The Cross and The Sickle

by R. D. Zimmerman

  “Enough of this,” proclaimed Boris. “We have a special guest and we must celebrate. It's time for a toast!”

  He got up and took a frosted bottle of vodka from the small freezer. Masha set shot glasses on the table.

  “Wait, Borinka. Just one more thing,” she said to her husband in all seriousness. She turned to Nick. “The higher rank a person has in our system, the more influential he is, the more blat he has. That's why so many people support the government… they'll do anything, say anything to keep their position and their blat. We don't have many idealists around here anymore. Stalin took care of them. During his ‘Cult of Personality’ he wiped out everything Lenin had set up, he misinterpreted and misdirected all of Lenin's work.” She paused. “Anyway, people will do anything if they'll gain from it. Relations between our two countries are strained right now. On ‘The Voice of America’ we heard about the two Soviets arrested in New York—of course they're spies—and we read about your guides who were kicked out of the country. Things just aren't good between us now. There are all these rumors about the U.S. wanting to play the ‘China Card’ and every day your country is blasted in the Soviet press. Read between the lines, Nick. To us it is obvious. You Americans… you are open and honest, but very, very naïve. Just be careful, Nick, all right?”

  He was touched. “Thank you.”

  “This is why,” said Boris in a somber voice, “I kept looking behind us as we walked here… just being careful.”

  “If you hadn't, I would have.”

  “So now a toast.” Boris raised his glass. “A toast to our new friendship with Nick!”

  Nick waited for the part about peace.

  “And let there never be war between our two countries. Mir… peace!”

  They clinked their glasses together, solidifying their friendship. As he had been taught, Nick exhaled as much air as he could and then put the beading glass to his lips. With a quick motion he poured the entire glass of ice-cold vodka down his throat. Only when he began to breathe did he taste the traces of vodka lingering in his mouth. His throat burned and his eyes watered as he groped for a chaser.

  “Very good,” said Masha, gasping and handing Nick a hunk of black bread. “Do like this, Nick.” She took relief by holding a piece of bread to her nose and inhaling its powerful aroma. “Our black bread is the best in the world.”

  In the Russian style, they sat crowded together at the table, eating and drinking and talking for hours. Nick told them about the other cities they had been in and about all the pressure at the exhibit.

  “It's so damn tiring not only answering the same questions over and over again,” he said, “but wondering who you can trust.”

  Baba Genya left unnoticed. They drank more. Ate more. The table was covered with serving dishes of sausage, cheese, cucumbers, rice, meat, and bread, and still Masha apologized, saying that if she'd only had more time she would have fixed more and better food… Boris kept their glasses filled with vodka and they washed their meal down with toast after toast of vodka.

  “Eat. You can't stop yet, Nick,” cried Masha, honestly offended when Nick tried to refuse more food well into their third hour of feasting. “You're our guest and you must eat.”

  The food and vodka was overwhelming, and Nick succumbed to a deep sense of relaxation that he had not experienced in months. “A toast to you,” he exclaimed, raising yet another glass of vodka. “Your warmth, your hospitality… This is the best evening I've had in months. It feels so wonderful to get out, to be with people. The exhibit and everything has been so intense… thank you for this wonderful escape. A toast to you!”

  Boris affectionately squeezed Nick's arm and Masha exclaimed, “Like Margie, you come directly from the sun!”

  The effects of the vodka swimming throughout his body, Nick smiled like a schoolboy. He loved the Russian sentimentality that was so outright and unabashed, offered without any pretense of self-consciousness.

  “Hey, you haven't opened Margie's present yet!” He got up too fast and stumbled.

