by Gale Sears
She walked quietly to the edge of the bed and gently pulled the book from under her daughter’s placid hand. She could not read the words as they were written in a foreign tongue, but she knew the book held meaning for Natasha as she’d secreted it away in her camisole drawer.
Svetlana leaned over and brushed back matted strands of short hair from Natasha’s cheek. How beautiful your hair once was, dear one—never with curls, but long and thick. Svetlana sighed and Natasha’s eyes opened a slit. Svetlana pressed her fingers to her lips. How sad it was to see her daughter’s face blotchy and her eyes swollen and red-rimmed from crying. Natasha moaned and closed her eyes.
“Natasha, wake up. Your father wishes to speak with you.”
Natasha moaned again and a frown puckered her face. “Go away.” Her voice was raspy.
“He wants to see you.”
“I need to sleep.”
“I know, and I’m sorry, but he insists.”
Slowly Natasha’s eyes opened, but she stayed curled in the fetal position. “What time is it?”
“Two o’clock in the afternoon.”
Natasha stretched out her body and the note fell from her hand. She fumbled for it and pressed it against her chest. “Why can’t he leave me alone?” Her mother didn’t answer. “I know what he wants to talk about and I don’t want to think about it.” Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. “I want to sleep.”
Svetlana sat at the end of the bed. “Sometimes the best way to avoid anger and sorrow is to let it brush past you.”
Natasha pushed herself up against the headboard and stared at her mother, trying to clear the fatigue from her mind to make sense of her words. “I . . . don’t understand.” She wiped the tears away on the sleeve of her nightgown. “How can this sorrow ever brush past me? It is inside me . . . so deep inside me that I can’t breathe.”
Her mother handed her the blue book. “But if you can’t breathe, you can’t function, and if you can’t function, you can’t help them.”
Natasha was quiet.
Her mother stood, placed a few small pieces of wood in the stove, and put a match to them. “You can seem meek and accepting on the outside and no one need know the strength you have on the inside. Sometimes you must play the game.”
“I’m too tired.”
“Of course you are tired now, but that will change. You will find the strength to do what you must do, Natasha.” She smiled at her. “Now, get up and get ready. I’ll tell your father you will be down, but to give you time.” She moved to the door.
“Mama?”
Svetlana Karlovna turned back. “Yes, dear one?”
“I don’t understand how the Bolsheviks can think that the Lindlof family is a threat.”
“I cannot answer for the Bolsheviks, Natasha. Why do they see God as a threat?” She left the room.
Natasha stared at the door for several minutes. She had always been her father’s child: she carried his coloring and temperament, she followed in his intellectual and philosophic pursuits, and she mimicked his political passion, but now uncertainty washed through her like cold water. Her feelings were changing. The arrest of the Lindlof family had changed everything.
Natasha looked at the paper crumpled in her hand. “It can save us.” She carefully unfolded the paper and spread it out on the coverlet. She suppressed tears when she saw Agnes’s all too familiar penmanship. Riddles. The connection had served them well over the years—with it they’d enjoyed girlish fun, kept innocent secrets from their families, and shared confidences. A day drifted into her memory of when Arel and Bruno had boasted that they could play the game, and asked to be given a riddle to solve. She and Agnes were surprised because the boys always said it was childish to spend time on such simple foolishness. To humble their arrogance, she and Agnes planned a riddle hunt for them. There were five riddles to follow to specific locations around St. Petersburg. If they made it to all five locations, and back home in three hours, they’d receive a prize. She couldn’t remember what the prize was because it had never been awarded. The boys straggled in after five hours, having solved only four of the riddles, and confessing that they’d asked several people for help.
She ran her fingers over the precious words and heard again Agnes’s enigmatic appeal: “It can save us.” Natasha sensed the paper contained a secret meaning that Agnes wanted her alone to recognize.
She put more wood into the stove, checked to make sure no one was coming up the stairs, and climbed back into bed. She held the paper close and scrutinized the four riddles. The bottom three riddles were numbered, but the top one was not. That meant that the top riddle was the key to the others. If she could figure out the first one, she would have a much better idea what Agnes was trying to communicate. She read:
Whoever makes it, tells it not.
Whoever takes it, knows it not.
And whoever knows it, wants it not.
Below this there was an arrow pointing south. That meant that whatever answer she deciphered, the true answer would be the exact opposite.
The next riddle was numbered and it was one she recognized:
The towers grand where fires burn.
Father and Mother of two BOYS and two girls.
There was a clue here also as there had to be a reason for Agnes to capitalize the word boys, but not girls. She already knew the answer to this riddle. It was the Rostral Columns, and perhaps reference to the male statues seated at the base of the columns which represented the rivers Volga and Dnieper. She looked back to the first riddle: “Whoever makes it, tells it not.”
There was a knock on her door and she jumped. “Just a minute,” she called, stuffing the paper and the blue book under her pillow. She went to the door and opened it a crack. Her father stood there elegant and angry.
