by Gale Sears
Alexandria was beside her, taking her hands away from her face. “Here, hold onto this.” She pulled the birch-bark box out of a ragged satchel and placed it on Agnes’s lap.
Agnes rubbed her hand over the carvings, outlining the squirrel and the pinecones. Tears fell.
“Agnes, stop. You have to be strong for me.”
Agnes rubbed at her eyes. “I’m just hungry. I had cheese in my pocket, but someone took it.”
Alexandria put her arm around her. “We’ll get something at the next station.”
“We don’t have enough money.”
“We’ll get something. Don’t worry.”
“Where are we?”
“About six hours from Novgorod.”
“Novgorod? I know that place.” Agnes looked at her sister. “There’s a cottage . . . Natasha’s aunt and uncle.”
Alexandria patted her hand. “Yes, you spent a summer there. Sel’tso Saterno.”
“Yes. Are we going there? We could be safe there.”
“I don’t think so, Agnes.”
Agnes went on in a high, animated voice that made Alexandria grimace. “Natasha’s cousin Irena is the sweetest girl, and their house is something from a fairy tale.”
“Agnes . . .” Alexandria stopped when she saw the hope on Agnes’s face. “I don’t know, Agnes. Johannes will tell us if it’s safe.”
Agnes stood. “Of course it’s safe. I have to talk with him. I have to tell him.” As she turned to move down the aisle, there was a strong tug on the box she was holding. Agnes looked down into the lined face of an old woman. The woman’s dark eyes were narrowed and defiant. The younger woman sitting next to her leaned forward and glared.
Agnes stepped back. “What are you about? Keep your hands to yourself.”
The younger woman jumped to her feet. “You were about to fall on her, you ugly lout!”
“No, I wasn’t!”
“Come on,” Alexandria said, pushing Agnes gently along. “Let’s go find our brothers.”
Agnes resisted. She scowled at the slovenly pair, and then acquiesced to Alexandria’s insistent shove. “The old one tried to steal this!”
“No one is themselves anymore,” Alexandria said distractedly, trying to keep Agnes moving. “Don’t make a scene.”
“Well, they’re making a scene,” Agnes said, pointing at her brothers who sat locked in a heated discussion.
The men’s conversation stopped abruptly when Alexandria and Agnes approached, and Johannes was immediately alert. “What is it?”
“That old woman back there tried to steal this!” Agnes barked, holding up the birch-bark box.
“Shh,” Johannes warned. “Sit down.”
Oskar and Andre Andreyevitch stood and let the women take their places.
“Why is it out of the satchel?” Johannes questioned.
Alexandria dropped her gaze. “I . . . I thought it would calm her.”
“Oh, enough of that!” Agnes interrupted. “That’s not what we came to talk about. We came to talk about staying for a time with Natasha’s aunt and uncle.”
“What?” Arel asked.
“Yes. The ones who live near Novgorod. I’ve been there. It’s beautiful.”
Johannes’s voice was low and gentle. “You spent a summer there.”
“Yes.”
He shook his head. “We can’t, Agnes. We’d put them in danger.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “But it’s beautiful there, Johannes. The magic house and the lovely little church. It’s safe. And they have a garden. There’d be lots of food.”
“Agnes . . .”
“Please, Johannes, please. I know them. They would take us in. I know they would.”
People on the train were turning to look at her.
Johannes took her hand. “All right. All right, Agnes. I’ll think about it.”
She smiled and brushed the tears off her cheeks. “You’ll see. It’s beautiful.”
Johannes slumped back, weariness and frustration stamped onto his features. Oskar and Andre Andreyevitch gave him looks of understanding and moved off to sit in other seats as the train continued west into the afternoon gloaming.
* * *
The slowing of the train brought them awake. Agnes’s head lolled forward and she woke with a whimper of pain. She saw Johannes rub his hand across his face and Arel dazedly looking around like a little boy after a nap.
“Where are we?” Alexandria asked.
Johannes steadied himself and looked out the window into the dark night. “I see a few lights. Maybe a town or a village.”
A squeal of brakes sounded and the train slowed quickly. Now they could all see lights winking through the trees.
Andre Andreyevitch walked down the aisle to them. “A man told me this is Viny. The train will stop for a few minutes to unload passengers.”
“What time is it?” Johannes asked, running his fingers through his hair and replacing his cap.
“Just hours before daybreak. They say there’s a vendor with tea and bread.”
“I want bread,” Agnes said, sitting forward.
“How far to Novgorod?” Johannes questioned.
“Only about an hour. That will be the main stop,” Andre Andreyevitch answered.
“And where our tickets run out,” Johannes mumbled.
“I want bread,” Agnes repeated. “Please, Johannes.”
He focused on her face. “We can’t Agnes. There won’t be time.”
“Please, Johannes. Just give me the money, and I’ll hurry and get bread for all of us.”
The train was pulling to a stop in front of the small station hut and several people stood to disembark.
Agnes’s voice took on a frantic tone. “Please, please, Johannes.” She pressed her finger on the glass. “See there! There’s the vendor. He still has bread to sell. I see it!”
