1917

October 28, 1917

“Son, you know how I said Lenin wouldn’t succeed in overthrowing the Russian government?” my father called out from the kitchen, his voice carrying a weight that made me pause. I was in the study, trying to focus on my assignments, but my mind wandered to the time Uncle Jack taught me how to ride a stallion. That memory was a bright spot, a rush of freedom and joy. Uncle Jack owned a farm in Georgia with cattle, horses, and sheep—he had what I imagined was the perfect life.

“Yes, so?” I responded, not fully paying attention.

“Well, the Bolsheviks started a new government, the bastards!” my father roared, his voice full of anger.

  I scoffed, trying to brush it off. “That’s just yellow journalism, Dad.”

“I would have thought the same,” he replied, his tone more serious now. “But it’s being reported everywhere—from The New York Times to The Daily Herald.”

  I froze, the weight of the situation settling in. “Oh, Father! What do we do?” I asked, my voice rising with anxiety, my heart now pounding in my chest like a racehorse at full speed.

“There’s nothing we can do, I’m afraid,” my father sighed, his voice carrying the weight of resignation.

“There’s always something we can do!” I countered, unwilling to accept his defeatist attitude.

“Great,” he replied, sarcasm dripping from his words. “Why don’t you go have a chat with Ulyanov Lenin, then?”

“You know I can’t do that…” I mumbled, my confidence faltering as I trailed off.

“Then keep your mouth zipped,” he snapped, his patience thinning.

“Yes, sir,” I muttered under my breath, scowling. I was careful not to let him see my face. If he had, the consequences would have been harsh. My father didn’t tolerate disrespect, not even a hint of it.

“How’s work?” I asked, hoping to steer the conversation toward something that might lighten his mood.

“The coal mines are struggling. The pay is horrific!” he barked, his frustration palpable. My attempt to calm him down had failed miserably. Instead of easing the tension, it felt like I had poured gasoline on a fire.

“How bad is it?” I pressed, though I knew it would only annoy him further. He hated talking about money, a topic that seemed to set him off more than anything.

“I make a thousand dollars a month,” he muttered, bitterness lacing every word.

“What?! That’s awful! Is that even legal?” I blurted out, my anger rising in disbelief.

“Sure is,” he replied, his voice tinged with resignation. “Every job screws you over, son. Except for being the president. They get to do whatever they want.”

“I’m sure that’s not true, Father,” I tried to reason, though I wasn’t convinced myself.

“Sure feels like it is,” he grumbled, his frustration seeping into the silence that followed.

“What about Teddy Roosevelt? He fought for the workers,” I reminded him, trying to make my point.

“He’s the exception,” he replied with a smirk, not backing down.

“Still counts,” I shot back, unwilling to give in.

“I guess… Just do your assignment, kid,” he dismissed me, waving his hand like he had more important things to deal with.

  My assignment was on Charles Darwin and his finches, and it posed the question: Why do you think the finches were all different? Was there a purpose to them having different beaks?

  I sat there, thinking about Darwin’s observations on those tiny birds scattered across the Galápagos Islands. I wrote:

Yes, the finches had adapted to the environment of the Galápagos Islands. Their beaks varied in shape and size depending on what food sources were available on each island. Some had strong, thick beaks for cracking tough nuts, while others had slender, sharp beaks for catching insects. These differences allowed them to thrive in different ecological niches, ensuring their survival. Evolution had given each species what it needed.

  The next question was almost too simple: What was the name of Charles Darwin’s boat?

  I jotted down HMS Beagle without hesitation. It seemed too easy, but I wasn’t complaining. With my assignment nearly done, I tossed my notebook aside and slumped onto the couch, feeling a wave of exhaustion wash over me.

  I blamed it on staying up late the night before, utterly absorbed in Jules Verne’s Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. That book had me hooked from the start—the adventure, the mysteries of the ocean, the enigmatic Captain Nemo. It was terrific, but it had taken its toll on my energy. I closed my eyes, promising myself I’d only nap for a few minutes…

  I woke up to find the sun already setting—it was six o’clock in the evening. I rubbed my eyes, disoriented, and wondered why no one had woken me up. Normally, my father would have been the first to snap at me for napping. To him, naps were a waste of time, and he never missed a chance to remind me of that.

  But today, no one said a word.

  I sighed, knowing I probably wouldn’t hear the end of it later. Despite my best efforts, my eyelids had been heavy as stones, impossible to keep open. No matter how much my father hated naps, my body had its own plans.

  My father walked into the room, yawning heavily, causing me to yawn also.

“Get some sleep, Papa,” I spoke in a hushed tone.

“I will, junior,” he replied almost unintelligibly.

“Let me lead you to your room,” I offered.

“Okay,” he simply said.

  I led him by the hand to his bedroom, watching as he collapsed onto the bed without hesitation. He must have been exhausted to give in so easily.

“Good night, Dad,” I whispered, careful not to disturb him further. His response was a garbled, “goodnyhmt”—a mix of words that didn’t quite land, too tired to even form a proper sentence.

  Satisfied, I quietly closed his door and made my way to my mother, who was only lightly dozing.

“Mother, I wish for my goodnight kiss,” I grumbled with a hint of playfulness.

  She stirred, smiling sleepily. “Don’t stay up reading too late,” she teased, half-joking.

“I won’t,” I lied, already planning on diving headfirst into Jane Eyre. I knew I wouldn’t finish it in one night—it was an ambitious goal—but I had to try. At least, that’s what I told myself as I prepared for a long, sleepless adventure with the Brontë classic.

  She followed me into my room and softly told me to lie down. I obeyed, sinking into the blankets and sheets that felt as though they were hugging me back. The warmth wrapped around me, a perfect cocoon of comfort. It was a feeling unlike any other—so soothing, so perfect, I’d dare to call it bliss.

“Good night, Jeremiah,” she whispered, her voice gentle as she leaned over me.

“Good night, Mama,” I replied softly, already feeling the pull of sleep.

  She turned off the light, plunging the room into darkness, and with it went my plans of staying up to read Jane Eyre.

  Bummer.