by Gale Sears
Sergey studied her face. “Of course, that is what we all hope. It is their government after all . . . the government of the peasant farmer and the worker.”
Natasha gave him a wry smile. “Are you preaching to me, Sergey Antonovich?”
“No, it’s . . . it’s just that I don’t understand your ambivalence of late.”
She began walking again. “I have much on my mind.”
“Is that all it is?”
She moved into her office and Sergey followed. She didn’t like the insinuation in his voice. “What do you mean?”
“You’re not having second thoughts about going on the train?”
“No.”
Sergey turned to the seamstresses. “Why don’t you take your break now?” he snapped at them.
The three girls stood immediately and went out.
He turned back to her and Natasha tried to discern the look on his face. “There’s no need to be upset, Sergey Antonovich.”
He put his hands on her waist. “I’m not upset. I’m worried about you.” He leaned over and kissed her neck. She pulled back and his grip tightened. “See. You are different of late.”
There was a knot in her stomach, but she kept her voice calm. “It’s Agnes.”
Sergey released his grip and stepped back. “Agnes? What about her?”
“I don’t know where she is, and I’m worried about her.”
Sergey took a deep breath and nodded. “Of course, I’m sorry. I should have been more aware of your anguish.”
Natasha moved to the window and shoved it open onto the cold day.
“I’m sure she’s fine,” Sergey said.
“You can’t know that.”
“Well, they’re not in a penal camp, only a special camp.”
Natasha rounded on him. “How do you know that?”
“I . . . I don’t for sure, but it would make sense. They weren’t convicted of a crime—just of being enemies of the state.”
“Oh.” Natasha turned back to the window, the cold air biting into her cheeks. “Oh, of course . . . just enemies of the state,” she said bitterly. Sergey moved toward her but she stopped him with her voice. “I must get back to work, Sergey Antonovich.”
“Of course.” He took his hat from his pocket. “May I call on you, Sunday?”
Natasha made the reply as offhanded as possible. “Perhaps in the evening. Mother and I will be out most of the day.”
“Still trying to find traveling shoes?”
“Yes, that’s it. I must be ready for the spring.” She managed a smile and Sergey smiled back.
“Until Sunday then.”
After he’d gone, Natasha closed the window, and then stood for a long time looking through the frosted panes at the muddy street below. Images of white cows, work camps, marble statues, and Agnes’s perfect face swam in front of her vision. A voice kept repeating in her head, “My sister and I were able to get butter.”
Natasha placed her hand on the cold glass. The trusting acceptance in the girl’s words beat into her head, blocking out the elevated promises of the party. What could she write now that would have any meaning or truth?
Notes
1. The people of Russia, especially those who lived in the cities, had lived with deprivation for years prior to and following the Bolshevik Revolution. In March 1917, bread rationing was enforced and people were expected to live on a quarter of a loaf of bread a day. There were massive marches and protests demanding food. During the Russian civil war—which lasted from 1918 to approximately 1921—crime was rampant, diseases spread, industry fell apart, and starvation reached catastrophic levels. Just prior to the end of the civil war it was estimated that nearly 7.5 million Russians had died from starvation.
Chapter Thirty
Siberia
February 12, 1918
They had learned to keep their heads down: when standing in line for the count, when standing in line for the thin broth, when working in the laundry, and especially when being lectured or commanded by one of the guards. The weeks had brought realization, and the slaps across the face had brought submission.
The women worked mostly in the camp: cooking, cleaning, scrubbing, and sewing. The men processed lumber. Every morning, before the sun rose, the shuffle of boots could be heard leaving the camp for the forest and the lumber mill. The second day in camp, Agnes had surreptitiously asked one of the old-timers what jobs the men did. “Logs mostly,” the scrawny woman had answered, keeping her eyes fixed on the one small boiled potato on her plate. “Cut, saw, ship. Sometimes us women get to go out to the mill and hack off tree limbs. That’s good work.”
Yes. Agnes had learned that some jobs at the camp were better than others. Today she and Alexandria had been assigned to empty the twenty-gallon latrine pots and then scrub their dormitory floorboards alone. The boss of their work gang of fifteen was the babushka who had helped the young woman that first night in Ekaterinburg.
Her name was Vera Speranskaya, but everyone called her Little Mother. She was very strict, but they all knew it was to keep them alive. Little Mother made sure their bread ration wasn’t short, the work duties were rotated fairly, and the guards kept away from the girls who wanted to be left alone. It seemed the soldiers preferred the most recent crop of women—before their teeth went bad and their bodies lost their soft curves. Agnes knew Little Mother had saved her and Alexandria several times during that first week in camp.
There were others in the gang who accepted the soldiers’ advances because it meant favors, leniency, and sometimes extra soap. Little Mother was a pious woman, and after a few weeks of gentle lecturing, and an insistence that all gifts given by the soldiers be shared equally among the gang, the women of Gang 38 received the reputation of being cold fish.
