Ekaterina (Heirs of Anton)

by Warren, Susan May

  Kat was a horrid watchdog. Terrible. Bottom of the pit. One hundred percent failure.

  But, he would take beauty over protection any day.

  Her chin had bobbed down to her chest, her hair cascading like a waterfall over her face, tempting him to reach up and wrap a finger around a thick, silky end. Her eyes were closed, and this near, so near he could feel her breath, he could see she had a tiny smattering of ginger freckles across her nose and cheeks. He could hardly breathe for the sight of her.

  I’ll take care of you. Her words came back to him, and he smiled at their accuracy. He’d slept well, too well judging by the dent of pale light creeping in through the windows. Outside, sparrows chirped.

  She stirred. He didn’t move, hadn’t moved except for his eyes, having learned the technique of waking motionless years ago. Now he held his breath, unwilling to disturb her.

  He heard a scrape, the thud of feet on the stairs, and his mind tensed. Surely, Grazovich hadn’t tracked them here. No. Only Ryslan knew where he’d gone, adding a crude laugh and a promise to keep his eyes on Grazovich.

  And, as of last night, Grazovich hadn’t budged. He was still playing tourist in Pskov, taking up residence by day in a local library, and by night in the hotel bar.

  Vadeem watched out of the corner of his eye as a man topped the stairs. He stood in the second floor lobby, scanned the room.

  His gaze landed on Kat.

  Vadeem shuttered his eyes, as the man approached. Solid underneath a thin brown jacket and dark dress pants, he looked mid-forties with sandy brown hair thinned at the temples. Pursing his lips, as if dreading the task before him, he held a package in both hands and crept towards Kat. . .

  Vadeem launched off the sofa like a panther.

  He hit the man hard. They slammed into the wood floor. The man grunted and sprawled like a sack of potatoes while Vadeem pinned his neck to the ground.

  “Vadeem!” Kat grabbed his arm, yanking. “That’s Pyotr. Get off him!”

  The man blinked at him, blue eyes filled with confusion.

  “Pyotr.” Vadeem rolled off his victim, who eyed him warily.

  “Pyotr, as in, I had dinner with his family last night?”

  Vadeem grimaced. He held out a hand as he found his feet. “Sorry, I guess I’m a little—”

  “Jumpy? Aggressive? Paranoid?” Kat filled in, her hands on her hips.

  Vadeem met her frown. “Cautious.”

  Pyotr stared at the two, eyebrows high. “Yes, well, I’m glad someone is. After the tale she told us last night of being mugged in Moscow and shot at in Pskov, I’d say a bodyguard is a good thing to have around.” He took Vadeem’s hand, who hauled him up from the floor. “Glad to meet you, Vadeem. . .”

  “Captain Vadeem Spasonov.” Vadeem shook his hand, sizing him up. Despite having the grip of factory worker, not a hint of vodka dimmed Pyotr’s bright blue eyes, something rare for a man of Pyotr’s age. In fact, Vadeem wondered how he’d been able to take the man down so easily. Pyotr had Viking shoulders and the girth of a man familiar with the rigors of hard work.

  “I’m sorry to surprise you so early this morning,” Pyotr said, screwing up his broad face in apology. “But my mother asked that I drop this off immediately. I’m on my way to morning prayer service south of here, in Bersk.” He held out the package to Kat. “It’s a book.”

  She took it like she was accepting a newborn child. “What kind of book?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. I’ve never read it, nor seen it until last night.” He took a deep breath. “My mother was very upset after you left. Something you said unnerved her.” He motioned to the sofa, asking Kat to sit.

  Kat was chewing her lip as she sat down, eyes wide. Vadeem remained standing, not entirely sure she wasn’t out of danger.

  “Listen, I have to tell you that my mother is. . .well, she’s old. She’s lived a long time and seen a tremendous amount of history. She fought, shoulder to shoulder, with the men at Stalingrad, and I’m sure that’s never left her. War ages people, you know. I don’t really remember my mother young. She and my father had me late in life. I think they believed they would never have children. She wasn’t the kind of mother who played games with me, but she is loving, and I know she wouldn’t hurt you for the world.”

  Kat frowned. “What are you saying?”

