“But so dirty! I must clean them.”
She scolded herself, as she had been doing since the last time she cleaned them thirty years earlier.
A sad, gurgling sound came from her throat. Only one coffin was missing. Her father's. She had no idea where his remains were, and she had cried for decades over this. All she wanted was a grave or a marker or some kind of link which she could physically touch. Now the only memory of him she could cling to was his anguished face that day before he was led away. He knew even then. Sensing the impending danger, he broke tradition and revealed the chambers to his twenty-year-old daughter. Torch in hand, he declared, “Soon you will be the only living person with knowledge of this place of worship, Liza. It is from this source that you shall fulfill God's will. Never, never let die the eternal wisdom of our Lord.” As he spoke, she focused on the blazing torch in his hand and on his long graying beard, unable to grasp what was to come.
Elizaveta rocked her portly figure, gathered momentum, and rose. She went to the rock wall and stared adoringly at a faded icon of Mother and Child. It was not the finest, but of the scores of icons in the room, she loved this one most. It had been a gift from her father the year before the Revolution. She crossed herself and kissed the icon, part of its egg tempera paint flaking off on her lips. Remorsefully she recalled how she had brought this along with her father's papers and Bible to the catacombs for safekeeping the day he was shot.
How quickly the world had been changing then. No sooner had Lenin seized power and swept away the Provisional Government than Civil War broke out. Anarchy prevailed and the Tsar and the Royal Family were soon executed, their mutilated bodies, like Elizaveta's father's, never to be found. Even as the revolutionaries were fighting for control of Kiev and the Ukraine, the Russian Orthodox Church, once the backbone of Holy Mother Russia, began to crumble. It was only a short time before all active Christians such as Elizaveta were classed “counterrevolutionaries” and treated accordingly.
She grinned, thinking of it in retrospect. That's how it had all begun. With an unusual burst of energy she whirled around and around on her swollen legs. Icons sheathed in gold. Icons covered in silver. Gilt religious screens. Stacks of Bibles. Brass candlesticks. Ancient gold incense burners. All around her from the dirt floor to the chiselled stone ceiling. Committed to her father's wishes and her own beliefs, Elizaveta had turned away from the world above and over the years had transformed her father's simple monastic cell into a glowing place of worship. What had once been a timeless cavern now seemed an elaborate Seventeenth century Russian Orthodox chapel.
She stumbled. “Oi.” Her head was spinning.
She sat down with a thud and remembered those years that had been filled with so much tragedy and even excitement.
“A legend I was.”
For it was Elizaveta's self-proclaimed pacifist mission to gather religious artifacts and preserve them for future generations of Believers. Even as the Bolsheviks were destroying church after church and burning icon after icon, Elizaveta was there, one step ahead of them, clandestinely collecting church relics and storing them in her rooms below the city. It was not long before the Bolsheviks had closed all but two of Kiev's 1,710 churches and her subterranean chambers were overflowing. Meanwhile word of Elizaveta's mission had spread and others who secretly practiced their beliefs made contact.
For Elizaveta, the break with the outer world was made complete when the official Russian Orthodox Church issued a declaration pledging complete loyalty to the Soviet government. An underground religious movement was immediately formed. Claiming to represent the only true Russian Orthodox Church, they vowed never to compromise with the Communists. It was under the sanction of this “Church of the Catacombs” that Elizaveta, a nurse above, became Sister Elizaveta below.
Those years had been filled with such bloodshed and turmoil that only the great fire within Elizaveta's soul had given her the strength to survive. They had murdered her father, disposed of his body, then denied it all—just as they had done to the Tsar—but she had not and would not stoop to their level. To do so would only be a denial of the Holy Father. Not once had she compromised herself, and now she knew she had been right in her convictions. Orthodoxy would prevail. Soon her greatest task in life would be complete and she would be at peace to further withdraw into her spiritual studies and meditations.
The catacomb chapel sparkled with candles, icons, brass, silver, and gold. Hunched over on a wooden stool, Elizaveta's gnarled hands reached for the simple red tin box. She caressed it, thinking of the precious contents.
