The Silence of God

by Gale Sears

  “Yes, I know that story. The white cow who gives up its life to help the orphan girl?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Prince Vladimir came to see you and he brought the white cow?”

  “Yes.” A smile touched her lips.

  “That’s a very strange dream, Natasha Ivanovna.”

  “Perhaps, or perhaps a deep and symbolic vision.”

  “Then that would make you a visionary.”

  Natasha shook her head, the smile dropping from her mouth. “I don’t think so. If I’d been a visionary I would have seen our futures on New Year’s Eve, and I would have warned us. I would have made it all go away.”

  “The kiss too?”

  She gave him a steady look. “No, not the kiss.”

  At that moment they heard someone running down the path and calling out Natasha’s name.

  “That’s Irena,” Natasha said, moving quickly to the door.

  The two stepped out into the sunlight and Irena rushed to them. “I thought you might be here!”

  “Irena, what is it?”

  “Come quickly! Your friend is awake and she’s saying your name!”

  “Awake?” Natasha took Arel’s hand and they ran for the cottage.

  * * *

  “Little squirrel, I’m here. It’s me. It’s your Natasha. Please wake up again. Please.” Natasha rubbed the back of Agnes’s hand and looked over at Arel. She knew the desperation on his face mirrored her own. “You said she opened her eyes?”

  Her aunt nodded. “Yes, dear one. Irena called to me and I came in. Her eyes were open and she said your name.”

  “I heard her too,” Alexandria confirmed.

  Arel looked to Johannes. “Perhaps another blessing.”

  “No. No more blessings. No more prayers. No more.” He walked from the room.

  Arel stared at the departing form, then down at the floor.

  Natasha tapped the back of Agnes’s hand. “Agnes Lindlof, open your eyes! Open your eyes, I tell you!”

  Agnes’s eyes came open and the company gasped.

  “Impossible,” Oskar said, stepping forward.

  Arel moved quickly to the door. “Johannes, she’s awake.”

  Agnes’s breathing was shallow and raspy, yet she fought to eke out words. “You . . . you’re here.”

  “Yes, I’m here, little squirrel. Right here. Don’t talk now. It’s too difficult.”

  “Must.”

  Agnes tried to swallow and Natasha noted the effort. She looked at Arel. “Hand me that water, and prop her up a bit.”

  Arel and Oskar rushed to oblige, gently lifting their sister and readjusting the pillows.

  Natasha put the glass to Agnes’s lips and she took a small sip. “More?”

  “No.”

  Natasha set the glass aside and took her friend’s hand again. Agnes was whispering something and Natasha leaned close.

  “Strawberries.”

  “What?”

  “I smell strawberries.”

  Agnes’s eyes closed, and Natasha reached over quickly and rubbed her hand across her cheek.

  “Agnes? Agnes, talk to me.”

  “I’m talking to Erland.”

  Panic dropped into Natasha’s chest. “No, Agnes, don’t talk to Erland, talk to me. Open your eyes and talk to me.” Agnes obliged. “Hello, dear one.”

  “We’re at the cottage.”

  Natasha nodded. “Yes, that’s right. We’re at the magical little cottage.”

  “My family is here.”

  “Yes.”

  There was a pause as Agnes fought for breath. “You saved us.”

  Natasha pressed Agnes’s hand to her cheek. “No, little squirrel. No. I only followed your brilliant clues.”

  The corners of Agnes’s mouth lifted slightly. “What is it you can’t see that’s always before you?”

  Tears pressed at the back of Natasha’s eyes. “What can I do for you?”

  This time Agnes’s voice came with some strength. “I want to go outside.”

  “Outside?” Natasha glanced around at the others. “She can’t go outside.”

  “That’s what she wants, cousin,” Irena said, standing unobtrusively by her icon station. “You need to give her what she wants.”

  Natasha stood up and backed away from the bed. “I can’t.”

