by Gale Sears
“He mumbled something about Olga and Tatyana, but nothing else.”
Arel made a strange sound in his throat—a mixture of mirth and pain.
Natasha knew that Arel was the quiet one of the brothers. Johannes and Oskar were confident and opinionated, Bruno was the outgoing trickster, and Erland was . . . well, Erland was high-strung and unpredictable.
“He fancied them.”
“Excuse me?” Natasha said, leaning toward him.
“Olga and Tatyana, and later Marie and Anastasia. Bruno fancied them.”
“Yes, Agnes told me. You’d think he would have found a girl within reach.”
Arel swallowed and gave her a slight grin. “Well . . . he did, but after you punched Oskar in the nose for teasing you, Bruno returned his affection to the grand duchesses.”
Natasha put her hand over her mouth to quell any sound of laughter, and Arel smiled at her. She realized that she had never been alone with this Lindlof brother—with any of the brothers, actually—but Arel had an easygoing way about him that made her feel comfortable. “And I suppose that my unwomanly conduct scared you away from women. Is that why none of you older boys are married?”
Arel blushed.
“I’m sorry,” Natasha said quickly. “That was quite a forward question.” They’d been talking in subdued tones so as not to disturb Bruno, and Natasha figured that the intimacy of the exchange, coupled with the remark about marriage, was the cause of Arel’s embarrassment. “I am sorry, Arel. It’s none of my business.”
He smiled at her again. “No. Now I feel it’s my duty to defend our honor,” he whispered.
Natasha pressed her lips together to keep from smiling.
“You see, when women find out we don’t belong to the Orthodox faith, or that we’re not Bolsheviks”—he paused for effect—“or that we belong to a strange American church, they tend to find us less than desirable.”
“I see.”
“Do you? And do you agree that we’re odd?”
Natasha shrugged. “Actually, I don’t find you odd at all.”
“Really?” Arel gave her a crooked grin. “Not odd at all?”
She grinned back. “Well . . . your Mormon faith is unusual.”
“Yes, I’m sure it seems so—an angel appearing to a young man and handing him a book written on golden plates.”
Her grin faded. “Do you truly believe that, Arel?”
He nodded. “I do. Joseph Smith was an uneducated farm boy. He couldn’t have written the Book of Mormon. It would have been impossible. And he gave up his life for the things he believed in and preached. Yes, I do believe it, Natasha Ivanovna.”
Natasha studied him for a long moment, so long in fact that Arel turned away. When she spoke her tone was solemn. “I don’t believe in God or Jesus, Arel, so you can imagine what I make of angels and golden plates.” She was surprised when Arel smiled.
“Yes, I expect they sound like fairy tales,” he said without rancor. “Well.” He stood and laid a hand on Bruno’s face, then walked over and retrieved a cool cloth from the washbasin, returning to place it on his brother’s head.
“I should have helped with that,” Natasha said.
“It’s fine, Natasha Ivanovna. You have done much already . . . especially being a support to Agnes. She is such a porcelain doll.”
Bruno groaned and opened his eyes.
Arel took his hand. “Bruno?”
“Where are we?” Bruno whispered.
“We’re at home. Do you remember?”
Bruno’s eyes drifted out of focus. “Yes . . . you brought me . . .”
A moan caught in Arel’s throat.
“ . . . brought me home.” Bruno’s eyes closed.
They heard deep voices and footfalls coming up the stairs, and Natasha knew the doctor had arrived. Arel laid down his brother’s hand and stepped back while she rose and walked away from the sickbed. She stood against the wall at the far end of the room attempting to make herself as unobtrusive as possible. There was an ache in her chest from the scene she’d just witnessed, and she pressed her palms against the cool wall to distract her emotions.
Mr. Lindlof entered the room, followed by the doctor. The man carried his doctor’s bag and an aura of efficiency. He was not tall, nearly a head shorter than Mr. Lindlof, with a remarkably bushy mustache. Arel nodded to him and moved back until he was standing next to Natasha.
