The Russians Collection

by Michael Phillips

  Vera did not need to be told twice, but scampered off quickly. Yevno forced himself back into motion without further words, as Anna watched with burdened heart. For the rest of the evening, even without Vera and as tired as she was, she had no difficulty keeping up with her father’s declining progress across the field. She even found herself slowing intentionally so as not to make it too obvious that he was scarcely moving at a tenth of his morning’s pace.

  Anna prayed that the rain would not come, or that help would soon arrive. She wondered if God was too busy answering the hundreds of other similar prayers to hear her concerns for her father. Whatever His intent, Anna’s words seemed lost in the humid gusts of wind stirring over the still-standing grain. God, take care of my father! she prayed. And still she followed him along, gathering into bundles the grain falling beneath the swishing and cutting motion of his scythe.

  No more was said between them, although both expressed relief when Sophia brought bread, water, and apples out to them. In the half hour’s pause, as they sat on the stubbly field, Yevno’s breathing continued labored. The moon rose as the light of day faded, adding to the paleness of his skin.

  Sophia and Anna exchanged concerned looks. In the moonlight, Yevno’s complexion looked as dusky as the cloudy sky. He handed his cup to his wife, then struggled to his feet and took up the scythe.

  “Husband,” said Sophia, able to keep quiet no longer, “your life is worth more than any amount of rye and wheat. Come back to the house and rest.”

  “Without the grain, there is no life,” insisted Yevno. “What would you have me do—let the little ones starve?”

  “Yevno Pavlovich, we will not starve!” implored Sophia, the alarm clearly evident in her voice. “Please, husband, do not do this to yourself.”

  Yevno plodded back to work, ignoring her words. He raised the scythe again and began to swing it once more in rhythm. But his movements had lost all their vigor, and the blade scarcely came above his knees before he sent it downward again. The very weight of the instrument was too much for him and the steel blade plowed errantly into the soil. Anna and her mother followed, as much to be near their struggling father and husband as to gather the feebly falling grain behind him. In a gigantic effort Yevno summoned the strength to raise the huge, cumbersome tool one last time. Even as it reached its zenith, something gave way within him. With the forward movement, his hands could not keep hold their grasp. The scythe crashed unceremoniously to the earth, and Yevno collapsed to the ground at its side.

  “Papa!” screamed Anna, rushing forward and falling to her knees.

  Sophia was beside her the next instant, throwing herself across his chest, speaking feverishly to her unconscious husband.

  “Anna,” she said, once she realized she was unable to rouse him, “run to the house. Send Vera for the priest. Come back with Tanya and Ilya.”

  Anna was already on her feet.

  “Bring the cart,” added Sophia.

  “Yes, Mama.”

  “Hurry, Anna . . . hurry!”

  44

  It took all the strength Sophia, Anna, Tanya, and little Ilya could muster to get the worn-out body of poor old Yevno Pavlovich Burenin onto their rickety cart and back across the field to the izba. The priest was already hastening along the road to the cottage by the time the family arrived with their fallen papa.

  With the priest’s help, they managed to get Yevno onto the bed where the priest immediately began the ceremony of the last rites. Sophia quickly put together a makeshift straw pallet on the earthen floor at the “beautiful corner” of the cottage. As soon as she had it ready, according to custom, they transferred her husband to it, with his head pointing in the direction of the icon of St. Nicholas above. As the priest continued with the rites, Sophia prayed softly, sprinkling Yevno with kernels of grain and salt.

  Yevno’s labored breathing gradually began to grow more relaxed. The priest had finished with Yevno and was praying in front of the icon when at last Yevno opened his eyes.

  “What . . . where am I?” he sighed softly.

  “You are safe in the cottage,” replied Sophia, who knelt at his side with tears in her eyes. “Go back to sleep, Yevno. All is well.”

  The old man’s eyes widened and he began to take in his situation. “Why am I not in my bed . . . what is the father doing here?”

