by Gale Sears
“I wonder where the Mormon apostle stood when he gave his blessing,” her mother said quietly.
Natasha was surprised by her mother’s inquiry, and a little disheartened that that important story of her friend’s life hadn’t come to her own mind. “I don’t know,” she answered. “Agnes never told me the place. Do you think the statue may be there?”
Her mother rubbed her face with her gloved hands. “Well, it would have been a good place to start.”
Natasha nodded and fell into her own thoughts. She remembered Agnes trying to tell her about the day with the apostle—about how he loved the Russian people, and about the beautiful blessing. She also remembered that she’d been irritated with Agnes’s excited chatter, even to the point of telling her friend not to talk about it, that she didn’t care about silly superstitions like God.
The look of devastation on Agnes’s angelic face had been—Natasha pulled her thoughts to the present. “Let’s get started,” she said, her voice carrying a note of frustration that had nothing to do with the day.
The walkways were covered with snow, but the hedges and statues clearly marked a passage through the park. Natasha could see ten statues just from where they stood, and she looked over at her mother in dismay.
“We’ll keep looking until we find it,” her mother reassured, surmising her daughter’s worries.
They left a trail of footprints in the pristine snow as they searched the extensive garden. There were many statues of women: women with books, women with musical instruments, women standing near animals. There was even a woman holding a laurel wreath, but she was a singular figure leaning on an obelisk, and did not fit any of the other clues.
Natasha and her mother were nearing the north side of the garden that faced the Neva River. They’d been searching for an hour, and Natasha was cold and discouraged. They had seen more than forty statues but none had satisfied the demands of the riddle.
“Perhaps this is the wrong place,” Natasha said dejectedly. Perhaps we need to start over.”
“No,” her mother answered. “I think this is exactly the place the Lindlofs would choose. This garden has a special, almost sacred, meaning for them, yes?”
Natasha nodded.
“Well then, let’s keep looking for a little longer.”
Natasha nodded again, glad for her mother’s optimism. “There are a few statues around Tsar Peter’s old Summer Palace. We can check those, then move over to the west side.”
Her mother turned in that direction and Natasha followed. They hadn’t gone twenty steps when Natasha pointed. “Mother, look there . . . at that large statue!” She quickened her pace. “I think there are two figures on that statue!” She struggled against the snow, frustrated with her slow progress, but as she neared the statue, her heart seemed to verify that this was the monument of Agnes’s riddle. Natasha stood quietly staring at the exquisite marble masterwork as her mother came to her side. “This is it. Don’t you see? This is the one.”
“I think it is,” her mother agreed. “This is a statue representing Russia’s victory over Sweden. The one figure is Winged Victory and the other woman symbolizes Russia.”
“‘Two women of grace stand present and past,’” Natasha quoted. “And see how Winged Victory extends a laurel wreath over Russia’s head?”
“Yes,” her mother said softly. “And how the statue of Russia holds a cornucopia in her left hand? That is the symbol of abundance.”
Natasha stared at the statue, mesmerized by its beauty and the way it fit the riddle exactly. “‘Laurels extending, abundance expanding. Two creatures divided, one vanquished, one free.’”
The foot of Winged Victory rested on the head of a lion, and Natasha moved forward, putting her hand on the lion’s mane.
“The symbol of vanquished Sweden,” her mother said, coming to stand beside her. “And the eagle represents peace and freedom.”
“My friend is brilliant, isn’t she?” Natasha said, a tremor of emotion in her voice. She reached up and touched the eagle’s wing.
The peaceful moment was shattered as they heard the wrenching of a door and the jangle of keys. Both women turned quickly to see an aged groundskeeper coming from the old palace.
“Hurry! Look for the bundle,” her mother commanded. “He hasn’t seen us yet.”
Natasha set to work, her hands fumbling over the stone. She shoved her hand into the maw of the cannon, behind the leg of Russia and the eagle’s wing. Nothing!
“Hurry, Natasha, he sees us.”
Natasha reached into the opening behind the lion’s head and felt the familiar give of the packet’s covering. “It’s here! I have it!”
“He’s coming over,” her mother warned.
“What are you doing there?” the old man called.
Natasha started and dropped the packet into the snow. She bent down to pick it up, hoping the old man hadn’t seen her. Moments later, her hope was broken.
“What’s that you’ve got there?” the groundskeeper demanded.
He was thirty feet away and Natasha knew she had to think of something fast. She turned her back on him, and took her time standing. Just as he reached them, Natasha took a deep breath and turned. The man’s face was rough and lined, but his gray eyes were keen and full of suspicion.
“I asked you what you have there.”
Natasha held out a soggy handkerchief. “This? It’s my—”
“I know what that is,” the man snapped. “What’s in your other hand?”
Natasha held it out. “Nothing, comrade.”
The man growled. “Don’t say comrade to me. I’ll have none of the Bolshevik tripe spouted at me.”
Natasha’s mother nodded. “Yes, we agree, but one can’t be too careful these days.”
Natasha could see the old man’s irritation fade, but duty was obviously foremost on his mind. He narrowed his eyes at Natasha. “What did you drop?”
