by Gale Sears
“How dare you!” Natasha hissed. “Your house? I know the owner of this house and it certainly isn’t you!”
“Natasha, calm down,” her mother warned softly, but her words were lost in the ensuing chaos of noise.
The square-faced man now joined the fray, shoving Natasha to the side and demanding answers. The woman screeched her defiance while the baby on her hip wailed in fright.
“They can’t move in here. This house is owned by a different family—not these people,” Natasha yelled.
The official checked his papers. “No, it is being leased to four families . . . well, three families and one single gentleman.”
Natasha started to protest, but the official gave her such an angry look that she closed her mouth.
“The former inhabitants were enemies of the state,” the official said. “Their house has been confiscated to house these families. It is a much better arrangement.”
A small man in an oversized cap crept from the house and ushered his wife and little ones inside.
“See, I told you,” the thin man said, a condescending grin twisting his mouth. He shoved Natasha away from his crate and picked it up. “If you are friends with enemies of the state,” he grunted, “we’ll be watching you.”
The square-faced man leaned down to stare into Natasha’s eyes. He smelled of tobacco and cheap wine. “My wife and I lived in a cellar with rats before this place was offered to us.” He straightened. “The Bolsheviks know how to take care of people.” He grinned at the official. “Long live the worldwide proletariat!”
From each according to their ability, to each according to their need, Natasha thought. But what if a person is a lazy brute who drinks away his ability? Natasha gave the government official a scathing look. “And how do the Bolsheviks change men’s hearts?”
“What’s that?”
“How does the state make them better men, more caring men? And how does the state know it’s not giving things away to the scabs of humanity?”
The official’s face reddened with anger.
“Natasha, don’t,” her mother warned.
“Are you speaking malicious words against the state, comrade?” the official snapped.
“I’m just asking questions, comrade. Are we no longer allowed to ask questions?” Natasha held the official’s gaze.
“Not if those questions sound like the words of an anarchist.”
The drunk man emerged from the Lindlofs’ home, a look of smug victory smeared across his ugly face.
Natasha felt hot emotion knot in her chest. She had forced pain and fear into hidden recesses of her heart, but now those places were tearing open, spilling their contents of rage and sorrow. “I am not an anarchist, comrade! I am a simple soldier of the state, but I have questions!” Her mother took her arm, but Natasha jerked it away. She advanced on the government official. “I have questions that need answering, comrade. Who will answer them? Who will answer why they took my friend and her family, comrade? Who will answer that?”
“They were enemies of the state!” the official yelled.
“Not true!” Natasha yelled back. “I tell you, not true! They always helped others! They were good people!” She felt hands on her arms again and went to pull away, but this time the grip was strong and did not release her. She screamed and twisted in an effort to escape. “Let me go!”
“Natasha,” said a deep voice in her ear. “Natasha, calm down.”
“Let me go, Sergey Antonovich! Let me go!”
“Your father is watching,” came Sergey’s furtive reply.
The hot emotion turned to ice and her body slumped forward. Sergey Antonovich kept her from falling and pulled her body back against his. He folded her in his arms and walked her away from the angry official.
“I should write up a report on her!” the official yelled after them, his tone punitive and resentful.
Sergey was about to turn back, but Natasha’s mother stopped him. “Take her in. Take her in. I’ll talk to him.”
Natasha righted herself and pushed away from Sergey’s embrace. “I can walk, Sergey Antonovich.”
As she approached the house, she looked up and found her father standing in the doorway, his dark eyes fixed on her face. The last of her bravado drained away. Sergey placed his hand on her back and she stood straighter, yet as they passed by her father into the house, his icy demeanor made her catch her breath. She reached into her pocket and folded her fingers around the packet, chiding herself for her outburst. She could not afford to let anything jeopardize fulfilling her promise to her friend. She walked into the parlor and slumped down on the sofa.
“May I take your coat, Natasha?” Sergey asked.
“No. No . . . I’m cold. I want to keep it on.”
Sergey sat down beside her, took hold of her hands, and rubbed them between his. “You shouldn’t have gone out on such a cold morning.”
Natasha nodded. “I know, but I needed traveling shoes.”
Her father came into the room and Natasha could tell it was his intent to reprimand her even though someone other than family was present. “Sergey Antonovich comes by to call on you, and what do we find? We find a fishmonger caterwauling in the street.”
Sergey Antonovich stared at his boots. Natasha looked at her father straight on, and he stared her down.
“What did I say about your behavior? What did I tell you? Answer me!”
“To lower my head.”
“Yes, and I certainly did not see that today.”
“She was upset to find people moving into her friend’s home,” Svetlana Karlovna said as she moved quietly into the room. “I think it’s understandable.”
“I didn’t ask your opinion,” Ivan Alexseyevitch replied.
Natasha felt the calm and mercy her mother had brought into the room evaporate as her father continued. “She puts us in jeopardy with her behavior. Is that to be understood? To make any sort of anti-Bolshevik statement is very dangerous during this volatile time. Why would you do such a thing, Natasha? Why would you put your position at the Smolny and my position as head of a soviet in jeopardy?”
