The Silence of God

by Gale Sears

  Natasha laughed and hugged her mother. “Yes, dear one, I know. We’ve had it all worked out for weeks.”

  Her mother wiped her tears away. “Yes, I’m just being silly.”

  Natasha turned toward the train, then hesitated. “Thank you, Mama, for all you’ve done to help me—for getting the money to Agnes, and . . .”

  Sergey Antonovich and her father showed up at that moment, and the rest of her sentiment went unsaid. The look in her mother’s eyes told her she understood.

  Sergey took Natasha’s arm. “Natasha Ivanovna, we need to get onto the train!”

  “Yes, of course.” She hugged her mother and father.

  “We’re very proud of you,” her father said in a raised voice.

  The whistle blew again and the train began to move. Professor Prozorov stood in one of the doorways motioning for them to hurry. “Come on! Come on, Sergey Antonovich! What are you thinking?”

  Sergey pulled Natasha away from her parents. “Good-bye Professor . . . Svetlana Karlovna. I promise to watch out for her.”

  “You are the pride of Russia!” Professor Gavrilov shouted after them.

  Sergey waved his cap as they ran. “All power to the Soviets!”

  They scrambled onto the train just as it began to pick up speed. Natasha turned in the doorway for one last look. Her mother put her hand on her heart then held it up in a final wave.

  Sergey Antonovich gave Natasha an exuberant hug. “I feel as though our life begins this day, Natasha Ivanovna!”

  She nodded, but she wasn’t thinking about her life; instead she was thinking of a life imprisoned in a work camp on the other side of the Ural Mountains—a precious life that she wondered if she’d ever see again.

  * * *

  The sun was setting in crimson streaks when the train pulled into the station at Novgorod. Dark clouds, still heavy with winter, rolled over the countryside, and the wind shook the budding branches of the trees. Natasha was unconcerned with the threatening weather; she felt as though she was coming home.

  The strong smell of moist dirt and pine trees unlocked her mind to memories of summers spent in Sel’tso Saterno: working in the garden, wandering the forest trails, and pretending to be a magical empress in her aunt and uncle’s enchanting wooden house. It had been the house of her grandparents, and when they died, it had passed down to Aunt Anna. Natasha knew the house would have gone to her mother had she not married a city professor and gone to live in St. Petersburg.

  Natasha understood the sadness in her mother’s eyes over abandoning such a place, for she well remembered the first time she saw the cottage winking at her through the leaves of the trees. To her four-year-old eyes it seemed like a giant baker had decorated a splendid cake and then misplaced it in the middle of the forest. Wood, carved in lacy swirls and eyelets, hung on every roofline and surrounded every window. The carved panels around the doors were done in flowers, leaves, and birds in flight, and all of the intricate scrollwork was painted in vivid tones of turquoise, rose, and yellow. Over the years, the colors had faded from their former splendor, but Natasha felt it only added to the cottage’s charm.

  Shimmering into her thoughts came Agnes, pressing a strawberry to her mouth and reaching out her hand. Natasha reached for her, but she disappeared within a stand of birch trees.

  Movement startled Natasha awake and brought her gaze to the window of the train. Sergey stood to gather his notebook bag from the luggage rack. He smiled at her. “I thought you had plans to stay in Novgorod for a few days.”

  “Oh!” She stood abruptly. “I was dreaming.”

  “I could tell.”

  “Where are Dmitri Borisovitch and Nicholai Lvovitch?”

  Sergey chuckled. “Gone, minutes ago.”

  She glanced back out the window. “But they’re not letting anyone off yet.”

  “Shortly,” Sergey answered, bringing her satchel from the rack. He pulled her close and kissed her. “Are you so anxious to abandon me for your country relatives?”

  “Yes. No. I mean . . . I’m not abandoning you. I haven’t seen my family for six years. I’m excited to see them.”

  “Of course, I understand.”

  The train whistle blew, cutting off Natasha’s need for a response, but as Sergey took her arm, she wondered if he did indeed understand.