  “She may or may not know the people you were looking for. But she thinks she does, and if it proves to be false, it’s not because her intentions aren’t authentic.” He swallowed, looked away, at the window, where dawn pressed through filmy curtains. “She goes in and out of the past these days. She calls me Pavel, my father’s name, more often than I want to admit. If it helps, I know that she used to live in the west somewhere, near Moscow. And there are many things about her that I don’t know, things she’s buried that make me wonder. Like how she can speak a little Polish, or why she never talks about her parents. The answers to these questions are in the past—one that may or may not have anything to do with you, or your search.” He scrubbed a hand down his face. “Does this make any sense?”

  Kat looked at the pastor, and Vadeem recognized a look of kindness that made him appreciate her even more. “I think so.” Her eyes glistened. She gazed down at the package, wrapped in brown paper.

  Pyotr cupped a hand around his neck. “I think she believes she is helping you in some way by giving you this. I don’t think she’d part with it otherwise.”

  Kat was moved. Vadeem could tell by the way she nodded, her chin quivering.

  “Open it, Kat,” he urged.

  She looked at him, and the hope in her eyes was so palpable it lodged a lump in his throat. She slid a finger under the wrapper and tore it gently away.

  Inside the folds lay a book. Fraying twine bound its leather cover, twice around. It smelled of dust and age. Kat looked at Pyotr, then carefully untied the twine.

  Curiosity pushed Vadeem closer. “What is it?”

  Kat opened the front cover. He saw her swallow, hard. Her face, when she looked up, was raw with emotion. She opened her mouth, and after a long moment, words finally emerged. “It’s the diary of Anton Klassen.”

  -

  “I’d like to talk to your mother.” Kat lifted her chin, her gaze unflinching as she stared at Pyotr. Her tone had turned bolder now that she’d downed a cup of cocoa in the hotel café. At least some feeling had finally returned to her body. Shock had turned her numb and it wasn’t until Vadeem suggested they grab some breakfast that reality brought life to her muscles.

  If the information Vadeem had unearthed yesterday proved correct, the past lay right beneath her fingers, contained in a four-inch by six-inch book, between yellowed, dusty pages of tiny printing. She traced the cover with her finger. “Please, Pyotr, your mother must know something.”

  “I don’t think you should ask her anything else. I’m not sure you would even find answers.” Pyotr stirred his coffee with a red stir stick, then let it go and watched it circle round with the momentum. “She’s pretty. . .incoherent at times. She has wild stories.”

  “She didn’t seem too incoherent last night.”

  He smiled, sadness ringing his eyes. “She had a good night.”

  Kat considered him, his posture seemed slightly defeated, shoulders rounded as he stared into his cup. He smiled ruefully. “I’d like to believe all her wild stories are true.”

  Kat touched his arm. “Maybe they would make sense to me.”

  He looked at her, and she noticed he had the kindest set of misty blue eyes, congruent with what she suspected of a pastor. “You know, maybe they would.”

  His words lit a flame of hope. “When?”

  He checked his watch then leaned back, rubbing his wrist where the watchband had creased a mark. The sun streamed through gauzy gray curtains, bright light flowing over the wooden café floor like syrup. Vadeem sat across from them, stirring his tea, watching Pyotr as if the pastor might be a spy, ready to pounce if the need should arise.<
br />
  Not that Vadeem had needed a reason before. She couldn’t believe he’d flattened Pyotr, poor guy. Thankfully, the pastor looked like he could take it, with his sturdy muscles and solid frame.

  Still, it made her smile to think Vadeem had pounced, protecting her. Again. It seemed to be becoming a habit over the past few days.

  Pyotr scrubbed his hand across his chin. “I have a morning prayer meeting in Bersk then I need to do some visitation. I’ll be back in town for our local prayer meeting tonight. Why don’t you meet me here, around six o’clock? We’ll go to the meeting, and then I’ll drive you out to talk to my mother afterward.”

  “Prayer meeting?” The idea of worshipping with Russian believers had Kat’s heart leaping. “I’d be thrilled.” She looked at Vadeem. “What do you—”

  “No. Forget it, Kat. You can go. I’ll stand outside the door.” Vadeem’s expression sent icy daggers through her soul. His words from their conversation outside Pskov came up like a wall. Faith destroys.

