The Silence of God

by Gale Sears

  Natasha glanced over at Nicholai Lvovitch then back to Plekhanov. She shook her head. “No. I can’t do that. I can’t write words I don’t believe.”

  “Ah.” Plekhanov ate his fig. “And your father? Will he allow that?”

  Natasha gave the little man a wry grin. “I guess I will have to play the fox too, my dear friend. I will be a seamstress or a teacher or even a typist for my country, but I will not write the propaganda of the state.”

  Plekhanov grinned back at her. “Your heart will not allow it.”

  “No.”

  The horse whinnied out in back, and Plekhanov patted Natasha’s hand. “And now my nag and I will take you both for one last tour of the great city before you leave, yes?”

  “Yes, dear friend. We would like that.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Siberia

  July 17, 1918

  Agnes discovered the assistant commandant kneeling by the kitchen garbage pit. He was retching and sobbing, and it frightened her. She was reluctant to approach, but she didn’t want to go for help either. Finally compassion overtook her fear and she set down her garbage bucket and ran to him.

  “Andre Andreyevitch,” she said softly. “What is it? What can I do?”

  The big man groaned and continued sobbing.

  Agnes looked around and drew near him. “Is it one of my brothers?” He shook his head. “Please, stop. You’re scaring me.”

  Andre Andreyevitch put his hands over his face. “Evil . . . a great evil is on this country. Our soldiers would never do it . . . never,” he said, weeping. “Hungarian guards. The commandant sent them to the house . . . he sent them last night.”

  Agnes stepped back. “What are you talking about, Andre Andreyevitch?”

  He moaned and rocked back and forth. “This darkness will never go away.”

  His words were madness, and her body went cold at the sound of them.

  “Shh . . . shh, you’re not making sense.”

  “Yurovsky didn’t want the Russian soldiers,” he choked, and Agnes thought he would retch again. “They’d never do it . . . they’d never kill innocent children.” He let out a sound like a wounded animal. “So much darkness!”

  The banging of pots and voices from the kitchen masked his cries, but Agnes knew it was only a matter of time before he was discovered. “Look, Andre Andreyevitch, it’s morning. The sun is up.”

  He stood abruptly, wiping the sick from his mouth with the sleeve of his coat. “It will never be morning again.”

  Agnes was shocked by his visage. She had never seen a face so bereft of hope.

  Andre Andreyevitch staggered out into the view of one of the towers and the guard was immediately alert. “Stand still!” the guard yelled, raising his rifle.

  “I’m the assistant commandant, you ignorant dog! Stand down!”

  The guard saluted and turned to look in another direction.

  The encounter seemed to sober the assistant commandant. He took a ragged breath and pressed the heels of his hands against his swollen eyes. He stumbled back into the shadow of the building and Agnes kept him from falling. His arms dropped limply to his sides. “They’ve butchered the royal family.” He turned his tortured face to look at Agnes, and new tears fell. “All of them . . . the tsar and tsarina . . . and the grand duchesses. Shot them . . . stabbed them with bayonets.”

  “Stop!” Agnes hissed. “Stop!” Her mind refused to understand his words.

  But Andre Andreyevitch could not stop. The gruesome words fell from his mouth like vomit. “The new commissar of the house, Yurovsky—he shot the little tsarevitch in the head.”

  Agnes grabbed the front of his coat and shook him. “Stop it! Stop it!” she screamed. “You don’t know what you’re saying!”

  “The Hungarian soldiers shot them! They’ve told us!”

  Agnes shook him again, but her arms were going numb. “Don’t. Don’t,” she whimpered.

  “Olga tried to make the sign of the cross before she died,” he said flatly. “But they killed her. Murdered them all. They threw their bodies down a mine shaft.”

  Agnes staggered back. “Not true.” She saw splatters of brown polish on a wall, but now those splatters were blood—the blood of the tsar and his family. “Not true.”

  Andre Andreyevitch wept again. “It is true, little sparrow. God help us, it is true.”