“Are you coming down?”
“Yes,” Natasha said innocently. “I was just going to dress.”
“I have a meeting with the Council in an hour, so hurry along.”
“Yes, Father.” He moved away and she shut the door. She found her own compliant behavior odd. Was she already accepting her mother’s solution for anger and sorrow? She knew she’d do whatever was necessary to help her friend and her family.
She wondered where the Lindlof family had been taken. Certainly not to the Peter and Paul Fortress. She couldn’t imagine Mr. and Mrs. Lindlof in a cell, or Agnes in a dark room, or Erland being questioned. She thought again of the dance she’d shared with Agnes and Arel on New Year’s night, their faces bright with youth and hope. She started crying and rushed to bury her face in her pillow.
Please God, watch over them. Don’t let anyone hurt them. She sat up abruptly. Where had those words come from? She didn’t believe in God.
* * *
“We will get the situation with the Lindlof family sorted out, Natasha, but you must not shirk your work at the Smolny or your responsibility to the soviet. Your name is known.”
“What does that mean?”
Ivan Alexseyevitch narrowed his eyes and slowly pushed away his dinner plate. “What is that voice?”
Natasha softened her tone. “Nothing. I just wondered what you meant by ‘Your name is known.’”
“The Central Committee is aware of you, Natasha, and of your writing.” He paused for her to reply, but she said nothing. “You cannot be naïve of this fact.”
“No, sir.”
“Then you must not let this incident with the Lindlof family keep you from your duty.”
“Incident?”
“I know you are upset, but this is a critical time for the Bolsheviks, and we must unite and work together if the goals of the proletariat are to be met.”
Her stomach tightened, but the words she spoke did not betray her anguish. “I understand, and I will do the work required of me. I
am just very concerned about my friend.”
Her father’s jaw relaxed. “Of course. We are all concerned.”
“And when will we know what has happened to them?”
Her father poured himself more tea. “I’ve sent around some inquiries.”
“Have you?”
“Yes.”
“And does anyone know anything?”
“I just asked today, Natasha. It will take time.”
“Of course.” She looked down at her hands, unable to meet the uncaring expression on her father’s face.
“You hardly ate anything,” he said.
“I’m not hungry.”
He reached over and took the untouched cheese roll from her plate. “So, have I made myself clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It was very stupid of you to confront the Cheka officer, Natasha. He was simply following orders.”
“I’m sure his orders did not include molesting innocent young girls.”
Her father’s face set again, and he drummed his fingers on the table. “Do you want my help in finding Agnes?”
She swallowed her anger. “Yes.”
“Then do as you’re told. This is not a time for arrogance or to question the system. Keep strong emotion off your face, lower your head, and serve the state.”
A cold sadness poured into Natasha’s body. Her father had never told her to lower her head.
“In a few months you will leave on the agitprop train with Sergey Antonovich to spread the ideals of the Soviets. It will be a grand adventure, and will help secure our family’s place.”
“What do you mean?”
“Svetlana!” Ivan Alexseyevitch called to his wife. “We’re done now. You can come clear the table.” He stood. “I must leave or I’ll be late for my meeting.”
Her mother came from the kitchen with a tray. She gave Natasha an encouraging look and began placing plates and cups on the tray.
Natasha stiffened as her father came near and gave her a kiss on the forehead. “Help your mother clean up.”
“Yes . . . sir.”
He turned to the entryway to get his coat and Natasha followed. “Father.”
“Yes?”
“You will let me know the moment you hear anything?” She helped him on with his coat.
“Of course.” He put on his fur hat and gloves and moved out into the darkening afternoon.
Natasha shoved the door closed. His words had said yes, but she doubted their sincerity.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Petrograd
January 10, 1918
“Natasha, you’re not chopping.”
“No?” Natasha tried to focus on her hand—the cabbage—the knife. “No, I’m not.” She took a deep breath and the effort made her hand tremble. She set down the knife. “Last night I had another dream of Prince Vladimir and Empress Anna. They were walking in a forest with Agnes. The sunlight was shining through the birch leaves, and it was peaceful and beautiful . . . so beautiful.” Her words and thoughts drifted away.
Her mother took the chopped cabbage to the soup pot. “Was there more to the dream?”
Natasha began chopping again. “I . . . I don’t remember.”
Her mother returned to her side. “I’m sorry if your sleep is troubled with dreams of things I’ve told you. Perhaps your father is right. Perhaps I shouldn’t share my beliefs or the stories from my childhood.”
“No. I want to know those things. Besides, it was a good dream. I don’t remember all of it, but for once I felt Agnes was safe.”
“Perhaps today we’ll hear something.”
“I’ve hoped that for a week, but Father always tells me to be patient.” Impatience colored her words. “And the Bolshevik leaders have been so busy fighting to control the Constituent Assembly, that all my effort to get information has failed.” She finished the chopping and pushed the remaining cabbage to her mother. “It doesn’t surprise me. We are all so anxious at the offices that no one has time to think. The people voted more anti-Bolshevik delegates into the Assembly and now we have to . . .” She stopped talking and shook her head. “Drivel. It’s all drivel. I don’t really care about any of that right now. I only care about Agnes and her family.”