Johannes stared out the window for a moment.
“Please?”
He growled in frustration and reached into the pocket of his coat for a few coins. “Have Oskar go with you.”
She snatched the money. “There isn’t time!” She shoved her way past several people moving toward the exit. One fellow cursed at her and another raised his fist.
“Agnes!” Johannes stood as Arel and Oskar made their way to him.
“What is it?” Arel asked.
“Agnes defied me and went alone to buy bread.”
“I’ll get her,” Oskar said as he moved away down the aisle.
“Oh, no,” Alexandria choked.
“What? What is it?” Johannes asked, his voice trembling with exhaustion and anxiety.
“There’s that old woman and her companion. The one who tried to steal the box.” Alexandria’s face was ghostly white. “Agnes still has the box with her! I didn’t take it back.”
* * *
Agnes ran toward the vendor. “I . . . I have coins,” she panted. “I want to buy bread.”
She saw the vendor nod as he held up a round, dark loaf. A few people passed by in a swirl of muted sound and color, but all Agnes could see was the bread. All she wanted was the bread. The coins dropped into the vendor’s hand and she felt the rough crust on her palm. She closed her eyes and pressed the loaf to her face, breathing in the smell of yeast and rye.
Suddenly someone grabbed her hair and dragged her back. Her eyes flew open and she saw someone shove the vendor to the ground as he tried to protest. The few other people on the platform had melted into the moonless dark. Agnes clung to her possessions and kicked, but her attacker was merciless as she pulled her far back into the shadows. Agnes twisted around and broke free. She started to run, but the old woman was there to join her companion. She slapped Agnes’s face and s
hoved her.
“Give us that box.”
The younger woman yanked at it, nearly prying it loose, but Agnes kicked her. The woman backed away and fell over a wooden bench. Agnes advanced on her, kicking again and again, weeping and snarling. “You—can’t—have—it!”
The old woman threw her body against Agnes, forcing her against the wall. Agnes felt a piercing jab in her side and she gasped in pain. She staggered around to see several large, rusted nails protruding from the side of the hut. The old woman lunged at her again, but before she could strike, she was thrown aside by Oskar; her scrawny body landed hard on the platform, her head cracking against the station wall. Her companion pushed herself to her feet, cursing as she stumbled away into a thicket of trees.
Oskar ran to Agnes as she slumped onto her knees. Her grip went slack and the bread and the box tumbled across the platform.
“Agnes!”
“It’s not bad. Just some nails.” She sagged forward and Oskar caught her. His hand felt a sticky wetness as he laid her gently on the platform. In the shadows all he could see was a dark stain on her blouse. “No, no, no! This isn’t possible. Heavenly Father, please help us.”
The train’s engine engaged, and with a hiss of steam and clank of metal, the train’s wheels began to move. The whistle blew shrill and cold, and Oskar looked around frantically, undecided about what to do. He put his arms under his sister to lift her, and Agnes moaned.
“I’m sorry, but I have to get you to the train.”
The station mistress poked her head around the side of the hut. “I heard a ruckus. What are you doing there?”
“Help! Help me. My sister’s hurt.” Oskar grunted as he stood up.
The woman bellowed at him. “You just stay there! I’ve called the police!” She disappeared back into the hut.
The train was picking up speed, and Oskar wept in frustration. He’d never make it.
“Oskar!”
He looked up to see Johannes and the rest of their party running through the shadows toward him.
* * *
The afternoon sunlight danced on the lake and Agnes heard the sweet laughter of her dearest friend. She saw Natasha in the meadow running a race with her cousin, Irena. It was odd. The sun was bright, so why didn’t the warmth of it reach her skin? Her body shook with cold. Has someone put my body into the water? I’ll drown. Don’t they know I’ll drown?
“Johannes, she’s shaking again and pushing off the shawl.”
“Agnes, we’re right here with you.”
Here? Where is here?
“It’s the fever. She’s delirious. Johannes, we have to take her to Natasha’s aunt and uncle’s.”
Low and urgent voices began to argue.
Agnes moaned and forced her mind away from the meadow and the lake. “There.”
“Hush, all of you,” Alexandria ordered. “She said something.”
Johannes spoke to her. “Agnes, wake up. Can you open your eyes?” She did. “Good girl. Good girl.”
“We must go there.”
“Get her some water.”
Feeling came back into her body and with it an awakening of pain. Clenching her jaw, she focused on her surroundings of pale blue sky and beautiful trees. She let her thoughts drift away with the fluttering of the leaves.
“Agnes?”
She turned her head to look at her sister.
“Stay awake.”
Agnes worked to keep her eyes open, becoming aware that she was propped against Oskar. Images flooded into her mind of a man selling bread, of an old woman with sagging skin, of someone’s hands on the box.
“The box.”
Alexandria patted her hand. “We have it . . . and the bread. You put up quite a fight.”
“That old woman . . .” Agnes’s hand went to her side.
“Shh . . . never mind,” Oskar said quietly.
