The Silence of God

by Gale Sears

  Linda Alise’s mouth fell open and Agnes and Natasha laughed.

  “You can’t have figured it out already!” Linda Alise protested.

  Mrs. Lindlof chuckled. “Come on, there’s work to be done.” She put her hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “And remember, I taught Agnes most of the riddles she knows.” They moved out the door and Mrs. Lindlof turned back to address her smiling daughter. “And just because it’s your birthday, Agnes, don’t think you can get away with torturing your sister all day.”

  “Me?” Agnes said, dampening down her bright expression.

  “Don’t give me that innocent face.” Mrs. Lindlof shook her head, and Agnes laughed. “We’ll have your birthday dinner ready in a little while.” She left the room.

  “Your mother is so kind,” Natasha said.

  “So is yours.”

  Natasha shrugged.

  “She is,” Agnes insisted.

  “Oh, yes. Yes, she’s kind,” Natasha answered quickly. “It’s just that we have so little in common. In fact, I see most everything opposite from the way she does.”

  Agnes nodded. “You do tend to take after your father.”

  “I’ve actually been asking her a few questions about her faith.”

  “Have you?”

  “Yes, and don’t sound so shocked.”

  Agnes attempted to put on a bland expression.

  “Oh, Agnes, your face hides nothing. I know how much your faith means to you.”

  Agnes grew still. “Yes, it’s very important, especially now.”

  “What do you mean, especially now?”

  “Oh, nothing.” Agnes looked out into the dark night. “I’m glad you’re learning a little about what your mother believes. She must be very happy.”

  “Well, it’s not as if I haven’t seen the rituals all my life,” Natasha said. “Burning candles, chanting prayers, and bowing at icon stands. It’s all habit and superstition. Not much different from the fairy tales she loves. She was obviously indoctrinated with both when she was a little girl.”

  Agnes looked at her friend. “I’m sure there’s more to your mother’s faith than what you see on the outside.”

  “Hmm.” Natasha sat down at the dressing table and ran the brush through her short hair. “You know, my mother cried and cried the day I cut my hair—some silly country superstition that I’d never marry a handsome man if I cut off my long hair.”

  “Well, that didn’t prove true, did it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You must admit that Sergey Antonovich is very handsome.”

  “And who’s to say we’re going to marry?”

  “Oh, yes, of course. You’re right. He’s just your friend. A friend who wants to kiss you all the time.”

  Natasha threw the hairbrush at her. “I’m never telling you one more thing.”

  Agnes laughed. “Oh, yes you will. I’m your best friend.” She picked the hairbrush off the floor and set it on the dressing table.

  Natasha sobered. “It’s true. You are my best friend.”

  Agnes went back to looking out the window. “And that superstition couldn’t be true anyway. I’ve never cut my hair short, and a handsome man has never kissed me, let alone asked me to marry him. And here it is my birthday, and I’m twenty-three and without any sort of suitor. My younger sister Alexandria has more suitors than I can count.”

  Natasha laughed. “You’re just more particular than she is.”

  “That’s true.”

  Natasha stood and moved to the window. “Here’s a love riddle for you. Why do you always find something in the last place you look?”

  Agnes smiled at her. “Because when you find it, you stop looking.”

  “Yes, and when you find real love you’ll stop looking.”

  Agnes sighed. “Finding just the right suitor might not be easy for me. You think it’s difficult that you and your mother have little in common? What about me and all the men in Russia?” She took Natasha’s hand. “Remember that summer at your aunt and uncle’s cottage?” Natasha nodded and Agnes smiled. “We braided our hair with flowers and imagined that the Prince of the Wood Elves would come and spirit us away to his kingdom.”

  “Or that handsome Cossacks would carry us off on their horses.”

  “Yes, that’s right. And your poor cousin Irena didn’t understand that it was only make-believe. She kept begging us not to leave her, not to go off with the handsome Cossacks.”