  “Nick… oi… careful,” said Masha. Then, with reservation, she added, “I don't know. I don't know if we should accept the package.”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  ”I don't want Margie to think we love her for the things she gives us. She has already given us so much. All our friends… things, that's all they think about. Things. It's so absolutely wonderful to talk with you because you are from Margie, our Margie. You're someone living and breathing who comes to us from her… and… and I don't want ‘things’ to spoil it. We love Margie for herself alone and… and…”

  “That's the most noble thing I've heard in weeks,” said Nick, drunkenly putting his hand to his heart. “But Margie understands that. She knows why you are so special to one another. She loves you both deeply.” He wanted them to have the package more than ever. “She sent the package only because she wanted to, only because…” He hurried into the entry and got the package of jeans and things. “Here, she'd be mad as hell if I didn't give it to you. You have to accept it.”

  “As long as you understand, as long as you make her understand…”

  ”I promise,” said Nick, becoming dramatic himself.

  “Oh, Nick, when will you come back?” asked Masha latching on to his arm. “Will you come tomorrow? Or better yet, spend the night. Yes, please, Nick, spend the night with us. Please!”

  “Yes, stay here tonight,” insisted Boris. “You must.”

  Perhaps if Nick had not been so deeply touched by the depth of their affection he would not have gotten so angry.

  Remembering the reality of the situation, he said, “I can't. God-damn-it-all, I can't. I'm a foreigner. It would be illegal for me to stay out of the hotel for a night. It would be against the law for me to stay with you. I'd get in trouble and I'd cause worse problems for you.”

  Masha's burst of excitement likewise evaporated. She put her hand to her eyes, stood up, and went to the window overlooking the street.

  “Sometimes things seem so difficult…” Her voice was choked with emotion. “Margie is my dearest friend. She's so nonjudgmental. I can tell her everything that's wrong with my country as well as everything that is right. I can't be so honest with my other friends here. Besides her and Boris, I have no one else I can speak openly with. But when will I ever see her again? When will we be together? Will there ever be a day when I can go to America—just to visit? It's so difficult to keep in touch, to maintain friendships.” Across the street Masha saw a couple sitting on a bench. Even from a distance, the man's pink shirt stood out as he placed a hand on the woman's well-exposed legs. “Friendship, love—what else is there? We're people, you know, all of us. Both Russians and Americans.

  And in the end, we both want the same things: friendship and love and peace. It's just that governments get in the way.” She turned to Nick. “And now is a hard time. Just mind my warning, Nick, okay?”

  “Enough,” said Nick, as he poured another round of vodka. “Let's drink a toast and open the package!”

  V

  She ran to the phone as soon as she opened the apartment door. Bulky parcels balanced in one hand, she anxiously yanked up the receiver. Nothing but a dull tone. She slammed it down.

  Frustrated and restraining tears, Masha went into the kitchen. She took a large fish from her purse and set it in the sink. Grayish water leaked from the plastic and ran into the drain. Sighing, Masha took tomatoes and cabbage out of her string bag and set them on the small counter.

  The apartment door opened. “Hello!”

  “I'm here, Boris.”

  Entering the kitchen, he slipped off his lightweight jacket. “Been to the store?” He tugged at the waist of his new jeans which were slightly too small.

  “Yes, I just now got home,” said Masha, taking off her raincoat.

  “And how are you?” He came up from behind and kissed her. “Is the phone working yet?”

  “Me? I'm okay.” She shrugged. “I've been thi
nking… thinking about Margie all day. No. Nothing. Nothing with the phone. It's entirely dead. I called phone repair.”

  “And?”

  “Who knows when they'll get out here.” Masha sadly remembered that they had waited two years just to get a phone. “How will Nick call us?”

  “Don't worry. We can always go to the exhibit and look him up. You want to go anyway, don't you?”

  “Of course,” she said, rubbing her pointed nose.

  “What is it then? What's the matter? You went to the Institute today, didn't you?”

  “No, I told them I was sick.” She turned and hugged him. “Hold me, Boris, hold me.” She clung to him. “I cried about Margie for hours. I… I…” Tears came to her eyes. “I miss her so. All I have is you and Margie, no one else I can talk honestly with. And where will I be if something happens to you? Oh, Boris, I'm so frightened. I've already lost her and I'm so afraid of losing you. It's not fair!” She sobbed, burying her face in his chest. “It's just not right.”