“Did she stab me? Did she want to kill me?”
Oskar’s arms tightened slightly and he kissed the top of her head.
“But you killed her.”
“No, she was just knocked out. I made sure before we left the station.”
“I don’t remember after that.”
“You fainted,” Oskar said.
“For how long? My wound isn’t bad.”
Oskar tried to make the words light. “I think your body needed a rest.”
Agnes looked at the ragged group of people surrounding her, and tears pooled in her eyes. “And you’ve carried me . . . carried me for hours?”
“Enough of that,” Arel said as he brought her water in a tin cup.
“Where are we?”
Johannes crouched down beside her. “I think about fifteen miles from Novgorod. We’ve been following the train tracks.”
“Novgorod?” Agnes’s hand trembled, spilling some of the water onto her blouse. “Then we’re close to the cottage!”
Arel smiled at her. “Yes. Andre Andreyevitch has gone ahead to see if there’s a road or wagon track going in that direction.”
Agnes turned her eyes to her oldest brother. “Thank you, Johannes.”
“No, Agnes. I’m still against it, but I think I’m being overruled.”
“Then, thank you for giving in.”
Johannes smiled against his will, and Agnes put her hand on the side of his face. “I promise to get well. If you take me to Natasha’s family, I promise to get better.”
Johannes nodded, but his eyes stayed fixed on the ground. Agnes knew he was trying to shelter her from his sorrow, but he didn’t know the farm. He didn’t know the peace and health that they would find there.
Pain shot through her as she turned her body. She clenched her jaw, refusing to moan as she sat forward. Dear Lord, please give me the strength to walk to the little cottage. That place will heal us . . . all of us. If I go, the others will follow.
“What are you doing?” Oskar asked as she struggled to stand. He was immediately on his feet.
“I’m standing. You’ve carried me long enough.”
Johannes took her hand. “Agnes, you can’t.”
“Yes, I can.” She was shaky, but she was standing. Her side burned when she tried to straighten, but she pushed through the pain. “Where is my portion of bread?”
Alexandria handed her a chunk, along with a relieved smile.
A cooling breeze whispered through the leaves of the trees and Agnes listened. She hadn’t heard the voice of Mother Russia for a long time and the sound gave her hope. She took a bite of bread and began walking.
* * *
Irena looked up from hoeing potatoes and saw a group of people emerging from the forest. They walked toward her. These are the people I saw in my dream—the people with sad hearts.
She threw down the hoe, picked up her skirt, and ran to the house.
“Mama! Papa! They’re here! The ones I saw! They’re coming!”
Chapter Forty-Six
Petrograd
August 14, 1918
Natasha kept her eyes on the street. She could not look at her friend’s house. Several panes of glass were broken out of the front windows—innocent victims of one of the many fights over wine or food. Soiled rags, garbage, and a broken chair lay strewn around the threshold, and mewling voices of discontent seeped out of the house like tar.
Natasha held her purchase close to her chest and made a wide arc around the place. She fought off memories of standing in the Lindlofs’ kitchen, chopping vegetables and laughing with Agnes, of sitting around the table New Year’s Eve when their voices blended in the beautiful folk song, of Arel kissing her.
Natasha ran to her front door. She knocked loudly to drum out her thoughts, and when her mother opened the door, she pushed past and stumbled up the stairs.
“Natasha?”
“I’m all right, Mama. I . . . I just . . .” She turned and sat down heavily on the step. She hunched over and buried her face in her arms. Tears and anger wrapped themselves around her words. “I can’t stand it! I can’t!”
Her mother sat beside her.
“Where is she? Where is my friend?” Natasha clutched at the package to keep the pain at bay. “Is she dead? Have they killed her?”
Her mother rubbed her back.
“We’ve heard nothing! Nothing!”
“What did you buy today?”
“What?”
“Your package. What did you buy?”
Natasha sucked in a large breath of air and stopped crying. Her mother handed her a handkerchief, and she wiped her face. The pain stepped back. This was how her mother had helped her over the weeks since her return home: distracting her grief with work, or talking about mundane things, or telling stories.
“So, did you find what you were looking for, or did you buy something to trade?”
Natasha untied the string and opened the brown paper. “It’s a gray sweater.”
“Ah, good. The nights will soon be cooler.”
“I wanted blue.”
“But gray will be just as warm.”
“Yes.”
They sat quietly, side by side.
Finally Natasha spoke, her voice low and calm. “I had another dream last night of the peasant girl and the white cow.”
Her mother nodded. “Tell me.”
“It was good. I was feeding the cow pears.”
Her mother grinned. “That is because my sister has been sending pears to us from the country.”
Natasha smiled at her mother. “Yes, maybe so, and I’m missing them because dear, kind Aunt Anna hasn’t sent me any for weeks.”
“Yes, you greedy thing. And perhaps you were hoping the white cow would beg some for you.”
They laughed together, stopping abruptly when they heard the postman’s bicycle bell. The women stared at each other in wonder, and Natasha stood. “The post! Maybe he will bring pears today!” They laughed again.