  “Yes, it was my best summer.”

  Agnes quieted. “Yes, mine too, Natasha Ivanovna. Mine too.”

  Natasha watched as tears welled up in Agnes’s blue eyes.

  “Oh, little squirrel. What is it? You’re trying to cover something over with this false birthday cheer, and it’s not just worries about boyfriends and romance.”

  A tear slid down Agnes’s cheek and she wiped it quickly away. “Natasha Ivanovna, you have to promise me that you will say nothing about this to anyone.”

  “Of course not. What is it, dear friend?”

  “My father is trying to find ways to get us out of Petrograd.”

  “What? Out? What do you mean?”

  “He wants to move us back to his hometown in Finland.”

  “But . . . why?”

  “I think you know the answer to that. Our family is not in favor here. We won’t declare our allegiance to the party, and even though my father does half of the work he used to, the Bolsheviks still consider us wealthy.”

  Inwardly Natasha flinched. She knew it was true. She’d once overheard Sergey and Dmitri talking about how the Property Appropriation Committee was preparing to confiscate goods and property from people they felt were not adhering to the Soviet promise of communal living.

  “But . . . but your father helps other people,” she spluttered. “And Arel and Erland are common workers . . . factory workers.”

  Agnes nodded. “I know, but still we’ve received threats.”

  “Threats? What do you mean?”

  “Notes slipped in with our post. The boys shoved around at work. A rock thrown at my father.”

  Natasha took Agnes by the shoulders. “What? A rock? Was he injured? When did this happen?”

  “Last week. He wasn’t hurt. It hit him in the back.”

  “Who did it?”

  “He doesn’t know. Someone yelled ‘White Russian’ and then this rock hit him in the back. He turned quickly, but there was no one there. It might have been two people. They must have been hiding.” Tears flowed freely now.

  “Oh, Agnes, I’m so sorry.”

  “Mother thinks some of the anger is because of our faith. The Orthodox neighbors were wary of us before, but now the Bolsheviks are shutting God out of the churches and intimidating anyone who worships.”

  “But, how can they—”

  “I know, I know. Father doesn’t agree with her, but she says some of the secret police are looking for any excuse to arrest people.”

  Natasha felt her stomach cramp. “Arrest? Surely you’re not afraid of that?”

  Agnes was silent.

  “Agnes?”

  “We don’t know. Father just wants to get us out, if he can.” She took a step closer and lowered her voice. “Listen, Natasha Ivanovna, I have something to tell you.”

  It frightened Natasha to see the intensity in her friend’s sweet face and hear the desperation in her voice. “What is it?”

  Agnes hesitated. “We are hiding money . . . money and bits of gold and some jewelry so that if they come to take everything we will still have something to live on.”

  Natasha was stunned. “Why haven’t you told me any of this?”

  “I’ve had to keep it a secret.”

  “Even from me?�
�

  Sorrow filled Agnes’s face. “Yes.”

  Natasha gathered her into her arms. “Oh, my friend, I’m so sorry.”

  Agnes accepted the solace for a few moments then stepped back. “You mustn’t tell anyone, Natasha Ivanovna, not even your mother or father. Then if the police ask them questions, they will be innocent of any knowledge. Promise me.”

  “I promise,” Natasha whispered.

  “Good.” Agnes wiped the tears off her face and went to look in the mirror. “Ah, it looks like I’ve been crying.” She smoothed some powder over her face and pinched her cheeks. “I’ll just have to tell my family I was crying because I’m twenty-three and have no hope of suitors.”

  “Dinner’s ready!” her mother called up the stairs.

  “We’re coming down!” Agnes called back. She turned and saw the look of loss on Natasha’s face. “Natasha?”

  “I don’t want you to go to Finland.”

  Agnes took her hands. “Please don’t make me start crying again. We don’t know what’s going to happen. We’ll just have to hope for the best. Who knows, maybe the Bolsheviks will see that they’re not quite ready for the law of consecration and that capitalism isn’t so bad after all.”

