The Journeys of Socrates

by Dan Millman

  Sergei Ivanov had vanished.

  She couldn’t yet grasp the truth or take in all that had happened. But despite her confusion and grief over the cataclysmic events that had transpired, a spell had lifted. The life she had known and lies she had believed lay shattered at the base of the falls. She could not fathom what might lie ahead, but for the first time she sensed the possibility of a different world now, with Konstantin by her side.

  She clung to him as they slowly made their way down the winding path toward the foot of the falls. Ataman Dmitri Zakolyev, the man she had called Father, was dead. The body of Sergei Ivanov, the man who had saved Kontin, had washed downstream. But if he still lived, he might help her make sense of the world once again.

  SURPRISED BY HIS SURVIVAL, in a state of grace, Sergei crawled up the bank of the river about twenty meters below the falls to find Paestka peacefully grazing nearby, unconcerned about the dramas of the human world.

  Sergei was bruised and cold but bore no serious injury. He made his way back to the foot of the falls, found Zakolyev, and pulled him out of the pounding water and into the underbrush. For a moment he saw images of their boyhood together, as fellow cadets, and their survival training, and their struggles. Then the images faded as Sergei took the small shovel from the saddlebag and dug a final resting place for Dmitri Zakolyev, covering him with the wet earth.

  “I had not intended to kill you,” Sergei said, “but I’m glad you are gone…”

  He had no stone to mark the grave nor any more words to say, but as he gazed down at the mound, Sergei faced the fact that his worst enemy had midwifed his daughter into the world, had protected her and trained her, and in his troubled way had fathered her. He bowed his head and gave thanks that his daughter was alive. He thought of Anya then, and how glad she would be…

  Paulina and Konstantin joined him there, gazing down at the grave, saying their own farewells in silence.

  While the people of Zakolyev’s camp went about their business, ignorant of what had changed, the three of them hiked back up the winding path—Sergei leading Paestka, and Paulina and Konstantin holding tightly to one another’s hands.

  While they ascended, Sergei told Paulina the story of the locket—where it came from and how it came into her hands. Not the details, but enough so she might begin to understand.

  By the time they returned to the top of the falls, Sergei had finished his story. A purple light still infused the sky when they heard shouts of alarm from the camp, carried through the still evening air.

  “Korolev is dead!” someone shouted.

  “The Ataman is missing!” yelled another. “We are under attack!”

  A few moments later Tomorov and five other men carrying saber, knife, and pistol caught sight of the three of them standing there and raced toward them to kill the white-haired intruder.

  Sergei stood relaxed. Expecting nothing, ready for whatever came—

  But as the men drew near, Paulina stepped in front of Sergei and faced them. “Stop! All of you!” she said, her small voice ringing with authority. As she raised her arm, the men stopped and waited. “It’s over!” she said. “Ataman Dmitri Zakolyev is dead—gone over the falls. And believe me when I say this: You do not want to fight this man. If you do, you will face me as well!”

  The leaderless men grumbled and stared and shuffled their feet. They didn’t take orders from a woman—not even Paulina. But there was something familiar about that man…

  Tomorov the scout had a long memory. He recognized the white-haired man—the one who had followed after they had beaten him and killed the woman and child. Tomorov remembered enough. “Come on!” he said to the men. “We have no more business here.”

  They backed off and away, and like blind men, they stumbled through the camp to gather their belongings and saddle their horses. The place stank of death, and they wanted no more of it.

  Sergei looked at the wound on Konstantin’s chest. “It isn’t deep and will heal well enough,” he said.

  “Better my chest than…thank you for saving my life,” Konstantin said. “I…I’m sorry that you aren’t my father too. I wish you were…”

  Sergei looked at his daughter, and, seeing how closely Paulina held this young man, he smiled and said, “We may yet find a way to grant that wish.”

  The events of that day—the death of Korolev, Kontin nearly taken from her, and the death of the man she knew as her father—rushed in upon Paulina. She started to pant, and her chest heaved. Konstantin held her as she found release.