“My handkerchief was the only thing—”
“Didn’t look like no handkerchief to me,” the groundskeeper said, coming to stomp around the base of the monument. “And what were you doing to the statue?”
“Just brushing away the snow with this,” Natasha said, holding out the handkerchief again. “We wanted to see the details of the fine work.”
The man snorted. “Sounds like a tall story to me. Two women out on a snowy day to look at statues? Bunch of nonsense.” He glowered at them. “I think you’d better be on your way. Go on now.”
Natasha’s mother nodded and gave him several small bows. “Yes, sir, whatever you say.” She took Natasha by the arm. “Come, daughter, time to get home and prepare our evening meal.”
They moved as quickly as the snowdrifts would allow out toward the main gate. Natasha looked back once to see the groundskeeper examining the statue. Did he think we were saboteurs, planting bombs in the park? She shook her head. Well, the anti-Bolshevik factions weren’t above destroying machinery and food, so why not statues? And what of the gangs of ruffians who attached themselves to the Bolshevik cause? They assaulted people in the streets and set fire to property in the name of the proletariat movement, when in actuality they cared nothing for the political ideology, but wanted only the free bread offered by the Soviet police. From each according to their ability, to each according to their needs. It was madness.
“What did you do with the packet?” Her mother’s words brought her mind back to the garden.
“I put it in my bodice,” Natasha answered smugly. “My scarf covered it.”
“That was quick thinking,” her mother said with an admiring smile.
The women walked together out the north gate of the Summer Garden, and Natasha felt a sudden wash of relief. “All three, Mother! I’ve found all three of the Lindlofs’ packets.”
“Yes, my d
arling. You’ve done well.”
“We’ve done well. Thank you for your help.” She took the packet from her bodice. “Now I just have to find how to get the treasure to them.”
“I believe a way will open,” her mother said as they walked along the prospect fronting the frozen Neva River. “I would have liked to have gone over to the Church of the Resurrection and said a prayer of thanks, but the Bolsheviks have turned it into a storehouse.”
Natasha took her mother’s hand. The image of the church saddened her. She remembered her mother taking her inside the church several times when she was a child. The beautiful pictures that covered the walls and ceiling were all done in glistening mosaic, and sparkled like jewels. She hadn’t understood what the pictures meant, but even as a child she knew the people who made the pictures must have felt deeply about what they were creating.
She touched the bundle in her pocket and drew her coat tighter. The icy wind and drop in adrenaline made her shiver. “They have to be so cold in the work camp. Cold and hungry. What do they have to eat, and what if they’re sick?” She felt the press of tears behind her eyes. “I can’t stand the thought of someone hurting Agnes. I can’t stand the thought of any of them being mistreated.”
They came upon three Red Guards standing near the Marble Palace. Natasha stopped talking and steadied her emotions. The guards glanced at them before returning to their conversation. One was saying something about the electricity being turned off, and another was complaining about the holes in his boots.
Natasha shivered again.
“I say we find a cab,” her mother said. “I still have a little money.”
Natasha nodded.
As they searched for a cab, she heard again the sounds of the city: automobiles, streetcars, the movement and voices of people, but something was missing. It took her a while to place it, but then it came to her—the sound of church bells. All her life the church bells had rung. Now they were silent. Maybe it was childish, but she missed their comforting assurance.
Notes
1. The Resurrection Church to which Natasha’s mother refers is the Church of Our Savior on the Spilled Blood, the site of Tsar Alexander II’s assassination. It is within walking distance from the Summer Gardens.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Siberia
March 1, 1918
Arel surreptitiously watched Erland as he hacked limbs and branches off the felled trees. He’d been working with the gang for a week now, and though his spirit seemed strong, his body struggled. Arel knew that Andre Andreyevitch had done Erland a favor by ordering him from the infirmary at the first sign of improvement; all the prisoners knew that the infirmary wasn’t a good place for anyone’s health.
Gaunt and permanently bent, Erland actually worked with the women of Gang 38, and Arel was glad Agnes and Alexandria could keep a close watch. He knew that his sisters were doubling their efforts to cover Erland’s unproductive attempts. The men had hauled in twenty logs that morning and the pace of the work was brutal. Arel knew they couldn’t slack as the workers had been promised an extra ten minutes at their meal break if they brought in twenty-five logs in the morning. The Lindlofs needed those ten extra minutes; Andre Andreyevitch had secretly sent word that he would meet with them during the break.
Oskar came up beside Arel as they hauled the twenty-fourth log to the mill. “I wonder what news he has for us?”
Arel shrugged as a guard rode by on his skittish gray horse. The animal stamped and snorted before moving off.
When the soldier was out of earshot, Oskar continued. “Do you think it might have anything to do with getting us out of here?”
“I don’t know,” Arel answered. He made himself look busy with keeping the log on the sledge.
Johannes was guiding the huge workhorse down the packed trail. He glanced back at his brothers and gave a warning look.
“Johannes thinks we should be quiet.”
