“Such an opportunity might not come to us again.”
“I know, as you do, Papa, that it is the proper time. I must go. I may miss something great if I do not.”
“It will not be a decision I will force upon you, Anna,” he said seriously.
“Every spring you teach us the Master’s lesson of the grain having to die in the earth to bring forth fruit.”
Yevno was silent. His daughter had anticipated his very thought.
“Perhaps I too must die,” she went on, “to this life here, so that I may find the new life I am to have.”
“Yes,” he sighed, “that is it exactly. And the thought both saddens and thrills my old heart. I have always felt that you were meant to play some greater part in this earthly life than could ever happen in Katyk.”
She cast down her eyes as her cheeks reddened slightly. “I don’t know about that, Papa,” she said. “But I want to make you proud of me.”
“I have always been proud of you, my daughter. Our Father above could not have blessed me with one to bring me greater joy than you have.”
“I do think I should like to go to St. Petersburg. But I am a little afraid.”
“My prayers shall surround you daily,” said Yevno, embracing Anna and holding her tightly for several moments.
“And,” he went on, releasing her and reaching inside his heavy cloak, “to help you remember, not only that I will always pray for you, but also all those of God’s people who have gone before us as examples, I want you to take this with you.” He handed her the old black-leather volume she knew so well.
“Papa,” she said, “your Bible! It is your most prized possession! I could not take it.”
“It is time I passed it on to you, Anna, as it was passed on to me. It has given me great joy to have you read it to me. But with you gone, I will rarely have the opportunity to hear its words. Believe me, it will mean more to know you are being nourished by the writings of the saints than to have it sitting on my own shelf. When you are a parent one day, you will understand.”
Slowly and reverently Anna took the book from her father’s hand.
“I remember the day my own mother gave this book to me,” Yevno went on wistfully. “It had been given to her by her mother, and had been given to my grandmother by her father and mother. Long ago, when a Cossack stranger gave it to our family, we began a tradition of passing the Bible along, always with the prayer that it would find its way into the right hands and would accomplish the purpose that God wanted it to have. Now it is your turn to see this little book into a new generation of its destiny. Read the passage on wisdom to me.”
It did not take her long to find the favorite page, for they both knew it well.
“But tonight, Anna,” added Yevno, “I want you to read it, not for me, but to yourself. Read it as my prayer for you, and my charge to you as you leave us. Speak the word daughter instead of son as you read, as I used to do when I said it to you, and never forget that these words are to you.”
Anna began reading the words she knew almost by heart.
“My daughter,” she began, “if thou wilt receive my words, and hide my commandments with thee; so that thou incline thine ear unto wisdom, and apply thine heart to understanding; Yea, if thou criest after knowledge, and liftest up thy voice for understanding; if thou seekest her as silver, and searchest for her as for hid treasures; then shall thou understand the fear of the Lord, and find the knowledge of God. For the Lord giveth wisdom: out of his mouth cometh knowledge and understanding. He layeth up sound wisdom for the righteous: he is a buckler to them that walk uprightly. He keepeth the paths of judgment, and preserveth the way of his saints. Then shalt thou understand righteousness, and judgment, and equity; yea, every good path. When wisdom entereth into thine heart, and knowledge is pleasant unto thy soul; discretion shall preserve thee, understanding shall keep thee.”
She read on, coming at last to her father’s favorite passage. This time she added the new word to the text without hesitation.
“My daughter, forget not my law; but let thine heart keep my commandments; for length of days, and long life, and peace, shall they add to thee. Let not mercy and truth forsake thee: bind them about thy neck; write them upon the table of thine heart: so shalt thou find favor and good understanding in sight of God and man. Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.”
She stopped, and looked up at her father.
“Take these words of the Proverbs, and the love your mother and I have for you in your heart, and our prayers which will go with you—take all these, and remember that our God will hold you in His arms, even as I do now . . .”
He paused, his voice soft and trembling, and again took the lithe form of his daughter into his great arms. He tried to add another word or two, but in vain. Anna knew tears were falling from his eyes, for she felt one or two warm drops on the top of her head. Unashamed, she laid her head on her father’s breast and let her own emotions flow out in silent weeping.
Thus stood father and daughter several minutes more. There was no sound in the small stable. Even old Lukiv seemed to sense the solemnity of the moment and did not interrupt her master.
8
Anna knew more of the outside world than did most of the sixty inhabitants of Katyk. Even though such knowledge came from the pages of romantic books, she knew there were splendors as well as evils to be encountered. Even if from fairy tales, she knew something of the scope of human nature. She realized there were good people and evil. She knew there were choices to be made that would determine her future. She had an idea that a girl’s heart, mind, and spirit might be stretched to the very limits.
She tingled at the prospect.
The fear remained. She could not deny it. Yet her heart beat with anticipation at the same time. To face these people, these choices; to meet men and women and wonder what part in her own future they would play; to try to separate the good that came her way from the bad—the challenges of a lifetime awaited her!