  Her faith was all she had. It held her together, built her up, kept her alive, gave her confidence that this crazy quest was worth the costs

  She nodded, not agreeing for one second. “See you tonight, Pyotr.”

  She’d find a way to get Vadeem inside that church tonight, and she’d start with prayer.

  Pyotr stood up and held out his hand to Vadeem. “No hard feelings, okay? I know you’re just doing your job.”

  Vadeem looked like he’d been sucker punched. He blinked at Pyotr then his head dipped down in a half nod. “Right.”

  Pyotr turned to Kat, his signature kind grin on his face. “And I’ll see you tonight.” He clamped his hand on her shoulder. “Kat, whatever happens, remember that God has a plan in all this. He hasn’t forgotten you, or your family, wherever they are.”

  Words failed her. She nodded.

  Vadeem watched him go, suspicion swishing about his eyes. “Creepy.”

  Kat frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Vadeem leaned forward. “Aren’t you feeling the least bit weird about this? Last night I tell you you’re related to Anton Klassen, and today his diary shows up in your hands?”

  The way he put it, it did sound incredible. But then again, his disbelief discounted God’s omniscient ways. The Almighty had a knack for the incredible. Like Phillip’s ordained meeting on the road with an Ethiopian searching the Scriptures. Or Saul, before he was Paul, helping to stone the very first martyr, Stephen. Or even Joseph, sent to Egypt years before famine, to become ruler and save the family that had betrayed him. Holy coincidences. “Not weird at all, Vadeem. Maybe planned. Maybe this entire thing has been planned out from the beginning by the Master. I have been praying for His intervention.”

  “No.” Vadeem folded his arms across his chest. “I’m not buying it.”

  She shrugged. “Are you saying God doesn’t orchestrate our lives?” Her heart pinched. “Or are you saying you don’t believe in God?”

  He smirked. “Calm down, Kat. I believe in God. I know He’s out there. I even believe He plans out our lives. I’m just not talking to Him, that’s all.”

  She felt as if she’d dove into the big mysterious ocean that was Vadeem. She stared at him, seeing beyond the soldier, the defiant expression, his solid set jaw, now sufficiently covered in dark whiskers, and into the past.

  Vadeem and God were at war.

  Faith destroys.

  Vadeem hadn’t won the last battle with faith. He’d crashed and burned. How long ago had that fight been waged?

  He sat back, arms crossed over his muscled chest, gaze fixed hard on her.

  She ached to know what he was hiding. “It’s a pretty dangerous thing not to talk to God. He is, after all, God.”

  He shook his head, raising his gaze to the ceiling. A couple shuffled into the café and sat down at a table behind him. A muscle pulsed in Vadeem’s jaw. He licked his lips, as if trying to form words. Finally, “I suppose I can’t face Him.”

  The words made her wince. She leaned across the table and touched his arm. “You know, God doesn’t hold us responsible for the things that happen to us. Just for how we react to them.”

  His voice dropped to a wretched whisper. “That’s the problem.”

  -

  Vadeem sat outside the courtroom, on the hall bench. He held Anton’s diary on his lap, carefully turning the pages, skimming for clues. Inside he could hear the hum of voices. Kat had dressed to perfection today, looking impossibly beautiful in a white sleeveless sweater and black pants. It brought out a tan on her arms and a delicious dotting of freckles on her shoulders.

  He’d struggled to let her walk into the courtroom alone, but common sense told him, if she’d be safe anywhere, it was in the local halls of justice. And, after the way she’d carved out the secrets of his soul, he needed a little breathing space. Not too much, just enough to get his feet back under him.

  She was entirely too perceptive for his own good. Where did she dig up those responses that opened his heart with one slash? He is after all, God.

  He, better than anyone, knew what that meant. He knew exactly whom he’d messed with twenty-odd years ago and harbored no illusions that the outcome had been anything but the righteous wrath of God.

  He felt pretty sure that God wouldn’t talk to him, even if Vadeem scraped up the courage to face Him.

  He breathed deep and long, trying to break free of the impending doom that had coiled around his chest. Perhaps it was the mention of the prayer meeting.

