Through Their Tears

By Maureen Eaton

“Finally they came for me and demanded to be taken through my home, and after looking it over decided they wanted it. I begged them to leave one room in which to sleep with my children while I waited for news of my husband. They refused at first, then permitted me to take the small room upstairs. Every night they were so drunk I eventually had no choice but to leave.” And so begins the harrowing journey of Nadejhda and her two young children, as they fled Russia during the Bolshevik Revolution. They leave in search of her husband who earlier disappeared on his way to America, hoping for a better life for his family. When he leaves in 1917 he begins a series of letters to Nadejhda. Suddenly the letters stop. Years later, she meets Elise, whose own choices would send her down a path from profound grief to healing. With Nadejhda’s help Elise learns to forgive the past and to love again. Through Their Tears is an inspiring journey of two unforgettable women who come together determined to start over.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Jan 13, 2018
• ISBN: 9781483477428

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Eaton

Copyright © 2017 Maureen Eaton.

Map by David G. Cross

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN: 978-1-4834-7741-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-7740-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-7742-8 (e)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 12/8/2017

For my twin, Janet, who reached for my hand before we made our presence known, and has never let go….

It’s the great mystery of human life that old grief passes gradually into quiet tender joy.

Fyodor Dostoyevsky

EatonMap.jpg

Prologue

January 13, 1919

The National City Bank

New York City

Attn: Mr. Homer, Employment Division

Gentlemen:

On recent inquiry concerning the whereabouts of one Samuel Petrovitch Shteinberg, supposed to have left Moscow, Russia, for the United States and carrying letter of introduction from your Moscow, Russia branch: you requested a memorandum of facts for the investigation.

Nadejhda’s husband, Mr. Shteinberg, managing Director of a Russian Bank, decided, owing to the Bolshevik ruination, to leave Moscow for the United States and start life anew. This was in December, 1917. Mr. Shteinberg is well known throughout the Moscow province, since in addition to the banking, he is a noted playwright, and is affiliated by marriage to very wealthy parties in Moscow.

Mme. Shteinberg and their two children, six and five years old, decided to remain in Russia until the father arrived in the United States and then join him, in the meantime trying to save all possible from the hands of the Bolsheviks.

Mr. Shteinberg carried a letter of introduction to the National Bank of New York, written sometime in early December, 1917. Accompanied by two companions, he started from Moscow. Their train was bombed, and the two companions returned to Moscow wounded and without information as to the fate of Mr. Shteinberg.

Chapter 1

It started as a gentle wind hitting the crystallized windowpanes. Within seconds the winds grew stronger and destroyed the quiet of the evening. The house began to rumble. Windows disintegrated around me. In the darkness, I bolted from the warmth of my bed and took shelter inside the porcelain tub.

For what seemed like an eternity, but lasted only minutes, a tornado touched down in Des Moines, Iowa in September of 1972. I sank low while the relentless wind pounded the house. Minutes seemed like hours. Finally, it was over.

The darkness of the night was beginning to give way to morning light; but it was a gray sky with no remorse. I walked over to the window and looked at the tableau of destruction that dotted the surrounding landscape. Fallen trees made a circle of decay. The black walnut, with its deep brown furrowed bark that once stood on the slope above the stream, was now split in half. Untouched were the red maple saplings. But the song of the little warblers among the overgrown blackberry thickets could still be heard in the distance.

I waited for the stillness of the air before heading outside. The tornado created wide swaths that cleared lots down to the bare earth and left other homes unscathed. I was one of the fortunate ones.

The path of devastation stretched as far as I could see. The storm hurled cars, wooden beams, and twisted pieces of metal. Insulation, mattresses, and clothing hung like skeletons from twisted trees.

I had no idea the magnitude of the storm that tore through the area but knew it had caused considerable devastation. I gathered my courage and carefully made my way down the street through what was left by the storm’s wrath. Neighbors began to emerge from their destroyed homes to survey the damage. The next few minutes passed in a blur as I walked around downed power lines and trees wrenched from their roots to get to her home.

Nadejhda Markovna Shteinberg had moved to Des Moines, Iowa in 1938 when there was nothing more than a dirt road and wandering hills of farms. Because she was still fiercely independent at the age of seventy-nine, I expected to find Nadia, as she preferred to be called, outside already sorting through the rubble.

