On the day of his departure, as the peasant, his wife, their two daughters, and their Cossack guest and now friend gathered at the humble table for their final breaking of bread together, the rider pulled from his satchel of belongings a small black book.
“I want to leave you this,” he said, “not merely in appreciation for your taking me in and restoring me to health, but for the love you have shown me. It is not everywhere in Russia that a Cossack meets with such kindness and hospitality.”
“It is not every Cossack in whom beats the heart of a believer,” smiled the man.
“You speak the truth! Not many indeed. Which is why I want to leave you my Bible, as a token of our brotherhood.”
“Your Bible!” exclaimed one of the daughters.
“It is indeed my most prized possession.”
“We could not take it from you,” said the man’s wife seriously.
“I insist that you do. I will be able to obtain another.”
“None of us are even able to read.”
“I want you to have it regardless,” insisted the traveler. “Our God is able to work in greater and deeper ways than we see—through this Bible of mine, perhaps, even though you cannot now presently read its words. Its truths still live in your hearts.”
“It will be of more use to you,” objected the man.
“Do not worry about me. One day one of your daughters will be able to read it. If not them, they will pass it down to their children. The day will come when it will come into the hands of one who will read it, and whose life may be helped or changed by it. I have faith that God’s hand will guide the journey of this sacred book, just as He guided my steps here to you.”
He reached across and placed the Bible in the old peasant’s hand, clasping both book and hand in each of his palms.
“May this bible,” he said, “and the memory of our brief time together, be a testimony between us—a testimony of the unity and brotherhood among God’s people. We Russians are a diverse collection of breeds. There is such strife and bitterness between all the tsar’s peoples. But let us today . . . here, right now—let us pledge ourselves to the oneness of God’s people. You are Pskovians. Those I was on my way to warn were Livonians. I am a Don Cossack. Yet you took me in, and our God has joined our hearts. I will never forget you, and you will ever be in my prayers.”
“Amen!” whispered the old man, taking the book.
“May our God bless and prosper you, and give you health,” said the rider. “Each of you four, and all who come under your roof.”
“Godspeed to you, our Cossack friend and brother!” replied the peasant, and his words were joined by loving farewells from his wife and daughters.
1
A solitary figure bent himself against the elements.
There were no small distances within the vast borders of this land—immense, silent, lonely . . . and cold. As far as human eye could see in every direction, no other man or creature was visible, save the dumb beast clomping behind the lone traveler.
The biting wind sent choking swirls of dust into the air. A storm was surely brewing. But for now the frigid wind driving down from the Baltic seemed content merely to toy with the land, like a cat with a mouse before the kill.
The slate blue sky appeared deceptively placid. Northward it gave way to a deepening gray, then grew ominously black along a thin line at the horizon. Across the plains of Rossaija, that same menacing black filled the sky over Finskij Zaliv, clouds tumbling furiously, pushing inland to discharge their freezing contents.
This is no day to be about, thought the old man as he urged his heavy-laden horse along the dirt road stretching on before him. But a man had little choice. He would starve waiting for hospitable Russian weather.
He glanced eastward in the direction of the Valdajskaja hills.
“Of course, I might starve anyway,” the man chuckled ironically—half to himself, half to the speckled gray mare whose head hung down at the fellow’s shoulder.
Undaunted, both man and animal continued to plod along, stoic and unmoved as only an aging peasant and a tired workhorse could be. The black line where horizon met earth had widened, but the man’s thoughts had already strayed from the approach of winter to his visit in the city he had just left behind.
Yevno Burenin held no bitterness for the hardship and poverty of his life. Who had time for complaint when there were crops to tend, wood to cut, beasts to care for, bark to gather for the shoes Sophia made for market, and children to feed? Ah, the children, dear children . . . so many mouths to find food for!
No, complaints came from the hearts of the idle. Besides, he loved his Motherland, and had since childhood—even, he had to admit, in winter.
Yevno gave the mare a sidelong glance. “You should hear them in Pskov, Lukiv. ‘The tsar this . . . the tsar that.’ The tsar, you see, is the cause of all their woes.”
He exhaled a long, deep sigh that was swallowed by the rising wind. “I don’t know, little Lukiv. It is little wonder I dislike the big towns. At least in villages like Katyk, life can go on as it always has—no matter what happens in St. Petersburg.”
Yevno liked to count his good fortunes instead of the tsar’s failings. His faith instructed him to do so. But even if the ancient Book did not say to give thanks in all things, he had lived long enough and become enough of a philosopher to realize that his life could be worse. He remembered a time not so long ago when his existence had been little better than a slave’s, his every action owned and controlled by the landed boyarin. Practically speaking, he had been the slave of Cyril Vlasenko; he and hundreds more in this region of the Velikaja and Rossijskaja. He had not forgotten the beatings, the forced marriages, or the familial separations at the whim of the masters. He and Sophia had been fortunate, although Vlasenko had a reputation for being among the cruelest. Some of his outspoken friends had been banished to Siberia—or worse, conscripted into the army—for the most minor infractions. Vlasenko had sent old Bogrovsky, ill from the cold, to the police station for a hundred lashes with the knout. And for what? Emil had been five minutes late with the master’s portion of fresh cream for the day, after hobbling across his frozen field attempting to deliver it on time. The next day Emil took to his straw bed, and two weeks later poor Nara was a widow.