Mrs. Lindlof, Agnes, Alexandria, and Linda Alise came quickly into the room—Alexandria still in her apron, and Mrs. Lindlof rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Agnes held Linda Alise’s hand; her focus on the doctor. No one spoke as the doctor took out his instruments and examined Bruno. He calculated the boy’s temperature, listened to his breathing, and gingerly probed and cleaned the infected shoulder wound.
At length he gathered his things and turned. “Mr. and Mrs. Lindlof, if I could speak with you in the hallway.”
The two nodded and moved out of the room with the doctor, closing the door behind them. Agnes burst into tears and knelt down by the side of the bed, as Linda Alise patted her shoulder, and Alexandria turned to look out the window.
Only Natasha heard Arel’s tortured whisper. “It’s my fault, my fault, my fault.”
* * *
The Lindlof family stood mutely around Bruno’s bed, and Natasha felt like an intruder. She would have left with the doctor, but Agnes had begged her to stay. The plea had carried such desolation that Natasha submitted without thought for her own distress.
Mrs. Lindlof had drawn her close. “Please stay, Natasha Ivanovna, you are part of our family.”
So she stayed and watched as Mr. Lindlof, Johannes, Oskar, and Arel gathered around Bruno’s bed and laid their hands on his head. Mr. Lindlof said a prayer with words full of comfort and love. Then, with tears streaming down his face, he whispered, “Thy will be done,” and closed the prayer.
After the prayer, Natasha had eased herself away from the group, back to her little space along the wall. She’d found much of the language of the prayer odd, yet many of the words had made her catch her breath for their beauty and consolation. Even now her emotions vacillated between pity for belief in such empty ritual and inexplicable feelings of comfort.
Arel came to her. “May I walk you home, Natasha Ivanovna?”
“Arel, I live ten steps from your front door.”
“Then I’ll walk you ten steps. Please, I need a reason to leave the house.”
She saw the haunted look in his eyes. “Yes, of course.”
They moved out into the cold October afternoon. It was the kind of murky weather that brought so much illness to Petrograd’s already suffering populous.
“I know it’s a miserable day, Natasha Ivanovna, but would you mind a short walk? Perhaps just to the cathedral?”
“No, I wouldn’t mind.”
“Thank you.” He nodded and handed her his scarf.
They walked along the canal and over the bridge. The sun had almost set, but small fingers of light were trying to reach through the shredding cloud cover.
“It would be better if it would just snow,” Natasha said.
Arel didn’t respond. He stumbled along, unaware of his surroundings.
“Arel, do you want to go back?”
He put his gloved hands over his mouth and took several deep breaths. He shook his head. “I can’t.”
She remembered his tortured words. She touched his arm. “It’s not your fault.”
The bells of the cathedral rang out, and Arel put his hands over his ears and wept. “Bruno wanted to desert. He wanted to come home. I said no. No! If we’d run just a day sooner he wouldn’t be dying.”
“You can’t know that,” Natasha said firmly. “Arel, listen to me. You can’t know that.”
&nb
sp; He started walking again, heedless of direction or destination.
Natasha caught up to him. “Arel, stop. Stop!” She was angry. “The war has taken millions of our men. The war is a demon who doesn’t care who it takes. You think you can fight that? You think you can change things? To try to stop who the war takes is like pushing against air.” Arel howled and paced back and forth. Natasha persisted. “If it were you in that bed, would you want Bruno out here lamenting about how it was his fault?”
“No!”
“No. So grieve for him—grieve for yourself and your family, but don’t take the burden of death onto your shoulders.”
Arel put his hands over his face—the tears coming freely.
Natasha placed her hand softly on his back. “You brought him home, Arel. You were with him every step.” She held him as he wept.
Arel stepped back, wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his coat. “I need to keep walking.” He put his hand tenderly on the side of her face. “It’s cold, Natasha Ivanovna. Why don’t you go home?”
“I’ll go with you.”
