The Silence of God Read online

  Sergey had taken his time pronouncing the toast, and through it all Nicholai Lvovitch had roared with laughter and pounded the table. Now Nicholai’s pudgy face was red and tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. He gulped several times, sucking in large quantities of air, and wiping his eyes with his shirtsleeves.

  “Oh! Oh, that was good, Sergey Antonovich. You are a great speaker. I want to write that down.”

  Sergey heard voices in the hallway moments before his apartment door was shoved open, revealing his friend Dmitri Borisovitch. With him came a woman and two men. Sergey figured they must be from Dmitri’s neighborhood for they certainly were not university students. Nevertheless he was glad that his clever friend had talked them into coming to the meeting. They needed more and more young people to embrace the Bolshevik ideology.

  “Dmitri Borisovitch!” Sergey called as Dmitri stepped into the room.

  Sergey caught a glimpse of the smile dropping from Nicholai Lvovitch’s face, and he wondered if Nicholai would ever give up his jealousies.

  “So you have brought friends, Dmitri Borisovitch,” Sergey stated, taking all their coats and shaking hands.

  “Yes,” Dmitri answered. “These are my neighbors from the Demidov family. May I introduce Vanya Stephanovich, his brother, Anton, and their sister, Yulia.”

  Sergey greeted them warmly, amused to see Yulia staring at him. She and her brothers were plain creatures, to be sure, so he tried not to add to the young woman’s discomfort by looking at her directly.

  “And I have news,” Dmitri said.

  “Yes? What?” Sergey asked.

  “Natasha Ivanovna is not far behind us.”

  “I knew she was coming,” Sergey answered with a shrug.

  “Ah, but did you know her father is coming with her?”

  Sergey came to attention. “Is he?” He paced the small room as people settled themselves. “Is he? This is good news. Very good!”

  “Is he important?” Yulia Demidov asked.

  Sergey’s enthusiasm was blunted by her question and the almost masculine quality of her voice. He stared at her a moment trying to decide whether to point out her ignorance with his answer or to be magnanimous.

  “Of course, Comrade Demidov, you do not attend the university so you would not know the brilliant Ivan Alexseyevitch Gavrilov. He is a professor of language and literature, and is highly regarded, but more important to us, he is the head of a soviet and he knows Trotsky.”

  Yulia’s brother Vanya broke in. “Leon Trotsky? Do I understand you correctly? This man who will join us knows Leon Trotsky—the brilliant revolutionary?”

  Sergey put his hand on the man’s shoulder and smiled down at him. “Yes, comrade, you heard me correctly. But, remember, we must not be intimidated by position anymore. We are all equals now.”

  There was a knock at the door and everyone came to attention. Sergey wiped his hands on his worn coat and went to admit the newcomers. He had met Natasha’s father a few times for only moments, yet he remembered his own feelings of inadequacy in those encounters. The man’s dark brown eyes were penetrating, and you felt as though his searing appraisal went directly into your thoughts. Sergey Antonovich also had the impression that the man could discern a lie before it was spoken. Ivan Alexseyevitch’s physical stature was as intimidating as his intelligence; he stood well over six feet tall and he carried himself with calm assurance—a trait Sergey worked hard to possess. He forced the strain from his face and opened the door.

  “Professor Gavrilov! What an honor to have you join us.” He looked at Natasha, who was watching him carefully. “Natasha, you neglected to tell me your father was coming.”

  “He decided on his own,” she said.

  Sergey’s smile broadened. “Wonderful! Come in, come in.” He made introductions and attempted to take their coats as the two stepped into the room.

  “We won’t be staying,” Ivan Alexseyevitch said. “In fact, we are going to the train station.”

  Sergey looked to Natasha, his disappointment evident. “Train station? I don’t understand. Are you going somewhere?”

  “No,” Professor Gavrilov said. “We are going to the train station to meet someone, and all of you will be coming with us.”