  They stepped off the train into a crowd of curious townsfolk, and Natasha wondered what they thought of the agitprop train with its metal face studded with red flags, and the overly eager students pouring out of the train to shove pamphlets at them and call them “Comrade.” Novgorod was close enough to Petrograd for the events of the revolution and the Bolshevik ideology to have reached them, but Natasha knew that distance was only a small part of the barrier over which the Bolsheviks were climbing.

  “What does your uncle look like?” Sergey asked, scanning the crowd.

  “Jolly.”

  “Jolly?”

  “He’s always smiling.” She chuckled and Sergey gave her a disgruntled look. “He’s a short, stocky man.”

  “That’s half the men here,” Sergey said without judgment.

  “He has, or did have anyway, a close-cropped, brown beard and mustache.”

  A man, woman, and girl rushed at them from the side. “Natasha Ivanovna?”

  Natasha turned at the sound of her name and her face brightened. “Auntie! Uncle! Irena!” She ran into their arms. “I never thought you’d all come to get me.”

  “We couldn’t stay behind,” Aunt Anna said, laughing.

  “I had to come,” Irena said, patting Natasha’s face. “Look at you. So beautiful.”

  Natasha took her cousin’s hands and kissed her cheeks.

  “You’re tall,” Irena said. “You’re as tall as Papa, and much taller than me and Mama.”

  “And you’re as pretty as an angel,” Natasha replied.

  Irena’s eyes widened. “Well, some angels are pretty.” She patted Natasha’s face again. “Did your friend come with you? She was a very pretty angel.”

  “No, not this time. Do you remember her? That was a long time ago.”

  “I do remember her. She was like sunshine.”

  Pain wrapped a band around Natasha’s chest. “Come,” she said to change the subject. “I want you to meet someone.” She turned and Sergey stepped forward. “This is my friend, Sergey Antonovich Vershinin.”

  Irena stared and Aunt Anna curtsied. Uncle Petya took his hand. “We’re very happy to meet you. Anna’s sister, Svetlana Karlovna, has written much about you.”

  “Oh, yes?” Sergey answered. “None of my secrets, I hope.”

  Uncle Petya laughed. “Just how fond you are of our little Natasha Ivanovna.”

  “Well, that is no secret.”

  Natasha could tell her cousin was mesmerized by Sergey’s voice and face, unlike her aunt, who was now giving the handsome young man a good country once-over.

  “Sergey Antonovich!” Dmitri called from a distance.

  Sergey looked over, and Dmitri motioned that he should come join their group. He was handing out pamphlets as Nicholai Lvovitch helped set up a small platform in the center of where a crowd had gathered.

  Sergey turned to Natasha’s family. “Excuse me. I guess it’s time for me to make a speech. Are you staying?”

  “Oh, no, not tonight,” Uncle Petya said. “We want to get home before full dark and the storm, and our old farm horse walks like she’s going backward. But one of the nights I pick up Natasha from her work here, I’ll stay to listen.”

  Sergey shook his hand. “Fair enough.” He kissed Natasha on the forehead. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He lifted his cap to Aunt Anna and bowed to Irena.

  They were silent for a moment after he’d gone, then Irena sighed and said, “Is he really a Bols
hevik?”

  Natasha put her hands over her mouth to cover her laughter. “Oh, my dear cousin, I have missed you.” She looked lovingly at her aunt and uncle. “Let’s be on our way. I can’t wait to be inside the magical cottage.”

  Irena smiled broadly. “And you will be sleeping in my room with me.”

  “Of course,” Natasha said, placing an arm around her cousin’s waist.

  “Your bags?” Uncle Petya asked.

  Natasha held up her satchel. “I have everything I need in here.”

  “Young people,” Aunt Anna said as they walked from the platform, “traveling about the country with little more than the clothes on their backs.”

  “Well, at least she’s not wearing red,” Irena said.

  “What?” Natasha spluttered.

  Her parents tried to shush her, but Irena went on innocently. “We thought you might come all dressed in red with a picture of Lenin in your pocket.”

