The Russians Collection

by Michael Phillips

  47

  Father and son proceeded along the street in silence.

  Neither could find the words to say what needed to be said. Paul desperately wanted to thank his father, to apologize for shaming him in the community. Yet at the same time he wanted to explain why he had done it, why he believed as he did. He wanted his father to understand the passion that burned in his heart. In his inner turmoil and confusion he wanted both to defend and debase himself before his father.

  Yevno’s soul was no less torn apart. The tender heart of the father sought only to wrap loving arms around his son, protecting him from the cruelties of an imperfect and unjust world. Another part of him, however, argued that what Paul needed at this moment more than anything was firmness—parental strength that included a sound beating when they returned home. He had been sympathetic and understanding and patient long enough, and look what had been the result: his son had been thrown in jail, and he had had to relinquish every ruble the family had to rescue the ungrateful boy! Now was the time for drastic measures!

  Yet what if his son did not respond with the humility of heart such discipline was intended to bring? What if it made him turn away completely, and landed him in deeper trouble later?

  Thus Yevno battled within himself, back and forth between the two opposing arguments of his mind. He must show his love to Paul, that much was certain. But how should he love him—through gentleness, or with punishment?

  The pervading silence made the walk back to Katyk seem longer than it was. Still a versta or so from the village, Yevno at length ventured to speak.

  “Plotnik the Jew says spring will come early this year.”

  “Just as he said last year,” added Paul without much enthusiasm.

  “Sometimes he is right.”

  “Sometimes you are right too,” said Paul, “about the weather.” The last words were not spoken with any particular emphasis, but Yevno wondered if they had been added as a hasty afterthought.

  “The Jews have a sense about these things, though.”

  “So it is said.”

  “An early spring would be welcome.”

  “It has been a cold winter.”

  “As always.”

  “Much snow.”

  “Frozen ground.”

  A pause came. Both wondered how long they could sustain such a conversation.

  “Is the weather all that is on your mind, Papa?” ventured Paul at last.

  “No, my son, but I was thinking that an early spring would be good for your mother, and let us plant some things sooner.”

  “How much did you have to pay that fat, ugly magistrate to release me—or did you have to deal with that snake Vlasenko?”

  “Pavushka! Do not speak of your superiors in that way!” Almost the same moment, however, a slow half-smile appeared on his face. That he felt the same way about the two men was hardly a fact that he could hide from his son, nor would he have been comfortable trying to maintain the hypocrisy. “Enough,” he said. “We will speak of it no more. You are home—that is what matters.”

  “Papa, don’t you see? What matters is that they are lining their own pockets by way of the broken backs of the peasants. A magistrate is supposed to be a symbol of justice, yet that fat old bear is just as evil in his own way as the police chief! Don’t you see the mockery of it, Papa? Do you think a nobleman would have to pay his last kopeck to free his son for doing nothing more than speaking his mind? In a government based on equality, such things would not happen.”

  “How do you know I paid my last kopeck? Perhaps it is not so grim as you imagine.”

  “Oh, Papa, I know the system of ours! I know how the tsar and his government works. Do not imagine me so naive. And I know because I can see it in your eyes.”

  Paul wanted to cry. He was not angry at his father, although his voice rang with passion. The tumult of emotions inside him threatened to boil over in a torrent of tears. Only his anger at injustice kept him steady. “You should not have done it, Papa,” he said. “I am not worth it.”

  “Would you break your poor matushka’s heart?” said Yevno. Not to mention my own, he thought to himself. “When a man, or even a boy, is sent to prison, he is as good as dead. The chances that his family will ever see him again are small. You do not understand what it is like, my Pavushka. If I had not had enough—”

  He checked himself, hesitated briefly, then went on, “If I had not been able to get you out, perhaps if the magistrate had not known me, if this had all happened in Pskov . . .”