  The tension in the room rose perceptibly, and Sergey felt a prickle of fear run along his spine. Perhaps he’d misunderstood. Perhaps Natasha’s father was actually sympathetic to the tsar or the Provisional Government. Was it a trap to have them taken away by tsarist loyalists? He couldn’t imagine it, but perhaps Natasha’s father knew Trotsky only enough to loathe him. Sergey chided himself. He was letting his fear get the better of him.

  “Is there a problem?” Professor Gavrilov asked. “Does no one wish to go with us to meet our friend? He’s been on a long and painful journey, but now he’s coming home.”

  Nicholai Lvovitch plucked up his courage. “But, Professor, we . . . we don’t know your friend.”

  “Ah, yes, comrades, indeed you do.”

  “We do?” Dmitri Borisovitch asked, his puzzled expression reflecting the feelings of the others.

  Professor Gavrilov nodded. “Yes, of course. For, you see, if my sources are correct, Vladimir Ilyich Lenin arrives at the Finland station today, compliments of the German government.”

  * * *

  Spring was allotting winter darkness smaller and smaller increments of time, and Natasha Ivanovna knew that in a month the White Nights would bring shimmering light well past midnight. She loved those soft evenings when she and her friends from the university would sit at the café, eating blini and talking philosophy and poetry. Of course in recent years they ate bread and talked about the war and the revolution. The youth of St. Petersburg were a blazing force for the ideals of Socialism. Her group of friends spoke loudly of insurrection—impatient to burn away the last vestiges of evil capitalism and the blight of religion.

  Natasha’s mind drifted away from the memories of the café. She saw herself at her aunt and uncle’s enchanting cottage in the country. Her hair was long and braided. It was the summer that Agnes was allowed to accompany her. They were fourteen and they made crowns of wildflowers for their hair and pressed ripe strawberries to their lips. The warm sun played lightly on their skin as they walked the golden meadows.

  “Natasha, where are you?” Dmitri Borisovitch teased, poking her in the ribs.

  Her mind snapped to the present and she stepped away from the impudent young man. “Don’t poke me, Dmitri Borisovitch.”

  “Well, I had to wake you up, comrade, or Vladimir Ilyich Lenin might have come and gone while you were daydreaming.”

  Natasha looked around. How odd, she thought. I’m standing here in the large parade room at the train station with a thousand revolutionary disciples, and I’m thinking of meadows and strawberries. She turned to find her father debating with Sergey Antonovich.

  “You don’t think Lenin should have come?” her father questioned. “You think that he should have stayed in Zurich, raging like an animal in a cage?”

  “Of course not, Professor. I only meant—”

  “You imagine that he and his wife and the other exiles haven’t thought of every possible way to get back into Russia?”

  “All I’m saying is that the counterrevolutionaries will say that Lenin is a pawn of the Germans—that the Germans put him and his comrades on this sealed train and gave them free passage across Germany for a price. And what price will that be, they will ask? The anti-Bolsheviks will question what Lenin has promised the German imperialists.”

  Professor Gavrilov nodded. “Lenin has never made it secret that the Bolsheviks would put an end to Russia’s involvement in the war. I’m sure that’s what the Germans are hoping will happen when he comes to power. That is no secret, Sergey Antonovich.”

  There were many people in the cro
wd listening to the debate, and several voiced their support of the Professor’s words.

  Sergey’s tone became commanding. “But we know the German imperialists. They do not believe in our cause. They care nothing for our struggles. I just wonder about the pound of flesh the Hessians will require of us when payment is due.”

  Several more people in the crowd applauded his statement, and Sergey Antonovich took in their approval with a nod and a slight bow.

  “He’s coming!” people began shouting. “I see him!”

  The thousand workers and soldiers who had been gathered by the Petrograd soviet to make a show of Lenin’s arrival turned as one in the direction of the train platform.

  “I see Kamenev of the Central Committee!” Dmitri Borisovitch called out excitedly.

