The Silence of God

by Gale Sears

  Natasha pulled her mother to her feet, then ran for the front entrance. She opened the door expecting to find the postman searching through his mailbag for the many letters and packages addressed to her, instead she was disappointed to see him ride past, ringing his bell not for her, but for the usurpers next door. She kicked the door frame. How could fate favor that boorish lot with correspondence? She kicked the door frame again and was about to close the door, when she saw a figure walking toward her. Even though it was quite warm, the man wore an overlarge cloth coat and a cap. A shiver of apprehension ran down Natasha’s spine and she stepped back into the shadows of her house. Just before she closed the door, the figure spoke.

  “Natasha Ivanovna, it’s Arel Lindlof.”

  Her hands trembled as she yanked open the door. She rushed forward onto the sidewalk and threw her arms around him. “How? How is this possible? How did you get away?”

  Arel held her tightly, absorbing her energy and reality. He glanced over to his former home and saw a large, brutish man with unkempt hair taking letters from the postman. The man gave him a suspicious look.

  “Natasha Ivanovna,” Arel said softly, “may we go inside?”

  She was immediately alert, following Arel’s gaze to her loutish neighbor. “Yes, dear friend. Come in.”

  They moved into the house, and Natasha closed and locked the door.

  Natasha’s mother stood at the bottom of the stairs, her eyes wide, and her mouth open. “Oh, dear boy.” She moved to Arel and put her hands on his haggard face. “Come to the kitchen.”

  “Thank you, but I don’t want to be a bother.”

  Svetlana crossed herself and led the way to the kitchen. Arel took off his coat and hat and handed them to Natasha. He ran his fingers self-consciously through his hair.

  Natasha tried not to stare at his gaunt face and haunted expression.

  “Your father isn’t here?” Arel asked without taking his eyes off her.

  “No, he’s at the Smolny.”

  Arel nodded.

  “Oh, Arel,” Natasha said, covering his hands with hers. “Are you all back? Are you all safe?”

  He looked into her eyes and a tear slid down his cheek. “Not Erland. Erland died at the camp.”

  Natasha sat back and gripped the edge of the table. “And Agnes?”

  He did not answer, but brushed distractedly at his tears.

  Natasha bit her lip. “Arel, tell me! Tell me what’s happened to Agnes!”

  He pressed his lips together, a desperate cry sounding in his throat. Natasha stared at him, willing the words from his mouth. “She’s very ill. The doctor says it’s an infection. We thought she was getting better, but her body is so weak that . . .” His words trailed off.

  “Where is she? How long have you been in Petrograd?”

  Arel covered his face with his hands. “I just arrived on the train. Andre Andreyevitch came with me, but he’s gone to his apartment.”

  Natasha was agitated with his ramblings. “You’ve come on the train from where?”

  “Novgorod. We’re staying with your aunt and uncle.”

  “Why didn’t you telegraph?”

  “It’s not safe. I came to bring you back with me. Agnes is asking for you.”

  Natasha stood. “I’ll get my suitcase. We can catch the afternoon train.”

  He looked up at her. “I was praying that you’d come with me, Natasha Ivanovna.”

  Natasha turned to her mother. “I need you to come with us.”

  Svetlana nodded.

  “Stay with him. I’ll pack for both of us.” She ran from the room.

  Svetlana brought Arel a glass of water and a currant roll. He drank the water slowly, fighting back his emotion. Svetlana took his hand. “I know what Natasha would tell you. She would tell you to have faith.”

  Arel gave her a questioning look, and she returned a gentle smile. “I know it’s strange, isn’t it . . . a Bolshevik who believes in God?”

  * * *

  Natasha tied a three-cornered scarf around her head, put the blue book into the pocket of her light coat along with the last of the ruble notes from the cloth bundle, and picked up the suitcases. Her mind was fixed on one thing only—getting to her friend’s side. She wasn’t concerned with how they’d escaped or why Agnes was ill or why they were all at Sel’tso Saterno. All those stories would eventually be told. Right now, she needed only to see Agnes.

