The Silence of God

by Gale Sears

  “Yes, comrade, I understand you,” Dmitri answered. “But it’s harder to live when you’re frozen.”

  Laughing at his friend’s bravado, Sergey brought out a pan to cook the sausage.

  * * *

  After the meal the three friends sat around the table. The room was almost warm and the hot food had done much to back anxiousness into the corner. The men had spent several hours talking about and arguing over many topics. Sergey had been especially angry over the arbitrary acts of sabotage perpetrated by anti-Bolshevik forces—acts that destroyed factory machinery and shipments of goods, or rerouted food away from the starving people. Dmitri brought up the priceless cache of wine from the Winter Palace that the Kronstadt sailors had been ordered to destroy. He banged his fist on the table and went on and on about the waste, until Sergey scolded his ranting. “Enough, Dmitri Borisovitch. It is the duty of the Commissar for the Fight against Drunkenness—”

  Dmitri scoffed. “What a title.” He continued in a mocking voice, “I am the Commissar for the Fight against Drunkenness and I say you must not drink ever again! Wedding party? No! Naming day? No! Christening? Ah! You miserable dog! I’ll cut out your liver.”

  Sergey and Nicolai howled with laughter, imploring Dmitri to stop. He told them he would as soon as they agreed that the better idea would have been to give each family in Petrograd a bottle of wine for their New Year’s celebration. Then they could have said thank you to the tsar and toasted him for his generosity. The three friends toasted the idea with a shot of vodka.

  The conversation turned to the agitprop train and Professor Prozorov.

  “How goes the search for film for your camera, Dmitri?”

  Dmitri exhaled dramatically. “Ah! Now there’s a topic to make me angry. Two weeks of scrounging and I’ve come up with three canisters. Three canisters! And the stupid American filmmakers gobble up hundreds of canisters just to make mindless films to entertain.” He stood and put more wood into the stove. “And of course the war makes everything impossible.”

  “Another promise out the window,” Nicholai Lvovitch grumbled. “Peace, Land, Bread. I haven’t seen any of it.”

  “It takes time for a new government to get established,” Sergey instructed. “You must be patient, Nicholai.”

  “Patient? That’s easy for you to say. You are a crafty speaker, and Dmitri is a filmmaker. No worries for you. Chairman Lenin will use you two to work for the government. But me? I tell you, if this war isn’t over soon, I’ll be on my way to the front line, and with my luck, I’ll be shot the first day.”

  Sergey slapped his shoulder. “A treaty with the Germans will be coming. Trotsky says by March.”

  Nicholai grunted. “I hope so.”

  Sergey slapped him again. “Yes! Good! We must all hope. The war will end in March, and then in April the three of us will be off on the train.”

  Dmitri gave his friend a cunning grin. “The four of us.”

  “What?”

  “The four of us will be going on the train. Surely you haven’t forgotten Princess Natasha Ivanovna Gavrilova?”

  Sergey grinned back at him and poured them each another shot of vodka. “No, of course not. It would be impossible to forget Natasha Ivanovna, with her beauty and intelligence.”

  “And influential father.”

  Sergey downed his shot in one gulp. “That too.”

  “And has Professor Prozorov given up the idea that she is a spy for the White Russians?”

  Sergey smacked his glass down on the table. “Absurd man. Has he never read the things she’s written for the party? Trotsky has used her words in speeches and sent out her pamphlets to the countryside! She embodies the very ideals of the Soviet!”

  Dmitri laughed. “Yes! Yes! Calm down, comrade. We know how you feel about her. Prozorov is an idiot, but a very powerful idiot. Let’s just hope she never gives him reason to doubt her.”

  Nicholai nodded as he finished off his vodka. “Or he’ll send her off to a work camp, just like you did her friends.”

  Sergey grabbed the front of Nicholai’s shirt and yanked the big man around. “What did you say?”

  “Wait! Wait! Comrade!” Nicholai sputtered. “I’m sorry!”