She remembered. Word had spread so quickly. Tsar Nicholas II and his family were dead, the Bolsheviks had cheered, long live the Revolution! But when the Monarchists had captured Ekaterinburg, where the Imperial Family was supposedly murdered, nothing more conclusive than some terribly mutilated and burned remnants of corpses could be found. The Monarchists rallied. Perhaps the Tsar was still alive and there was hope in the battle against Bolshevism.
“But all along there were the documents,” said Elizaveta gently.
Tsarist generals had kept them hidden so as not to demoralize their armies. Then the Civil War was lost and the papers were all but forgotten in the struggle to survive. It was many years before, via the underground church network, they reached Elizaveta. And now, at last, the time had come: they would be set free. Bishop Tikhon had made the irrevocable decision: the documents would be sent to the West. They would cause a great stir and much would be written about the Church of the Catacombs. Finally the world would learn conclusively of the Tsar's death and that real religion was not extinct in the U.S.S.R.
She tapped the box with her fingertips and got up. Olga would be coming soon and she had to get back to the house. Shuffling to the far corner, she put the tin box back in its hiding place—a buried steel case—and then returned to the iconostasis. She crossed herself, wondering if the documents still had enough power to affect the living, and kissed the icon of Mother and Child. She took a single beeswax candle, leaving the others to burn out, and slowly left the catacomb chapel. Wax dripped and splattered unnoticed onto her weathered skin.
Having made the trip thousands of times, Elizaveta's feet carried her automatically and steadfastly through the mazelike catacombs. The first narrow tunnel, less than two feet wide, twisted along for some thirty yards until it emptied into a small damp room. Crouching, Elizaveta took the smallest passage that branched off from this. She next followed a tube-shaped corridor and descended into the Great Hall, a vast cavern containing a motionless lake.
Elizaveta froze. A creature, lapping from the waters of the lake, blocked her path. It was the mad dog—the same dog she had come across a week earlier—that had somehow fallen into the caves but had been unable to find its way out.
“Hello, little puppy,” said Elizaveta, her voice slipping through the stillness.
Crazed from starvation and from living in the black caves, the black and white creature raised its filthy head. Too hungry to be frightened, the dog bared its teeth and stared at Elizaveta. One of its eyes, however, was smashed and encrusted with black rot. Low and deep, a determined growl rumbled from the dog's throat and was amplified by the curved and expansive ceiling of the Great Hall.
“I won't hurt you, but you mustn't hurt me, either.” Troll-like, Elizaveta bent over and extended a friendly hand toward the dog. “Follow me and I'll show you the way out. Show you the way out, I will.”
A stream of bloody saliva drooled from the dog's mouth, and it took a reckless, stalking step forward, hampered only by a broken front leg. Elizaveta flinched. Slowly, she bent down and picked up a handful of small rocks. With the other hand she held out the candle. The light, which was barely enough to cut through the deep dark and reflect upon the waters, was her only real protection.
“I must pass you by and you must leave me alone!”
Elizaveta, her figure old and plump, walked directly toward the dog. As the candlelight reached the animal
's eyes, it began to cower. Gradually, the growl diminished.
“Let me pass!” demanded Elizaveta.
Elizaveta held out the candle with one hand and pitched several pebbles at the dog with the other. The dog flinched, turned its head away, and retreated into the dark.
This was her chance, and Elizaveta scurried on. She made her way along the lake shore and then, at the other end, clambered up a ridge toward a soaring gap in the cavern wall. As she entered a tunnel, she heard the dog's distant growl rise and fill the Great Hall. Elizaveta glanced behind and crossed herself. She prayed that the dog would soon find a rat or a bat to eat or that it would find eternal peace in death.
Elizaveta wasted no time as her candle melted down. She followed the tunnel, which proceeded from the inner catacombs. The passage twisted and turned, and finally led to the back of her hillside house. A few minutes later, she reached the exit. Forcing herself to forget about the starving dog and concentrate on the world above ground, she stooped over and crawled out of the tunnel. Three awkward steps later she was in the rear of her house's fireplace; with the false backing in place and a fire blazing, the tunnel was virtually undetectable.