“Let’s put a few lentils into the soup,” Svetlana Karlovna said, going to the pantry.
“Peace, Land, and Bread,” Natasha mumbled.
Her mother returned with a handful of lentils and put them into some warm broth to soak.
Natasha shook her head again. “I stood next to a young girl at the bakery while we waited for our bread ration. She told me her system for eating bread. She said she takes a small bite of bread and counts to thirty. She does that between every nibble. She says it makes the bread last longer.”
Svetlana said nothing as she added a pinch of salt to the soup. Then she spoke softly. “It has not gone the way the Bolsheviks intended.”
“No,” Natasha answered. “But any new government takes time to get on its feet.”
Her mother’s voice strengthened. “Father John of Kronstadt said that if Russia ceased to be Holy Russia, she would become nothing more than a mere horde of tribal savages intent upon destroying each other.”
“A priest said that?”
Her mother brought a cloth to clean the cutting board. “Yes, ten years or so ago . . . just before his death.”
Natasha took the knife to the sink for cleaning. “The Bolsheviks are trying to keep us together—keep us more firmly united. It’s the White Russians who want to rip things to shreds—they are the ones intent on destruction.”
“Isn’t it the Bolsheviks who want to take God out of our lives?”
“They . . . we just don’t see what God has done for the people. Hundreds of years of Holy Russia, and hundreds of years of struggle and sorrow. Hundreds of years of rules and rituals that made sure nothing changed. The priests are always urging the people to be humble and accept their fate.” Anger and tears filled Natasha’s voice, and she growled to regain her control. “Is that what Agnes should do—be humble and accept her fate?”
“God did not take Agnes and her family away, Natasha. Do not attribute evil acts to God.”
“But, of course, even though God is all-powerful, He can’t intervene in the madness?”
“He gives man freedom to choose.”
Natasha angrily swiped at the tears on her cheeks. “Well, that certainly excuses Him, doesn’t it?” She began to cry in earnest.
“Natasha?” Her father walked into the kitchen, and Svetlana went immediately to help him with his coat. He brushed her away and stepped toward his daughter. “What is it?”
Natasha glared at him. “I’m upset about my friend. I don’t know what’s happened to her.”
Ivan Alexseyevitch took off his coat and handed it to his wife. “I’ve had word.”
“What?” Natasha said, her voice cracking.
“Yes. Just today. You may want to sit down.”
“No. Just tell me where they are.”
“They’ve been sent back to Finland.”
“They have?” A bit of color came back into Natasha’s cheeks.
“Well, Johan and Alma have been sent with their youngest daughter, but . . .”
Natasha stared at him. “But? What do you mean, but? Where are the others?”
“They’ve been sent to a work camp in Siberia.”
Natasha stood unmoving. The blood in her veins seemed to have stopped its flow. She could hardly hear as her father’s words droned on.
“The Committee decided that Johan and Alma were too old to be of much use in the camps, and Linda Alise too young, but the others were all strong and healthy. It will be good. They can work for the state and pay back some of t
he wealth they took from the people.”
“Stop!” The word came out an angry hiss. “Stop!” Natasha gripped the back of the kitchen chair. “They are the most innocent of people. They don’t deserve this. What do they have to pay back? What do they owe the state?” Her voice became hysterical. “They won’t survive . . . Agnes won’t survive!”
“Calm down! Of course she’ll survive,” her father said in an offhanded tone.
“Which camp? Where were they sent?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” Natasha backed away. “I hate the Bolsheviks! I hate God!”
“Natasha Ivanovna! That’s enough!”
Natasha turned her vitriol on her father. “You didn’t even try to save them! You wanted punishment for them! Well, I’m going to save them, no matter what it takes!” She turned and ran up the stairs to her bedroom. She slammed the door, went to her dresser, and pulled out the blue book. With her hand trembling with fury, she riffled through the pages and found Agnes’s note. “It can save us.”
Natasha laid the book on the bed and paced around her room. She tamped down her anger and fear, and worked to clear the fog of anguish from her mind. Agnes had given her these riddles for a purpose. If she could calm her tumbling thoughts, she could work on the meaning. Be still. She closed her eyes and the words floated into her awareness.
Whoever makes it, tells it not.
Whoever takes it, knows it not.
And whoever knows it, wants it not.
“What does someone make that he doesn’t want known?” she mumbled. “A mistake? A lie?” She studied the words. Did those answers fit with the second line? “Whoever takes a mistake knows it not. No. That’s not it.” She kept talking to herself, forcing her mind to concentrate on the words. “Whoever takes a lie knows it not. That works better. And whoever knows it, wants it not. Whoever knows a lie, doesn’t want it.” She stopped and looked out her window.