But when I reached the corner of her block I stopped, unable to move. Houses with their roofs torn off stood battered, some caved in under the massive weight of trees. The howling wind had littered the road with shards of glass that glistened like mounds of tiny diamonds. Helmeted rescuer workers with flashlights trudged in the semi-darkness searching for signs of life. A pain seized my chest as I ran through the devastation.

Her Victorian style home was situated on woodland property with an allée of hundred-year-old pine oaks that had been planted at just the right distance apart. Their canopies, which once were full on all sides and stretched across the yard in a gentle shading arch, now lay broken and scattered. The garden was now a skeleton, an outline of a bare winter to come. Pieces of her life were strewn about the once manicured lawn.

Breathless, I reached her house and raced up the front porch. The sashes of the double hung windows had been torn from their hinges.

Nadia! My cry echoed through the air.

There was no answer.

It was an eerie silence as I opened the front door.

In a wave of panic, I made my way up the narrow stairs and down the hallway.

My heart was pounding. Nadia, I yelled again; but it was not my voice I heard. It was a loud shrill that echoed through the darkened path.

I entered her bedroom. A steady rain poured in from the exposed roof. The exterior wall had caved in. There was no movement.

And then I saw her. A mangled leg protruded from beneath a pile of debris. I tried lifting whatever plaster I could but the weight made it difficult. Finally, I reached her.

She lay face down and unresponsive. I immediately touched her body, cold and wet from lying in the deluge. Bending down I positioned myself next to her and listened to her breathing. It was shallow and labored. It was only a matter of time.

Please, Nadia don’t go, I yelled.

I reached for her hand. Tears stung my eyes as I felt the rhythm of a faint pulse. She appeared so fragile. It was impossible for me to move her. Outside sirens echoed in the distance.

Hang in there, Nadia I whispered. I’m going for help; we need to get you to a hospital.

I raced outside. Emergency vehicles were already on the scene. It all seemed surreal. I could barely speak.

Please hurry I screamed as two first responders followed me back into the house.

Once again in her room I sat in silence as they began to work on her. Looking around the room I realized it was a miracle she was still alive. A trail of devastation occupied this once beautiful room. The dogwood tree, which once shaded the south-east corner of her home, had crashed through the roof, exposing all her beautiful possessions to the elements.

Pictures were ripped from the walls and scattered in every direction. The cedar armoire, which kept her cashmere sweaters free from pesky moths, rested on its side in several inches of water. Over her dresser the gilded framed mirror, where Nadia gazed at her reflection and watched the faint lines around her eyes grow deeper through the years, remained intact.

I tried not to think of the ordeal she went through, as tears ran down my cheeks. How long had she been lying there? It seemed the tornado struck hours ago. But as I looked out at the ominous sky peering into her room, I knew that time had stood still.

Just as I began to feel overwhelmed, the responder turned and said, She’s beginning to open her eyes.

I rushed over as they were placing her on the gurney. Her eyes vacant.

Nadia, it’s me Elise, I said as I reached out and covered her trembling hand with my own. You are going to the hospital and I will meet you there. But she continued to look past me.

As they were about to carry her out of the room I leaned over and kissed her cheek. She was still unresponsive, but I held onto a glimmer of hope that she heard me.

For a moment I just stood there, unable to move. I listened to the wailing of the siren as it faded away carrying the only person I knew since moving here a few months ago.

I raced back to my own house and looked around. Other than shards of glass and toppled tree branches nothing needed immediate attention. I quickly changed out of my wet clothes and, gathering my strength, headed to the hospital almost twelve miles away. I knew it wasn’t safe being on the roads, but I had no choice. I had promised her.

The magnitude of the storm was unlike anything I had ever seen. Buildings were lifted off the ground. Countless homes were destroyed. Twisted metal from overturned cars littered the roads, toppled on one another like a deck of cards. With downed wires and traffic lights out, it took twice as long to reach the hospital.