  Oskar stepped forward and slid his arms behind Agnes’s back and under her legs. He lifted her emaciated body easily and moved her quickly from the room. Alexandria gathered the quilt, and Arel put his arm around Natasha’s waist and guided her out.

  Wrapped in the quilt, Agnes was set in a rocking chair in the sunny front yard. Johannes sat near her on the porch step. Natasha and Arel sat together on the ground by her feet.

  Agnes reached over and placed her hand on Natasha’s head. “I remember flowers in your hair.”

  “Yes. That summer . . . that summer together.”

  “You read the blue book?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  Natasha wanted to block out the sound of Agnes’s raspy breathing. She wanted to take away the sickness. She wanted to scream at God.

  She jumped when Agnes spoke again.

  “Johannes, please tell Mama and Papa that . . .”

  Johannes collapsed into sobs. “I was supposed to take care of you.”

  “Hush,” Agnes said softly, wheezing on every word. “You . . . have no . . . power over this.”

  Natasha felt those words cut into her heart. That’s what she hated! She hated that she had no power over anything: the cruelty they’d all suffered, the insidious spread of the Soviet doctrine, the fighting between her countrymen, the coming of winter. Her mind became her enemy as it conjured her mistakes and arrogance. How many families would be ripped to shreds by this brotherhood of the proletariat? How much anger, hatred, and fear would infest her country, and how much had she contributed by writing meaningless words of revolt and change? She hadn’t thought about what that change would mean. But that change was killing her friend. Natasha put her head on her bent knees and rocked back and forth. She felt her mind slipping toward madness and she tried to stop her tumbling thoughts. She put her hand on Agnes’s arm.

  “What two things can God give you?” Agnes wheezed.

  Natasha flinched at the sound. “A riddle?”

  “A truth.”

  “Two things God can give me?” She stopped rocking and dissolved into tears. “I don’t know. I don’t know, little squirrel.”

  Agnes fought for the breath to reply, and Natasha waited.

  “Redemption and peace.”

  * * *

  Agnes died that afternoon as the setting sun shimmered through the birch leaves, and Alexandria and Irena were singing a Russian folk song.

  Natasha stood and walked off by herself.

  She didn’t want to look at the still body or hear the cries or prayers. She walked steadily along the rutted track, grateful that she was alone. She had to be careful with grief and doubt. The chrysalis of her faith was not fully dried, so she could not risk the intrusion of sorrow. She felt safe with the birdsong and cool wind rustling the grass. She felt comforted by the small blue flowers by the side of the road and the weathered face of the farmer driving his cows home from the pasture. She felt stronger for the crimson sunset on the horizon. Agnes had spoken often about the voice of Mother Russia, and Natasha heard it now all around her.

  She could not think of a life without her friend. Perhaps someday her faith would grow large enough to encompass a world beyond the solid ground, but now she wanted only the things she could hear and taste and feel. Now she wanted only the dirt under her feet and the sweet song of the birds.

 
She wrapped her shawl more tightly around her and walked on into the night.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Sel’tso Saterno

  August 18, 1918

  She was walking in the meadow with her friend, their arms around each other’s waist, their hair braided with flowers.

  “Daughter Three-Eyes tells her mother that the magical white cow has been helping the orphan girl complete her tasks and the woman kills the cow for its treachery. The sad orphan girl takes the bones of the cow and buries them in the pasture. A beautiful tree grows up over the bones, and every day when the girl waters the tree it bears delicious fruit and droops down its branches to her so she can reach it.”

  “I love that story,” Agnes said.

  “I love it too.”

  “Natasha. Natasha, wake up.”

  Her auntie’s voice erased the peaceful dream and Natasha moaned.

  “I’m sorry, dear one, but if you want to visit the grave . . .”

  The grave. Natasha sat up. “Yes, I’m awake.” Her body felt tired, and she struggled to keep her emotions from overwhelming her. The shutters were open, letting in the soft glow of morning. Natasha went to the window and saw clouds gathering on the horizon. There would be rain by midmorning. It was appropriate as today they would be leaving Sel’tso Saterno.