  The front door opened and Natasha’s heart pounded. Father! Father’s come home early.

  She flew down the stairs to intercede. As she maneuvered her way into the front hall, she found her mother already there.

  Her father’s brow furrowed as he looked at the suitcases. “Are you traveling, daughter?”

  She decided to tell the truth. “Yes. Mother and I are going to Sel’tso Saterno.”

  Ivan Alexseyevitch turned to his wife. “What’s this? Has something happened?”

  Svetlana nodded.

  “Is someone ill?”

  Natasha answered quickly as she heard the chair pushed back in the kitchen. “Yes, but not the family. My friend . . .” Her voice shook with anguish. “My friend, Agnes Lindlof is there at Auntie and Uncle’s, and she’s very ill.”

  “Agnes Lindlof? How can she be there?”

  “We escaped.”

  Ivan Alexseyevitch started as Arel Lindlof walked in to stand beside Natasha.

  “We escaped when the White Army came in to liberate Ekaterinburg.”

  “You were in Ekaterinburg?”

  “Our work camp was near there, and my brothers and I were on the crew ordered to build a high fence around a certain house. The Red Guards called it ‘the House of Special Purpose.’”

  Natasha’s father looked stricken. “Then the rumors whispered at the Smolny are true? The tsar and his family . . .”

  “Slaughtered.”

  Svetlana Karlovna burst into tears.

  Arel went on, his voice bitter and accusing. “Shot, bayoneted, burned.”

  Natasha put her hand on his arm. “Arel, stop.”

  Ivan Alexseyevitch stepped forward. “No. I want to hear. I want to hear it all.”

  “The jailers heard the White Army was coming to liberate the tsar, so they killed them—murdered them in cold blood: the tsarina, the grand duchesses, even the young tsarevitch. They were disposed of because the Bolsheviks knew that many Russians would rally around the royal family—many Russians would not be fooled by the Soviet propaganda.” Natasha expected her father to stop Arel’s invective, but he stood mute, his eyes fixed on Arel’s haggard face.

  “When the White Army arrived and discovered the carnage, they went mad. All the Bolsheviks ran—including all the guards at our camp. That’s how we escaped.”

  Everyone stood in tense silence as Natasha’s father stared at Arel’s face. His gaze moved to his wife and daughter, and back to Arel. “I’m sorry for what you’ve suffered.”

  Arel nodded. “My brother Erland died at the camp, and now Agnes is very sick. She’s asking for Natasha Ivanovna. She’s asking for her friend.”

  “I understand.”

  Natasha could tell that Arel was evaluating her father’s emotion. “So, you won’t turn us in?” Arel asked quietly.

  Natasha saw grief in her father’s eyes as he took Arel’s hand. “I didn’t anticipate the brutality. Many of my friends—brilliant men from the university—have been arrested or beaten for asking questions. Instead of brotherhood, it seems we’re creating a nation of brutes.”

  “What will you do?”

  Ivan Alexseyevitch shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “Father, we need to get to the train.”

  “Yes, but first I have something to tell you. Something to confess.” His
grip tightened on Arel’s hand. “I know where your parents are.”

  “What?”

  “Yes. They telegraphed from Helsinki a month after you were arrested.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Natasha moaned.

  “I didn’t want you thinking about them . . . communicating with them.” He looked back to Arel. “By that time you were gone and we had no idea where you’d been taken.”

  “I knew. I knew where they were. I could have gotten word to them.”

  Her father looked stricken. “I didn’t realize, Natasha. I’m sorry.” He released Arel’s hand. “So many secrets.”

  “Yes, it seems we’re becoming a country of secrets.” She snatched up the suitcases. “And now we really must go.”

  Her father nodded. “I will walk you to the streetcar.” He took the suitcases, avoiding his daughter’s eyes. “But, what about money?”

  Natasha opened the door. “I have enough.”