  The voice of the father broke. He shuddered involuntarily. “I do not want to imagine what might have become of you, my son,” he added softly, fighting off the tears.

  They walked on a while in silence.

  “What will you do, Papa? That money was to get us through the rest of the winter . . . whenever springs happens to come.”

  “God will provide,” answered Yevno. “He will not let us starve.”

  “Like He has always provided for us?” said Paul in a sarcastic tone. “Like He provided for Gevala last winter, who froze when her fire burned out? Like He provided for Kazan’s cousin in Moscow who was imprisoned for taking a loaf of bread from a shopkeeper’s cart for his starving daughter? Like He made a way for Anna to remain at home with her family?”

  “I thought your bitterness was only toward the government—not toward God also.”

  “I try hard not to be bitter, Papa,” said Paul, and the change in his voice revealed that the words were deeply sincere. “But when I look around and see such suffering and injustice and cruelty, I cannot help wondering if He is a loving and caring God, why would He allow such things to be? If there truly were a God such as this, I do not think these injustices would happen.”

  Yevno quickly made the sign of the cross and uttered a hasty prayer of forgiveness for his son’s near blasphemy.

  He knew he needed to say something. But he was an ignorant man. How could he reply to his son’s heartfelt plea? How could an illiterate old Russian peasant make sense out of the conundrum that had perplexed theologians and philosophers since the beginning of time?

  Paul should be talking of these things to the priest, thought Yevno. He had no inkling that the simple words he might offer, springing from a life of obedience to the ways of God, could have a more profound influence on Paul than any platitudes from the mouth of a priest—however holy his life, however true his replies.

  “Trouble is part of life, Pavushka,” said Yevno quietly. “Would you have all pain removed from the earth? I do not think even God would care for that.”

  “Just more evenly distributed,” answered Paul.

  “The rain falls where it will.”

  “If God makes the rain, then He should see a little better to where it lands.”

  “Paul, Paul, is God a man that we should order Him about according to our puny understandings? God makes the rain, but He allows it to fall. He does not send forth each drop from His fingers to shield from the storms those who are already wet, and to cause downpours only where the earth is parched. He makes the rain, and then lets the rain fall to water the earth. Does He not do the same with the troubles of life?”

  “But rain is good, Papa, and troubles are not.”

  “How do you know that, my son?”

  “Is it not obvious?”

  “In time of flood, the rain appears as an enemy. Yet without the rains, the earth could not survive half a year. Might it not be so with the pains of life as well? Do they not season us and make us strong and hardy? Where would we be, Pavushka, if there were nothing to fight against, nothing to conquer? We would be flabby, miserable creatures—hardly worthy to be called men. Ah, Paul, I would not trade places with the magistrate for all the money in the tsar’s treasury. Neither would I escape a single one of the troubles the Lord would send upon me.”

  “And the troubles men send upon you, Papa?”

  “They are harder to endure. You are right, my son. I do not like what I had to
do this morning. Yet somehow I believe that the strong hand of a God who is above all things good is completely in control even when bad men would bring hurt upon me. How this can be, I do not know. But I believe it is so. And if it is so, then nothing can happen to me outside the reach of His care.”

  Paul heard his father’s words, though how much he grasped their meaning was doubtful. When he did not reply, Yevno added, “So you see, no matter how much trouble may come, I yet know God’s life and care are raining down upon me—whether it be spring showers or winter floods.”

  Paul said no more about God, and they walked on toward Katyk.

  He could admit no more than he had already hinted at to his father. Further thoughts in this direction he would explore within the quietness of his own soul. Paul sensed already that he was losing his faith—if he had ever had a faith of his own. Kazan would probably say that he was now at last shaking free from the superstitions of his upbringing, which had never been a faith at all.