It was sheer chaos when I walked through the Emergency Room entrance. Every grey plastic chair in the waiting room was occupied. Those fortunate enough to have one sat almost lifeless, their eyes closed, hoping to block out the images of the destruction they just witnessed. Others sat on the floor, their blank faces etched with sadness. A young child was curled up in her mother’s arms nervously twisting a loose tendril of hair that slipped from her mother’s ponytail. At the far end of the hall a priest, his stole around his neck, ushered an elderly woman into a side room. I knew as he put his arm around her shoulders that her life would never be the same again.

An urgent atmosphere prevailed. Hospital personnel were transporting gurneys through the hallways to the ambulance docking area, as the steady sound of sirens filled the air.

It was impossible to get any information. A petite nurse with dark eyes and jet-black hair worn in a tightly woven plait, walked briskly into the middle of the waiting room, clipboard in hand.

Immediately people began to surround her, shouting out questions. She held up her hand and asked for quiet.

We are doing the best we can and need your cooperation. I will come around and give you a number. Please wait for your number to be called.

I waited. The clock ticked loudly. Finally, I heard my number and was directed to the office of a social worker. She politely asked me the usual routine questions regarding Nadia’s medical history, health insurance, DNR information but unfortunately, I was unable to answer most of them. She looked up from her desk and handed me several pieces of paper.

I understand you don’t have the necessary information right now; but during the next several days if you can locate answers to the highlighted questions and bring the forms back, I’d appreciate it. The thought of rifling through Nadia’s personal papers felt like an intrusion. As I left the social worker’s office, my thoughts went back to Nadia. I wanted desperately to see her, reassure her I was here. Seconds passed then hours. Returning to the ER I stood silently against the wall and waited.

It was the shrill of a woman’s voice echoing through the room that brought me back to my surroundings. Nearby, the doctor had barely gotten the words out before the woman collapsed to the floor. Her husband reached out to grab her but he was too late. She lay helpless on the cold linoleum floor her voice still wailing my baby, my baby.

I felt the air escape from my lungs. The room was spinning. I stood only feet away, but felt completely helpless.

It was not that long ago that I lay on a stretcher beneath cold fluorescent lights in a sterile room and heard words that made me cry out with the same response. I tried to steady myself but felt numb. A lump of grief swelled in my throat.

I can’t go there. Not now.

Quickly I walked down the crowded corridor, wanting to escape the pain; anything to move past the memory that changed my life forever. It was futile.

I continued to wait, drifting into my own thoughts.

Eventually I was directed to triage on the third floor. I moved slowly into the room; when I pulled back the curtain to the cubicle, the bed was empty. I stared at the crimson colored spot that stood in stark contrast against the pure white sheet. This can’t be the right place I thought as panic began to build. I stopped the first nurse who walked by.

Do you know where the patient is who was here? Her name is Nadia Shteinberg.

She paused for a moment, as if struggling to maintain her patience with me and the frenzied scene that had been unfolding for the last several hours.

Let me go and check the charts.

A few minutes later she came back and told me Nadia was taken into surgery. No other information was available. I went back to the waiting room and paced. Hours passed. Darkness cloaked the evening sky. I waited. Every bone in my body began to ache.

Just then I heard a doctor call out my name. Startled, I turned around and walked toward her. Before I could say anything, she motioned me to sit down. I took a deep breath, preparing myself for what was to come.

She looked at the chart in her hands and said Mrs. Shteinberg has made it through the surgery. She has sustained a fractured femur that will take some time to heal. In addition, she lost a good deal of blood from the wound to her leg. Her condition is stable, but due to her age I’m moving her into ICU so we can monitor her more closely. She will be in recovery for the next few hours so I suggest you go home and try to get some rest. When she’s discharged, she will require a stay at a rehabilitation facility so you may want to begin exploring some options.

I began to ask her a question but she left the room quickly.

It was after two in the morning by the time I left the hospital. I got into the car and took a deep breath. My head was throbbing. I was utterly exhausted. My mind drifted between the doctor’s information and thoughts of Nadia. While navigating the roads littered with debris, I thought of the difficult time ahead for Nadia. I knew that kind of pain. I was still living it. Perhaps this was a chance for us to heal together.

Chapter 2

In the darkness of my room I awoke disoriented after only a few hours of sleep. Had it all been a troubled dream? Hearing the massive pine trees bend against the howling wind and the chilly air seeping through the house, I knew the answer.