  They walked out into the afternoon sunlight, and Arel turned to look at his old house.

  “Don’t,” Natasha said. “Don’t look at it, it will break your heart. We must go forward from here.”

  He moved to walk beside her as she strode forward with singleness of purpose.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Sel’tso Saterno

  August 16, 1918

  Agnes’s skin was chalky white and clammy. Natasha sat by her bedside, replacing cool cloths on her forehead and speaking in a soft, encouraging voice. Arel slept a few feet away on a straw mat and patched blanket. His deep snores testified of his exhausted state—truly the exhausted state of everyone in the company. It concerned Natasha that all of them would succumb to illness and despair. She lifted the dressing on Agnes’s wound and sponged away the greenish pus. The doctor said infection—infection that a healthy person could overcome, but her friend was not healthy. The Bolsheviks had seen to that. The doctor had also warned about pneumonia. Natasha shook her head as she examined the wounds. They were such small punctures, but they oozed pus and the surrounding skin was swollen and red.

  Natasha gently placed a clean dressing on the area and fought back angry tears.

  She looked out the bedroom doorway into the small sitting area, and watched her aunt and Alexandria as they stripped beans. Alexandria—the pampered beauty. But the pampered beauty had changed much during her months of servitude. Natasha could tell that she was no longer the self-centered child, but now looked at the world with expanded vision, responding to the needs of others before fretting over her own foolish desires. They had all changed.

  Natasha wrapped her arms across her chest to keep the pain that was hidden there from escaping. Agnes will not die. I will not let her die.

  Agnes’s body twitched and Natasha started. She took her friend’s hand. “There, little squirrel, that’s better. You’re getting stronger and stronger all the time. Soon you’ll be strong enough to walk out in the meadow with me. You love the meadow and the forests and the enchanted cottage with its beautiful carvings. Remember? And remember how in the daytime we’d take walks and pick loganberries, and at night we’d sit by the fire and crochet.” She took a deep breath and forced calm into her voice. “When you’re better, my auntie and my cousin Irena will sit next to us and tell us wonderful fairy tales about clever little squirrels, flying horses, and magical white cows.” A tear slid down her cheek. “Please . . . please, Agnes. I want to tell you all I’ve learned. I want to tell you what the little blue book means to me. I want to ask you about God.”

  Johannes stood listening to these last sentences. “Oh, haven’t you heard, Natasha Ivanovna?”

  Natasha sat straighter and looked at the man now leaning against the door frame. “What’s that, Johannes?”

  “God and Lenin no longer live in Petrograd.”

  “Oh?”

  “Indeed. Lenin has moved to Moscow, and God has moved to . . . well, someplace more hospitable than Russia.”

  She did not answer him, but placed a new cloth on Agnes’s head. “‘We believe all things, we hope all things—’”

  “Don’t do that, Natasha Ivanovna.”

  “What?”

  “Quote scripture.” He shook his head. “I can’t make out your thinking.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A devout Bolshevik, writing for the state, pushing their propaganda, hating God . . . And now quoting scripture?”

  Natasha hung her head. “I know you’re angry at the Bolsheviks, Johannes.”

  He cut her short. “Angry? They’ve killed my family, they’re killing this country, and they’re killing God.”

  Arel sat up. “Enough, Johannes. You’ll disturb Agnes.”

  “Are you sure it’s Agnes you’re worried about, or your Bolshevik love?”

  Arel’s voice was low and threatening. “Get out.”

  Natasha’s body stiffened. “Arel, it’s all right. I understand.”

  Agnes moaned, and they all went quiet. Natasha stared anxiously at her friend’s face; when she looked up, Johannes was gone.

  Irena came into the room. “It’s my time to watch her.”

  Natasha reluctantly gave up her seat, picking up the bowl and stretching her back. “I need to get fresh water.”

  “I’ll manage,” Irena said, taking the bowl and pushing Natasha toward the door. “It’s lovely out. You two should go for a walk. There’s plenty of time before supper.”

