Later that night, Sergei and Anna discussed Mariana’s letters. One of the great luxuries they had since moving in with Raisa was having a little room of their own. Since their marriage, they had almost never been alone. Mariana had been with them right from the beginning, and the extended family continually surrounded them in one way or another. Poor peasants knew nothing of “honeymoons,” and so Anna and Sergei had never had one. But this little cubbyhole in their flat was like a honeymoon haven for them where they could interact and talk as intimately as they wished. Anna often said it made her feel like a newlywed all over again. Sergei countered that he had never stopped feeling like a newlywed.
“Sergei,” Anna began after they climbed into the bed that nearly filled the little closet of a room. “I need to have my worries about Mariana eased a bit. I know they are futile and we have been over this ground before, but every now and then those motherly anxieties try to overtake me.”
“Anything specific? It sounds like she is quite close to the fighting.”
“I’ll worry about that until she is safe by my side again.” Anna sighed as she shook her head. “What I really fear is that by allowing her to go so far away, we will have lost her. By comparison, her life here will seem humdrum and unappealing. And she says her American friend is in Manchuria. What if he should want to marry her and take her with him all the way to America?”
“It’s not something I like to think about either, Anna. But we want her to be happy.”
“Yes.”
“The old proverb says, Let your child follow her own path and it will always lead back to you.”
“Sergei,” Anna said tenderly, “you are sounding more like my papa every day with your wonderful and wise proverbs and sayings.”
“Ah, dear Papa Yevno! Thank you for such high praise.” Sergei propped himself on an elbow and gazed with open love at his wife. She never seemed to age, somehow always retaining that fragile loveliness that had captured his heart twenty-eight years ago on an ice pond. She had been sixteen, timid as a baby fawn exploring a new world, delicate as a spring bloom. In the ensuing years he had come to realize Anna was about the strongest woman he knew, though she had never lost those qualities he had first fallen in love with.
Anna blushed under his frank admiration, then quickly changed the subject. “Now, I’ve sensed since you came home this evening that there is something on your mind. I can’t promise you Yevno’s wisdom, but I can give you a listening ear.”
“This has been a very eventful day for me, Anna. First, I spoke with Mr. Cranston. When Daniel Trent mentioned his editor here in Russia, I never thought that it would affect me. But suddenly the man has become a very important part of my life—at least he has control over an important part of my life.”
Over the years Sergei had never stopped writing, though he had done so mostly for his own benefit. He never dreamed—except in the wildest parts of his imagination—that he’d be published again. But since coming to St. Petersburg, he had begun mingling with more literary types at the university, and friends had encouraged him to attempt to publish his work again. His first—and last—book had landed him in Siberia, but he had become much less political in his tendencies since then. He was able to get two short stories and several poems published in mainstream magazines—under a pseudonym, of course. It didn’t pay much, but the sense of accomplishment was enormously satisfying.
About two years ago Sergei had begun compiling an anthology of many of the poems he had written over the years. Viktor had suggested Sergei try foreign publication for this book. Though the poetry was not as politically incisive as Sergei’s first book, A Soldier’s Glory, many of the poems were still a bit too sensitive to pass Russian censors. Sergei remembered Daniel Trent’s editor, George Cranston, and, on a whim, visited the man. Cranston, himself an admittedly poor judge of poetry, agreed to pass the volume along to an American publisher he knew. That had been nearly six months ago. Since then, every time Sergei was in the neighborhood of the newspaper office—sometimes even when he wasn’t—he would drop in to inquire if there had been any response yet. Sergei feared he was beginning to make a nuisance of himself, but under the circumstances they felt it was best for all communications with the publisher to be made through Cranston.
“Mr. Cranston had mail from America,” Sergei said, and Anna knew by the gleam in his eyes that he had good news.
“And?”
“The American publisher liked my poems.”
“Just ‘liked’?”
“Well, the word loved might have been used, and he did draw some comparisons between my poems and those of Pushkin and Lermontov—which only shows that such praise must be taken with a grain of salt.”
“Your poems are wonderful, Sergei!”