  Natasha laughed again, and after a time, her family joined her.

  * * *

  Natasha lay in the dark of Irena’s bedroom listening to her cousin’s soft snores and the patter of rain on the roof. Her cousin had prayed at her icon station, climbed into bed, and talked and talked before falling asleep in the middle of a sentence.

  Natasha was tired, but her mind kept tying and untying events and questions. On the train she had read from Talmage’s book, and now her mind brought up images of the lost ten tribes, feelings about the man Jesus, and questions about the existence of God. Thrown in for good measure, Prince Vladimir tromped about, leading a fairy-tale white cow through the forest.

  “That’s enough now,” she’d finally whispered, giving her senses over to the soothing sound of rain and the smell of pine logs burning in the stove. She drifted out of consciousness to the pleasant vision of Agnes painting the scrollwork around the windows of the little cottage.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Siberia

  April 15, 1918

  “What do you mean, you’re building a fence in Ekaterinburg?” Agnes asked as she dumped the kitchen garbage into the pit.

  Arel put his hand on her arm. “Stop. Listen to me. Andre Andreyevitch could get me only a few minutes to talk to you, so please listen.” Agnes nodded. “For the past three days, we’ve taken boards from the mill to build a tall fence around a house in Ekaterinburg—the Ipatiev house.”

  “Who lives in the house?”

  “No one. The owner was told to get out.”

  “What? How do you know that?”

  “The guards talk, Agnes. Do you think we don’t hear? Besides, Andre Andreyevitch said he’s heard the Bolsheviks are going to imprison someone very important there. That’s why the fence is so tall.”

  “But you don’t know who?”

  Arel’s eyes took on a haunted expression. “No, but can’t you guess?”

  Agnes stared at him, the pain in her stomach increasing. “The tsar?”

  “I think the tsar and his whole family.”

  Agnes felt a wave of nausea pass through her. “They don’t deserve such treatment—especially not the children. And with the tsarevitch so ill . . .” Anger and tears filled her voice. “Why can’t the Bolsheviks just leave them alone?”

  Arel looked around anxiously. “Agnes, keep your voice down.”

  She pressed her lips together and nodded. “I’m sorry, Arel. I just can’t stop thinking of the pictures . . . the pictures of Olga and Tatyana in their nurse’s uniforms, helping the wounded soldiers, of Anastasia with her mischievous smile, or pale little Alexei in his sailor’s uniform.”

  “Perhaps I shouldn’t have told you.”

  “What have they done to deserve such treatment?”

  “What have we done?” Arel said solemnly.

  Agnes stopped ranting and tears jumped into her eyes. “Yes. What have we done?” she whispered. She held him close. “I’m sorry, Arel.” She stepped back. “I haven’t even asked how you and Johannes are doing after your time in the cell.”

  Arel took a quick breath. “We survived. It wasn’t as bad as I’d heard, and Andre Andreyevitch snuck food to us.”

  “He puts himself in jeopardy for us far too often. What if others become suspicious?”

  “Don’t call on trouble, Agnes,” Arel said gently. He hated to see her once round face gaunt and pale, her hands dirty, her eyes filled with fear and anguish. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have told you about the tsar. We have enough sadness already.”

  “No, I’m glad you did. I’ll tell Alexandria and together we can pray it isn’t true.”

  He held her at arm’s length and looked into her red-rimmed eyes. “How are you—you and Alexandria?”

  “We’ve not been sick, and we work hard,” she said flatly.

  “Good little Socialist.”

  Her look turned hard. “Never. I will never support a government that forces people’s will and silences God.”

  Arel looked at her in wonder. “No, of course not.”

  “In my heart and soul I know that every day the Bolsheviks move us further and further from Elder Lyman’s vision.”

  Arel nodded. “I’m afraid that’s true.”

  “But that is the Russia I want, Arel. I want the beautiful Russia of Elder Lyman’s prayer—the Russia of destiny.” She wiped the wetness off her cheeks with her coat sleeve. “And I’m afraid I won’t live to see it.”

