Thank you for the answers Mr. Adams has sent us. Although I thank him as well, I know that they came from you. It must have been hard to give us such bad news, but we have been waiting for any word for a very long time. Knowing who has died and who is hurt is very hard, but the knowing is better. My Yakov is hurt and still in danger, but he has his shipmates and captain to take care of him, and that is a comfort.
All of us are grateful for everything you have done to help our men. Our Navy said that the collision was your fault, but you should know that we do not always believe what our Navy says. Since the collision, you have saved their lives once, maybe twice. You and your men will be in our prayers, along with ours.
Jerry read it twice. He wondered how many times Rudel had read it.
The Seaman’s Memorial Church had never closed its doors, even at the height of Communist power. Built when the town was still called Vayenga, it had seen many tragedies. Whatever its name, Severomorsk had always been a port, and sailors didn’t always return.
Right now the church was filled with the families and friends of the men of
Olga Sadilenko, along with the other family members, was near the front, so the messenger had to search for a few minutes, whispering questions, before he could find her. Olga recognized him. Sasha was the teenage brother of Irina’s Anatoliy. He would have been at the service, but had been drafted to look after the younger children. Was there a problem with one of them?
He didn’t speak, but pressed a slip of paper into her hand. It read simply, “There is important news. Please come outside.”
Curious, she left as quietly as she could. Outside, Sasha pointed toward an older man she didn’t recognize, waiting at the bottom of the steps. He was stooped over, with a face so worn it was almost battered, and he held one arm at an angle. “My name is Dyalov. I used to work at the naval base. I’m a friend of Galina Gudkov’s family. She sent me to tell you they tried to raise the sub with explosives late this afternoon. If it had worked, the crew would be out and on the surface by now.”
“If it had worked. ” Olga had repeated the words automatically, attempting to understand. She found she had understood, but her mind didn’t want to accept the idea.
“Why did they need explosives? What happened? Did the explosives cause more damage? Why didn’t they work?”
Dyalov shook his head. “I’m sorry. I do not know these things. Galina says the article appeared just a short time ago. It comes from the Americans.”
Olga’s world spun. She took one step to lean against the church’s stone wall. “Will they try again?”
“I do not know,” Dyalov apologized. “I live down the hall. Galina called me and asked me to deliver the news. She read the article to me. They heard explosions on their hydroacoustic system, but after that nothing more. Here is a translation she gave me.” He pressed a folded paper into her hand.
Her shoulder was cold where she leaned against the church. The stone under her was hard, unmoving. She stood for a moment, shaking, as the carefully restrained fear for her son escaped, draining her strength, her reason. She’d used purpose and hope to keep it locked up, but now it was loose, and she had no way to fight it. She was crying, almost silently, the tears pouring down her face.
Dyalov stood uncomfortably, silent. She realized he was waiting for her answer, but she had none. Finally, she said “Thank you for your kindness.” She turned and impulsively hugged him, pecking him on the cheek. Dyalov smiled and limped off.
She had never met Dyalov before, but the old man had taken pity and helped, simply because he knew one of the families. Severomorsk, like most of the towns in the Kola Region, was a navy town. Because of this, the church was filled to capacity and then some. Family and friends had converged here because it was centrally located, and because it was the home of the Northern Fleet Headquarters. Some of the
That human contact had helped her regain her reason, but not her strength. Suddenly frail, she leaned back against the wall of the church again. Olga would never admit it to anyone, but she needed its strength, and the strength of those inside.
She unfolded the paper and read the article, just a few paragraphs, and much of it addressed what the author didn’t know. Crumbs for the starving.
Reentering the church, she saw that the service was almost over. She stood quietly in the back rather than disturb anyone, but those in the rear had seen her come back in, just as they had seen the messenger enter. Now they saw her blotting her eyes, her face red and puffy. There’d been more than a few tears in the church that afternoon, but a murmur ran through the back of the church, then moved its way forward.
A woman she didn’t recognize, her young son on her hip, came back and whispered, “Are you all right? Is there news?” Her eyes, her face pleaded for answers, but the last part of her question held more dread than curiosity. After all, Olga had been crying.
“Yes,” Olga answered, but when she saw the woman’s face fall, she quickly added, “They’re still alive.”
The young mother stifled her gasp and smiled, a little forced but genuine. She went back to her place as the priest finished the service, but many eyes were on her and Olga.
After the last prayer ended, everyone remained in their places. A low buzz of conversation built, then faded away. The priest spoke softly with someone in front, then took his place again. “Mrs. Sadilenko. Please, if there is news, tell us all.”
Olga walked down the center aisle, embarrassed in spite of the priest’s polite request. Reaching the front, she turned and faced families and friends of the families. It made sense.
She unfolded the paper and read the news article. The first line announcing the failed rescue attempt brought gasps and cries. She skipped the paragraph about their website, although Olga was sure everyone would hear about it later. The last two paragraphs spoke of the
Finishing, she folded the paper and pushed it back into the pocket of her dress. She was still facing the crowd, full of concern for her Yakov, and anger and frustration at the Navy. She found those emotions becoming words.
“I should stand here and praise our Navy for their efforts to rescue our men. That is what they want me to do, but I cannot, because I do not know if our Navy really is trying to save them!”
She gestured to the church’s congregation. “Why are there no uniforms in this church? Are they ashamed?” She paused, and put her hands on her hips. “Has anyone in this room received any information from our Navy about our men?” She waited, then added, “They have never even admitted that
“Are they afraid of what we might discover? Why do they ignore even the simplest of questions?”
The mayor looked distinctly uncomfortable. He was an old-school politician, and while open criticism of the Navy might not get someone arrested these days, it certainly wasn’t the norm. But the crowd was responding to her questions. Some were crying. Many more looked angry.
“The only thing the Navy has done is to blame the Americans for this disaster. But the only information we have gotten, information we know is true, has come from the Americans.”
Her voice had been rising, not to a shout, but loud and strong. “We have nothing but questions for the Navy, and they have nothing but contempt for us. They have ignored us. They have even lied to us!
“We have the right to know whether everything possible is being done to rescue our loved ones. We have given them our sons, our husbands. They expect us to sit quietly at home and be grateful for our sacrifice.
“But our men don’t need us at home! They need us to keep the Navy honest, to make sure that they have