In her own small way, Anna felt like a knight in one of the ancient stories, leaving home for distant lands to seek out a dragon in some unknown corner of the empire, thus to prove her mettle and fulfill her destiny. As much as she loved her home and family and the little village of Katyk, destinies and dragons and challenges did not come to people here. There was so much she wanted to learn about the world, even about herself. And she could not do so in Katyk.
Yet Anna’s was a timid nature. She was no dragon fighter. If outside forces had not prevailed upon her, this diffidence would no doubt have constrained her to remain forever safe in the village. Born seemingly without a self-assertive fiber in her being, her natural reticence would have prevented the stretching of her wings. Unlike the little chick her papa had spoken of, Anna would have clung to the nest. It took the gentle, sensitive nudge of her loving father to push her to the edge, where she might look beyond the security of her home and her former life. He would not push her over, but he would do all he could to prepare her. Then he would give her the opportunity to make her own choice, and to try her fledgling wings.
So, today she said goodbye to all that was familiar, to all the scenes and places and people and surroundings that had made this life secure, to all she loved so dearly.
She bid a farewell to the gnarled old willow by the rocky stream where she had spent so many days sheltered from the wind by its aging trunk, reading her precious books. She said goodbye to the woods east of Katyk in whose pines and firs she had scampered and played as a child. Reb Plotnick said the trees long ago covered everything. Now as she walked the half-versta between the village and her cottage, she wondered whether she would ever tread this well-worn path again.
She would miss the trees and streams, the fragrance of the open fields, the pathways, the gentle hills, the log cottages, and the packed dirt street and byways of the village. But most difficult of all was sayi
ng goodbye to all of her dear friends. Their greetings, their smiles, their final words, their embraces, and their tears would linger most painfully in her memory in the coming weeks.
She inhaled a long breath and continued along the path toward the village. Katyk was made up of hardly more than twenty buildings, mostly izbas, or peasant houses, with smaller cottages such as theirs scattered about within a versta of the place. A handful of impoverished shops remained in business only by virtue of the sheer tenacity of their stubborn Russian proprietors.
She would leave early the following morning. She and her father must rise before the sun to begin the two-hour walk to Pskov, where she would board the northbound train. Everything had been arranged by her new employers, including the cost of the journey. Today was her last chance to see her village friends.
She did not want to cry tomorrow. A wave of the hand, a hearty “Godspeed!” with here and there a brief hug—it would be enough. There had already been plenty of tears at home—mostly Mama’s. Since the night in the stable, Papa had remained stoic, and quieter than usual.
Anna glanced up and saw her brother approaching. She waved and smiled. As he neared he smiled in return. But it was a reserved, solemn smile—stiff, containing little joy.
“Taking your last walk out on these dirty old roads?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied. “And saying goodbye to friends in the village.”
“I was heading for the village myself, but it can wait,” said Paul, turning. “May I walk with you?”
“Of course. I’d like that—especially today.”
They walked along side by side, Paul restraining his long stride to keep pace with his sister.
“It won’t be the same without you here, Anna,” said Paul after a few moments silence.
“It won’t be the same for me, either,” she replied. “I’m happy here. And I’m afraid to leave. But I think God wants me to grow beyond Katyk. And that helps me accept the change, and even helps me be excited about it.”
“It’s hardly fair, is it, Anna? How I long to go to the city! But it is to you the opportunity falls.”
Anna laid an affectionate hand on her brother’s arm. “Dear Pavushka,” she said, “you are so young on the outside, but so old on the inside. What great things you could do in the city! But God must also have a reason for keeping you here, just as He is sending me away. Look for it, Paul. Look for what God has for you. Use all the great wisdom He has given you.”
Paul kicked at a stone in the dirt path. “Kazan says that with my abilities I could qualify for the university in a few years.”
“Is that what you want?”
“More than anything! But where is a poor country boy to find the means? Kazan’s father has a good job in the city, yet even he struggles daily to find the money for his education.”
“You need a wealthy benefactor. I have read about them in stories,” suggested Anna hopefully.
“The stories you read, Anna, are fairy tales.”
Anna smiled shyly. “At least they are not banned by the tsar.”
“You have seen—?”
“I don’t know exactly who Voltaire or Herzon are, but I read a few pages and I see why you hide them away.”
“You didn’t show them—”
“No, Paul. I found them by accident, and I told no one. But—”
“Anna, you taught me to read. The worlds you read about in your books are all make-believe. Reading has opened up a vast universe to me too, but I cannot be content with romantic stories and fables. I want to read about the real world. I don’t agree with everything those men write—I probably only understand half of it! But if only part of their ideas were followed, so much evil in our country could be changed.”
“Would they change men’s hearts, Paul?”