  “We did not know, Yevno . . . we thought it best—”

  “What?” interrupted Yevno, trying to rise. “He has not been praying me into the next life?”

  The priest knelt down and tried to soothe him.

  “Ah, now I remember. The scythe fell from my hand . . . I must have fallen as well. . . .”

  “You collapsed, Yevno,” said Sophia. “We were frightened. We dragged you here in the cart and sent for the father.”

  “That accounts for the bed. You are a good wife—you did not want me to die too hard, eh?”

  Sophia’s tears of joy at seeing her man smile again were her only reply.

  “But you have not cut open the wall yet?” asked Yevno suddenly in alarm. “Winter is too close for that!”

  “No, husband, we have not had the chance yet.”

  “Don’t touch the wall or the roof. I am not about to die yet! And even if I do, my soul can get out of the izba well enough without you cutting any openings.”

  “Yes, husband. I will do nothing to the konek.”

  “Then get me back into the bed. I am not so close to death that I need to be here. I can see the good saint well enough from the other side of the room.”

  Seeing her father finally resting contentedly, Anna quietly stole from the cottage with the intent of working on in the moonlight. She found the great scythe where it had dropped, but the effort of lifting it and then trying to swing it with any effect showed her what a strong man her father was, even at his weakest. She laid it down and returned to the barn for the hand sickle, then attacked the standing grain with a hopeful, if weary swing. She was only able to work another two hours, and she felled stalks equivalent to what her father could have sliced through in twenty or thirty minutes. Yet with a feeling of satisfaction she dragged her tired body back to the cottage about midnight and dropped into bed next to her sister.

  How she found the strength to rise at dawn was a mystery. All the others except Sophia still slept. Anna could not recall a time her father had slept later than she. But there he was, his breathing labored and noisy, his skin still pale.

  Anna dressed, then picked up her coat from the floor where she had dropped it the night before. She joined her mother in front of the fire, took a chunk of brown bread, and headed for the door.

  “Where are you going?” asked Sophia.

  “There is work to do, Mama.”

  “The animals need tending, that is true.”

  “In the fields, Mama. The younger ones can take care of the animals.”

  “Anna, your face was nearly as gray as your father’s last night.”

  “But I am younger, and strong. The work will not hurt me.”

  “You cannot cut all the wheat. If the rain comes, it comes.”

  “Even if I cut only a little at a time, it is something.”

  The mother looked over her daughter from head to foot. “I think in your own quiet way,” she said with a smile, “you are nearly as stubborn as your papa.”

  Anna took the words as high praise, as her mother had meant them. Sophia wrapped her arms around her daughter and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

  “I will help today,” she said. “I will leave all the children here to make sure your papa stays in bed.”

  “That may be hard on him, Mama, to know that two women are doing his work.”

  “He has himself said more times than I can count how pride goes before a fall. Now he has fallen, and I think only a reminder will be necessary to keep him in the cottage.”

  “The butcher’s son, Peter, came by yesterday while we were in the field and said that their crop is small and he expected
to be through in a day or two.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “He said he would help, Mama.”

  “Bless him—if only the rains hold off.”

  “And now you are taking Papa’s part and worrying about the rain, Mama,” smiled Anna.

  “The land has been my life as long as it has been your papa’s. It is too much a part of my soul not to think about.”

  Anna nodded. She was of peasant stock too, and understood.

  “Now get along, child,” said Sophia, “and God be with you.”

  Despite her aching arms and shoulders, Anna walked into the field with high hopes, attributing the previous night’s exhaustion to the full day she had already put in. She picked up the scythe where it still lay, and to her joy found it felt lighter than it had seemed in last night’s moonlight. She lifted it and began swinging as she had seen her father do. But by the time she was able to wield the clumsy instrument, her shoulders had already begun to tire, and within an hour her arms felt as though they had been wrenched out of their shoulder sockets. She set the monstrous scythe down and found she could barely lift her hand to tuck back several loose strands of hair.