  Sergey Antonovich’s face was livid with rage. “You vowed never to speak of that!” He dragged Nicholai to his feet.

  “I . . . I know. I’m sorry, it just came out!” Nicholai cowered, anticipating a blow. “Remember, Sergey Antonovich, that I agreed with you. I thought you were right to send in the report on that greedy family.”

  “Shut up, Nicholai Lvovitch!” Dmitri said, moving to come between them. “You’re not making it better.”

  “But, I—”

  “Just shut up!” Dmitri tried to push the men apart. “Sergey Antonovich, he meant no harm. He forgot, that’s all. He just forgot.”

  “And what if he forgets when Natasha Ivanovna is around?”

  “I won’t! I won’t!” Nicholai vowed.

  Sergey snarled at him. “Do you think she’ll understand that I did it for her own good?”

  Nicholai pried Sergey’s hands from his shirt and stumbled back. “I’m sorry, comrade. I won’t talk of it ever again.”

  “You’d better not, or I swear I’ll—”

  “Enough, Sergey Antonovich!” Dmitri snapped. “He meant no harm. He’s your friend.”

  “Right now, he isn’t.” Sergey glared at Nicholai. “Get out of my house.”

  Nicholai Lvovitch did not move. He stood staring as though he did not understand the meaning of the words.

  “I mean it. Get out.”

  Nicholai glanced over to Dmitri, who nodded and tried to give him a look of reassurance.

  Nicholai picked up his coat and lumbered to the door. “Stay warm,” he said as he moved out, and shut the door behind him.

  Sergey paced for a few moments, and then slumped into a chair. “Stupid oaf.”

  Dmitri sat too. “You know him. We’ve been friends since we were children.”

  “Yes, and we used to forgive his foolish blunders, but now his stupidity could cost me.”

  Dmitri nodded. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

  Sergey clasped his hands in frustration. “I just thought the Housing Committee would come and confiscate all their goods and force them to live with other families. I thought to humble them—the bourgeois merchant and his daughter filling Natasha’s head with all sorts of nonsense.”

  “Of course,” Dmitri encouraged. “You feared she was being misled.”

  Sergey stood and began pacing. “And then the police came and took them away. You should have seen her face, Dmitri. When Natasha told me that her friend had been sent to a work camp . . . I . . . I looked at her face, and it was like part of her had died.” Sergey gripped the back of the chair. “I never meant for that to happen. I never meant for the Lindlofs to be sent away.”

  “Of course not,” Dmitri cajoled. “You had no way of knowing.” He handed Sergey another drink. “I think there must have been other wrongdoings you knew nothing about. They could have been giving money to the White Russians, or distributing anti-Bolshevik propaganda. Or perhaps it was that strange religion of theirs. Perhaps some of their neighbors turned them in for that.”

  Sergey nodded. “Perhaps.”

  “Yes, that’s it. You can’t know for sure it was your report, can you?”

  Sergey shook his head. “No.”

  “Then let’s forget about it. What do you say we put more wood in the stove and play a game of cards?” He stoked the fire, and then fished around in the desk drawer, and brought out a deck of cards.

  “I can’t lose her, Dmitri Borisovitch. I won’t.”

  Dmitri sat down and began shuffling. “No, of course not.” He set the deck in front of Sergey. “High
card deals.” They both picked cards. Dmitri drew a seven and Sergey drew a king. “Ah, see there,” Dmitri flattered, “you are lucky in everything. Natasha Ivanovna will be with you forever.”

  Notes

  1. The circumstance of Sergey reporting the Lindlof family to the secret police is consistent with the tenor of the revolution and changing feelings concerning allegiance. Loyalty to the State became more important than loyalty to family or friends. Lenin wrote several works declaring the need for children to be separated from the archaic ideas of their parents, especially when it came to government and God.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Petrograd

  February 3, 1918

  “What did you tell Father?”

  “That we were going out to look for traveling shoes for you.”