No, he would not forget. Yevno loved the land, but there were many things about life upon it that were hard to understand and bitter to bear. He now understood more of his own father’s long spells of silence.
Fourteen years ago, however, all that was supposed to have ended. He was a free man now, and that was something, was it not? If only Bogrovsky had lived to see it!
He would not complain about the tsar. The tsar had twisted the stiff arms of the nobility, after all, to make it happen. True, Yevno thought to himself, he was still dirt poor. And on top of the burden of trying to feed his family, he must pay Vlasenko—his landlord now, not his owner—a stiff barshchina for the right to redeem the land for himself. But such was the price of freedom. At least his destiny, or a portion of it anyway, was his own.
“Not so,” the young rabble-rouser on the street corner in Pskov had said. “Liberty is but an empty epithet of the ruling class,” he shouted, haranguing at passersby, “a mere screen of smoke deluding the peasants and nullifying action against the reality of their plight.”
Yevno had listened to the young man until the police had dispersed the crowd. Some of the old peasants had clicked their tongues and shrugged off the lad’s speech with a snide quoting of the Russian proverb, “Can the egg teach the chicken?”
But Yevno could not hold the fellow’s fair skin and youthful enthusiasm against him. Did not the Word of God itself say that a child should lead them? If change were meant to come to Russia, it would no doubt come at the hands of the young. Yet as Yevno made his long trek home this afternoon, he turned the speech over in his mind. No matter what the youth had said, liberty was liberty. And no matter what, it was better than slavery.
Next thing you know, old Yevno, he said to himself, you will be preaching on the street corners!
He chuckled aloud. “Might not be so terrible, eh . . . ?” The horse whinnied as if in reply.
“You don’t agree, little Lukiv? Ah, you are probably right. I am ignorant and unwise in the things of this world. Who would listen to me?”
At that moment the horse stumbled forward, and only Yevno’s quick response and strong back prevented the beast from toppling onto its forelegs.
“I see you are tired, Lukiv.” Yevno rubbed the animal’s gray nose affectionately. “We will be home soon. Then you may take a nice long rest, for tomorrow is Sunday. I am only sorry I could not lighten your load for the journey back to Katyk.”
However he might reflect to himself on his nation’s concerns, Yevno would no more turn itinerant preacher than he would walk through the doors of the Winter Palace in St. Petersburg. Too much work hounded him every day for him to give more than passing consideration to such things. It was enough that he taught his faith to his family and prayed for his children every night.
Perhaps someday one of them would do great things. He had five children, each remarkable in a unique way. It would not surprise Yevno Burenin if all were destined for some noble accomplishment. His friends in Katyk told him he put too much stock in his sons and daughters. But how could a man help it, he thought, when they came in his gray years, just when he had begun to fear that he would die without leaving any mark on the world? Yevno had married Sophia late in life, and then it was several years before she conceived.
Ah, but once her womb became fertile, the very powers of creation suddenly descended upon her! What a blessing God had given her, just as He had given Hannah in the Scriptures after Samuel’s birth—five little ones to carry forward Yevno’s blood and name into the future! Who would have thought it possible? It was beyond what Yevno had dared even dream!
Anna and Paul were the oldest, coming so close together that some took them for twins. But Anna was older by eleven months and, some would say, wiser by eleven years. She was gentle and compassionate, although Paul had no lack of sensitivity. In the boy, however, it revealed itself in fierce emotions and, more often than not, a hot temper. While Anna kept her sensitivities to herself, Paul let the world see all his. Both were bright and intelligent, an honor to Yevno’s advancing age.
After Paul’s birth Sophia became sorely ill. The doctor said there would be no more children. For nearly eight years he was right.
Then, to the surprise of everyone, three more healthy, energetic little ones filled the cottage with their noises. Tanya, Vera, and little Ilya were a pleasure, although they often wore poor Sophia out. More than once she declared that she well knew why God generally gave babies to the young. But Yevno knew by the twinkle in his wife’s eye that she would have it no other way.
Yevno doted on his children—what man in his right mind wouldn’t? They gave life new meaning, and added a glow to his thoughts of approaching years. He had, through them, made his own little mark on the world.
And what a mark!
It was too soon to tell about the little ones, but his two eldest were remarkable indeed—even if he was their father, and more than just a little prejudiced.
Paul, if nothing else, was a firebrand. Yevno did not always approve of the boy’s outspoken viewpoints. Where he picked up his ideas, Yevno did not know. Lately Paul had befriended two or three of the young strangers who had come to the village dressed in peasant garb—as if the villagers could not tell in a moment they were from the city. Like the lad Yevno had listened to in Pskov, they were full of revolutionary ideas, using big words that he could not understand.