  “And Cheidze, president of the Petrograd soviet!” Sergey Antonovich added. “They are getting ready to greet him.”

  “Yes, I see Lenin—there!” Professor Gavrilov said, pointing. “Someone has given him a bouquet of flowers. See there—in the round hat.”

  “Ah, yes!” Sergey yelled. “He’s hurrying to the committee!”

  By now most of the crowd had seen the Bolshevik leader, and an excited roar of approval ebbed and flowed throughout the hall. The official welcoming party stepped forward, and Lenin stopped short as if in coming upon Chairman Cheidze he’d come upon an unexpected obstacle. The thousand voices stilled in intense anticipation. Most people had read Lenin’s words in essays and articles smuggled out of Switzerland, but many had never heard their leader speak.

  Natasha pushed around in front of her father to get a better view. “Don’t tell me Cheidze is going to speak,” she said crossly.

  “Oh, he is,” Sergey responded, shaking his head.

  “The old sourpuss,” Dmitri added. “Lenin is going to chew him into pieces.”

  Chairman Cheidze gave a curt bow. “Comrade Lenin, in the name of the Petrograd soviet and the whole revolution, we welcome you to Russia . . . but, we consider that the chief task of the revolutionary democracy at present is to defend our revolution against every kind of attack both from within and from without. We hope that you will join us in striving toward this goal.”

  Natasha looked back to see her father scowling.

  “What’s he trying to be,” Sergey hissed, “Lenin’s moral instructor?”

  “Don’t worry,” Professor Gavrilov said. “Lenin will know how to deal with that hypocritical Sunday school greeting.”

  “Comrade Lenin!” a clear voice rang out.

  Lenin turned his back on the committee members to acknowledge the young naval commander who had stepped forward.

  Face to face with an icon, the man swallowed and stood straighter. “I speak in the name of all the sailors, Comrade Lenin. We welcome you home and hope sincerely that you will soon become a member of the Provisional Government!”

  The crowd cheered as Lenin shook the sailor’s hand. The young man’s companion came to stand proudly beside him. She carried a banner which read “Peace! Land! Bread!”

  Lenin bowed to her and gave her the bouquet of flowers. Keeping his back to the committee, he addressed the people.

  “Dear comrades, soldiers, sailors, and workers, I am happy to greet in you the victorious Russian revolution, to greet you as the advance guard of the international proletarian army! On the journey here with my comrades, I was expecting we would be taken directly from the station to prison at the Peter and Paul Fortress. We are far from that, it seems. But let us not give up the hope that it will happen, that we shall not escape it.”

  Sergey leaned close to whisper in Natasha’s ear. “Ah, Lenin would love for the bombastic politicians to throw him in jail and bring attention to the cause.”

  Natasha was caught by Lenin’s next words.

  “We wish our cause to incite, to inflame, to burn away the last scraps of capitalist oppression. Only the Bolshevik stands guard over the proletarian interests and the world revolution. The rest are the same old opportunists, speaking pretty words, but in reality betraying the cause of Socialism and the worker masses.”

  Chairman Cheidze’s face flushed with anger as Lenin continued.

  “We don’t need any parliamentary republic. We don’t need any bourgeois democracy. We don’t need any government except the soviet of workers’, soldiers’, and farmhands’ deputies!”

  The crowd cheered, but Natasha could not find her voice.

  “The hour is not far when, at the summons of our revolutionary comrades in other countries, the people will turn their weapons against their capitalist exploiters. The Russian revolution achieved by you has opened a new epoch. Long live the worldwide Socialist revolution!”

  The crowd erupted into noise. A band played and people sang. Some of the soldiers led Lenin to a waiting convoy of armored cars and insisted that he climb up on one of them.

  “Look at the spotlight on his car,” Nicholai Lvovitch shouted. “Look how it stabs through the darkness!”

  “Yes, Nicholai!” Sergey Antonovich agreed, slapping his big friend on the back. “It is symbolic, isn’t it?”