“No.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “Please, go home.” He turned in the direction of the Neva River and didn’t look back.
Natasha felt the cold seep into her skin. She tied Arel’s scarf up around her face, watching him until he turned the corner.
* * *
For hours she sat by her window staring down at the empty Griboyedov canal promenade.
Near midnight, her mother came timidly to her room, announcing that the Lindlof boy had died. Natasha nodded, keeping her emotions in check until her mother was gone. She pressed her forehead against the window glass and cried, aware that somewhere in the dark night Arel Lindlof still wandered the streets, searching for absolution.
Notes
1. With the beginning of the Great War (World War I) in 1914, Grand Duchesses Olga and Tatyana passed a two-month nursing course. They worked at the Palace Hospital named for Grand Duchesses Marie and Anastasia in Tsarskoe Selo. They, with their mother, assisted during operations, made bandages, gave injections, and looked after wounded soldiers.
Chapter Eleven
Petrograd
October 23, 1917
Johan Lindlof and his daughter backed away from the gathering crowd and the flames. Agnes looked at the side of the building where the Red Guards had just pulled down a large, double-headed eagle insignia. The destructive act left a scar of plaster adrift in the building’s pale blue paint. Agnes looked sadly at the barren spot. Three hundred years of Romanov rule reduced to a smudge of gray. She wondered distractedly if it would ever be fixed. Perhaps the Revolutionary Council would simply hang a red banner over the scar and declare it repaired.
Red banners, Bolshevik slogans, and red flags were everywhere in Petrograd. Several weeks ago she and Arel had been walking in front of the Alexandrinsky Theater and noticed the statue of Catherine the Great. There stood the regal Grand Empress with all her favorite courtiers sitting at her feet, and on her scepter—a red flag.
Agnes’s eyes flicked back to the fire as the burly soldiers threw another tsarist standard onto the burning pile. Gray smoke curled and twisted in a cold afternoon breeze and a cinder flew into Agnes’s eye. She moaned; stepping back, she bumped into a young woman who yelped in surprise.
Agnes stood mute, staring at the tall, big-boned girl. She had large green eyes and a shaved head. She wore a baggy military jacket, and a pair of pants which were too short. Her ill-fitting trousers exposed brown-buttoned shoes and yellow stockings. The girl picked up her cap and secured it on her head.
“I’m . . . I’m sorry,” Agnes stammered.
“Don’t worry,” the girl said. “I’m not hurt.”
Agnes’s eye watered as her tears worked to clear the cinder. She pulled at her eyelid with irritation.
“Are you all right?” Johan Lindlof questioned, finally noticing his daughter’s discomfort.
Agnes blinked several times. “Yes, yes—just something in my eye from the smoke. I think it’s gone now. I stepped on this poor girl though.”
Mr. Lindlof turned a compassionate eye on the young woman, but before he could speak, she held up her hands in protest. “No, no. I’m fine, truly.”
“Are you a soldier?” Agnes asked, looking again at the military jacket.
“Yes,” the girl said. “I am with the women’s battalion.”
“We’ve heard of your group, of course,” Mr. Lindlof said.
The girl at once became wary. “Have you?”
“Yes, you protect the members of the Provisional Government,” Mr. Lindlof said reassuringly.
The girl nodded and relaxed. “Yes, we are at the Winter Palace. Things have been especially tense with the thousand or so delegates in the city. They’ve come from all over Russia.”
Mr. Lindlof nodded. “Ah yes, the meeting of the Russian Soviets.”
“The vote is in a few days,” the girl pronounced as though divulging insider information. “Perhaps that will stop all the arguing and chaos.”
Johan Lindlof nodded.
“You’re not a Bolshevik, are you?” she said bluntly.
“No.”
“No, I didn’t think so. You and your daughter don’t dress like Bolsheviks.” She turned to Agnes. “And your hair is lovely.” She pulled her hat closer onto her head. “They made me shave off my hair when I joined the battalion. I came here from Il’linskya. It is a small place near Lake Ladoga.”