“Aunt Elizaveta?”
“Da, da. It's me, Olga,” she said waddling across the ashes.
The tall young woman bent over and, holding back her thick blond hair in one hand, gazed into the large fireplace. She was a sturdy woman with a handsome Slavic face—broad with the faintest hint of Mongolian ancestry—and a smooth complexion that looked as if she spent more time outside than she really did. Her Asiatic eyes were so deeply set behind prominent cheek bones that it was difficult to tell that they were dark blue.
“Really,” said Olga, her smooth voice muted, “I wish there were a better way.” She helped her great-aunt into the central room of the old wooden house. “You're getting far too old.”
Elizaveta paid no attention. “So, are you ready?”
“Yes.” Olga dusted off Elizaveta as one would a child. “Let's just get you cleaned up a bit first.”
“I'll hurry. I'm excited. I've never been to an American exhibition before. Just let me put on my other dress.”
“I've never even seen a person from America before. Have you?”
Elizaveta put a finger to her mouth. “A few, just a few. And all so terribly thin.” She lifted her dress from a hook on the wall. It was gray with faded red roses. “My how this dress has aged… but what a pretty dress you have.”
Not wanting to appear vain, Olga smiled only slightly. “It's my favorite.”
She lifted up the simple white cotton dress printed with a green and blue floral pattern. The old woman, always one to touch something, took a hunk of the dress in her hand and admired it further. And again Olga realized how much she loved her aunt. After her mother had died and her father had done nothing but drink vodka, Olga had come to live with the maiden woman. She had stayed with Elizaveta for eight years—until she was twenty—and then six years ago moved closer to work. Olga still visited her aunt three times a week, and now felt as responsible and protective of Elizaveta as Elizaveta had felt for her as a suffering child.
“Tell me, Olga, does this boy, this young man, know anything about it yet? Does he know what he's going to do for us?”
“Turn around. Stand still.” Olga unzipped Elizaveta's soiled dress. Even though it was necessary, Olga disliked lying to her aunt. “A bit.”
“But you're sure he'll do it?”
“As sure as we can be.” Her words were terse. She hoped her aunt would not ask too many questions. “Bishop Tikhon has great faith.”
Elizaveta stood dream-like as Olga undressed her. “Good. So nice. So simple. This is how I always wanted it to be. Peaceful. Still, I'll be glad when it's all over, when the documents are in the West.”
“Of course. Here,” she said, changing the subject, “let's get you into your clean dress.” The less her aunt knew the better, and there was much Olga hadn't told her in the past few years. Although she had found it difficult at first, Olga now accepted this role reversal as the natural course of life. The once strong and unshakeable Elizaveta had slipped into the weaker, needier position, and Olga, who owed her aunt so much, felt that the least she could do was shelter the old woman in these, her final years. “Here, put your arm through the sleeve.”
”I just… I just want to have a look at him. A silly whim after all this time. I suppose it really doesn't matter so long as the documents get out, but all the same…” She stared off into the distance, then turned to her niece. “Olga, do you have any idea what he looks like?”
“In a way. Bishop Tikhon showed me his photograph.”
“And?”
“And?”
“Well, tell me, Olga.” She clenched her hands and shook them. “He's one of the most important people in my whole life. He's like a son to me, but I don't even know what he looks like. Tell me!”
“Well…” Amused, Olga buttoned up the back of Elizaveta's dress. “He's pleasant to look at.” From the color photo, such a contrast to the typical black and white Soviet picture, the American seemed quite approachable. “He has an angular face with a small mouth, thick brown hair, and green eyes. I don't think he's particularly tall, but I could be mistaken. Bishop Tikhon has seen him at the exhibit. He said his Russian is quite good. Apparently, he's rather opinionated, too, and does not hesitate to express his thoughts.” Olga found this intriguing. Evidently, it was also this outspoken quality that had already caused the American a good share of trouble; on a number of occasions he had offended the Soviet authorities with his blunt words.