“As Pushkin’s? Never! As Lermontov’s? Not a chance. However the man, a James Duke, of Duke and Sons Publishing, did show in his letter more than a passing understanding of poetry—more, I have to admit, than I might have expected of an American.”
“Why, Sergei! If you recall, you were the one who opened up the world of foreign poets to me.”
“English poets, mostly. But I suppose I do sound rather like a snob. The world of American poetry isn’t exactly a desert. I’ve liked some of Whitman’s and Whittier’s.”
“You gave me that lovely volume of Emily Dickenson’s a few years ago. I’ve read it over and over.”
“I am grateful to be published at all,” said Sergei.
“Does that mean this Mr. Duke is going to publish your book?”
Sergei nodded, then grinned. Anna threw her arms around him and kissed him.
“That’s not all,” Sergei said, still holding his wife. “They will send me two hundred American dollars as an advance as soon as they have received a signed contract.”
“That is a lot of money, isn’t it?”
“Four hundred rubles, Anna! As much as I could earn in two years of tutoring.”
“Oh my,” breathed Anna in awe. “Sergei, would it be possible to use some of the money for sending Yuri and Andrei to the gymnasium? They are ready for a higher education.”
“That was at the very top of my list also, Anna.”
Anna could hardly believe their good fortune. She wanted to get new dishes for Raisa to replace the set that had gotten broken and chipped over the years. Sergei said he wanted to take Anna on a trip—a real honeymoon, perhaps to Paris. They laughed like children.
Then Sergei became a practical adult once more. “Of course, the wise thing would be to save what we can against a rainy day.”
“I never thought we’d do anything else,” said Anna. “But it was fun to dream for a while.”
“Well, Raisa will have her new dishes,” Sergei declared, “and you shall have a fine new dress and a winter coat with a fur hat and muff to match. And the children shall have new winter coats also.”
“People will wonder about our newfound wealth.”
“Let them wonder! We cannot always live in fear of my past, Anna.” He paused thoughtfully, then continued. “Not that this has anything to do with my past, Anna, but it is as good a time as any to mention the other thing that happened today. I saw Oleg Chavkin.”
Chavkin, a friend from Katyk, now lived in St. Petersburg. When they had first come to the city, he had taken in Anna and Sergei, and found Sergei a factory job.
“How is he? We see the Chavkin family so seldom now that we live on Vassily Island.”
Anna still shuddered when she thought of the kind of existence she and her family had lived when Sergei worked at the textile factory. Chavkin still dwelt in that rat-infested tenement with no heat, no running water, and twenty-five people jammed into two small rooms. Like the majority of workers in the city, there seemed no way for Chavkin to escape perpetual poverty. The factory owners saw to it that their workers remained virtual slaves.
“If Oleg has his way,” said Sergei, “I will be seeing much more of him. He has asked me to take on the task of teaching the men at the factory to read and cipher. There are about a dozen men who are interested in learning. But it is not as simple as it sounds. The owners strongly discourage their workers from bettering themselves. Not only would I have to volunteer my services for no pay, but I must do it secretly.”
“Sergei, do you dare?”
“Anna, I have thought about this all afternoon. God has blessed us richly all our lives, but especially in these last few years. I cannot forget where we would be if He had not sent Misha along to deliver me from that awful factory. God has interceded continually in our lives, and now I have a chance to repay to others the blessings He has given me.”
“But you serve God every day as you witness to the boys you tutor.”
“It’s not enough, Anna.” Sergei’s countenance bore a look of such taut determination that Anna knew it was useless to argue with him. “I can’t turn my back on the need Oleg has presented to me.”
Anna should have been proud of him, she knew . . . and in many ways she was. Still, it was hard for her to agree to something that could bring danger to him. But he hadn’t asked for her approval. He was going to accept Oleg’s offer—in fact, he had probably already given his consent.
“You’re upset with me, aren’t you, Anna?”
Anna shrugged silently.
“I thought you would understand,” he said.
“I’m just afraid of what could happen.”
Sergei put his arm around Anna and drew her close to him. This tangible sense of his strength helped to buoy her. She sighed and attempted a smile. It was no use to fight against both God and her husband. If this was God’s will, then somehow she would find the resources to accept whatever came.