  “Ah, that was good,” Natasha said, helping her mother over a slick area on the walkway. “Shoes are hard to come by, so if we don’t return with a pair, it will be all right.”

  It was a cold day, but the sky was blue and the sun was shining. Natasha smiled. So few clear days. Luck must be on their side. Even the leafless trees along the Griboyedov canal did not seem so forlorn today. She was glad she’d told her mother about the riddles and the hidden money. The prospect of retrieving the bundles did not seem as frightening now.

  “Careful,” she said as another ice patch presented itself.

  Her mother took her arm. “You must be careful too, Natasha. You have not fully recovered from the last fall.” She altered her pace. “Perhaps we should slow down.”

  Natasha was eager to get to the Bank Bridge, but the memory of her fall at the Rostral Columns made her hesitate. “You’re probably right. It’s just that my feet want to keep up with my heart.”

  “I know. My heart is racing too.”

  They walked in silence, passing only a few people along the way. It was midmorning so most working people were at their jobs and the shoppers were home with their meager purchases. They could see in the distance a few lines of people waiting for galoshes or candles or milk. Natasha shook her head. Sometimes people stood in lines without knowing what was for sale. If it turned out to be galoshes in the wrong size, people bought them anyway. They could always trade them later for something they truly needed. Her mother had bartered for a suitcase that way. She’d stood in line to purchase a hammer then traded it with a neighbor for the suitcase.

  “For your trip in April,” her mother had said as she presented it, and Natasha remembered the mix of pride and melancholy in her voice.

  The canal made a gentle bend, and Natasha’s trepidation grew as she knew they would soon be able to see the Bank Bridge and the griffins that stood guard there. Would their plan work? Perhaps there would be too many people passing by. Perhaps someone would look out one of the windows of the nearby buildings.

  “There they are,” her mother said in a whisper, bringing Natasha’s thoughts back to the task at hand.

  Four impressive statues sat at each corner of the bridge: artistic black griffins with their gold wings lifted skyward and the cables for the suspension bridge extending from their mouths. Natasha’s heart sank as she saw several people walking past on the far side of the bridge and a young couple idling on the bridge itself; their concentration was obviously on each other with touches, smiles, and whispered conversation, yet Natasha knew that they would be sure to notice if she began searching about the statues for the hidden bundle.

  “I suppose we will have to wait until they leave,” her mother said.

  “That may be a while,” Natasha answered as she and her mother walked back and forth on the south side of the canal. “Even though it’s cold, it doesn’t look like they have plans to leave any time soon.”

  Svetlana turned her back on the canal, closed her eyes, and bowed her head.

  Natasha was perplexed. Was she trying to pray the couple off the bridge?

  After a time, Svetlana began walking again and Natasha followed. “I think we should let them in on the secret,” her mother said with a smile.

  “What? We can’t do that!”

  “Yes, I think that’s exactly what we must do. You go and search, and if there are any questions, I’ll answer them.” Natasha hesitated, but her mother patted her arm. “Trust me.”

  Natasha didn’t stop at the griffins on the south side of the canal, knowing that the clue led to the statues on the north.

  The couple ignored Natasha and her mother as they passed by, and even when Natasha began searching around the legs of the mythical beasts, the couple barely glanced at her.

  “There’s nothing here,” Natasha whispered to her mother.

  “Check the mouths,” her mother answered in a perfectly conversational tone.

  As Natasha climbed up on the statue to check its mouth, the young man took his arm from the girl’s waist and frowned. “Hey! What are you doing there?” he asked, coming near the statue.

  Svetlana turned a smiling face to him. “It’s a game. She’s looking for a clue.”

  “A clue?” the girl asked, forgetting the boy for a moment and staring up at Natasha.

  “Yes. She and her friend play this game. They make up riddles that lead them to different places around the city. When they find the clue at one location, it leads them somewhere else.”

  “How delightful!” the girl said, stamping her feet to warm them.

  “It’s a girl’s game,” the young man scoffed.