  “Sh-h-h. My Masha, my wonderful Mashinka. And where would I be if something happened to you? You know, when we were married I loved you because I knew you would be a good wife, but now I love you because… because you are my best friend. Who else do I have to speak with?”

  “I'm sorry, Boris.” She pulled away slightly. “You're always so… stable, and I'm always up and down. I'm just being a fool today.”

  “Stop. Don't say that.” Taller than she, he bent over and kissed her.

  “It's been one thing after another. And to top it off, the phone goes out of order! Oh, it makes me so mad. We live in a city of two million people and it'll probably take more than a month to get it fixed.”

  “Sh-h-h.” He held her.

  “I went out and got a fish. I wanted Nick to come for dinner tonight, but… but the phone! It's just not fair.”

  Just as Masha began to relax, someone pounded at the door. They both looked up; Masha unconsciously dug her fingers into Boris's arm.

  “Who could that be?” asked Boris, startled.

  “It's certainly not Baba Genya,” she said, nervously wiping her eyes. “She isn't that strong.”

  Boris broke away from Masha and, with some hesitation, walked into the front hall. He stopped still and waited a moment before saying, “Who's there?”

  “Phone repair,” called out a deep voice.

  Masha ran out of the kitchen and past Boris. “I can't believe it!” Overjoyed, she threw open the door and there stood a burly, amiable-looking man. “You're here to fix the phone?”

  With a simple expression, the sandy-haired man said, “Of course.” He wore dark blue work clothes and carried a tool kit in one hand.

  “How wonderful!” Masha moved aside. “Come in, the phone's this way, right here. I'm so happy. I'm expecting a phone call and I didn't think we'd get a repairman so soon.”

  Stepping into the apartment, the worker proudly said, “I've been working very hard because after just a few more service calls I will have won a productivity award for the entire region.”

  Shaking his head, Boris disappeared into the kitchen. He lit a cigarette. Never before had he heard of such service.

  VI

  Nick stood at a telephone just off the subway platform and dialed the number. This time he held the phone away from his ear and when the expected high-pitched noise came, he slammed down the receiver. It was the fourth phone he had tried. The fourth time a piercing squeal had blared over the lines.

  “Sovietskoye kachestvo,” Soviet quality, he scowled.

  Like many people who had spent an extended amount of time in the Soviet Union, Nick's attitude had deteriorated to the point that he went out of his way to find the country's faults.

  Having taken a circuitous route through the pedestrian tunnels beneath Kalinin Square, Nick was confident that he wasn't being followed. He forgot about not being able to telephone Masha and Boris, and became excited again. He had met freely last night, enjoyed himself, and now, for the second night in a row he didn't have to sit back in the hotel, listening to American music and drinking American whiskey in the hard currency bar reserved for foreigners. He was on his way to meet Olga, carrying a bright red and white plastic Marlboro bag with an America magazine in it as a present for her.

  Completing this last detour—in one subway entrance then out the other exit—Nick was proud of the methods he had developed to learn if he were tailed. Making his way across the elegant platform with its intricate pilasters and bronze Stalinesque chandeliers, he hugged the side of the wall. Not only did the Marlboro bag, which he tried to conceal under his arm, make him stand out, but so did his corduroy sports coat and blue jeans.

  A hand tapped his shoulder from behind. Nick froze.

  “Comrade,” quietly said a male voice. “Your coat—is it for sale?”

  Nick turned. Were they testing him? “No.” Corduroy clothes and chrome razor blade necklaces were superseding blue jeans as the latest rage.

  Everything the youthful blond wore was of foreign extraction, from his jeanzie to his bulky Mexican sweater. Only a steel tooth in his bright smile told Nick that this handsome young man was Soviet and not Californian.

  “I'll give you a hundred and fifty rubles,” said the Russian.

  Not bad, thought Nick. Over two hundred dollars for a Korean jacket Nick had bought at a cheap discount store for twenty.

  “Forget it.”