  Kazan was an atheist, admittedly and without the slightest reservation. He could never believe in a God, he said, who not only would allow such corruption and misery to exist in a world of His supposed creation, but whose so-called blessing would rest, as the church so steadfastly maintained, upon the tsar of such an evil and despicable governmental system. Kazan’s arguments were convincing. If there was a God, He was by definition just as much an enemy of the revolutionary cause as the tsar himself. His supreme authority was no less unjust than the tsar’s, and His commands to worship His almighty name alone no less pompous than Ivan the Great’s styling himself “Sovereign of all the Russias” in the fifteenth century.

  Paul was caught between Kazan’s fervent convictions and his father’s gentle belief. Yet did not his father call himself an unlearned man, unschooled in ideas? He wanted to retain his belief in God, if for no other reason than because he was not ready to deny his own father. But he could not ignore the questions that nagged at him, questions that Yevno was ill-equipped to answer, questions that the faithful old man probably had no idea could even exist. Where could he go for answers but to others who had wrestled with the same questions and had come to rational grips with the issues at stake? To whom could he go but to those like Kazan?

  He loved his father, but in these struggles his father could not help him. Thus Paul kept further comment to himself.

  It was better that way.

  48

  At last the two walkers came to the village of Katyk, such as it was. They made their way through the few buildings, past the smithy and log houses, all small, shabby, and weathered.

  Poverty, hunger, and cold clearly dwelt in this place, yet Yevno loved his little village. He might not have called it pretty, as if comparing it to a sight of the snow-capped Urals, yet to his contented eyes the place was home, and thus the most attractive and beautiful spot on the face of the earth. Katyk had been his home all his life and he wanted no other. He bore no single illusion for some lofty betterment which awaited him one day in the “world out there.” He was content with what he had, even if at the moment it consisted of less than a single ruble. God would take care of his family . . . somehow.

  They approached the tavern. As they drew closer, they saw its proprietor leaning against the doorpost smoking his pipe as if the cold meant nothing to him.

  He gave a wave and called out to them. “Yevno! I thought when I saw you this morning that you would be back this way. You save me a walk out through the fields to your house.”

  “What is it, Ivan Ivanovich?”

  “Wait here. I shall be back in an instant!”

  He ducked inside the building and returned in a moment with a pouch in his hand. “This came for you today—all the way from St. Petersburg!”

  “Anna!” cried Yevno, leaping at the pouch. He recognized the fine feminine script immediately.

  “I thought as much,” grinned Ivan.

  “If ever I yearned that these old eyes of mine could read, this is the day!” sighed Yevno.

  “Ah, but you must be proud nevertheless,” said the tavern keeper. “All that education for your daughter is of some use after all. Nosyrev’s son went to work in a factory in Moscow, and he never hears from him. It’s been more than a year.”

  “That is too bad,” Yevno replied. “If he were in St. Petersburg, perhaps my Anna could see him and help him.” He could not help it if his words came out with more pride than sympathy. Nosyrev was forever bragging about his family and their prosperity.

  “So,” Ivan went on, not satisfied with merely delivering the mail, “I see your son has, er . . . met with some accident.”

  “He is fine,” said Yevno. “Nothing that some soap and a hot cloth will not repair.” He knew Ivan was fishing for gossip to spread that evening to his customers. Rumors must already be circulating about Paul’s trouble with the authorities, but Yevno refused to add any fuel to the fire.

  “And, Paul, how do you find Akulin these days?” said the nosy innkeeper, still groping for marketable news.

  “As well as any town dominated by an unjust bureaucracy, a tool of—” Before Paul could say any more his father grabbed his arm and jerked him back to the road.

  “We must be on our way, Ivan,” said Yevno, bowing sheepishly toward the innkeeper. “Thank you for the letter.”

  When they had distanced themselves from the tavern and the inquisitive Ivanovich by two dozen paces, Yevno turned toward his son.

  “Are you doing everything you can to land yourself in trouble again?” he said, his patience wearing as thin as the soles of his lapti. “I’ll not be able to rescue you again.”