  “Agnes, please don’t joke. It just makes it worse.”

  Agnes began pulling her toward the door. “Now you see why my faith is so important to me right now. It is the main thing helping me through this sadness.” She stopped at the door and took a deep breath. “Maybe I shouldn’t have shared my sorrows with you, Natasha Ivanovna, but I have, and now you must promise to keep my secret and help me through this.” She turned to stare into her friend’s eyes. “Will you keep my secret?”

  Natasha nodded.

  Agnes nodded also. “What can you break with one word?”

  Natasha thought for a moment. “Silence.”

  “Silence,” Agnes repeated.

  The two friends put false smiles on their faces and went downstairs to celebrate Agnes Lindlof’s twenty-three years of life.

  Notes

  1. The Commission on the Appropriation of Property was established by the Bolsheviks to make sure that property was properly distributed among all the people in an equitable manner.

  Any person who spoke against or fought against the power of the Bolsheviks was considered a White Russian or anarchist and was subject to confiscation of property, physical intimidation, and imprisonment in a work camp.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Petrograd

  December 5, 1917

  “Oh, Papa,” Agnes whispered. “What are you doing?”

  She stood in the kitchen doorway gazing at her father asleep at the table. His head rested on papers and maps; his hand on an open book that had arrived in the post that morning: Talmage’s book, Articles of Faith. Mother had sent to the Swedish mission office for a copy to replace the one he’d given away to Natasha Ivanovna.

  Her father’s messy hair and soft snores made him seem childlike and Agnes fought to control the press of tears behind her eyes. Her one candle glowed brightly in the dark kitchen and as she moved nearer the table she could make out the words on the page of the book: “Chapter 18. The Gathering of Israel.”

  Her father’s other hand lay on a map of St. Petersburg and the surrounding area, his fingers splayed over Kronstadt Island and dipping into the waters of the Gulf of Finland. She imagined further west would be the ocean and the Finnish coast. Would their family be able to find sanctuary in the land of her parents’ ancestors? Perhaps, if they could get there, but the Great War still held Europe in its teeth, which made travel dangerous if not impossible.

  Agnes wanted to scream, or cry, or kick something. She wanted to go back to a time of calm. She closed her eyes, remembering the day in the Summer Garden when Elder Lyman had said the prayer for Russia. As her mind conjured the blue sky and the rustle of the elm leaves, her heart searched for the peace that had enveloped her that day, the feeling of love and hope. “Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.” The words seemed to pour into her soul from heaven.

  She opened her eyes and saw her father lifting his head off the table. He sat up, emerging slowly from the cocoon of sleep. He stretched his back, turning his head in her direction and blinking at the candlelight.

  “Agnes?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “I . . . I must have fallen asleep.”

  “You did.” She set the candle on the table and began rubbing his neck and shoulders. “A man of sixty should probably not fall asleep at the table.”

  “Probably not.” He sighed with relief as Agnes rubbed a sore muscle. “You’re an angel, but what are you doing out of bed at this hour?”

  She kissed the top of his head. “Taking care of you, it seems.”

  The clock ticked and a persistent wind rattled the windows.

  “I don’t have to ask what you’re doing up so late,” she said finally. “You’re still trying to find a way to get us to Finland.”

  He laid his hand on the map. “Yes.”

  “It doesn’t seem likely, does it?”

  “No, but we will trust God.”

  She nodded. It was always his answer for the vagaries of life he could not understand or for the events that were beyond his control. Trust God.

  “Papa,” she said, sitting in a chair to the side of him.

  He smiled at her. “You haven’t called me that in a long time.” He patted her hand. “Tell me your troubles.”

  “I suppose if we just said we were Bolsheviks, it would save us from much of the persecution.”

  “Do you think so?”

  She was still for a moment, and then shook her head. “No. I think the Socialists will always see us as middle-class bourgeoisie.”

