65

In no time, Anna and Sergei and their sons were settled in Raisa Sorokin’s home. The woman was ecstatic to have them, not only for the services they offered, but also because she immediately saw in Anna a friend she desperately needed.

Anna could not help but like Raisa. Although she was about the same age as Anna, she was very much like Sophia Burenin in personality. She was good-natured, talkative, cheerful, and a little independent and outspoken, too. Anna appreciated her forthright honesty and never had to wonder what the woman was thinking. Raisa’s daughter, Talia, on the other hand, was her exact opposite—demure, quiet, and sensitive; as dainty and graceful as her mother was buxom and simple. Anna often found herself smiling when watching the two interact; they reminded her of herself and her own mother.

When Sergei had fully recovered from his concussion, he posted his name, Sergei Christinin, on several university bulletin boards. Before long, with the onset of midterm exams, he had all the tutoring he could handle. He also began to develop a clientele among gymnasium students, the children of the civil servants in the neighborhood. He reveled in this work; there was not a young man who left Sergei’s home who had not glimpsed the light of Christ.

Sergei’s own faith, too, was strengthened through these encounters. The last months had taken more of a physical and emotional toll on him than he, or anyone, had imagined. Only now, through hindsight, could he appreciate the hardships he had weathered. Both Sergei and Anna had often been the recipients of God’s blessings, and they recognized the Lord’s hand in their present circumstances. Again, as He had so many times before, God had delivered them from hardships. They did not realize that soon God would be using them, especially Sergei, to help deliver another who was very close to them.

Sergei and his family had been at Raisa’s for a month when, as Sergei was walking one of his students to the door, he saw a man coming up the path to the house. He was about fifty, tall, lean, very distinguished-looking and well-dressed in a black broadcloth suit, crisp white shirt, and a fastidious bow tie. Sergei recognized him immediately, but said nothing until the student was well on his way down the street.

“Peter, this is a surprise.”

“I am sorry for coming unannounced, Prince Sergei.”

“I think we’d best go inside,” Sergei said.

Leading his guest into the parlor, Sergei asked, “Is it my father, Peter?” He could think of no other reason for his father’s faithful servant to be seeking him out. The man nodded gravely, and Sergei felt a knot twist in his stomach. “Is he—”

“No, it is nothing like that,” the servant assured him quickly. “That is to say, he is physically as sound as ever. But I am afraid—” Peter’s voice caught. He swallowed, then resumed once more with a measured control. “Something terrible has happened, Prince Sergei. We—that is Mrs. Remington and I—tried to keep it from him, but we couldn’t. And once he found out, it was impossible for us to keep him in the south. He slipped away without us knowing, went to Dzhankoy, and caught the first train north. The moment we realized what he had done, we threw together a few belongings and followed on the very next train. We arrived in the city this morning. As soon as we learned what had become of your father, Mrs. Remington sent me after you. The Cossack had informed us as to where you could be found—in case we needed you.”

“What happened?”

“The St. Petersburg estate has gone into foreclosure,” said Peter, his voice as dismal as the look on his face. “A few payments were missed, and the bank decided it wanted its money. Of course, your father was in no position to pay the bank, so the property was auctioned.”

“But why wasn’t I notified before this?” Sergei asked. “I have no money, but perhaps I might have thought of something.”

“Believe me, Your Excellency, Mrs. Remington would have contacted you, but everything happened much too quickly for that. We did not even know of the auction until we arrived this morning. It was almost as if they didn’t want to give us a chance to think of a way out. When we received notification of foreclosure, your father inadvertently saw that letter and left for the city to stop the process. But the auction had already taken place, in just a few days’ time.”

“It sounds like the bank already had a buyer lined up.”

“I believe so.”

“Do you know who?”

“Mrs. Remington told me to tell you the buyer is Count Cyril Vlasenko.”

Sergei snorted with disdain. “Sounds like something he would do. He probably had everyone convinced he’s doing it out of good will in order to keep the property in the family.”

“Exactly, Prince Sergei.”

“Now, tell me about my father, Peter.”

“Oh, that’s the worst of it, sir. If only Mrs. Remington or I had been here, perhaps we could have prevented what has happened. Your father went directly to the house and unfortunately encountered the count there. Apparently the count was taking a look at his newly acquired purchase. Somehow your father procured a pistol—”

“Peter, no! Did he . . . is the count . . .?” Sergei could not voice the fear that clutched his heart.

“Prince Viktor threatened the count, even fired a shot at him—that is Count Vlasenko’s story, anyway. We have yet to speak with your father. The count escaped unharmed, but Prince Viktor has barricaded himself in the house with the weapon and a fair supply of ammunition. He says he will shoot anyone who comes near the house.”

“But surely one man could not prevent the police from getting in. There are any number of entrances he could not watch.”

“Mrs. Remington has begged the police to hold off, fearing that if they attempt to overtake him, he might use the weapon on himself.”

“Thank God for Mrs. Remington’s cool head!”

“He will talk to no one, listen to no one,” said Peter with despair. “She sent me after you in hopes that seeing you might have some effect. We realize that with the police involved, it may be just as risky for you—”

“I must do whatever I can,” Sergei said without hesitation. “I just can’t imagine how I can do more than either of you, his faithful friends.”

“You are his son, Prince Sergei.”

Peter spoke as if that were the answer to everything. But Sergei had no such confidence. He had never been able to talk to his father in the past, and it had been no better in recent years after Sergei had gained maturity and a heart of forgiveness toward his father. It seemed nothing could tear down those protective ramparts Viktor had constructed around himself.

Nothing except perhaps the return of Viktor’s lost past—Natalia and Katrina, his career, his son, full of promise and the hope of carrying on the name that had meant so much to Prince Viktor Fedorcenko. But Sergei could not bring any of that back; and even if he could, how would that help Viktor? The man would never experience true healing until he could accept the present and the hope of the future.

Suddenly Sergei thought of an old proverb Yevno was fond of quoting: He who dwells on the past is bound to lose an eye. But the man who ignores the past will lose both eyes.

Sergei smiled as he recalled dear old Papa Yevno’s sage wisdom. Viktor was dwelling on the past, but he refused to accept it. He had to face, not the future, but, indeed, the past—the very past that had caused him such damaging pain.