I threw back the covers, slipped the well-worn cardigan over my pajamas and went into the kitchen. As I wrestled with the reality of the situation my thoughts drifted to the burgeoning tasks ahead. For a few minutes I sat here motionless, not sure where to begin. But then it came to me.

I set my coffee down and got up. I reached for the flashlight, tucked inside the kitchen drawer, and made my way up the narrow attic stairs at the back of the house. Boxes were piled haphazardly under the eaves, exactly where they were deposited three months ago when I moved here. I opened several and dumped the contents in the center of the room. For a moment, I felt the familiar heartache that made me want to turn and head back downstairs. Instead, I took a deep breath and moved quickly and deliberately, careful not to examine anything that would trigger the memories.

After the empty boxes and bins were loaded into the car, I slowly made my way down the driveway, avoiding the debris left by the storm. The sound of chainsaws echoed in the air as I turned the corner. Blue tarps draped several rooftops of the old homes. But despite the gaping holes exposed to nature’s elements, they were the more fortunate ones. Directly across the street two homes had been obliterated. All that remained were concrete slabs, the foundation of what held special memories.

It was somehow easier to absorb the devastation this morning knowing Nadia was safely ensconced in the hospital. I turned off the ignition and looked around. From a distance her Victorian style house, with the double front doors opening into the entryway, looked intact. But it was the back of the house that had witnessed the tornado’s fury.

As I stepped out of the car, my heart began to beat rapidly. Nadia’s belongings were scattered everywhere. Papers, soaked by the steady rain, settled in tiny clumps throughout the yard, resembling a wide-open cotton field. Shards of jagged window glass were strewn across the once manicured lawn.

I drew in my breath. Where do I begin? Carefully I searched through the debris one section at a time. Thick mounds of mud had replaced the gentle landscape making the search almost futile. What little I did find was placed in a box.

The first item, jutting out from beneath a pile of plaster, was an old album. My hand brushed the caked mud off the leather-bound cover. Embossed with the gilt letters "Memories" came into view. Several faded black and white photographs had slipped from their pages, their images already distorted.

Time passed. Tired and devoid of all emotion I continued gathering whatever salvageable items I could. An orphan shoe with its worn sole, several books bound with faded grosgrain ribbon the color of a robin’s egg, a piece of Pink Depression glass, a key-chain from the 1939 World’s Fair, a chipped porcelain tea cup.

It began to rain. At first, tiny drops danced on the fallen leaves, but then within minutes the rain pelted me from every direction. It was relentless. Fatigue had settled in; my fingers were numb from the cold. I wanted to stop. It would have been easy giving in but I couldn’t.

Instead I walked up the front steps to the porch and righted the wicker chair where Nadia would sit and watch the hummingbirds drink sweet nectar from the feeder nearby. The potted geraniums, with delicate clusters of shriveled red petals, lay scattered against the railings. I was staring off into the distance when a shimmering object under a nearby tree caught my eye. I stood up and walked over to get a better look.

Under the fallen autumn leaves rested a silver mug. With its small delicate handle it appeared to have once belonged to a child. Tarnished by age the engraved monogram was still legible…M.S.

It was the glimmer of hope I needed that would keep me searching for more.

I continued to gather up the pieces of her life that lay out in the stillness of the darkening sky. Soon the chainsaws stopped, voices grew quiet. I was worn by the time I arrived home. But I knew I’d be back. I needed to keep going: for Nadia and the friendship we shared. Pieces of Nadia’s legacy had prevailed against the cruel winds that ripped apart her life. She might never be able to return to her home.

But, as I was to discover, this was not the first time her life had been uprooted.

Chapter 3

I was twenty- seven years old when I moved to Des Moines a few months ago. I knew this was where I needed to be. A new beginning. If that was possible.

I had made several trips to Iowa while working on a story two years earlier. I fondly recalled the vast expanse of the land and the breathtaking big sky. Barns made of native sawn oak, constructed mostly by Norwegian, German and Czech immigrants crested the hilltops. Des Moines is a picturesque town with quaint shops and a local restaurant for locals to catch up on the latest news. At one corner sits a hardware store that had been in the family over fifty years. Across the street sits the only coffee shop where everyone seemed to know one another. Flyers of church fairs, pot-luck dinners, and reading circles are displayed in store fronts along the main avenue. Hanging petunia baskets dangle from lampposts along the cobblestone paths. The town was a welcome respite from my life in New York.