“Hearts? Oh, Anna, for a girl about to go out into the world, you can be so simpleminded. The government has no heart! That is why it must be eliminated. Kazan says—”
“Do you mean the whole government? The tsar is not a bad man.”
“All the peasants practically worship the tsar,” said Paul, growing passionate. “But as long as the Romanovs are in power, or any monarchy for that matter, the peasantry will never accept changes, even though they are meant only for their own good.”
“Oh, Paul, please stop! If anyone were to hear you say such things—you don’t talk like this in the village, do you? The constable could report you to the chief of police, and you know what kind of man he is. It would break Mama’s heart for you to be arrested.”
“They wouldn’t arrest a boy.”
“Unless the officials are as evil as you say.”
“Kazan was arrested once in Kiev. He says he was proud to make such a sacrifice for the cause of a free future.”
“Pavushka, promise me something before I go?” She tried to quell the sense of desperation she felt inside for her brother, but she knew it was painfully evident in the trembling of her voice. Paul did not reply to the entreaty she had made.
“Give yourself a year or two more to grow up,” she went on, afraid that if she hesitated he might deny her request. “Stay in Katyk, Paul. Try to find contentment here—just for two years more.”
Again Paul was silent, and Anna waited.
“You ask a lot, Anna,” he said at length. “I suppose I have little choice in the matter, anyway. What else could I do at my age? So I will make the promise you ask. And I will ask you something in return. When you are settled in St. Petersburg, will you speak to your masters about me? You know I am a good worker, and they would never regret taking me on.”
“I will do my best, Paul.”
“And I will do mine.” He smiled, this time a more relaxed grin. The child in him shone through again for a moment. “Who knows?” he added. “Perhaps some of your fables might come true after all.”
Where a thin path broke off from the main road, they parted. Paul turned to retrace their steps back to the village. Anna took the narrow path that led down to the stream across the rickety old footbridge to the willow tree. She approached her favorite place, and found a bit of bare dry earth beneath the great covering overhead. She sat down with a sigh.
Today she laid aside the book in her hand. Instead, she bowed her head and offered a few final prayers for her beloved home, her parents, and her brothers and sisters—especially for dear Paul.
Tomorrow, thoughts directed heavenward would pass through new and different regions of space.
9
Late that same night, long after the final candle had been snuffed out and all was quiet and still in the cottage, Yevno felt a stirring in the large bed where, for warmth, the whole family lay sleeping together.
He opened one eye. At the far end, a figure he knew as Anna’s crept stealthily from beneath the bedcovers. She tiptoed to the only window in the room, then sat down upon the rough wooden bench under it. He could tell her face was turned toward the pane, probably gazing out at the fresh flakes of snow which had begun to fall a few hours earlier.
Yevno wondered about his daughter’s thoughts on this, her last night at home. Did she have doubts, second thoughts of anxiety over her decision? Or was she simply too excited to sleep?
He was reluctant to disturb her, especially if she were holding communion with the Father of them both, who was more responsible for giving her life than even himself. Yet something told him that this, rather than the cold atmosphere of the train station, might be the best place for him to offer a few last words.
Yevno swung his feet from the bed. He could not move his lumbering frame as gracefully as his daughter moved. The wood casing atop the brick base groaned, and Anna turned from her silent reverie.
“Papa . . . I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Yevno shuffled as quietly as he was able across the hard-packed dirt floor. “I suppose I could not sleep either,” he said as he sat down beside her. “Tomorrow is a big day, eh, my own dear snow child?”
Yevno chuckled, his deep, rumbling voice amplified as it echoed upon the four walls surrounding them. He caught himself, and clapped a coarse hand over his mouth so as not to wake the rest of the family.
Anna giggled quietly at the sheepish expression on his face.
“I guess I am not too good at late-night whispered conversations, eh, Anna?” he said with a grin. “But you should not ask me about trains, for I have never been on one either. Only once have I seen one, when I ventured to the station in Pskov to watch one arrive. What a sight!”
“I remember! After listening to you I thought it must be like a great Siberian bear on the attack.”
“A bear is mild by comparison—a hundred bears! Huge and black and loud, with angry puffs of white shooting out from above and beneath it. So ferocious that nothing can stop it.”
“Not even the snow?”
“The train sweeps away the snow beneath it like dust,” replied Yevno, then stopped, mindful suddenly of more practical matters, “which we cannot say for our own feet nor faithful Lukiv’s hooves,” he added seriously. “Does the snow still fall, Anna?”
“Only in flutters, Papa.”
“The snow will not stop the train, but it will prevent our passage to Pskov if it falls heavily in the night. But,” he added in a brighter voice, “He who made us also makes the snow and decides when and where it falls.”
Father and daughter became silent for a moment, each cherishing this final private moment together.
“There will be many new things, Papa,” said Anna dreamily. “Sometimes I fear I will be confused, and that people will laugh at me.”
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