellectuals think they have the answer to everything.”
Natasha smiled. “I promise not to be haughty during my time with Uncle Petya and Auntie Anna.”
“My sister is brilliant, and even though my brother-in-law is just a farmer, he is one of the wisest men I know,” Svetlana declared.
Natasha took her mother’s hands. “Yes, it’s true. I love them dearly and my cousin Irena Petrovna . . . I can’t wait to see them.”
Her mother nodded. “How fortunate that Novgorod was the first stop of the propaganda train. But it is sad that you have only three days to spend with them.”
Natasha found it funny that her mother never called it the agitprop train or the Red Train, but always the propaganda train. She smiled at the dear woman and found her eyes filled with longing. “Mama, are you all right?”
“Oh, I just miss home—the magical little wooden house in Sel’tso Saterno.” She shook her head. “It’s silly to dream, but I wish I were going with you.”
“I wish that too,” Natasha said. “I’ve never traveled to see Auntie Anna and Uncle Petya on my own.”
“Yes, you were eighteen the last time we were all there together.”
“So long ago. Will I even know my cousin?”
Svetlana Karlovna smiled. “I think you will find her little changed. Irena Petrovna is still the same simple girl you played with years ago.”
“Will she ever leave her home?”
“No, I’m sure she won’t. Her childlike innocence would not understand much of the wider world.”
The train whistle blew a loud blast and the women jumped.
“Oh my goodness!” Natasha said. “Does this mean I have to get on board?”
“I think so,” her mother answered, a note of reluctance in her voice. “Now, Uncle Petya will be at the train station in Novgorod to pick you up.”
“Yes, I know.”
“It’s only four miles out to Sel’tso Saterno, so you can spend the evenings and mornings with your family, then work for the Bolsheviks during the day.”