  It was no use. She was simply too small and weak. She would rest a while and then gather and bind what she had cut. After that she would have to be content for the rest of the day with the smaller sickle, and would just have to do the best she could.

  The day wore on. Sophia made better use of the scythe than Anna had been able to. Vera gathered, and Anna alternated cutting with the sickle and binding and stacking. Near noon, her mother and sister returned to the house to check on Yevno and prepare their meager lunch.

  The rain had still not come, but the air was heavy with its scent and the clouds in the north appeared darker than they had yesterday.

  With increasing difficulty Anna tried to remember all the words of faith and hope she had so often spoken to Katrina. But the exhaustion of her body brought despair to her mind. Her right arm hung limp at her side; the tiny sickle had grown as heavy as the giant scythe. “Dear God!” she moaned, collapsing onto the ground, crying in hopeless frustration. She lay on the dry earth a few moments and wept, sweat dripping into her eyes and mingling with her tears.

  Her dejection lasted only four or five minutes. She pulled herself up and glanced once more toward the north, in the direction of the ominous clouds. She swung her gaze around toward the west. From the village, she spied a man in the distance walking toward her.

  With a pang of renewed hope, she thought immediately of Peter. He was coming to help earlier than he’d said!

  But . . . the figure was taller and broader than the fourteen-year-old son of Katyk’s butcher. He was dressed in a peasant tunic, belted at the waist with an embroidered belt, his baggy trousers tucked into high black boots. And there was something familiar about him. . . . Perhaps one of the neighbors had sent one of their field hands to help. Still . . . she thought she recognized the gait. This man did not walk like a field hand. He walked like—

  Suddenly Anna jerked to her feet.

  It could not be! It was impossible!

  The sickle, which had still been clutched in her hand, fell to the ground with a dull thud. Suddenly Anna was unaware of dirt or stubble or grain, of sickles or scythes or rain or her ailing papa!

  She took several tentative steps toward the edge of the field, her eyes fixed on the approaching figure. Her fatigue left her in an ecstatic rush of joyous anticipation, and she broke into a run.

  He had not seen her where she knelt, and was looking in the other direction as she rose and began running toward him. By the time Anna emerged from the tall stalks of grain onto the pathway to the village, she was certain her eyes had not deceived her.

  Against all hope and reason . . . it was him, as though he had stepped from her very dreams into reality itself!

  He saw her coming, and his face lit into a huge smile. His great military boots thudded heavily across the hard-packed earth toward her.

  45

  “Sergei . . . !”

  Anna could say no more, for the tears flowed freely, choking out her voice.

  “Anna . . . is it really you?” he said with equal emotion, opening his arms and drawing her close.

  All the questions of how and why Anna could not even voice. She stood panting, feeling his arms around her shoulders, fearing that this was all a mirage, some phantom of her exhausted brain brought on by the fatigue and lack of sleep. And yet . . . there were his strong arms about her trembling body! This could be no mirage, no phantom. It was a miracle as if from God himself.

  The noble prince and the peasant girl stood in each other’s arms for only a few moments, yet it seemed like hours. At last they fell apart, slowly. Sergei took hold of Anna’s shoulders and looked deeply into her sweaty, dirty, tear-streaked face. He smiled broadly.

  “I . . . I cannot believe . . . ,” faltered Anna. “How can you actually be here? How did you find me?”

  “They said you had returned.”

  “You’ve been home, then?”

  “Oh yes,” he replied, “I’ve been home—though briefly.” For the first time a shadow crossed his face. He released Anna, looked away momentarily, then sighed and added, “And quite a homecoming it was.” A hint of bitter sarcasm filled his tone in spite of his present joy.

  “You don’t sound happy about it,” said Anna. She and Sergei turned and slowly began to make their way back along the road in the direction from which she had just come.

  “I have been away a long time . . . much has changed.”

  Anna smiled. “You must mean with Princess Katrina.”