  “Papa, do you know what Kazan says? That the greatest enemy to reform is the peasant himself—and is yet the one most needful. They must be made to hear the truth and understand, so that they can all rise up together.”

  “Kazan, Kazan! I grow weary of that name. If he is sent to Siberia, we shall be well rid of him.”

  “Papa! It is not like you to wish ill upon another.”

  “Forgive me, you are right!” said Yevno, crossing his chest as he said the words. “I do not wish the young man ill, but I do wish him to leave our village, Pavushka. You have changed since he came here. He is robbing you of your youth, giving you needless anxiety over things you are powerless to change.”

  “Kazan robs me of nothing,” rejoined Paul. “I give it freely, Papa. Childhood innocence is a luxury some cannot afford. I felt these things long before Kazan came to our community. He has only helped give meaning to my discontent.”

  Yevno sighed in frustration. How could he find words to counter his son’s convictions? He was a simple man who did not even know the meaning of the term philosophy, much less possess the ability to put its principles to use in a debate with his son. Besides, faith to him was not philosophy or ideas or systems. It was life. He believed in God and in the fruitfulness of the soil and the love of his family. He was too old to change his ways. If he was his own worst enemy, as Paul implied from Kazan’s words, he could not help it. The small circle of life was enough for him. Why could it not be enough for his son?

  Such thoughts could only lead to bewilderment and frustration. Instead, Yevno turned toward something more pleasant.

  “The pouch is thick,” he said, giving it a squeeze with his fingers. “Anna must have a great deal to say.”

  Paul’s dark countenance lit up. “I wonder how much of the city she has seen.”

  “She is but a kitchen servant. How would she have the chance to go out into the city?”

  “Even servants must have some time to themselves. I wonder if she has met other workers in St. Petersburg. The very thought of being there is so exciting!”

  “Perhaps your day will come in time too, my son.”

  “Do you think she has spoken of me to her employers?”

  “Here,” said Yevno, thrusting the letter toward Paul. “You might as well find out.”

  “Now?”

  “Go ahead . . . read i
t as we walk.”

  “Before we show it to Mama?”

  “Read it to yourself. Then you can at least tell me if she is healthy and happy. I cannot wait to find out! We can read it to the others later.”

  Paul tore open the seal and slipped out the pages. As he did so, two small paper bills fluttered from the envelope onto the snow-packed ground. Paul stooped to pick them up.

  “Papa, look! Ten rubles!”

  Yevno laughed heartily. “Did I not say God would make provision for us?”

  “Yes . . . you did,” replied Paul thoughtfully.

  He tucked the money back into the pouch and turned his attention to his sister’s letter. His silent reading was punctuated with so many clicks of the tongue, chuckles, nods of the head, and quiet smiles that Yevno could hardly keep from bursting with anticipation.

  Father and son reached the cottage before Paul had lifted his eyes from the last page, and they paused a moment at the door for him to complete it. Finally Paul sighed deeply and looked up at his father.

  “She is well, Papa,” he said, and they went inside.

  49

  The moment Mama and the children and Aunt Polya heard that Papa and Paul had brought a letter from Anna, there was not a moment’s rest until Paul had read it aloud all the way through twice. In the commotion, all anxiety about Paul faded into the background, although Yevno and Sophia exchanged several knowing glances and a few whispers.

  Anna had correctly predicted every person’s reaction. By the middle of the next day she would very nearly be a celebrity in her little village, if Papa had his way about it. Old Yevno would have been surprised, indeed, to discover how well his daughter Anna knew him!

  Late that evening, after the three younger children had been prodded off to bed, Paul slipped outside to the stable attached to the west wall of the cottage. He often went there at night to be alone, to think, and sometimes to read when there was a candle to spare. On this evening, Mama had been so pleased about Anna’s letter that she had been very kind to him, only once mentioning the trouble in Akulin. When he had asked to be excused to come outside, she smiled and handed him a stub of a candle and the tinder box.