  “Please, don’t say that. We will get out of here. Natasha Ivanovna has sent the money, so there’s a much better chance.” Agnes didn’t respond. “Oh, please, Agnes, don’t give up hope.” He took her gently by the arms. “The money is well-hidden, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, you see, there’s a way to get us out.”

  “We have the money, Arel, but there’s no one to bribe. We might be able to get one of us out somehow, but five of us? Impossible.”

  “What we need is a miracle.”

  She looked into his face. “Yes.”

  “And doesn’t the Lindlof family believe in trusting God?”

  Trust God. She was back in their home on the Griboyedov canal and looking into the dear face of her father. She nodded. “Yes, we believe in trusting God.”

  The assistant commandant came around the side of the building. “Comrade Lindlof, I need to return you to the dormitory.”

  “Yes, sir.” Arel looked back to Agnes. “Perhaps your gang will be on the mill crew sometime soon, and we can talk again.”

  “Yes, I hope so.”

  He kissed her cheek then walked quickly to Andre Andreyevitch. He offered a furtive wave before the two disappeared around the side of the barrack.

  Agnes looked down into the garbage pit, wondering if the silver writing set her father had crafted for the tsar was now in some rubbish heap, and if the grand duchesses had ever found the notes she and Bruno had secreted inside. She shook the odd image from her mind, picked up the garbage bucket, and returned to the kitchen.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Sel’tso Saterno

  April 17, 1918

  Irena Petrovna ran her hand over the smooth surface of the icon stand. She hesitated, crossing herself, and bowing as was her custom before moving to the silver plaque with the enameled inset of St. Basil. The eyes of the image looked beyond her, and over the years, Irena had come to believe that the tender saint was looking into heaven. What did he see there? she wondered.

  Reverently she pressed her forehead to the plaque, whispering a prayer of gratitude and petition; gratitude for the chance to labor in this sacred edifice, and petition that the doctor would be able to heal Father Dobrosky of the lung sickness which was choking the old monk to death. He had been the shepherd of their country church through her life and her mother’s life, and as she l
ooked at the ornately carved icon screen located at the back of the nave, she thought of all the times she had watched the humble monk appear through the screen’s central royal doors. Even as a little girl she loved to stand with her mother and the other common worshipers and peer into the holy sanctuary once the doors were open.

  Irena cherished her small wooden church with its unadorned bronze cross above the one-domed cupola. Most of the other churches in the area were made of brick and limestone, and painted a dazzling white. Most had five cupolas and were filled with venerated symbols of worship. Irena closed her eyes and pictured the bright gold dome of the Holy Sophia Cathedral in Novgorod. Christ was represented by the central dome surrounded by the four smaller domes for Saints Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.

  She had been very young the first time she walked with her mother the three miles from their village of Sel’tso Saterno into Novgorod to see the prominent cathedral. The size and splendor of the edifice struck her with fear and amazement. She thought perhaps it was the only place where God would hear her prayers.

  Irena opened her eyes and looked around at her chapel’s simple embellishments. She knew better now; she knew that true worship found its place no matter the size or grandness of the church. Besides, the monks who sang in her country church had the voices of angels which lifted her spirit from the muddy world and nearer to the fire of heaven.

  Irena brought her cloth to the surface of the plaque, rubbing left to right, top to bottom. Sound and sense retreated as she performed her task. She shivered with reverence, or was it cold? She looked to the high windows filling with the orange glow of morning. With the sun, the chill inside the small church would retreat slightly, and by the time young Father Keronin returned for the service, the worshipers would find the temperature comfortable.

  Irena wondered why the Father had locked the beautiful carved doors this morning when he left. He had never done that before. She hadn’t asked because it was not her place, and she trusted that he had his reasons. Her mind floated back to her work and her heart was happy. She felt no remorse at not being a university student like her cousin, Natasha, or a married lady like the other girls in the village. Her mother had always told her that God would find a place for her simple mind, and indeed He had.