  “I think you’re right. Besides, I don’t know how we could ever say we were part of a system which sees God not merely as an irritant, but as an enemy.”

  Agnes nodded. “I know. I love Natasha—she is like my sister—but I can’t see how she can live her life without faith in God, how she puts all her hopes in men and earthly ideologies.”

  “Well, they are brilliant men, Agnes. She sees them fighting for the people, and it’s a very noble cause.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Natasha Ivanovna is smart. She looks around her at the poverty of the people and their lack of representation, and she sees the government, the wealthy, and the church doing very little about it. In a way, I agree with her. As a country, we do have problems, and while I also agree that the landowners, the government, and the church need to be held accountable for their excesses, I don’t agree with the Socialist methodology.”

  Agnes was mesmerized by her father’s words. He had never shared so many of his feelings with her. He was speaking to her as he would to Johannes or Oskar, and as she looked into his beloved, aging face, she felt a distance close between them. She averted her gaze to the scattered items on the desk, absently worrying the corner of a photograph. She pulled it from under a pile of papers. It was a picture of her family standing together on the bridge over the Griboyedov canal. The year was 1910. She was sixteen and Bruno was fourteen. In 1910, Bruno was alive—alive and vying with Oskar and Arel for the attention of Natasha Ivanovna. It was a time when there was no war and no revolution, when she and Natasha shared riddles and secrets, when she believed in dreams of future happiness.

  “You can’t go back, little birch tree,” her father said, seeming to read her thoughts. “You can only go forward.”

  “But aren’t you afraid? I don’t know what’s going to happen to us.”

  Her father patted her hand. “None of us knows from day to day. Life is unsettled for everyone at the moment. That’s why we must plan ahead.” He reached into his coat pocket and brought out a small beige bund
le.

  Agnes knew immediately what it was: ruble notes, a few gold coins, and silver rings rolled tightly in soft wool cloth and tied with string. The packet was fashioned to fit in one hand—a size that could be easily hidden.

  Her heart started beating as though she was running a race. “Where are you hiding this one?”

  “The Rostral Column. There’s a convenient nook behind Dnieper’s trident.”

  She nodded and tried to calm her worried thoughts. Two bundles had already been hidden without any trouble, but each one was a risk.

  “Papa . . . maybe if we told someone . . .”

  He frowned at her. “What do you mean? Tell who?”

  She took a chance. “Maybe the Gavrilovs.”

  His answer was swift and stern. “No. Why would we do that?”

  “Maybe they could help us. Professor Gavrilov is an important person.”

  “Yes, an important person with the Bolsheviks.”

  “But he’s also our neighbor. We’ve been neighbors for a long time.”

  Mr. Lindlof set down the bundle and took his daughter gently by the shoulders. “Agnes, I don’t think the Gavrilovs would intentionally harm us, but loyalties change when people feel themselves threatened. We can’t take the chance.”

  Agnes lowered her head.

  “You understand, don’t you?”

  She nodded.

  “This will be the final bundle, anyway. The few other pieces I have left are too large to hide easily.” He yawned. “I’ll try to sell those in the next few days.” He lifted Agnes’s chin. “So no more worrying.”

  She attempted a smile, but it did not reach her eyes or her heart. “I don’t know if that’s possible, Papa.”

  “Do the best you can.”

  The candle sputtered and Agnes picked it up. “I think it’s telling us that it’s long past our bedtime.”

  Johan Lindlof stood, gathering up the papers, maps, and book. Agnes noted that his pace was slow and counted the creases lining his face. She would talk to Johannes about her concerns. Since Bruno’s death, she’d watched as her father relinquished more and more responsibility to her brother. Johannes had taken over what was left of the business, procured food and household items, and most recently had the job of hiding the bundles of money. Johannes usually took Oskar or Arel with him as a lookout. Nonetheless it was dangerous. She doubted she could convince him to trust the Gavrilovs. He would probably agree with Father.