  Arel shoved his mat and blanket under the bed and followed Natasha from the room. A cool breeze greeted them as they stepped onto the porch, and Natasha closed her eyes, letting the soft movement of the wind play against her skin and tousle her hair.

  “Are you cold?”

  “No, I’m fine. It’s delightful.”

  Arel looked out over the meadow with its array of white and blue lupine, starflower, and dandelion. Soon the flowers would fade, the green grasses would dry and wither, and the first snows would come.

  “Let’s walk to the church,” Natasha said, stepping from the porch.

  Arel followed, bringing his thoughts to the woman at his side. He loved her, and had since their youth. At first it was a game he and Bruno had played to see who could tease her the most, then it was a competition between him and Oskar to be noticed, and when she professed her allegiance to the dogma of the Bolsheviks, he alone continued to care for her. He thought about her dark eyes. He thought about the kiss on New Year’s Eve. “Tell me about the Red Train,” he said abruptly.

  Natasha stopped. She turned to look at him, her expression hard. “Why would you ask about that?”

  “I . . . I don’t know. Your cousin was talking about it, and . . .” He shook his head. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

  Natasha looked away from him. “I don’t like to think about it.” She took a deep breath. “I could have died on that train.” She paused. “It was one of the things that made my father rethink the Socialist doctrine. Perhaps that is one positive thing to come from my idiotic trip.”

  “But you and your father were both so enthusiastic.”

  “Enthusiastic and foolish. Red banners—shouted slogans—promises. What were those things?” She started walking and Arel stepped beside her. “We’re trying to change a society by forcing people, forcing how they should think and feel.”

  “But you write for the Bolsheviks.”

  “Wrote. Yes, and I believed what I wrote.” A smile softened her features. “Then your father gave me this little blue book and told me that only God can change men’s hearts.”

  Arel smiled too. “My father is very sly.”

  “Yes, and very wise.”

  They walked in companionable silence for several minutes.

  “I’m glad you like the book, Natasha Ivanovna.”

  She nodded.
“There’s much to ponder.”

  They neared the church and Natasha noted that the cross was absent from the domed cupola. The vision brought an ache to her chest. She walked faster. “Oh, no.”

  “What is it?”

  “They’ve cut off the cross!” She pointed. “See there—on the top of the cupola? There’s a red star now. They’ve taken down the cross and put up a red star.” She was running and Arel ran with her. “No, no, no! It’s a sacrilege! Please don’t let them have done it. Please.” She reached the ancient doors and tried the handle. “It’s unlocked.” She hesitated.

  Arel was breathless at her side. “What is it you fear?”

  “Prozorov said they were going to whitewash over the frescos in all the churches; paint out hundreds of years of beauty and faith.”

  Arel held her arm. “Let’s not go in. That way we don’t have to see it.”

  “I have to go in.” She pushed open the door and walked into the church’s cool interior. As her eyes adjusted to the dimmer light, she saw the sacred images standing in defiance of man’s finite mastery. She breathed. “They’re here. They’re still here.” She moved around the room, running her hand gently over the muted pigments. Angels, saints, and apostles looked serenely into an eternity she could not see. She stopped next to Arel who was admiring two figures. “They are Boris and Gleb. Sons of the Christian Prince Vladimir.”

  He turned to her. “How do you know?”

  She smiled. “My cousin Irena told me. We’ve come here together many times.” Natasha touched the shoe of one of the brothers. “I’ve dreamed about their father—the great Prince Vladimir.” She spoke earnestly to the painting of Boris. “Yes, and how does your father feel about the Bolshevik’s destruction of God?”

  “I don’t think Chairman Lenin and Prince Vladimir would be on good terms,” Arel said.

  Natasha grinned. “No. I’m sure they wouldn’t.”

  The two continued moving about the small church.

  “So, what were your dreams of the Christian Prince?”

  “One time he came to talk to me and he was leading the peasant girl’s white cow.” She paused. “Do you know it? The white cow from the fairy tale?”