“He's young, isn't he?”
“Late twenties.”
“Is he from New York or California?” Those were the only places Elizaveta had heard of in the United States.
“Michigan.”
“What's that?” asked Elizaveta, confused.
“A state—a region—in the middle of the country.”
“Oh. Olga, you will point him out to me, won't you?”
“Of course, but you and I shouldn't be seen together at the exhibit. Not openly, I mean.”
“Yes, I know, but still…”
Olga sighed. “Don't worry.”
“Bozhe moi,” gasped Elizaveta to her Lord. “I don't even know his name! Tell me his name just in case we lose each other.”
Olga smoothed the old woman's collar. She had told Elizaveta the American's name just the evening before. “We won't lose each other,” she said calmly. “And we are not to ask for him by name.” It could all be so easily thrown off balance in these early stages.
Elizaveta wrinkled her nose and then turned around to kiss her niece. “Yes, yes, yes… such is youth. I remember it well, my dear Olga, the most conservative years of my life. You think I know nothing after all this time?”
“I'm sorry. I guess I'm the nervous one. I just hope everything goes all right.”
“Do not worry, child. God is with you.” She reached up and ran her aged fingers through Olga's thick blond hair.
“Yes, I'll… I'll let my convictions give me strength.” She smiled. “His name is Nicholas Miller, Aunt Elizaveta. Nicholas Miller.”
II
Nick was not a diplomat's diplomat. Deluged with questions about higher education, unemployment, the Pentagon, and agriculture, Nick pulled at his hair, and said, “For Christ's sake, I don't know. I don't know everything there is to know about agriculture and I don't know how many teeth the President has either.”
Fifty or so Russians stared up at Nick, a guide on the FARMING U.S.A. exhibition. Their questions had been nonstop for over an hour. They were, however, a relatively small group. That day another crowd of twenty thousand Soviets was expected—more than 600,000 had already visited the exhibit in the other two cities—and by mid-afternoon a hundred or two hundred would be packed around Nick firing questions for hours on end.
A woman before him called out. “Molodoi chelovek.” Young man, she innocently asked, t
ugging at the scarf on her head. “Do Americans want war?”
In the irrigation area, Nick, who had an aversion to crowds and enclosed spaces, stood on an eight inch platform that protected him from the crushing number of visitors. Ten pounds overweight with a lethargical tendency toward things that demanded more talk than action, Nick struggled to appear both fresh and polite. This was, after all, probably the first and last meeting the woman would have with an American.
“No. No, no, no.” He could have been more congenial, but how many times had he been asked this question—six, seven hundred times? “Americans do not want war. As a matter of fact, I've heard more talk about war here than at home.”
She smiled, genuinely relieved, and took hold of his arm with typical Russian warmth. “Good.” Her contact had been successful. “Now, when you go home, you be sure and tell all your friends, all your family—every American you meet—that we don't want war. We are a peaceful nation. Mir i droozhba—peace and friendship—that's what we want.”
A stocky, older man, his face covered with a two-day beard, burst uninvited into the conversation. “What do you mean you've heard more about war here? We've done away,” he said, waving his callused hand in the air, “with all the capitalists, all the warmongers who make money through the selling of arms. Our government stands for peace.”
The other Russians in the crowd similarly perceived their government and nodded their approval. They waited with deep-seated curiosity for the American's reaction.
“Do you have any idea,” the worker said, inching closer, “how many Soviets were killed in World War II? Do Americans know or…or…”—he let the words drag out—“is that kept secret?”
Insulted, Nick shook his head. “Hey, give me a break. Of course I know. Twenty million.”
“Can you imagine?” He poked his face forward so close that Nick could see the individual gray and black hairs poking out of his craggy face. “Twenty million… dead, killed by the Fascists. Twenty million Soviet citizens sacrificed their lives during the Great Fatherland War. The Fascists were here, right here in Kiev.…”
The Cross and The Sickle Page 2