Agnes dipped her stiff-bristled brush into the bucket, then sloshed the tepid water out onto the floor. Alexandria worked beside her, and as they neared the center of the room, the door to the dormitory opened. A blast of cold air crept across the floor, chilling the soapy water on Agnes’s hands. She heard the thump of several pairs of boots crossing the room toward them, and she quickly glanced sideways at Alexandria, trying to give her a look of fortitude.
Where is Little Mother? Agnes thought in a panic. Please, Lord, send the Little Mother to help us.
They kept their heads down, their eyes on the floor. A pair of boots came into their field of vision, and Agnes could sense Alexandria trembling beside her.
“Comrades!” The deep voice barked. “Stand up!”
They did as they were told, never lifting their heads or looking up at the voice that commanded them.
“Agnes? Alexandria?”
Agnes shook her head to clear the confusion from her brain. She thought she’d heard Johannes speak her name.
“Look up, comrades,” came the guard’s voice again.
The women obeyed and Alexandria squealed with delight. She rushed past the smiling guard and into the arms of Johannes, Oskar, and Arel. Agnes stood frozen in place, unable to comprehend what she was seeing.
“Go on,” the guard said, his tone soft and encouraging. “It’s not a dream.”
Agnes stumbled into Johannes’s arms, dropping the brush, and clinging to his frost-covered coat. “How? How is this possible?”
No one answered her. They held tightly to each other, trying not to waste one precious moment.
“You smell like pine pitch,” Alexandria said finally, and they all chuckled and wiped away tears.
“How are you?” Johannes asked anxiously.
Agnes knew he was evaluating their thinner faces and worn looks, and hating the restraints that kept him from helping them. “Don’t worry, Johannes,” she said with surety. “We’re fairly well off, and the woman who is our boss watches out for us.” Sh
e looked into the faces of Oskar and Arel, noticing for the first time Erland’s absence. “Where’s Erland?” she asked abruptly.
Johannes took her hands. “He’s not doing well. He’s in the infirmary. That’s why we’ve come to get you. This guard is going to take us to see him.”
Agnes felt fear wash through her. “Why is he helping us?” she asked. She looked with suspicion at the guard who was standing and listening at the door.
Arel smiled. “I take it you’ve been saying your prayers?”
“Yes. Though I think Alexandria is better at it. But what does that have to do with anything?”
“It has everything to do with everything. You see, we’ve been praying too—praying for help, praying for a miracle.” He made a grand gesture toward the soldier. “Well, there is our miracle.”
The guard grinned at them. He was a large man, some years older than Johannes, with a bushy beard and mustache. He walked forward to meet them as Arel continued. “He has just been sent here to be the assistant commandant.”
Agnes flinched. That didn’t sound like a miracle.
“Agnes, Alexandria, may I introduce Andre Andreyevitch Orleansky.” Arel put his hand on the guard’s shoulder and Agnes and Alexandria gasped, waiting for the angry reprisal. It did not come. Arel gave them a reassuring look. “Comrade Orleansky is my friend. He was the soldier with Bruno and me in the war.”
“The . . . the one who helped you escape?” Alexandria spluttered.
Arel nodded. “The very man. Isn’t that a miracle?”
“It is,” Agnes said, her voice a mix of reverence and wonder. She stepped forward, forcing herself to go against weeks of indoctrination and submission. She looked into the soldier’s face. “Thank you. Thank you for helping my brothers.”
Andre Andreyevitch nodded. “I am sorry that Bruno died. He was a good young man. But your brother’s prayer was only that he’d get home to see his family again, wasn’t it? And that happened.”
“Yes, we were blessed to have him home with us,” Agnes said.
“And I was blessed to hear that prayer and spend those weeks with Arel and Bruno,” Andre Andreyevitch replied. “I learned much.”
“How did you come to be here?” Alexandria questioned.
Andre Andreyevitch grinned. “I tend to play whatever part gets me through difficulties, Comrade Lindlof. When the Bolsheviks seized power, and then pardoned all war deserters who would pledge allegiance to the Soviets, I took them up on the offer. My uncle had become important in one of the military committees and he said he would help me.” Andre Andreyevitch shook his head and grinned again. “My uncle actually recommended me to a post near Moscow, but for some strange reason I was sent here.”
“Yes—for some strange reason,” Arel said.
There were steps on the porch outside the door, and everyone stiffened. Andre Andreyevitch raised his rifle and pointed it at Arel. The door opened and Little Mother stepped inside. She recovered from her shock almost immediately. “What’s happening here?” she questioned, just the right combination of sternness and acquiescence in her voice.
Andre Andreyevitch became official and brutish. “The commandant sent me to gather these two female prisoners,” he snapped.
“And the men?”
“They have all been ordered to the infirmary.”
“Why?”
Andre Andreyevitch glared at her. “I don’t know. I am just following orders. Now give them over.”
The Little Mother glowered back at him, but finally turned slightly to the girls. “Get your coats.”
They moved to obey.
“Don’t expect them back until after supper,” Andre Andreyevitch said without excuse.
The Little Mother stared at him. “These two are hard workers. They’d better be returned to me exactly as I give them to you,” she said fearlessly.
“You don’t have much to say about it,” Andre Andreyevitch said officiously, “but don’t fret. No harm will come to them.”