But Paul understood. He was such a bright boy. Yevno only hoped his intelligence would be a blessing to him, not a curse.
The priest had warned Yevno to take a firmer hand with Paul while he was still a child. But Paul was a respectful, obedient son—a good boy, really. Now that Paul was growing up, how could Yevno browbeat him for his thoughts, or even his opinions? The days were long past in Russia when to think for oneself was a sin. To deny his son this essence of freedom could only make the youth bitter and spiteful. Instead, Yevno tried to give Paul an uncluttered, simple belief in God, and a home where he would always be loved. He hoped it was enough. Yevno also hoped the boy’s questioning spirit would be limited to politics, and would not intrude into matters of faith. In the end, the boy was in God’s hands, not his, and always would be.
In recent years, anxieties over Paul had frequently taken precedence in Yevno’s thinking. Many a night, after his two sons and three daughters lay in bed, Yevno and Sophia pondered together what to do about Paul. Lately, however, it was not Paul but sweet, mild-tempered Anna, the eldest, who had become foremost in Yevno’s heavy-hearted, fatherly thoughts.
Ah, Anna . . .
2
If each of Yevno Burenin’s children were precious stones, Anna shone as the cherished diamond among them. A heart as big as Yevno’s could never favor one child over another, yet he could not help a slight partiality toward Anna, who always gave freely of herself to others. Her very countenance radiated tranquility and selflessness—so unlike the fires burning in Paul’s young eyes. But Yevno felt certain there was more hiding deep inside her that was yet to be revealed.
Perhaps she was not a sparkling diamond . . . not yet, but rather an uncut gem of great price, whose value still lay unseen, dormant, awaiting patiently the expert touch of the Master Cutter’s loving hand.
Yevno, you are at it again! he chided himself with a smile. Spinning your little fables! You listen too closely to the stories Anna reads in the evenings.
Although illiterate himself, Yevno was by no means ignorant; he treasured the written word almost as if he were able to read books himself. The Bible and the book of fairy tales were his two favorites. His thoughts turned poignantly to the tale Anna had read to the youngsters only the night before. This particular narrative was especially worn in the old volume, and if one of the younger children did not request it, often Yevno himself would. He and Sophia never wearied of the legend of the old Russian peasant couple, long childless, who, like themselves, prayed for a little one of their own. Anna knew the tale so well that she scarcely required the book. Yet she always opened up the large volume and placed it upon her lap before beginning the story.
Yevno could almost hear his daughter’s soft, clear voice in the wind, just as it had sounded last evening when the family gathered around the hearth:
Long ago in a little village nestled at the foot of the Ural Mountains there lived an old man and woman named Igor and Natasha. They had been married many years and loved each other very much and were content, except for one great sorrow in their lives. They had no children.
Their great joy was to watch the village children at play, but even this brought them sadness, for it only reminded them of the empty place in their own home.
One winter day after the first heavy snow had fallen, they were seated at their window watching the village children playing. Some were throwing big, messy snowballs, others were riding down the hillside on old planks of wood, and still others were building snowmen.
But Natasha sighed sadly and said, “Oh, how full of life and happiness are the children today.”
“Ah, yes,” and Igor sighed to match his wife’s sadness.
“If only . . .”
“It is no use to wish for what cannot be,” replied Igor.
“But surely it can do no harm to hope.”
To cheer his wife, Igor suggested, “Why don’t we go outside and build a snowman in the yard?”
So out they w
ent. They began to gather together a nice mound of the most pure and white snow for a body, on which they carved slim arms and tiny fingers. Then they rolled out a ball of snow about the size of a child’s head, and this they lifted to the top of the body. On this head, they carved a delicate little nose and ears and placed two tiny pieces of lapis for eyes, red holly berries for a smiling mouth, and a thick branch of holly leaves for hair.
Suddenly they realized they had not made a snowman at all, but had instead created a little snow child.
“What a beautiful little girl!” exclaimed Natasha when they had finished.
“Our own little snow daughter,” smiled Igor.
Natasha could not smile, and soon her tears were falling on the snow daughter’s pretty holly hair. “She is not real, and we can only hope to have a child.”
But Igor wasn’t listening to his wife; his eyes were staring in amazement at the snow child. Her pure white cheeks were beginning to turn pink, and her holly berry lips had parted in a very real and merry smile.
He quickly crossed himself and exclaimed, “Look, Natasha!”
Natasha wiped away her tears and then saw with her own eyes what could only be a miracle.
“Our prayers have been answered,” Natasha shouted joyfully. “God has sent us our own little child!”
“Heaven be thanked!”
Igor and Natasha danced merrily around the snow daughter, and soon, when all her snow body had been transformed into a lovely flesh-and-blood body, she joined them, laughing and singing in a voice as crisp and delicate as a fragile icicle.
What joy now filled Igor and Natasha’s humble izba. They delighted daily in their snow daughter. Igor told her stories and fairy tales every night while Natasha made her pretty clothes to wear. The only thing they did not like was that their daughter went outside each night to sleep in the freezing cold.
The Russians Collection Page 4