  Agnes went down on her knees. She saw Grand Duchess Marie’s beautiful round face and heard her words, Be brave. Then darkness and oblivion enveloped her.

  Notes

  1. On the morning of July 16, 1918, the tsar’s entire family was taken to the basement of the Ipatiev House and slaughtered by bullet and bayonet. The family doctor, Botkin, a lady-in-waiting, Anna Demidova, the cook, Kharitonof, and the footman, Trupp, also shared the Romanovs’ fate. Word had been received that the White Russian Army was on its way to Ekaterinburg to free the royal family. The Bolshevik leadership feared that Tsar Nicholas, if released, would become a rallying point to all those who opposed Soviet rule. Thus, the order was given for him and his family to be executed.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Siberia

  July 19, 1918

  Quiet. No voices. No banging of the pipes. No shouted orders. Agnes opened her eyes and looked to her familiar high window. It was white with light. She sat up. Something was wrong. Even though the summer extended the light from early morning until late at night, Agnes knew the time for roll call was long past.

  Other women were also sitting up and reacting to the phenomenon, anxiously questioning the silence. The Little Mother crawled stiffly from her mattress and moved to the door. She paused with her hand on the doorknob. Alexandria pressed herself against Agnes’s shoulder as the door opened. They heard the murmur of men’s voices. As one, the women scrambled to their feet. They followed the Little Mother out the door and into the yard. No guards stood there with rifles. No guards on horseback. No guards on the towers. Women ventured into the yard from the other dormitories—huddled together like deer in a clearing.

  The men’s voices indicated movement toward the back of the headquarters building and the main gate. The women moved in that direction. No ordered lines. No lines of five. In a mass they ran toward the east wall of the fortress. When they reached the back of the building they were stopped by the sight of two hundred male prisoners staring out at the road and forest now framed by the wide-open gates.

  Alexandria took Agnes’s hand. “What does it mean?”

  Agnes shook her head.

  A young woman, who had come to the camp only a week earlier, walked out to the gaping maw.

  “Don’t!” someone yelled.

  “It’s a trap!” others added, their voices strained and strangled.

  The girl hesitated then walked out. She kept walking, never slowing, never turning back.

  The dam broke and, with a roar, the prisoners surged forward. Agnes and Alexandria clung to each other as the press of bodies moved them inexorably toward freedom.

  Agnes tugged Alexandria back from the maelstrom. “We have to find our brothers!”

  They turned from the crush and saw Johannes immediately. He, Oskar, and Arel were moving directly to them. Johannes grabbed their arms and pulled them toward the side of the headquarters building.

  “We have to keep our heads,” he stated hurriedly. “Go and gather your things. Secure the money and make sure you have an extra pair of socks. Strip your blankets and bring them.”

  “What’s happened, Johannes?” Alexandria yelled.

  “I don’t know,” Johannes admitted. “But we don’t have time to talk about it now. God has blessed us with this opportunity to escape and we’re not going to miss it.” He hugged them both fervently, and then smiled. “And don’t forget your boots.” The sisters lo
oked down at their stocking feet in wonder. Johannes pushed them. “Hurry! Go!” They ran toward their dormitory. “Meet us back here!” he called. He turned to his brothers. “Let’s get our things.” He started moving toward the men’s side, but Arel did not follow. “Arel, come on!”

  “I think we should look for Andre Andreyevitch.”

  Johannes stopped and frowned at him. “He’s gone with the rest, Arel.”

  “Maybe,” Arel said calmly. “But I still think we should look.”

  “Arel—”

  “You and Oskar go gather our things and I’ll search.” He turned to move around the side of the building.

  Oskar gave Johannes a crooked smile. “As I always say . . . never question one of Arel’s inspirations.”

  They followed their brother. He was already up the steps of the headquarters building and to the door when they caught up with him. Arel didn’t hesitate. He walked through the main office and down the hallway that led to the assistant commandant’s office. They heard a knocking sound and pressed themselves against the wall. Arel reached to open the door.