  He was a strong man, and it would take a small army to get him inside that church. That—or Kat’s tears. But he’d steeled his heart to her plaintive cries before. He could do it again.

  Right. He winced. He’d been so good at ignoring her that he was sitting in a dirty hall, a thousand kilometers from Moscow, reading a diary from a man who’d likely been dead for close to a century, while the man he should be chasing was reading library books and plotting his next great heist.

  Ekaterina Moore had turned his life inside out.

  He stretched out his legs, feeling like he’d aged a year in the past forty-eight hours. He’d hadn’t felt so wasted since basic training.

  Vadeem rubbed his eyes and stared at the diary. Who was Anton Klassen? And what was an old babushka in the middle of Russia doing with his diary? Vadeem had skimmed a few pages and read about a man who struggled, obviously, between two worlds. Anton wrote about a world of war. . .a time Vadeem understood only through the lectures of his teachers. But through Anton’s eyes, Vadeem saw a different history.

  March 3, 1917

  Chaos rules the land and I sit here, immobilized, in the icy clutches of pure fear. Over and over again, my heart cries out with the cadence of a repetitious prayer—a desperate plea for wisdom and divine guidance. How can I ever hope to fulfill my hastily spoken promises? Where do I begin? How could he ask me, an ordinary citizen from the steppes of southern Russia, to accomplish such grave tasks? O Lord, please, direct my steps. Show me the path you would have me take. Give me courage to do your will. May I prove myself a loyal patriot in these days of uncertainty that lie ahead.

  What tasks, Anton? What are you afraid of? Vadeem kept flipping, searching for any mention of the crest.

  March 20, 1917

  To think, the somber beauty, Oksana, now bears my name. Oh, but what have I done? How will I ever explain to Papa without breaking his heart? Even so, I shall willingly, and in silence, bear the reproach of my father should I, through this commitment, find it possible to discharge my patriot vow. If only the Lord will bless our union and forgive me for betraying the faith of my ancestors.

  In the taking of a bride, I have brought upon myself sure misery when I return home. In truth, misery lurks in the shadows even now, for my new wife seems no happier with our marital arrangement than I. Her sullen disposition appeared to sink to the depths of sadness after the ceremony. Yet, despite her solemn countenance, her beauty fills my heart, my soul, and at times, I struggle
to even breathe.

  Vadeem closed his eyes. He knew what it meant to struggle to breathe around a woman. He’d been gasping for air since Kat walked into his life, dazed as a freshly netted fish, but eerily happy to perish, if only beside her.

  He cringed. Kat Moore was turning him into a poet.

  He turned more pages, skimming, noting dates.

  November, 1917

  Untold sorrow fills my soul on this day, which should have been my most joyous ever. No sooner had I found myself adrift in Oksana’s sweet love than our world came crashing in. They died as my wife and I looked helplessly on from our secret place. Their screams echo in my heart, torment my every thought, even my soul. What kind of man am I that my brothers should die while I live? How can my faith survive such horror?

  Vadeem’s breath clogged in his chest. He reread the words, their accuracy like a spear through the soul. He closed the book, unable to swallow, feeling saliva pool in his mouth, bitter. What kind of man am I that my brothers should die while I live? How can faith survive such horror?

  What had happened to torment Anton Klassen’s thoughts?

  Vadeem knew all about souls filled with sorrow. And questions of why. He forced himself to swallow, to breathe in and out.

  He opened the book, his chest tight at what he might find.

  June 1918

  Oksana came to me, full with our child. She knows what we must do, but do I have the strength to say yes? I’ve been entrusted with too great a task. I fear my shoulders are not large enough for it. Even now, as I hold Oksana and the night air blows with the warmth of spring, fear nips at me like a wolf. The Bolsheviks will return. And we have nowhere left to hide.

  July 1918

  Banya with Timofea. I cleared my soul as we sat as brothers in the Lord. He understands. He is a good friend, and will help carry my burdens. He says God will find a way to keep His promise. I know it now to be true. I tucked my past into the darkness, then turned toward the light. I even found a verse upon which to cling. John 11:9. His light has illuminated my dark paths. He has set me free. Now, my prayer is that Timofea will keep his promise, in due time. Only God knows the future, and I am trusting in His word. Peace can be had for those who have faith.