It was a few weeks after I moved in when I heard a faint knock on the door. I glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It read 9:24AM. At first I paid no attention to the knock. If it was someone selling something I wasn’t interested, and social interactions held little appeal. They didn’t matter. Nothing did. I rolled over, pulled the worn comforter over my head, and closed my eyes. Sleep had escaped me most of the night. I had tossed and turned until a shimmer of light shone through the room. At some point I fell into a deep sleep. Now this. I scrunched up my pillow hoping to capture a few more minutes of much needed rest.

But the knocking continued. I tried to ignore it, but couldn’t. Finally, I got out of bed. As I navigated my way through the living room, around the piles of unopened boxes, I stepped back for a moment and appraised my reflection in the mirror. My face appeared gaunt and pale. My eyes rimmed in dark circles echoed the sleepless nights, too numerous to count. My unkempt hair hung loosely around my shoulders.

How did I get to this point I thought? Quickly I ran my fingers through my hair, tightened the sash of my robe and went to the door.

Opening it, I was greeted by a petite aging woman fashionably dressed, with hair as white as the first snow of the season.

Welcome, she said with a hint of an accent, a warm smile, and a richness to her face. In her outstretched hand was a wicker basket, its contents hidden beneath a gingham cloth. I stood momentarily embarrassed, but invited her in past the chaotic clutter of the living room.

I brought her into the kitchen and made her a cup of tea. It was hard to form a coherent thought. It had been so long since I engaged in conversation. What would I say?

I followed her gaze as she surveyed the room. Piles of unopened mail were scattered across the table. Dishes, with dried up macaroni and cheese still stuck to them, lay in the sink. I half expected her to place the basket of goodies down and leave.

But she didn’t.

Instead, we sat down opposite one other as the clean scent of impending rain filled the air and shared some small talk. Her gentle presence continued to linger even after she left that day.

It was to be the first of many cups of tea and conversation we would share.

Now as I continued driving to St. John’s Hospital I wondered if we would ever have that opportunity again.

The situation was just as chaotic as it had been the day before, maybe even more so. Every seat in the waiting area was filled with families, many of whom I recognized from yesterday; their faces showing the strain of their worry. Gurneys were lined up on the polished floors against the wall. Soiled linens, overflowing in nearby carts, added to the stench as I made my way down the hall.

ICU was directly across from the nurses’ station. I entered Nadia’s room quietly. A low light emanated from the nearby window. Even from across the room the sight of her caused me to gasp. With her battered, gaunt appearance she looked so frail lying in the bed barely covered with a thin hospital gown. Wires led from underneath to the monitor nearby. A thin flexible plastic tube had been placed in her nose helping to regulate her breathing.

The faint hum of machines drowned out the loud moans coming from a man in the next room. I steadied myself with the bedrail and reached for her tiny creased hand, careful to avoid the IV dangling from her arm. She needed to know I was here, that she wasn’t alone. When I looked into her ashen face, my eyes began to tear up. Who would tell her she could not go back to her home I wondered as I leaned over and brushed back a wisp of her hair.

Just then a stocky middle-aged man entered the room. He introduced himself as Dr. Drucker, the physician assigned to her case, and began checking her vitals.

Her condition is unchanged but given her age she may be looking at a long recuperation. I’ve given her something to ease the pain so she may sleep for a while. She’ll need lots of rest and physical therapy before she can be on her own again. He said little else.

I reached for the dingy blue chair tucked in the corner of the room, sat by her bed and began to talk to her.

Nadia, it’s me, Elise. You are in the hospital right now but you are going to be all right. We had a horrific tornado rip through our area, the paramedics rushed you here to St. John’s.

The picture I held in my head of her once cozy home, now with a bedroom and kitchen resting under a pile of rubble, would remain my secret for now. I continued to share trivial news and chattered endlessly hoping she’d hear me. But as the room grew darker and the evening stars lit the sky, I grew quiet and began