  “Arel, be careful!” Johannes hissed.

  Arel stood to the side and pushed the door open. The knocking became more distinct. A body lay on the floor—a dark stain on the back of the military jacket and a pool of blood seeping from underneath the stunted frame. The brothers moved into the room.

  “It’s the commandant,” Arel said as he moved near.

  The knocking came again from behind the desk and the three men rushed to the source. Andre Andreyevitch lay curled in a ball—his right arm bloody, his left hand holding a pistol which he rapped feebly against the floor.

  Arel knelt by him, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Andre Andreyevitch, we’re here. We’ve come to help you.”

  The body shuddered. “I knew you’d find me.”

  As Johannes ran to gather their things, Arel and Oskar worked quickly to ready Andre Andreyevitch for leaving. Oskar stripped off the man’s military jacket while Arel tore a Bolshevik banner from the wall and wrapped Andre’s injured arm with strips of red. Oskar found a civilian suit in a trunk. They threw the jacket over Andre Andreyevitch’s shoulders as they lifted him. As he struggled to support his own weight, he looked down at the figure on the floor.

  “He tried to take my money.”

  Arel focused on the corpse and saw one of their bundles in the commandant’s hand. The felt was ripped and gold coins and ruble notes lay just out of reach of the rigid fingers. Oskar knelt and scooped up the money.

  Andre Andreyevitch took a ragged breath. “I should be dead. I guess he was so drunk he couldn’t shoot straight. He hit me on the head with his pistol, but I got one shot off. I . . . I blacked out after that.”

  “Quiet,” Arel instructed. “You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

  “Let’s get out of here,” Oskar said, placing Andre Andreyevitch’s arm over his shoulder.

  They stumbled past the commandant’s body and out into the hallway. Just as they emerged, Agnes and Alexandria entered the front office.

  Agnes gasped. “What’s happened?”

  “We’ll explain later,” Arel grunted, trying to keep the assistant commandant on his feet. “Let’s go.”

  “Wait!” Agnes cried. “The box! I want the box!”

  Andre Andreyevitch nodded weakly. “In the trunk . . . office.”

  Agnes ran.

  “Agnes, we don’t have time!” Arel yelled after her.

  He and Oskar dragged Andre Andreyevitch outside where Johannes met them at the bottom of the steps. He had two carry sacks, and a string of sausages around his neck. Alexandria stared at his unique necklace.

  “What?” Johannes asked innocently. “I thought I’d stop at the kitchen.”

  Many of the prisoners were coming back into the camp—running to the dormitories to retrieve whatever meager possessions they’d managed to pilfer or horde.

  “Keep your head down,” Arel instructed the assistant commandant. “One of the prisoners might recognize you.”

  Andre Andreyevitch did as he was told.

  They made their way to the front gate where Agnes joined them.

  “Good,” Arel said when he saw her. “Let’s hurry before the guards come back.”

  “They won’t be back,” Andre Andreyevitch said through gritted teeth. “The White Army is in Ekaterinburg. They came during the night to take the town and save the tsar.”

  “Oh, no,” Agnes whimpered. “They’re too late.”

  “Yes, they’ve found that out, and now they’re slaughtering every Red Guard and Bolshevik they can find. We got word they’re coming here.” He slumped forward and nearly passed out.

  Oskar and Arel held him up. “What should we do?” Arel yelled at him.

  “Get us out of here.” The effort to speak was taking every bit of strength the big man possessed. “To . . . the mill or the forest.”

  The group lurched forward, away from the road and the prison—away from captivity and chaos. As they pushed further into the protection of the trees, Agnes thought she heard the distant sound of a hundred horses’ hooves drumming against the ground. Her brothers moved faster and she pursued with singleness of purpose, trying not to think of the simple grave they left behind in the unadorned prison cemetery.

  * * *

  “Two hundred rubles,” the doctor said without pity. “That will take care of the arm. And another hundred to keep you all hidden for a week while he heals. Your clothes and food will be extra.”