She parroted her mother’s words. “I was upset to find people moving into Agnes’s house.”
“Well, accept the truth of it. You’re a grown woman now, not a child, and the Lindlof family will never live there again.”
Natasha’s mother stepped forward. “Ivan Alexseyevitch, please.”
“No, Svetlana! It’s time for her to not only write the words of the Bolsheviks, but to live the words of the Bolsheviks.”
Natasha set her jaw against emotion and pressed her fingers against the packet of treasure in her pocket. She lowered her head and spoke softly. “Father is right. The cause of the proletariat is far more important than any petty emotion I may have for my lost friend.” She glanced over at Sergey. The color had drained from his face and his eyes held a haunted look. She looked quickly back to her father. “I’m sorry for my childish heart. I will set it aside and get on with the work at hand.”
Her father studied her for a few moments. “Yes. Good.” He turned to his wife. “Svetlana, don’t you have a meal to prepare?” She nodded tersely. “I have work to do in the study. Call me when the meal is ready.” He turned back when he reached the parlor door. “Join us for dinner, Sergey Antonovich. I want to hear how plans are coming for the Red Train.”
“Yes, sir.”
Her father and mother left the room, and though Natasha kept her face emotionless, the tears spilled from her eyes and ran down her cheeks.
Sergey kissed her mouth and tried to brush the tears away. “Oh, my darling girl, how can I help?”
“Bring back my friend and her family.”
Sergey looked shocked. “I . . . I wish I could, but . . .”
“But you can’t. I know.” Sergey reached to brush away more tears, and Natasha stood. “Don’t look so pained, Sergey Antonovich. It wasn’t your fault.” She wiped the rest of the tears away with the sleeve of her coat. “I must help Mother with the meal.” She moved to the door. “Will you be all right here by yourself?”
He gave her a feeble nod, and she exited.
* * *
Next door at the Lindlof home, the square-faced man was hanging a red banner out a second-story window. On the heavy muslin fabric was painted a propaganda picture—two shafts of wheat surrounding a crossed hammer and sickle.
The official from the Housing Committee smiled as he read out the words displayed prominently underneath the emblems, “All Power to the Soviets.” He waved up at the drunken man, and then went back to checking his official papers. “Yes. A much better arrangement. A much better arrangement for everyone.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Petrograd
February 10, 1918
Natasha yanked another paper from the typewriter and threw it in the heap of discarded missives at her feet. She picked up the heavy machine and set it on the floor next to her desk. Four hours of work and not one good idea. She stretched her back and decided to go upstairs to the room where they served tea and sometimes bread. She looked over at the girls hunched over their sewing machines. Only three now worked where there used to be twenty. Well, fabric was hard to come by.
Natasha moved out into the madness of the hallway. There was always such chaos and urgency at the Smolny. How did anything get accomplished? She passed the big room where discussions and talks resonated. She could hear Trotsky’s voice and several others in a heated debate about the Brest–Litovsk negotiations with Germany. Plans for ending the war weren’t going well. She was writing flyers assuring the working masses that peace was coming soon—declaring that the war would end and the brave Russian soldiers would be marching home. Natasha shook her head. The soldiers would come home, but at what a bitter price. Trotsky, as the Foreign Affairs Commissar, was trying desperately to insure that peace would come without reparations or reprisals, but she knew the German command would exact their pound of flesh.
Natasha made her way through the crowds of people in the hallway, greeting several individuals as they rushed by, and being asked by a few how her work was going. She looked around at all the haggard but earnest faces and felt a solidarity envelope her. We’re doing the best we can—trying to make men less selfish. Why does it seem like such an impossible task?
She put her kopeks down for tea and a piece of dark bread, and made her way to a small table at the far end of the room. It was cold, but it was always cold. She took a bite of bread and chewed it slowly, sipping her tea to make the wad soft enough to swallow. She glanced around and drew the riddle paper from her pocket. She knew the final riddle by heart at this point, but she liked to see the words in front of her. She and her mother had been picking apart the riddle for days and it was nearly solved. On Sunday they would go to the location and find the last bundle. With two successes already, there was no doubt in Natasha’s mind that they would find the last of the Lindlofs’ money. She took another sip of tea and smoothed the paper on the table.
One season.
One place.
Two women of grace
Stand present and past—
Laurels extending, abundance expanding.
Two creatures divided
One vanquished, one free.
She tapped her finger on the paper. One season, one place.
She and her mother had thought at first it might be the Winter Palace, but Natasha knew Agnes would never send her to a location so large and inaccessible. They had finally settled on the Summer Garden; it was the Summer Garden no matter what the season, and Natasha knew the place held a special meaning for the Lindlof family. Two women of grace stand present and past. They were sure this stanza referred to a statue, but there were many marble statues in the park and they didn’t know if the two women of grace were two female statues standing near one another, or two women represented on one statue. She and her mother would go to the gardens on Sunday and search. Laurels extending, abundance expanding.