  Some time later, when she was able to speak again, Paulina looked up at Sergei Ivanov. “I had learned to hate you…all my life…How can you be my father? How can I know that it’s true?”

  Sergei had no proof to offer. So he said, “You’ve had a difficult day, Paulina. We all have. Let’s ride away from here, make a camp in the woods. And in the morning we may all see more clearly.”

  His words made sense. A good beginning.

  SERGEI, PAULINA, AND KONSTANTIN rode out of the camp together. No one interfered or seemed to care. Someone had set the barn ablaze. Looking back, Paulina turned to Konstantin and said in a weary voice, “Today—before I came to the falls, Korolev tried to…attack me. We fought…and I killed him.”

  Sergei turned to her. “Did you say you killed the one-armed giant, the man Korolev?”

  She nodded, biting her lip. “Do you know him?”

  He hesitated, but then decided that she should know the whole truth: “Korolev was the man who killed your mother.”

  Paulina turned her head away so he would not see her tears. So she had completed her mission after all—killing the monster who had murdered her mother. Her years of training had not been wasted.

  That night Sergei lay awake for a time, wondering how he might earn her trust.

  The next morning he was already up and tending the fire when Konstantin woke, then Paulina. They didn’t speak at first, but Sergei knew what was on her mind—the proof she sought. When he had first awakened, an idea had come to him. He would have to take a risk…

  As Sergei handed the two of them some berries he had found nearby, he said to Paulina, “Do you notice the resemblance between me and your grandfather…in the locket?”

  She didn’t need to look; she had memorized their faces. “Yes,” she said. “But many people bear a resemblance.”

  “There’s something else,” he said, “if it’s still there. You see, when your mother and I were married, I took five strands of her hair and wound them into a tiny circle, a lock of hair the same color as yours, and I placed that lock behind the photograph of my parents—your grandparents.”

  Paulina’s eyes opened wide. She had never thought to look behind the photograph. She quickly opened the locket and carefully pried up the round piece of photographic paper and looked as Sergei held his breath—

  There was no lock of hair. Nothing. When Paulina looked up, her eyes were again guarded.

  “Wait!” said Konstantin. “There’s something stuck to the back of the photograph.” Paulina turned the photograph around. And there, pressed into the faded paper, was a tight little circle—five strands of her mother’s hair.

  Sergei smiled. “Her name was Anya, and she was as lovely as you are.”

  Soon after, they broke camp and mounted their horses.

  Paulina had brought only the locket and a few personal items. Konstantin had left everything behind save for a few of his drawings, folded and placed into the cover of a book.

  “Your book,” Sergei asked as they rode north. “What is it about?”

  “About a journey to America, by a writer named Abram Chudominsky,” he replied.

  Sergei nodded, committing the book and author to memory. “America is where I intend to go,” he said. “And I hope you will both join me…”

  Paulina said only, “Where do we ride now?”

  “To meet your grandmother and uncle, who would like very much to make your acquaintance.”

 
THEY RODE IN SILENCE for some time after that—not because they had little to say, but because they had so much—it was difficult to know where to begin. Sergei thought it best to wait until Paulina was ready.

  About midday she began, with one question following another. Sergei answered them all, telling the story of his life and her lineage, until she seemed satisfied.

  It wasn’t until the second day of their ride north that Paulina began to speak—slowly at first, then faster, as if to reassure herself of her memory and hear it aloud in the safety of Konstantin’s company. She told Sergei Ivanov all that she remembered. Konstantin embellished where he could and told his perspectives as well.

  Sergei took it in and silently grieved her strange childhood and all the years they had lost.

  As the days passed and their tales were told, lulls in the conversation grew longer, until Sergei and Paulina spoke little. But now there was a tenuous comfort in the silence between them, and when Paulina cast speculative glances at Sergei, they were not without a certain regard. Or perhaps it was only gratitude for his long journey to her side.

  .52.