  “I must admit, it was no small surprise. I love Dmitri like a brother, but . . . a brother-in-law?”

  “You do not approve?”

  “I don’t know—I just think the idea will take getting used to. But worse than that was finding you not there.”

  Anna glanced down at the dirt path.

  “It has been a year of such turmoil, Anna,” Sergei went on. “I have tried to think through many things that I cannot say I even yet understand. So much about this country of ours, its government, its ways . . . the war . . . my purpose as a soldier . . .”

  His voice trailed off, and it was clear that many of the same questions that had driven him away in the first place still plagued him.

  “Have you . . . ,” began Anna, not quite sure how to phrase the question that was on her heart. “Have you reached any . . . conclusions about it all?” She glanced up and saw in his face the same look of bewilderment and pain as on the day she had last seen him in the garden.

  A long pause followed, during which Sergei could not return Anna’s gaze. His eyes were fixed in the distance, and Anna knew he was seeing and thinking things too deep for anyone to feel with him. She could tell his personal search for meaning was not over yet.

  At length he sighed. “I wrote a great deal,” he said. “It helps when I can tell my thoughts to someone, even if I am only telling them to myself on a sheet of paper. And I talked to many people . . . and saw many things.”

  Again his gaze grew distant.

  “But conclusions, Anna,” he said after a moment, “have been scarce. In fact, I would say the time away has brought me only one.”

  At last he glanced down to her. She met his eyes with a questioning look.

  “And that is that I still love you,” he said softly.

  Anna looked away, her heart pounding for joy at his words. She felt his arm go around her shoulder and pull her toward him. She could not imagine a greater ecstacy as long as she lived.

  “I had to come back to see you,” he added. “I could not wait another day.”

  He gave her a tight squeeze, and they walked on slowly and in silence for some minutes.

  “Now do you see why I am here?” Sergei asked at length, “why I have come to Katyk?”

  Anna gave a gentle laugh. “I think so,” she said.

  “I was at home only a day an
d a half, and then I took the first train south.”

  “Did you tell . . . do they know where you are?” asked Anna, suddenly thinking of the implications of Sergei’s visit.

  “No, I masqueraded my intent.”

  “But how did you find out where my home was?”

  “Where do you think Katrina learned her clever ways?” said Sergei with a sly smile. “I extracted the information from her without her suspecting the slightest interest on my part.”

  Anna smiled at the thought of someone else beating Katrina at her own game.

  “And your father?” asked Anna.

  “He was none too pleased, either with my arrival or my hasty departure,” replied Sergei sarcastically. “At first he refused to see me at all. Then when he heard I was leaving again so suddenly he demanded to see me.” He sighed and looked away for a moment. When his face turned again toward her, Anna saw an even deeper pain in his eyes. “It was not a pleasant exchange,” he added.

  “I’m sorry, Sergei,” said Anna sincerely.

  Again silence fell between them. It was broken abruptly by Sergei, who now seemed to see Anna’s condition for the first time.

  “But just look at you!” he said.

  Anna’s face reddened and she grimaced. She realized she was covered with dirt from head to foot.

  “I must be an awful sight,” she said.

  He stopped and turned her to face him, then slowly ran his thumb across her cheek. He held it out where they could both see the smear of dirt across it and looked at her with a tender smile.

  “Do you have any idea what this dirt on my hands means to me?” he asked.

  “That the hand of a prince has been soiled by a filthy peasant girl?”

  “How could you say such a thing?” rejoined Sergei.

  He stepped back a couple of paces and surveyed her. “You are more beautiful than I have ever seen you, Anna,” he said. “I have never seen such beauty in all the ballrooms and drawing rooms of St. Petersburg!”

  “Sergei,” said Anna, smiling and flustered, “the year away has taught you to lie!”

  “Never have I spoken so truthfully,” he said seriously. “There is nothing so wonderful as a woman with the grime of good, clean, honest toil on her brow. It is something I have seen all too infrequently, and now to see it on you fills me with even more love for you!”