  The man's blue eyes fixed on Nick's shoes. “How about your Adidas? I'll give you one hundred and twenty.”

  Several months earlier Nick had heard the rhyming Russian saying, “He who wears Adidas will have all the pussy he can handle.”

  “Forget it,” said Nick. He started to go.

  “Hey,” said the man, reaching after him. “Are you American? Are you one of the guides on the exhibit?”

  In his best Russian slang, Nick cast the man a look of disgust, and said, “Buzz off, buddy. I have an accent because I'm from the Baltics.”

  “Oh… oh… excuse me.” The Russian was shocked and slightly scared. He melted into the crowd.

  Nick laughed out loud. If he were correct in his count, something like sixty-three people had asked to buy his corduroy coat in the last five months.

  Hopping on the escalator, Nick saw the little circle of light at the top of the elongated mechanical stairs. A knot formed in his stomach. He was not the most confident of men; once in a relationship he tended to remain there for a number of years rather than take any risks. It had been a long time since he had been alone with a woman, and Karen, his girlfriend in Ann Arbor, was becoming a faded memory. He wondered if Olga would even show up.

  Minutes later, the escalator had carried him to street level, and she was the first person he saw. She wore the same cotton print dress with a gray sweater over her shoulders, and, waiting patiently, stared out the double doors. My God, thought Nick as he approached her from behind, I feel like I've never been on a date in my life.

  He had to clear his throat before he could speak. “Good evening.”

  She was taken by surprise. “Oh…” she said, turning around. “I didn't expect you from the subway.”

  Nick was relieved to see that she, too, was nervous. One moment she was pulling the sweater up on her shoulders, the next she was wrapping her arms around her body. She shifted her stance from one foot to another, then back again.

  Nick was at a loss of words. “Are we going back down to the trains?”

  “No.” Olga's voice was muted. “Let's go out.”

  Nick understood that it was best to postpone any further conversation until they were in a less public space. He followed her out onto the broad, crowded plaza in front of the Metro station. Caught between summer and fall, the evening air was fresh and cool, and there were clusters of people standing around talking, smoking, and clutching bags. Suddenly they were caught between an angry ice cream vendor and a screeching woman who were arguing because neither of them had the proper change.

&n
bsp; “This way.” Olga's soft hand took Nick firmly by the wrist.

  Kreshatik Street. It was Kiev's main thoroughfare. The best supplied stores were here, and thousands of after-work shoppers packed the sidewalks aware that if any milk or eggs or meat remained in the city by nightfall, it would be here. Lining one side of the street was a series of ten-story, postwar buildings with stores below and apartments with balconies above. Farther down on the opposite side of the six-lane street was the Tsentralni Universalni Magazine, the large department store on the corner of Lenin and Kreshatik Streets. In one of the few remaining pre-Revolutionary buildings were two stores, General Cheese Store and Fish Shop.

  The sidewalk was broad, its two separate pavements lined with flower beds, benches, and a double row of tall chestnut trees. When there was a break in the heavy pedestrian traffic near the Friendship Cinema, Olga spoke.

  “I didn't want to meet outside the Metro station. Did you notice all the people standing around on the square? That's where all the dealing goes on, where all the farsovchiki meet. There's always a lot of militsiya, too.”

  The unsolicited candor of her first remarks surprised him. Russians had placed him in the role of confessor before, expressing to Nick what they dared not to their fellow citizens. He wondered if this would be the case with Olga or, if not, just what her motives were. He did sense, however, that he would not have to wait long to find out.

  They passed another group of people, and as Nick and Olga walked on in silence, he found his eyes glancing over at her full-breasted and broad-hipped figure. Aware that middle age came early to Soviet women, Nick realized that Olga clearly would be no exception. He also noticed that she now wore shoes with barely any heel. Consequently, he was slightly taller than she.

  When they were out of earshot of a group of parents and children, Olga said, “I enjoyed the exhibit… hearing what you and the other guides had to say. Particularly you. Your Russian is good and your knowledge of the world vast. The exhibit—it's so bright and beautiful.”