A warm hand gripped her shoulder and she jumped, knocking over her cup of tea. She snatched up the paper and shook off the wetness from the one corner. “Of all the stupid things!” She spun around to confront the person who had startled her. “Sergey Antonovich! What are you doing here?”
His contrite look made her bite back some of her anger.
“I’m sorry, Natasha. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I was here listening to Chairman Lenin’s speech and I thought I’d come to find you.”
“Oh . . . oh, I see,” she said, distractedly blotting the last of the wetness from the paper with her coat sleeve.
“If you’re busy, I can just—”
“I need a towel to mop this up.”
“I’ll get one.” He turned quickly to the long table where workers were ladling soup and cutting loaves of bread.
Natasha made sure his back was to her, and then folded the paper and put it into her pocket.
Sergey returned with a kitchen worker.
“Oh, for goodness sake,” Natasha said. “All I needed was a towel.”
“I know, but she insisted.”
The girl bobbed her head and smiled. “I’m glad to do it for you, comrade.” She set to work on the spill. “I am happy to serve one of the writers for the Bolshevik cause.”
Natasha frowned. “How do you know I’m a writer?”
The girl’s head bobbed again. “One of the other workers pointed you out. She had one of your pamphlets and she showed it to me. It was about a chicken with no head. It was very good.”
Natasha was shocked into silence.
“Yes, she does great work for the cause,” Sergey interceded.
The worker glanced over at him, covering an embarrassed smile with her hand. “Yes, comrade, and you are a great speaker. My friend and I attended a rally where you spoke against Kerensky.”
Sergey looked pleased. “Well, you are quite the little Bolshevik, aren’t you?”
The girl giggled. “I am, comrade.” She knelt at his feet to wipe some wetness from the floor. “My father died in the war and my mother died last winter from consumption.” Sergey offered his hand to help her stand, and she took it shyly. “Thank you, comrade.” Girlish adoration showed on her face as Sergey smiled at her. She looked down self-consciously to the dirty towel in her hand. “Anyway, my sister and I work here now. She is a typist.” She said this last with great pride, and Natasha felt a twinge of sadness as she contemplated the girl’s circumstance.
“I’m sorry about your parents,” she offered.
The girl looked surprised. “Oh, we do all right, comrade. Just last week my sister and I were able to get butter!”
Someone from the long table called her name and she turned. “Well, I have to get back to work.” She bobbed her head several times. “Thank you for talking to me.”
“We are proud of you, comrade,” Sergey said with his most charming smile.
The girl giggled. She gave a slight bow to Natasha and left.
Sergey’s self-important smile dropped when he looked back at Natasha. “Is something wrong?”
“What do you mean?”
He put his hand on her arm. “Your face looks like a storm.”
She moderated her features, but not her emotion. “My sister and I were able to get butter?” she recited. “Is that not a bitter statement against the dreams of the Bolsheviks?”
Sergey frowned. “Natasha, you know it takes time.”
She moved past him. “Yes, I know, I hear the sentiment over and over.” He caught up to her and she kept walking. “I write that propaganda all the time, Sergey Antonovich. C
itizens! Be patient as your land is redistributed and lies fallow for lack of industry; be patient as your son is slaughtered in the bloody trenches of war; be patient as your child’s teeth fall out for lack of milk.”
Sergey grabbed her arm. “Natasha!”
She pulled away from him. “There has to be a better way, Sergey Antonovich.”
“People’s teeth fell out under the tsar and the Provisional Government, Natasha. The Bolsheviks have only been in power a few months. We must have time.”
They were quarrelling in the hallway, but the flow of workers took little notice. People were always discussing or arguing or yelling about something in the halls of the Smolny. It seemed the fabric of the Soviet doctrine was woven of loudness and contention.
“The Bolsheviks need time?” Natasha spat back at him. “How much time? Lenin doesn’t even know how we will get to this grand Soviet utopia—it’s an experiment. And will the experiment take a few months, a few years—fifty years? How long will it take for the government to force men’s hearts to see the needs of others before the needs of self?”
“The leaders are trying to show the way, Natasha Ivanovna. Look at how little money they take, how simply they live and dress, how hard they work.”
“And how long will that last?” She moved around a Red Guard. “Besides, they are a handful, Sergey Antonovich. Our country takes up one-sixth of the world and has one hundred and fifty million people. I think the dreams of the Bolsheviks will only come true if we force men with threats and guns.”
“You can’t mean that.”
Natasha stopped walking. “I do.”
“So you feel our journey on the agitprop train in the spring will be for nothing?”
Natasha considered the many ramifications of her answer.
“Natasha?”
She looked at him straight on. As she thought about Agnes in the work camp, of coercion, and the twisting of men’s hearts and minds, she wanted to answer “Yes” to Sergey’s question, but she had to play the game. “No, Sergey Antonovich,” she answered softly. “I have hope that we will teach the great ideals of Socialism, and that the simple villagers will understand and embrace the doctrine.”