The Silence of God

by Gale Sears

  “Because it is a waste of your time.”

  “Hmm. I am twenty-four, you know. Besides weren’t you the one who encouraged me to ask lots of questions?” She made her voice girlish and innocent, knowing that it would assuage her father’s ire, and in the dim morning light she saw a grin brush his mouth.

  “Don’t be impertinent.” He came to sit at the end of her bed. “Why all these questions anyway about a subject of no importance?”

  “Merely intellectual curiosity,” she said.

  Her father nodded. “Ah, I should have known.”

  “When the Bolsheviks take over, there will be monumental shifts in society, especially when it comes to religion. I think it wise to have a feeling for how the Orthodox faithful will react.”

  “I see.”

  “And if I know their beliefs, I will be better able to write edicts against their archaic thinking.”

  “Subtly show them the error of their ways.”

  “Exactly. Especially when we offer them the brotherhood of the proletariat.”

  Her father chuckled and tapped her gently on her forehead. “I think up here you are more than twenty-four.” He stood.

  “So, I don’t have to stop asking questions about religion?”

  He hesitated. “No. I should have had more confidence in you. You are certainly smart enough to separate reality from myth.”

  “Indeed.”

  He kissed her on the forehead. “Why don’t you and I spend the day together? Perhaps a trip to the science museum.”

  She yawned again. “I would like that.” He turned to leave. “Ah . . . Father?”

  “Yes?”

  “You won’t tell Mother about our conversation, will you?”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, she is . . . simple . . . naïve about her faith. And though you and I find it foolish, I wouldn’t want to hurt her feelings.”

  Ivan Alexseyevitch looked at his daughter a long moment, then nodded. “As you wish. Now, get up, lazy girl, before your brain turns to porridge.”

  As soon as he left the room, Natasha jumped out of bed and ran to her shelf of books. She secured the blue book Agnes’s father had given her, went to her dresser, and hid the book under her camisoles and stockings.

  Notes

  1. Orthodox: meaning “the way” or “the right way.”

  2. The Russian Orthodox Church: Christianity was established in Russia in 988 a.d. by Prince Vladimir, and the Russian church resembles more closely its sister the Greek Orthodox Church than it does the Catholic Church of Rome. In the Russian Orthodox Church, priests are allowed to marry as long as they do not aspire to be members of the clerical hierarchy. There is no instrumental music in any of the churches. Music is provided by a cappella singing by monks. There are no seats in the churches. Parishioners stand for the service.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Petrograd

  November 19, 1917

  The pale afternoon sun gave off no heat, and though Natasha had put on two pair of socks, she could feel the cold seeping through the soles of her worn boots. She found it fitting that Sergey Antonovich had chosen the front courtyard of the Mariinsky Palace as the place for his speech to the people. The appropriated palace had been the meeting place for the disenfranchised Soviet factions who resisted the pace and intensity with which the Bolsheviks pushed the country toward revolution. But the qualms and consternation of the Cadets, the Menshiviki, and the Left Socialist Revolutionists had been blown aside by the whirlwind of insurrection—the storm of the people’s will. The proletariat had spoken, and for now the ideas of the Bolshevik stood.

  A crowd of a hundred had gathered, and those who had been combative or scornful during the beginning of the speech had either moved away to other pursuits or changed their minds. Sergey stood confidently on the makeshift platform addressing the people in a voice infused with just the right mix of passion and persuasion. Natasha marveled at the way he could captivate or excite with a phrase or even a word. And, of course his good looks only enhanced the connection.

  Natasha blushed. She was glad that her father, who stood by her side, could not read her thoughts. If he saw color on her cheeks he would assume it was brushed there by the cold. She turned her attention to Sergey’s words.

  “With our revolution we have paid our debt to the international proletariat, and struck a terrible blow at the war, a terrible body blow at all the imperialists, and particularly to the German butcher, Wilhelm the Executioner!”

  The crowd broke into enthusiastic applause.

  “Dear comrades, we have been through the years of imperialism when the worker was only a slave, when this great city was built upon our bones, when the wealth of the tsar and the clergy and the landlords was acquired at the cost of our blood and toil. And for the last years Russia was ruled through the right of monarchic succession by Tsar Nicholas, a man inadequately endowed by nature for the task; a man who believed in saints and mummies; a man who listened to his German bride; a man who submitted to Rasputin.”

  Natasha noted that many faces in the crowd reflected the scorn on Sergey’s own, and several men yelled guttural curses.

  “But the people swept Tsar Nicholas and the privileged classes into the dustbin of history!”

  A cheer went up.

  “Then Kerensky’s band of tricksters tried to make us believe that they had crawled out of the pocket of the bourgeoisie.”

  Shouts of derision.

  “They said, All power to the Soviets, all power to the people—but you must let us guide you, for the people are not wise enough to run their own affairs. One hundred fifty million people of fifty nationalities—run their own soviets? Impossible. Can the janitor run the building? Can the soldier become a general? Can the train oiler become the station superintendent? Can the locksmith become head of the factory? The Provisional Government said, Impossible! The Provisional Government said, No! But the people said, Yes! And the people swept the Provisional Government into the dustbin of history!”