Oskar grinned. “Oh, he does, does he? Does he think the guards are going to harm me? They wouldn’t dare.” Johannes shot them another glance and Oskar waved. “The commandant would have their heads. They know I’m the best worker on the gang—even with my bum leg.”
Arel knew it was true. During their months in the camp, all of their bodies had hardened to the work, but no one’s more so than Oskar’s. He seemed to thrive on the cold, work, and meager meals, and the guards often made bets as to how quickly he could bring down a tree. Arel also knew that he and his brothers’ constitutions were tougher than the other men who smoked or chewed tobacco or drank the vodka doled out from time to time. Oskar had once traded his ration of vodka to a rat-faced little prisoner for a tin of smoked fish and three ounces of sugar.
Prisoners were allowed letters twice a month and packages once a month, but of course the Lindlofs never saw their names listed on the post board because no one knew where they were, and a letter had to first be sent to the camp and checked by the censors before a prisoner could write back. One prisoner received a package from his wife every month like clockwork.
Arel saw movement out the corner of his eye and turned to look into the deep green of the forest. He saw a beautiful silver fox disappear behind a tree. Arel took a deep breath of pine and steadied his emotions. Somehow we’ll get through this. Somehow. Please, God, let Mother and Father know we’re all right.
They reached the mill with log twenty-four, and shortly thereafter two other groups in their gang brought in logs. The boss congratulated his men on their great effort and sent them off to the cook station. Arel admired the boss, but kept well out of his way. Comrade Golubev was seventy years old and fiercer than any man Arel had ever seen. Even Cossacks or Red Guards who were taller and heavier could not match the determination in his eyes or the strength of his overlarge hands. Golubev wore the black, padded jacket and pants with his number over the right knee like the rest of the prisoners, but that was where any other similarity ended. He wore the birch-bark shoes and leg straps of an ancient country peasant, and carried himself with the pride of hundreds of years of Russian serfs. Even the meanest guards left him alone.
Gang 38 had been given their break also, and Erland staggered over to join his brothers. Johannes gave him a supportive nod and Erland smiled weakly.
“I didn’t even drop the hatchet today,” he said slowly. “Alexandria and Agnes said I did well.” His breathing was labored.
“Of course you did well,” Oskar said.
“It’s not . . . not like working with the men though,” Erland wheezed.
“And fortunate for you,” Oskar answered. “Us men are a bunch of louts. Ah, but the women . . .”
They came to the food tent and got into line with the other men waiting for rice, fish broth, and a lump of bread. Erland was so worn out that he stumbled on the threshold and fell into the man in front of him. The man grunted and turned to cuff him, but Oskar interceded.
“Sorry. Sorry, comrade. Just an accident.”
“Keep that skeleton away from me,” the man barked, crossing himself absentmindedly. “He looks like the bringer of death.”
“And you look like a pig. Oh, no, excuse me, you are a pig,” Oskar barked back.
The dirty man turned to fight, then evaluated Oskar’s fitness, and walked away, muttering. The brothers smiled as he found another place in line.
“Thanks, Oskar,” Erland said, picking up his soup bowl.
“It’s my job as your big brother.”
The kitchen orderlies slopped soup and rice into their bowls and handed them each a lump of bread, after which they went to find a place where they could sit together. As they moved about, they searched the other side of the room where the women sat until they found Agnes and Alexandria. The brothers and sisters shared furtive glances, then went about their business.
The brothers pressed themselves into
a small space at the back table and set to eating at once. The tent was cold and if they wanted their bodies to have any warmth from the soup they had to eat it quickly. They ate half the bread and tied the other half into their grubby handkerchiefs. They would eat this precious morsel in the late afternoon when their stomachs were growling with hunger.
Arel saw Erland put all his bread away, and his heart twisted with sadness. He knew Erland found it difficult to swallow, and that the bread his body needed so badly would be given to Agnes and Alexandria.
“What were we talking about before that pig man interrupted us?” Oskar asked, sopping up the last grains of rice and broth with a small mouthful of the heavy black bread.
“Women,” Erland said, bobbing his head and grinning. “Yes, women.”
“That was it!” Oskar chuckled. “Such a good topic.”
“Remember how we all loved Natasha Ivanovna?” Erland said softly.
They all nodded, trying not to let the image of Natasha’s dark hair and eyes sink too deeply into their bereft hearts.
“Yes, and I think Arel still loves her,” Oskar said. “Ah! Look at his face! It’s true.” The brothers grinned at Arel’s discomfort. “Poor boy,” Oskar continued, “in love with a beautiful Bolshevik.”
“That’s enough,” Johannes said. “From what Agnes has told us about the note, Natasha Ivanovna may be our only hope of ever getting out of here.”
They all sobered at the pronouncement.
“I wonder if she’s figured out the riddles?” Arel wondered.
“She and Agnes were very good at figuring out those games,” Oskar conceded.
“Yes. It was smart of our sister to leave those clues,” Johannes said. “I thought the money we’d hidden was lost to us forever.”
Oskar shook his head. “And you don’t think Natasha Ivanovna will turn it in to the authorities?”