  UPON THEIR ARRIVAL and joyous welcome in St. Petersburg, after all introductions and greetings were made, Paulina and Konstantin s h a red their first Shabbat meal with Sergei, Valeria, Andreas, Katya, and their children, Avrom and Leya. Grandmother Valeria Panova gave special thanks and cried with happiness on that special night.

  Sergei’s life once again took on a dreamlike quality as he gazed around the table drinking in these faces he would remember all the days of his life. Realizing that this moment would not last, he cherished it all the more.

  Sergei stole yet another glance at his daughter and marveled at her resemblance to Anya—the eyes, the hair, the shape of her cheeks, the line of her mouth—so alike yet so different.

  Paulina was only now learning about the larger world. In the past few days, Valeria and Andreas had taken her and Konstantin on a tour of the city. Konstantin was curious about everything, and had a hundred questions about customs and social manners, banks and commerce and travel. Paulina spoke less but looked and listened.

  Then, on their second Shabbat night, during a lull in the conversation, Sergei quietly announced that he had a gift for Paulina. He placed three gemstones on the table in front of her. “These jewels,” he said, “come from your great-grandfather Heschel Rabinowitz, and from his father before him. I now pass them to you. They are quite valuable and will provide funds for you to begin your new life together.”

  Paulina looked down at the jewels that sparkled like her eyes in the candlelight. She turned to look at Konstantin, then back to Sergei. “I…I thank you…Sergei.” She still had trouble calling him Father—it sounded strange to her.

  Paulina was quiet the rest of that evening—preoccupied. Her mind had accepted that somehow all the people around the table were relations: father, grandmother, uncle, aunt, and young cousins. Yet they were strangers to her—even the brave and generous Sergei Ivanov, whom she had known for only a few short weeks.

  After the meal, Sergei spoke enthusiastically of America, where he and Paulina and Konstantin would soon go. He made a last plea for Valeria, Andreas, and Katya to join them, but without success.

  Even as Sergei spoke of their future, Paulina had reached a resolution about her past: She would put it behind her and never speak of it again. Even this night was part of her past. Her future had not yet begun.

  And on the previous night, Paulina and Konstantin had made another difficult decision as well…

  THE FOLLOWING WEEK Sergei returned with all necessary certificates and papers for Paulina and Konstantin. “A little money in the right hands can work wonders,” Sergei explained with a smile. He had also booked their second-class passage out of Germany on the great steamship S.S.König Friedrich.

  Five days later—after a bittersweet farewell and promises to write—Sergei, Paulina, and Konstantin set out toward Finland, to find passage on the Baltic Sea to the port city of Hamburg.

  IN THE FIRST DAYS OF TRAVEL, conversations seemed strained and awkward, sometimes dying out almost as soon as they had begun. Sergei realized that while Paulina’s mind had accepted him as her father, and a woman named Anya as her mother, only Konstantin had found a place in her heart.

  During their voyage, Paulina and Konstantin kept mostly to themselves. But then, almost two weeks into the journey, as the great ship neared the coast of America, Paulina made a special effort to include Sergei in the conversation over dinner. Once, it seemed, she was about to say more, but she fell silent, as if unsure how to proceed. She glanced over at Konstantin, who gave her a look and a nod, then said, “There will be no better time than now.”

  Paulina turned to Sergei. “Sergei…Father, could we go up on the deck?”

  On the aft deck, out of the wind, Paulina drew Sergei aside, took a deep breath, and said, “I…first I want to thank you for everything…saving Konstantin’s life…and what you went through to find me…all your kindness and generosity…”

  Sergei started to speak—to tell her that he understood, but her words tumbled out: “I am glad that you, a good man, are my father…maybe there is also some goodness in me…”

  She hesitated, then looked into his eyes before adding, “And now you have completed what you set out to do, and…and Konstantin and I must go our own way. Just the two of us…”

  Then her voice grew more resolute: “We must go to find our life and you must find yours. I wish you a good life, Sergei Ivanov, wherever you may go…I will remember you fondly, but…I also have much to forget.”