Agnes and Alexandria returned to the group, dressed for the fierce cold of outside. Their heads were bowed and the proper humility colored their demeanors.
“Come on then,” their guard snapped. “Out into it.” He pushed them from behind as Johannes opened the door.
The stinging cold bit Agnes’s face and she hunched into her coat. The sadness that normally came with the cold did not come. She knew it was the warmth of seeing her brothers again and having a miracle evident in all their lives that kept the melancholy ache from her heart.
* * *
Their bodies had not been fully warm since arriving at the camp, and Agnes sat with her siblings by Erland’s sickbed feeling guilty for the opportunity of escaping, even for a short time, the persistence of winter. She had seen depredation leech compassion from the soul of many of the prisoners and she vowed to not let that happen to her.
She looked over at Erland. He sat up in bed trying to smile and converse with his brothers and sisters, but every word was an effort, and his emotion usually came in tears. His skin was a sallow hue and the glint of his eyes was absent. Agnes bit her bottom lip and took his hand. The abuse he’d suffered the night of their arrest was finally taking its toll. Did the Cheka policeman know or care what a precious life he’d damaged on that horrific night? Dear Erland who was always active and teasing—the brother who ate the most and was the most annoying. She fought back tears and forced herself to concentrate on the conversation.
“Our gang is probably the best,” Oskar was saying. “We can cut and haul five trees an hour.”
“And you get to work together?” Erland asked, his eyes moving from one brother’s face to the next.
“We do,” Oskar answered, the tone of his voice growing somber.
“I’m so glad,” Erland said. He turned slowly to Agnes. “And you and Alexandria are together?” She nodded. “That’s good. I’ve prayed for that.”
“Oh, Erland!” Alexandria sobbed. “We’ve missed you.” She laid her head on the mattress and he patted it.
“You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”
“And we’ll be able to come more often with my friend helping us,” Arel said.
“And when you’re better, you’ll work with us in the gang,” Johannes declared.
Erland gave a weak smile. “Let me start by chopping down saplings, will you?”
The brothers smiled at him.
Andre Andreyevitch came into the room with the medical orderly. “It’s time to go.”
Alexandria wiped her face on Erland’s sheet and stood up. They all put on their coats and hats, but stood around the bed, unable to move away.
“Go on now,” Erland said. “Don’t get into trouble on my account.”
“We pray for you every day,” Arel said, his voice husky with emotion.
“I know,” Erland said, leaning back onto his pillow. Agnes plumped it for him and he smiled. “You are an angel.”
The orderly came to the side of the bed with a notepad and a look of annoyance. “If you stay one more moment,” he hissed, “I will report you, no matter what the assistant commandant says.”
They knew it was bluff, but as they did not want to mar their chances for future visits, they turned away reluctantly. Alexandria kissed Erland’s forehead, and Johannes finally let go of his hand. Agnes turned back at the doorway and waved, but Erland had already laid his head on his pillow and closed his eyes.
Chapter Thirty-One
Petrograd
February 15, 1918
Snow had fallen during the night and a soft white stillness covered the city of Petrograd. Natasha and her mother rode through the wonderland in a small black cab, which got stuck in snowdrifts at every other intersection. The women had finally had enough of the cabman’s bad temper and fou
l language and asked to be let off at the military complex. As they walked across Mars Field, adjacent to the barracks complex, they were relieved to be away from the mad driver and to be able to talk about the riddle and the final hiding place. They would reach the Summer Garden in a few minutes and they were anxious to find the statue—or statues—quickly.
“I think it will be two women on one statue,” Natasha said confidently.
“That’s what we should look for first then,” her mother concurred.
“But we’ll keep our eyes open for any statue that has a woman with laurel leaves or a laurel wreath,” Natasha added.
“Yes.”
Her mother’s breathing was a bit labored, so Natasha slowed her pace. The deep snow was mid-calf, and though it was beautiful, it hampered their movement.
“Perhaps we should come another day,” Natasha suggested.
“Shall we let a little snow stop us?” her mother answered.
Natasha smiled. “No, of course not. I just thought it might be difficult.”
“For me?” her mother quipped. “Remember, I’m a country girl, Natasha. When my sister and I were young in Sel’tso Saterno, we’d trudge through snow up to our waists to go out and milk the cows.”
Natasha grinned. “Oh yes, and it was very early in the morning and the temperature was a hundred degrees below freezing.”
“Mind your manners.”
Natasha only laughed and pulled her scarf more snugly around her neck. “We still haven’t figured out the meaning of—‘Two creatures divided, one vanquished, one free.’”
“It will probably make sense when we find the right statue,” her mother said.
“If we find the right statue.”
“Don’t doubt yourself. Your friend has faith in you.”
They came to the edge of the military parade grounds, having encountered no one, and continued on to the south gate of the Summer Garden. They moved into the wintery park and were immediately encased in a reverent solitude. They could hear the sound of trucks and automobiles at a distance, but here the women seemed detached from the noise and cares of the city. Though leafless, the black trunks of the oak and elm trees created an enchanting forest. It was easy for Natasha to imagine the stone images coming to life when no one was looking.