  The crowd cheered and stamped and clapped.

  Natasha glanced at her father and saw a bemused expression on his face as he clapped with the others. She looked back at Sergey and found him staring at her. His voice became intimate and infused with emotion.

  “Tsarism and capitalism have divided the Russian people.” His glance moved over the crowd, bringing each person into his realm of concern. “These false systems have separated us—made us distrustful of one another. These false systems have brought national enmity, massacres, pogroms, and slavery.” His voice lifted. “I say to you, comrades, that we must put an end to these unworthy policies! The old ways must be replaced with honesty and mutual confidence—the mutual confidence in our Soviet system. Only as the result of such a trust will there be found an honest and lasting union of the peoples of Russia! Only as a result of such a union can the workers and peasants of the peoples of Russia be cemented into one revolutionary force—a revolutionary force that will never be broken!”

  The crowd cheered for several minutes, and Sergey lowered his head.

  “Comrades, our hearts are being emancipated,” he said at last.

  Natasha, who had been watching the crowd, snapped her attention back to Sergey. Men’s hearts.

  “Our hearts are being changed!”

  Only God can change men’s hearts.

  “The Soviet system speaks of equality. The heart of the people yearns for equality. The voice of the people calls for equality! The will of the people fights for equality!”

  Natasha felt palpable emotion surge through the mesmerized crowd.

  “The Soviet system stands with its hand outstretched—anxious to take care of us. Will we take that hand?”

  “Yes!”

  “Will we take it?”

  �
��Yes!”

  A tear slid down Sergey’s cheek. “We must take it, comrades! We must!”

  All the voices united in consent, and as Sergey stepped down from the platform, he was brought into the embrace and enthusiasm of the people.

  “Quite a speaker,” her father said, his eyes focused on Sergey and his entourage of admirers. “No wonder Lenin wants to send him out into the country.”

  Natasha held her exclamation in check. Her father was always attempting to throw her emotionally off-balance. It was a game between them. He set the trap and she sidestepped.

  “Well, of course,” she replied nonchalantly. “He can do much good in the country.” She smiled as her father’s eyebrows rose.

  “Then he’s told you about it?”

  “Who? Lenin? Well, we aren’t exactly on speaking terms.”

  Her father laughed. “Don’t be impertinent, young woman. Sergey has told you about Lenin’s plans for the agitprop train?”

  She turned abruptly. “The what?”

  “Aha! I’ve caught you! You know nothing about it!”

  Natasha was annoyed with her father’s teasing. She didn’t like the fact that he knew something about Sergey that she didn’t.

  At that moment, Sergey came up to them and her father took his hand.

  “A moving oration, Comrade Vershinin.”

  Sergey lowered his eyes. “Thank you, Professor. We each do what we can.”

  Natasha was irritated with Sergey’s mock humility, with her father’s teasing, with the rhetoric of the revolution. She looked at the common Russian workers and peasants ambling away from the speaker’s platform, concerned that their expectations that this government—or any government—would cure their ills. It was misguided.

  “Natasha?”

  She turned toward her father’s voice.

  “Have you nothing to say to Sergey Antonovich?”

  “It was a good speech,” she said.

  Her father laughed. “Don’t mind her lack of enthusiasm, Sergey Antonovich. I think she’s angry with me. You see, I’m afraid I divulged the information about the agitprop train.”

  “Oh,” Sergey said, taking her hand. “I’m sorry, Natasha Ivanovna. I was going to talk to you about it right after the speech today . . . truly.”

  His tone was warm and his words seemed genuine. She looked into his face and he smiled.

  “There now,” her father coaxed. “It’s all mended.”

  “I think it may be better than mended when you both hear the news I have,” Sergey said.

  “Something my father doesn’t already know?” Natasha quipped. “That will be news indeed.”

  The professor chuckled. “Watch your tongue, young woman.”

  She held up her hand as Sergey began to speak. “Before your news, I want to know about these trains. Why haven’t I heard of them? I do work in the main offices.”

  Sergey smiled at her again, but this time the charm did little to appease her.

  “Chairman Lenin has just released the plans, and Commissar Trotsky has just told me . . . well . . . us—a few of us.” His face shone. “They are such brilliant men, Lenin and Trotsky, and—”

  Natasha stamped her feet to encourage circulation.

  “Shall we get out of the cold?” Professor Gavrilov suggested. “I know a little café nearby. I will buy us something to eat.”

  “The least you can do,” Natasha answered, taking Sergey’s arm. “Something to eat, Sergey Antonovich, while you tell us your news?”

  Natasha knew he wouldn’t refuse. Everyone in Petrograd was hungry these days.

  * * *

  After the tea and potato pancakes arrived at their table, the conversation turned again to the plans of Lenin—plans which somehow included Sergey. Natasha tried to keep up the pretense of annoyance, but it was difficult with Sergey softly rubbing the back of her hand.

  “Agitprop stands for agitation and propaganda. Lenin’s going to send artists, speakers, writers, and filmmakers out on these trains to educate the Russian people about the Soviet system.”

