71

Two weeks later, Anna received a letter from Katyk in Vera’s stilted and somewhat illegible hand. Within an hour she had packed a small travel case and Sergei was ready to call a cab to take her to Nicholas Station, where she would board a train for Pskov. Raisa gave her many assurances that the children would be fine during her absence and would keep up on their studies.

She hugged her children; then she and Sergei climbed into the drosky. Sergei was about to give the driver instructions when Anna placed a restraining hand on his arm.

“Driver,” she said, “we wish to go to Nicholas Station, but before that, please take us to the First Line, on the waterfront, to number two hundred and four.” She glanced at her husband as if to ask, I am right in doing this, am I not?

Sergei nodded his support. “You have no choice, Anna. Paul would want to know, no matter what he says on the surface.”

At Paul’s house, Mathilde called her husband from his study. Anna said only three words:

“Papa is ill.”

He responded without hesitation. “Mathilde, would you help me pack a bag?”

They did not know what they would find as another drosky from Pskov drove them into Katyk. Anything might have happened in the time between Vera’s letter and Anna and Paul’s arrival home. Vera had indicated that Yevno was very ill, worse than he had ever been before. The priest had administered extreme unction.

But Anna had been praying fervently since her first meeting with Paul that somehow God would bring about a reunion between Paul and his father. For years she had marveled at her papa’s long life, despite his chronic illness; lately she had begun to feel that God was sparing him for a special purpose. Since seeing Paul, she had a strong sense in her heart that this must be the reason. During the trip to Katyk, that sense continued to be confirmed. God would not let Papa go until he and Paul were reunited.

Paul was impressed by Anna’s peaceful countenance. He, on the other hand, had been in great turmoil the entire trip. He found it hard to receive Anna’s words of comfort and hope. He would never see his papa alive again, he was certain. He had been selfish and cruel, and this was his punishment.

But punishment was not the way of the God in whom Anna placed her faith.

Anna and Paul walked together toward their parents’ izba. It seemed to Paul as if nothing had changed from when he had grown up there. The little tow-headed three-year-old sitting on the front step looked like his baby brother Ilya; the dark-haired six-year-old girl by his side could have been Vera years ago. Had time truly frozen in place, and only he, Paul, had changed?

Then the girl jumped up. “Aunt Anna!” she called, running to Anna and hugging her skirt.

Time began to move once more. This was more than twenty years later. Everything was different.

The little girl let go of her aunt and dashed into the house. “Mama, Aunt Anna is here!” she cried.

“Hush, child!” a voice from inside scolded. “You’ll wake your grandpapa. Now, what is all this excitement?”

The implication of those words were not lost on either Paul or Anna. Paul glanced at his sister, and she smiled, never having doubted for a moment that their papa would be there to greet them.

After a whispered exchange between those who were indoors, several figures emerged from the izba. Sophia saw Anna and was about to run to her when she noted the man standing next to her. It took only an instant for Paul’s mother to peel away twenty years of aging and see her dear son underneath.

“Dear God in heaven!” Sophia cried, and wasted no time before her son was in her loving embrace.

He was the Prodigal Son, and he received no less a welcome—full of love, of forgiveness, of unquestioning acceptance. But still Paul trembled a bit as Sophia led him to his father’s bedside.

In the dim light of the cottage, Paul was not as easily recognizable, especially to Yevno’s old eyes, dulled by his illness. Paul knelt by the bed so that his face was level with Yevno’s.

“Papa,” he said in a choked voice, “it is your son, Paul. I have come to you.”

Yevno looked closer, but he did not start with surprise or astonishment. “Of course,” he said. “I knew you would come.” He reached up a hand, shaky and weak, and Paul grasped it tightly. They did not let go of each other for an hour.

“Papa, you forgive me, then?”

“My son, what a question to ask! Love always forgives.”

“I love you so much, Papa!” Paul wept freely. And when Yevno opened his arms, Paul melted into them and would never again doubt the power of his father’s God.

Paul had three more days with his papa after that, and though it would never make up for the twenty-one lost years, he realized that even this brief time together was a priceless gift—a gift he did not deserve but which God saw fit to lavish upon him. He did not allow guilt and inadequacy to rob him of that gift. He accepted it as he accepted his father’s forgiveness and love and mercy.

When Yevno, on the final day of his earthly sojourn, bestowed praise on his son, Paul humbly received it.

“I have always been proud of you, Pavushka,” said Yevno. “I raised you to think for yourself and fight for your beliefs, so what kind of father would I have been if I had rebuked you for doing that very thing? My only regret is that perhaps I raised you too well.” He chuckled, and for a moment his eyes danced with their old merriment. But even the effort of joy fatigued him, and he could not speak for some time after that.

After a while Paul said, “Papa, I have never forgotten anything you ever taught me. Sometimes I tried to think I knew better, but it was never so. I have over the years met many learned and intelligent and scholarly men, but I have never met a man wiser than you, Papa.”

“A poor, illiterate man like myself? Imagine that!”

“Our family has been wealthier than the tsar’s because of you, and I thank you for all you have given me—a legacy beyond price.”

Yevno sighed contentedly. “I can now die in peace. I know I have been successful in what matters most.” He lifted his eyes toward his family gathered around him. “Come closer, my children—Anna, Vera, Ilya, Ivan, and Marfa—and you little ones! Let me see you one last time before I sleep. You have all made my life worthwhile!” He extended a hand toward Sophia. “Ah, my dear and faithful wife! We have done well. Continue to watch over them for me, and God will continue to watch over you—each of you!”