  Konstantin appeared, slipping one arm around Paulina. With the other he reached out to clasp Sergei’s hand and said, “When we find our place and have news to tell, we will write to the address given us by Paulina’s grandmother.” With that, he excused himself. Paulina started to follow, but turned back to Sergei and added, “I believe that my mother…would be proud of you for what you have done.”

  Then, for the first and last time, Paulina drew close, reached up, and kissed Sergei on the cheek—a daughter’s kiss so tenuous and tender that Sergei’s heart nearly broke open. He could not even protest when she took the locket from her neck, placed it in his palm, and closed his fingers around it.

  Sergei stood alone and stared out to sea, thinking how Serafim had taught him, many years before, to expect nothing but be prepared for anything. He had foreseen this parting—he had known it would occur. Just not so soon…

  So many emotions washed through him that it was impossible to distinguish one from another. He released his feelings and his future into God’s hands. When they reached America’s shores, Paulina and Konstantin would vanish from his life as abruptly as they had appeared.

  Yet all in all, it had turned out well. Sergei had found his daughter, alive and healthy, and had helped her start a new life. She had just done the same for him. She had spoken her truth and it set him free.

  AS THE SHORES OF AMERICA came into sight, and the bow of the great ship cut the ocean waves, Sergei gazed upon his new land. His eyes took in every detail—the sparkle of sun, the textures of sea and sky, the life abounding. Someday, he thought, even if men voyage to the stars in flying ships, that adventure will be no greater than this one, here on Earth.

  In the next moment, the sea breeze vanished and the world was still and silent, as three faces appeared to Sergei, one after the next, so vivid they seemed to float in the air before him: First he saw his father—not stern as in his photograph, but with soft eyes and a smile that opened Sergei’s heart; then the face of Serafim brought tears of gratitude—and a moment later, Sergei was gazing at the rough-hewn face and deep eyes of Socrates the Greek, as he had appeared in Sergei’s boyhood vision those many years past…and as these three images became one in S e rgei’s mind and memory, the following words came to him like an ancient song: As we die from one life into the next…we may also die and be rebornin a single lifetime…and the story, the journey, goe
s on and on…

  Sergei remained still for some minutes, until he again felt the wind ruffling his snow-white hair. Stepping into a sheltered place, out of the wind, he reached inside his shirt pocket and took out the locket Paulina had returned to his safekeeping. Carefully opening the clasp, Sergei gazed at the photograph of his mother and father then peered behind it, expecting to find the lock of Anya’s hair.

  For a few moments, Sergei forgot the world around him, and the taste of his tears mingled with the scent of the sea. For he had found not one, but two separate locks of hair that he would treasure for the rest of his days.

  Sergei said a silent prayer for his daughter as a wind gusted in from the north, and it seemed that he could hear Anya’s voice, as it had once spoken to him in his darkest hours. She had said, “Have faith, my darling. Our child is safe in God’s hands.”

  So she is, he thought. So are we all.

  When I was young, I believed that life

  might unfold in an orderly way, according to my hopes and expectations.

  But now I understand that the Way winds like a river,

  always changing, ever onward, following God’s gravity

  toward the Great Sea of Being.

  My journeys revealed that

  the Way itself creates the warrior;

  that every path leads to peace,

  every choice to wisdom.

  And that life has always been,

  and will always be,

  arising in Mystery.

  FROM SOCRATES’ JOURNAL

  REVELATIONS

  FROM THE

  YEARS THAT

  FOLLOWED

  ALL FOUR OF MY GRANDPARENTS came from Ukraine, but I was especially close to my maternal grandparents. When I was a boy, Grandpa Abe used to tell me stories while we cracked open walnuts from the tree in their backyard. Like many people from the old country, he didn’t say much about Ukraine or Russia but spoke of smaller, more personal incidents that could have taken place anywhere—a horse he had longed to ride, a favorite river where he learned to swim by jumping from a rowboat into the cold, clear waters. He awakened my imagination with folktales, like the one about a rainbow bird that no one could catch except a clever and patient little boy like me…