  Nicholai Lvovitch beamed, his head bobbing up and down. “Yes. Yes, it is symbolic.”

  “It will be a triumphal march through the city!” Dmitri Borisovitch exclaimed as he waved his hat in the air. He looked over at his friends from the neighborhood then back to Sergey. “My friends and I are going to follow. Are you coming?”

  “Of course!” Sergey answered immediately.

  “Am I invited?” Nicholai asked petulantly.

  A spasm of irritation crossed Sergey’s face, but it was momentary, and he covered it with an enthusiastic smile. “Of course, Nicholai Lvovitch. We are all one in this!”

  The group moved off with the crush of followers. Suddenly, Sergey Antonovich turned back. “Natasha Ivanovna, are you coming?”

  “No. Father and I are going home.”

  Sergey returned to the twosome.

  “Father wants to write a paper on tonight’s happenings, and he wants to do it while the recollections are clear,” Natasha said.

  Sergey looked up at Natasha’s father and gave him a charming smile. “Of course. I understand.” He shook his head in wonder. “His speech, Professor, what did you think of that? I feel like I’ve been flogged over the head with a flail! I don’t think Chairman Cheidze expected anything like that.”

  Professor Gavrilov nodded. “No. I’m sure he didn’t.”

  Sergey shook hands enthusiastically with the man. “Thank you so much for bringing us along, Professor.”

  “Of course. We are all one in this.”

  Sergey smiled, and Natasha could tell he was flattered to hear his own words repeated by her father.

  “Sergey, come on!” Dmitri yelled.

  Sergey turned. “I will see you tomorrow, Natasha Ivanovna.”

  Natasha watched as the group of believers marched away into the night. A cold wind bit at her cheeks and she pulled her scarf higher on her face.

  “Shall we see if we can find a ride?” her father asked, putting his arm around her.

  “Oh, that would be very nice,” Natasha answered. They went to the taxi area, but no vehicles were in service.

  “The drivers must be Bolsheviks,” Natasha said, “and have all driven off to be in the parade.”

  Her father chuckled. “We will catch a streetcar.”

  They walked together in the lingering atmosphere of the momentous event, now and then catching the distant sound of singing and a band playing songs of the Bolsheviks.

  Natasha Ivanovna twined her arm around her father’s. She kept to her silence, unable to articulate the emotions and images bumping around inside her head. Finally a feeling surfaced which she felt impelled to express. “Father?”

  “
Yes?”

  “I was a little frightened by what happened here tonight.”

  “That is very wise of you, and while I am not frightened, I am stunned.” Natasha stopped and stared at him. “Oh, yes,” he replied. “I am stunned by the power and pace of the movement. You young ones don’t see it clearly, but I have studied the cultures of much of the world’s history and nothing like this has happened before.”

  “The French Revolution?”

  “Yes, but the French still wanted government, they still wanted democracy. In Russia we are casting away capitalistic government. We declare that we will be a country of councils—of soviets, and those councils will be made up of soldiers and workers and peasants.”

  “‘All Power to the Soviets.’”

  “Yes.”

  “But led by the Bolshevik leaders.”

  Her father gave her a sideways look. “Of course. You must have a Lenin or a Trotsky to show the way.”

  They found themselves standing on the Liteyny Bridge, the wide expanse of the Neva River flowing beneath them. Released from the icy bonds of winter, the dark cold water was pulled inexorably toward the Gulf of Finland.

  Natasha felt the turbulence and the danger under her feet. She closed her eyes and put herself again in the summer meadow with Agnes. It was safer there. It was quiet.

  “Natasha, are you all right?”

  She looked at her elegant father and felt her heart twist. “I don’t know,” she answered truthfully. “I feel as though the world is shredding.”

  The wind whipped her short-cropped hair into her face and her father reached over and tucked it behind her ears.

  “Let us remember what the Bible says, ‘Don’t take thought for tomorrow, for tomorrow will take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient for this day are the evils thereof.’”