  In a few hours Uncle Petya would drive them to the train station in Novgorod. She and her mother would return home, and Johannes, Oskar, Arel, and Alexandria would crowd into Andre Andreyevitch’s small apartment. They would stay out of sight as much as possible until they were able to secure train tickets for Helsinki. With the Great War still raging in Europe, and the upheaval in Russia, their escape would be nearly impossible, but they had no other option.

  Natasha dressed and took care of her toiletries. She then packed her suitcase, straightened the coverlet, and lingered near Irena’s icon station. We believe all things, we hope all things, we have endured many things. She picked up the small icon of Mary holding the Christ Child and laid it against her chest.

  “You can keep that if you like.”

  Natasha turned as her cousin came to stand beside her. “May I?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Natasha put it in her skirt pocket and took her cousin in her arms. “I love you. You are the dearest girl.”

  “We are all dear girls—you, me, Alexandria, and Agnes.” Natasha wept, and Irena took the hem of her apron and dried her tears. “She’s fine, you know? She’s in heaven and it’s a beautiful place.”

  There was a soft tapping at the bedroom doorway, and the women looked over to see Arel standing there.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “No, not at all. We . . . we were just . . .”

  “We’re all walking to the church and . . .”

  “Yes, of course. We’re coming.” Natasha swiped the last of the wetness from her cheeks and helped Irena off with her apron. As they moved to go out, Irena caught her cousin by the wrist and leaned close to whisper in her ear.

  “That man loves you, you know.”

  Natasha felt an unexpected blush warm her face. “Irena!”

  “Well, he does. He’s not as handsome as the other one, but he’s much nicer.”

  “Irena Petrovna Novoskaya! You’re trying to be a matchmaker!”

  “No, no, I’m not,” she said, a shocked expression her face. “God is doing that.”

  * * *

  Natasha watched the gray clouds gather and felt a whip of wind bother the hem of her skirt. She stood near a lovely birch tree whose leaves trembled with every breath of air. She glanced over at the grave and the knot of people standing around. She did not want to stand close, and no one had insisted she give up her solitude. Frequently she turned to look down the wagon track, expecting to see Agnes there, expecting to see her wave, a smile lighting her face. To Natasha’s mind, seeing her friend in the meadow seemed more likely than her being shut away in the ground.

  Natasha pulled her mind from the image. Irena said that Agnes was in heaven, but Natasha didn’t know where heaven was. Was it in the sky? Somewhere up among the billowing clouds? She turned her view back to the mourners, becoming aware of the mumbled voices. All was quiet for a time, then Alexandria began singing. The pure voice came back to Natasha on the breeze, and though she couldn’t make out the words, the melody entered into her heart, opening up the wounds of loss and revisiting her suffering. She was about to leave the place, when other voices joined in the singing. The music seemed to fill with faith, and Natasha felt her grief and anger succumbing to hope.

  She moved forward, drawn now to the group and their shared sorrow. She entered the circle quietly, standing next to Arel and slipping her hand into his. She felt his fingers tighten around hers and was amazed at how natural it felt, as though they’d been holding hands since they were children.

  As the song ended, Arel looked over at her, his eyes filled with tears. He gave her a gentle smile, and without letting go of her hand, stepped forward to lay a bunch of white lupine on his sister’s grave. The other siblings did the same.

  “It’s time to go,” Johannes said after a minute of silence.

  Natasha watched as her Uncle Petya put his arms around his wife and daughter and led them off toward home. Her mother followed them, taking out her handkerchief and dabbing at her eyes. Oskar, Johannes, and Alexandria turned slowly and walked away together, but Arel stayed at the graveside.

  “I’m glad there is eternity, Natasha Ivanovna, but it seems a long way off.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Please, don’t let go of my hand.”