Agnes was amused by how much the girl was talking to complete strangers. “It must be a beautiful place,” she said.
“Yes, it is, but very small—nothing like the great St. Petersburg . . . I mean, Petrograd. See, I am a country girl. I can’t even remember to call Petrograd, Petrograd. Many of us from small towns answered the call for the women’s battalion—a chance to come to the grand city.” She looked down at her boots. “We had no way of knowing. We thought we were going to fight for Mother Russia—to fight for the revolution, but . . .” Her voice trailed away.
“Often things are not what we expect,” Mr. Lindlof said kindly.
The girl looked at him and nodded. “Do you have sons in the war?”
Agnes turned quickly to check her father’s reaction. He looked away from the girl’s face, took a breath, and looked back. “Yes, two sons actually, but they’re both home now.”
The girl’s face brightened. “Oh, well that’s good then. I’m glad for you. I wish I could go home to our simple wooden itza . . . our big stove in the main room. My sister and I slept there when it was cold. I miss the chickens and the cow.” She took a step toward them and whispered, “I hate the Winter Palace—all cold and hard with the gold and marble. I mean, it’s beautiful, truly, but you can never get warm there. I’m on my way back now. I was sent out to find bread.” She touched the satchel slung over her shoulder.
“An important job,” Mr. Lindlof said. He was being his usual polite self, but Agnes could tell that the girl’s banter was wearing on his grieving sensibilities.
“Well, we won’t keep you, comrade,” Agnes said, reaching into her pocket and bringing out a gaily wrapped box. “Here is some chocolate to share with your friends.”
The girl’s mouth opened and closed several times. Her green eyes stared at the box, but her hands stayed motionless by her side.
“Please, I want you to have it,” Agnes insisted. “For my bumping into you.”
The young woman reached out slowly and took the chocolate. “You have a golden heart,” she whispered.
There was a loud crash and the three turned to look at a wooden placard which had just been thrown onto the fire. It was some sort of announcement concerning the grand duchesses. Agnes watched as the flames licked away part of the royal emblem and the name—Anastasia. One of the Red Guards kicked it
with his heavy boot, sending smoke and sparks into the air.
Agnes and her father turned back to talk to their soldier, but she was gone.
“Oh,” Agnes said, disappointment registering in her voice and expression. “I wanted to ask her name.” She shaded her eyes and looked about. “Do you think she’ll be all right?”
“I think so,” her father answered. “Even if there is a fight, any countryman would find it very difficult to injure a Russian woman.”
Agnes nodded.
“I hope she makes it home to her little village someday,” Mr. Lindlof added. He squinted to see if he could catch a glimpse of the green-eyed soldier in the milling crowd, but she had become part of the mass. “We’ll include her in our prayers tonight.”
They walked away from the crowded square, each lost in their individual thoughts. Agnes wondered if her father was thinking about the political chaos of the day, the soldier out scavenging for bread, or their visit to Bruno’s grave. He surprised her when he finally spoke.
“It was kind of you to give her your chocolate—one of the few presents you’ll have for your upcoming birthday. Very kind.”
Agnes shook her head. “I don’t think she’s had chocolate for a long time.”
A group of Cossacks shoved their way past. They were elegant and intimidating, and though they carried little of their former authority, their fierce reputation still made people lower their eyes and make room. Agnes stopped to watch as a babushka in old boots and a tattered coat held out her bare hands to them. “Tell me of the tsar. Is he well? And the tsarina? Are you still watching over them?”
Two of the Cossacks stopped and moved back to her. Those nearest the old woman quickly found other destinations, but Agnes found herself transfixed by the scene. The younger of the two guards bent down so his face was level with the old woman’s.
“Are you well, little mother?”
Her head bobbed, and Agnes could tell by her bright expression that she was pleased to have the royal guard speaking to her. “Yes, yes, I’m well,” she said, offering him a toothy grin. “And you? Are you well?”