  “It’s brilliant,” Professor Gavrilov said.

  Sergey nodded.

  “But don’t most of the towns already have councils in place?” Natasha asked.

  “Yes,” Sergey answered, “but this will be a way to get the people enthusiastic about the movement and get the councils running smoothly. Can you imagine when a Red Train—”

  “Red Train?” Natasha interrupted.

  “That’s what some of us are calling them. Red for the revolution. When these trains stop at different places there will be posters hung about the town, pamphlets given out, rallies held, street meetings, and films shown. Dmitri Borisovitch is taking a few movies that he’s already made, and he’ll make more as we travel. I’ve convinced them to let Nicholai Lvovitch come along as a worker.”

  “I see,” Natasha said. “So how long will you and your friends be gone?”

  “Several months.”

  “Oh.” She glowered at him for his insensitivity to her feelings. Why hadn’t she heard about any of this? Hadn’t Commissar Trotsky said that she and Sergey would both be important to the revolution?

  Sergey and her father shared a look. “Aren’t you excited for me, Natasha Ivanovna? Aren’t you excited that I will be helping to lay the foundation of the proletariat dictatorship?”

  She swallowed and tried to mask her disappointment. “Yes, of course, Sergey Antonovich. It’s just that I thought we’d be working together.”

  His smile faded. “Of course, I understand.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a letter, and slid it across the table to her. “Perhaps my bit of news will help.”

  She gave him a quizzical look and took the paper. Her heart thumped awkwardly as she noticed her name written prominently in black ink above the wax seal of the Smolny. She broke the seal and began reading silently.

  “Well . . . what is it?” her father questioned, shoving a potato pancake into his mouth.

  She looked up, her eyes filled with wonder. “I’m to go along.”

  Her father grinned. “What? Go along? Go along where?”

  “On the train—the Red Train! The Propaganda Committee has requested that I go along as a writer!” She stared at Sergey. “Is this true?”

  “Well, you read the letter, Natasha Ivanovna. I don’t think the Propaganda Committee sends out things it doesn’t mean.”

  She threw her arms around Sergey’s neck and kissed him; in a public place and in front of her father, she kissed him.

  Notes

  1. In Sergey Antonovich’s speech he references Wilhelm the Executioner. This was an epithet given at the time to Wilhelm II of Germany who was the last emperor of Germany and king of Prussia. His lust for empire expansion and Germany’s subsequent involvement in the Great War caused the suffering and death of millions of people.

  2. Lenin conceived the idea of the Red Train or agitprop train as a means of spreading the ideals of Socialism across the vast expanse of Russia. He hired artists, writers, and filmmakers to man the trains and take Bolshevik propaganda to the Russian people. The term agitprop comes from agitation and propaganda.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Petrograd

  November 20, 1917

  “Time! Time is up! What’s your answer?”

  Linda Alise glared at her sister. “Braid her hair more tightly, Natasha Ivanovna. She’s being mean.”

  Natasha grinned at the young girl’s animosity, but continued to brush and braid her friend’s hair with gentle consideration.

  “I am not being mean,” Agnes said. “We told you before, if you want to play the riddle game with us, you must play by the rules.”

  “But we don’t get much time for these,” Linda Ali
se whined.

  “You wanted to play,” Agnes answered. “We told you these were quick riddles that had to be answered quickly. No more stalling. What’s your answer?”

  Linda Alise stood up from the bed and started pacing, mumbling. “What can’t you see that is always before you? What can’t you see—”

  “Ten seconds,” Agnes said.

  “You can do it,” Natasha coaxed.

  “Five seconds,” Agnes continued.

  Linda Alise squealed. “Don’t! Stop it!”

  “Time!”

  Linda Alise slumped onto the bed and threw a pillow at her sister. “Time. My answer is time. I know that’s not right, but at least I get points for trying.”

  “You’re a trickster,” Agnes said, smiling at her. “What do you think, Natasha? Should we give her one point for that answer?”

  “Hmm,” Natasha mused. “I don’t know. It’s a very thin answer.” She selected a rose-colored ribbon and tied it at the bottom of Agnes’s braid. “I suppose we can give her one point for all her anguish.”

  Linda Alise made a face. “Very funny. So what’s the answer?”

  “The future,” Agnes said, standing and moving to look out her bedroom window. “The thing that is always before you that you can’t see is the future.”

  “Well, that’s not always true,” Linda Alise scoffed. “The prophets see the future.”

  “Obviously you’re not a prophet or you would have seen the answer,” Agnes teased.

  “It was a dumb riddle.”

  “You’re only saying that because you didn’t figure it out,” Agnes said.

  Linda Alise started to give a curt reply when Mrs. Lindlof came to the bedroom door.

  “Linda Alise, I need you in the kitchen.”

  “Now?”

  “Actually ten minutes ago.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” She stood. “Mother, what can’t you see that is always before you?”

  “A riddle?” her mother asked, smiling.

  “Yes,” Linda Alise said, “and a difficult one.”

  “The future,” Mrs. Lindlof stated.