  “I won’t.” She tightened her grip and he gave her a sad smile.

  He looked up at the red star on top of the church and shook his head.

  “What?” Natasha asked.

  “I’ll never understand them. I’ll never understand why they want to walk in darkness.”

  “They find their truth in government.”

  “I see. Well, enough of that. I want to think only about my kind and sweet sister.”

  Natasha nodded and pressed her lips together to keep back tears.

  “And when I think of this place, I will always see a sacred image over her grave.” He took a step back and hesitated.

  “My cousin Irena will tend the grave and pray over it every day.”

  Arel’s worried expression softened. “An angel watching over an angel.”

  “Yes.”

  They turned and headed toward the cottage. They’d gone several minutes in silence before Arel spoke.

  “When did you first think I cared for you?”

  Natasha smiled. “I suspected the night of our New Year’s celebration.”

  “The kiss?”

  “Yes. The kiss.”

  “And when did you know?”

  “The night you were arrested. The look on your face told me.”

  “I was sure I’d never see you again.”

  “Yet, here we are.”

  Arel stopped and put his hands on the sides of her face. “I love you, Natasha Ivanovna. It seems as though I have loved you all my life.”

  She leaned close to him. “The one-time Bolshevik?”

  He kissed her, and it was apparent that politics was not a concern. The kisses continued until several drops of rain splashed on their faces.

  Natasha stepped back. “Are you sure this is wise?”

  “What?”

  “A life together? It will be difficult, Arel.”

  “Yes, but we will be together. We can face things together.”

  Natasha moaned and started walking.

  Arel caught up to her. “What is it?”

  “My heart hurts. It’s broken and mended at the same t
ime.”

  “Do you love me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then we’ll figure it out.”

  A flash of lightning lit the sky and moments later a crack of thunder pounded their ears.

  Arel took her hand. “I think the pagan god Perun is sending his lightning bolts to frighten us.”

  Natasha started running as the rain pelted down. “But of course you know, Arel, that we Christians don’t believe in Perun.”

  * * *

  Irena had paced around the porch all afternoon praying for the storm to stop, and just before the time arrived for them to leave for Novgorod, it did. She helped prepare food for the trip, loaded suitcases, and shared in the good-byes. And just before Arel climbed into the wagon she latched onto his coat sleeve. “I will take good care of your sister. I will visit her every day.”

  “Thank you, Irena.”

  “And I will pray for you and my cousin.”

  Arel’s eyes widened and Natasha smiled. “No one can keep secrets from Irena.”

  “I like him,” Irena said bluntly.

  “So do I.”

  Natasha hugged her aunt and kissed Irena’s forehead. “I love you.”

  Irena took her hands. “I’m glad you found God, cousin. The world won’t be so dark.”

  “Come on, Natasha. Up you go.” Her uncle helped her into the back of the wagon where she sat between Arel and her mother.

  “We are going home,” her mother said softly as the wagon lurched forward.

  Natasha nodded, but in truth she didn’t know the meaning of the word. Once, she knew what home looked like—she knew Nevsky Prospect, the Statue of the Horseman, and the Winter Palace—but under the Soviets the meaning of all those things would change.

  She wrapped her fingers around the icon in her pocket and gazed longingly at the enchanted cottage until the wagon turned a corner and it was lost from sight.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Petrograd

  October 1, 1918

  Natasha Ivanovna stood with her husband on the bridge spanning the Winter Canal. Periodic sunlight broke through the lowering clouds and flickered on the waters of the Neva River. Silently she and Arel watched people walking along the Embankment Prospect. A barge made its way upstream and Natasha wondered how far it would travel. Would it go as far as Lake Ladoga, or perhaps all the way to Moscow? She shivered when she thought of Sergey Antonovich working in the propaganda office in the newly established Bolshevik offices in Moscow. She tried hard never to think of him, but infrequently a glimpse of their time together jumped unbidden into her mind.