  Arel glared at the physician. The man’s hazel eyes, though small, were determined. Arel opened his mouth to protest, but Johannes stepped forward.

  “Yes. Yes, we agree. Though it will take most of what we have, we understand the risk you are taking for us.” He held his hand out, not to Agnes, but to Oskar. “Give me the bundle, brother.”

  Oskar followed Johannes’s lead. “How can you do this?” he pleaded, taking the ripped bundle from his pocket and placing it in Johannes’s hand. “It will leave us with practically nothing.”

  “The Lord will provide,” Johannes said.

  The doctor scoffed. “So, you really aren’t Bolsheviks then.”

  “Would we have been in one of their work camps if we were Bolsheviks?” Oskar said derisively.

  “Look here now!” the doctor barked. “Watch your tongue!”

  Johannes interrupted. “Please forgive my brother, Doctor. He’s worn out. He hardly knows what he says most of the time. We are very grateful that you’re helping us.”

  “As you should be,” the doctor blustered. “It will be difficult to hide you”—he glowered at Oskar—“and nearly impossible to find clothes for everyone.”

  “Perhaps this will help.” Johannes laid the cloth open, and the doctor’s eyes bulged at the sight of ruble notes, gold coins, and silver rings.

  “That’s a miracle,” the man whispered. “In these troubled times? A miracle.”

  Johannes smiled as he looked around at his siblings. “Indeed . . . a miracle.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Near Novgorod

  August 11, 1918

  Three days had become ten, and ten days had become hopelessness and sorrow. The money used for passage, food, and bribes was nearly gone, and Agnes squeezed the miniscule cloth bundle in her pocket, hoping to stop the pangs of hunger. She mumbled on like a madwoman. “We don’t know where we are . . . Johannes says he knows, but we have to be careful . . . both armies may be looking for us. And why are we going to Petrograd? Mother and Father won’t be there.” She rummaged in her pocket. “Where’s that bit of cheese I had? Someone stole it. What is it you can break with one word?”

  “Agnes.”

  She was suddenly alert and batted at the hand on her arm.

&nbs
p; The hand did not release her. Johannes’s voice came to her ear. “Agnes, you’re mumbling again.”

  “What?”

  “Look at me.”

  Agnes found it impossible to look at her sister and brothers. The images of gaunt, dirty faces and haunted expressions made her empty stomach roil.

  “Look at me.”

  Agnes squinted as she looked into Johannes’s pleading eyes.

  “Agnes, you must stop. You’re drawing attention to yourself.”

  Agnes’s eyes flicked to the other passengers on the train: grimy, despondent, and fierce.

  Her brother’s whispered voice came again. “We’re almost home. Please, dear one, hold on. Two or three days and we’ll be home.”

  “There is no home there,” Agnes said simply.

  Johannes’s face twisted in pain, and Agnes looked away.

  “Sorry, Johannes. I won’t mumble anymore.”

  His hand rested on her shoulder for a long while, then he turned and went back to sit with his brothers.

  Agnes turned her attention to worrying a loose tooth. She’d lost two while she was at the camp, and this one had started wiggling just east of Kazan. She’d found it five days after leaving the doctor’s home. Agnes rubbed her bottom lip. The doctor was a vile, heartless man, threatening to turn them over to the White Russian army if they didn’t pay his extortion fees. The jackal had figured they were keeping secrets when her brothers insisted none of them wanted help from Ekaterinburg’s liberators.

  We would have been saved by the White Russians, but not Andre Andreyevitch. He would have been slaughtered—slaughtered like the tsar and his children. Blood splattered on the wall. No. We had to escape. We had to walk away from death and graves.

  Agnes put her head into her hands and closed her eyes. Three days walking into the mountains, one day on the back of a logging truck, two days on a barge going south on the Kama River. The quiet days on the river were good, until Oskar and the barge mechanic fought over a game of cards. Now they were on a train going as far as their money would take them. Which was not far. Not all the way home. Agnes tried to pull out her tooth and pain shot along her jaw.