  “That’s what her friend’s brothers always said,” Svetlana chuckled, “until they got lost on such a quest.” She smiled at them. “Things are not always what they seem.”

  “I found it!” Natasha said jubilantly, as she brought the bundle from the griffin’s mouth. “I found it, Mother!”

  “How clever,” the girl said, moving to Natasha as she jumped down from the statue. “Is that it? Is that the next clue?”

  Natasha looked at the girl’s eager face. “Actually, this is the final location of this hunt . . . so . . . this is my prize.”

  “A prize? How delightful. What is it?”

  Natasha put the bundle into her pocket. “Oh, we’ve hidden many things over the years: candy, coins, childhood trinkets.” She walked to her mother. “I can’t show you because it’s part of the game, but I can tell you a couple of the riddles that led me here, if you’d like.”

  “Oh, yes! That would be fun.”

  Natasha smiled at the round-faced girl as her boyfriend shook his head. Natasha stalled for time. “Hmm. Which two should I pick?” The girl watched expectantly. “All right, here’s one. ‘The palace you eat.’”

  The young man stepped forward. “That’s the whole riddle?”

  “That’s the whole riddle,” Natasha answered.

  “‘The palace you eat,’” the girl recited. “What’s the second one?”

  “‘The African kings fly to the north river’s shore.’” Natasha smiled over at the young man, who was frowning in concentration. “Not as easy as you thought?”

  The girl giggled. “I’ll probably figure them out first.”

  “That’s very possible,” Natasha agreed.

  The girl beamed at her.

  “It’s time for us to be getting home, daughter,” Svetlana said. “We’ve a meal to prepare.”

  “Food,” the young man said abruptly. “Now that’s something I can understand.”

  “And I know just what to serve you,” the girlfriend giggled.

  “What?”

  “The palace you eat!”

  The women laughed as the young man growled. “Come on,” he mumbled. “I am hungry now.”

  “Thank you for sharing your game,” the girl called back.

  “You’re welcome,” Natasha answered. “Good luck with the riddles.”

  The girl
waved, and then the pair was gone down the lane.

  Natasha pulled the bundle from her pocket and looked at it in wonder. “We did it, Mama! We did it!”

  “We did.”

  “How did you know that we were supposed to let the couple in on the riddles?”

  Svetlana only smiled and took her daughter’s hand. “Come now. Let’s get home and hide that treasure.”

  * * *

  Natasha and her mother stopped talking abruptly as they neared their neighborhood. The euphoria Natasha had carried from the Bank Bridge melted like June snow. In front of the Lindlofs’ home were two wagons, a truck, a half a dozen people, and a flurry of activity. Crates, mattresses, satchels, and suitcases were being unloaded and carried into the Lindlof house. A young boy was trying unsuccessfully to drag a trunk over the threshold. A square-faced man with bushy eyebrows cuffed the boy on the side of the head and picked up the trunk. A woman stood by the truck, barking instructions. She held a child on her hip while another clung crying to her skirt. A government official walked about, pointing at things and checking items off a list. Natasha was close enough to see the badge on the upper sleeve of his black coat.

  “Oh no, Mother. What are they doing?” Natasha picked up her pace, determined to stop this slovenly group of riffraff from inhabiting the home of her friend. She stood in front of the doorway, blocking entrance to a tall, thin man of about thirty, who was attempting to maneuver a large crate to the door. It was difficult to tell his actual age as he seemed to be missing all of his front teeth. Natasha winced as he yelled a profanity at her, but she stood her ground.

  “What’s this about?” the man snarled, chewing each word like a piece of tough meat. “Get out of my way.”

  “No! You take your things out of this house!”

  “And who are you to say anything? Move aside!”

  Natasha glared at him.

  Svetlana Karlovna arrived at her daughter’s side as the official from the Housing Committee intervened. “Comrade, what’s wrong here?” he asked the thin man.

  “This trollop won’t let me into my house.”