The Cross and The Sickle

by R. D. Zimmerman

  “It is an honor that so many of your people are interested in our country. Unfortunately I doubt that a Soviet exhibit in America would be so well attended.” If she were going to wax eloquent, so would he.

  A fleeting hurt expression crossed her face. “Really?” She looked at Nick and smiled, “But you obviously know so much about our country. Surely Americans must know more about us than we do about you.”

  Nick shrugged. “I'm not so sure about that…” He noticed how tightly she grasped her purse, and guessed that she was anxious to circumvent the opening niceties and get down to the real issue. She wanted something and silence would force it out.

  They passed The Children's Store and there were few people about. Olga took a deep breath of air and spoke.

  “I will be blunt.” Her thick blond hair bounced as she walked. “I have an uncle who lives in the U.S.A.—in the state of New York.”

  “Oh.” The inevitable request. He tensed, then caught himself, impressed that she was broaching the subject so fast. And in any case, it was still early enough to refuse her appeal.

  “I came to the exhibit with the hope of meeting one of the Americans in regard to this.”

  He, too, would waste no time. “Why me?”

  Olga looked at him as they walked along. Her words were chosen only carefully enough so that Nick would understand. “I liked what you said best. I'm sure the others were honest, but you seemed more so.”

  Nick shrugged. “I've always had a hard time keeping my mouth shut.”

  Her rather serious approach disappeared and she laughed. “Such humility is handsome in a man.”

  Now he wanted to get off the subject and not be so direct. “Are you from Kiev?”

  “Yes.” She smiled. “Kiev is my home.”

  “Are you Ukrainian?” He thought for a moment. “You don't have an accent, do you?”

  “Very good. I'm half Ukrainian and half Russian. We spoke Russian at home. And you? Where are you from.”

  “Michigan.”

  “That's where they make all the cars. Detroit.”

  “Exactly.” Nick smiled. Detroit was automobiles, Chicago was gangsterland, Dallas was where Kennedy was shot, and…

  “Are you hungry? There's a cafe up here.” She motioned up a side street. “We could get something to eat, but first…” Her mannerisms were confident yet gentle, and she stopped still on the sidewalk. “But first, Nick, I would like to be direct. I only hope that I do not offend you by doing so.”

  “On the contrary, it's a relief. I'm tired of having to second-guess people.” He put his hands in his coat pockets.

  “I have an uncle in America—my father's brother. They haven't seen each other since before the war. He was captured by the Germans and then… then fled to the West. Papa, my babushka, everyone thought he was dead all this time. Even the woman that he was to marry had long ago given up and married someone else. Then several years ago, out of nowhere, a letter arrived from this man everyone thought was dead. He lives in the state of New York. Papa knows that he is not a traitor and does not blame him for leaving. He says that Uncle Vanya just knew he would have been in trouble had he returned.”

  Nick looked up the street. “I've read about that… about men who were captured by the Germans and then imprisoned by their own government when they returned to the Soviet Union.”

  Nick had heard so many stories about family separations, deaths during the purges, and years spent in Siberian labor camps that he didn't want to hear any more. After all, what could he do? Who was he? All Nick wanted was for these people to speak out amongst themselves instead of confiding in someone, like him, who could do them no harm.

  “They were bad years,” said Olga, shaking Nick from his thoughts. “Papa and Uncle Vanya's mother is still alive… my babushka. She thought all this time that her son, her first son, was dead. Now, like a tragic miracle, he returns to the living.”

  Play it up front, he thought. Play it safe. “I will also be direct: what do you want from me?”

  “I apologize for asking.” Her deep, Asiatic eyes darted from side to side, and her hands pulled anxiously at the gray sweater draped over her shoulders. “But it's so difficult. Do you have any idea? Do you know how hard it is to arrange these matters? I know my uncle wants very much to see his mother and brother… and my babushka is very old now and soon she'll die. But my uncle… he cannot and will not return. He is afraid of arrest. He was born here and was a Soviet citizen… and then the Fascists. The war still lives here, Nick, you must know that.”

  Rather like an impatient child, Nick shifted his weight from side to side. He scratched behind his ear and swung the Marlboro bag in one hand. He shouldn't have come.

  “My uncle—he's afraid he'll be arrested if he returns here or…or that he might not be allowed to leave.”

  “Who am I, Olga?” He said it off into the distance. “I'm just a guide on a lousy exhibit. What can I do?”

  They started walking again.

  “We received a letter from him and Papa answered it. Then we got one more… and then nothing. No letters. No telegrams. Papa tried to phone, but he finally gave up trying to get the number.”

  There had been so many requests that without even hearing hers, he heard himself say, “We're not supposed to get involved.”

  She was equally obstinate, not willing to retreat for a moment. “If I could give you a letter to take with you, you could mail it when you returned.”

  “It's not that simple, Olga. In fact, after all the trouble we've had, we're not supposed to be out alone. No one-on-ones.” Trying to give himself time to think, he did not tell her that most of the guides ignored this rule. “We've lost three guides. And… and an American businessman has even been arrested in Moscow. The Sovs are saying this guy traded over 9,000 rubles on the black market.”

  “Papa cannot leave to visit his brother,” she said, as if she had not heard Nick. “They wouldn't allow it. But my babushka… she is old and on a pension. It's expensive, but they'd let her go.”

  “They're afraid that we'll be compromised.”

  “An exit visa just to get out of the country costs six hundred dollars. And then there's air fare. But we can do it. I've been saving too. We just need my uncle to invite her officially; then we can start the paperwork here.”

  “Olga,” said Nick, sharply. “I can't.” Holding the bag under one arm, he lifted his arms up in a show of helplessness. “It would be dangerous. Two Soviet spies were arrested in New York and we've had—I've had—trouble ever since. They watch me a lot. In fact, I don't understand why I'm not being followed right this very moment.” He paused, waiting for this frightening thought to strike her. But it didn't. “A lot of complaints have been written about me—they accused me of spreading propaganda in Dushanbe because I gave some friends a copy of Time, an American magazine. I never saw those people again. I don't know what happened to them. These are tough times between our two countries and you could get in serious trouble because of me. They threatened to kick students out of college just for coming to the exhibit and talking with us. My God, Olga, you could lose your job just because we're walking along the street.”

  Undaunted, she persisted. “I only want you to take a letter—a small present perhaps—just to let my uncle know that he should send an invitation.”

  “Why, why, why,” said Nick, rolling his eyes, “does ‘no’ only mean the beginning of negotiations here!”

  Olga, ashamed, turned her head away from him and was silent. Her thick hair, pulled over her shoulder, fell and blocked her face.

  “I'm sorry…” He touched her arm that was both soft and strong. “I'm sorry. It's just hard here at times. We're the only link many people have with the West and that gives us a great deal of power. Sometimes I feel like visiting royalty, and sometimes I think I'm being exploited to hell. You're not the first to ask such favors.”

  “No, Nick, I apologize.” Her eyes, dark and blue, focused on him directly. “I apol
ogize for pressing this matter so impolitely. But I still ask this favor of you. It's very difficult, you know—to ask, I mean. But when you have so few alternatives you must never leave a stone unturned and, yes, you must exploit every opportunity.” Furrows of flesh formed on her forehead. “Papa doesn't know of this plan of mine. He would disapprove of my asking. I am ashamed to stoop so low, but what choice is there? So I only ask that you think about it. Don't tell me now. Let's forget about it and get to know one another…. After all, you're the very first American I've ever met. In itself that is a very valuable thing… at least for me. Look,” she said, a subtle smile brightening her face, “the cafe.”

  All he wanted was for her to back off and give him some time to think. Relieved, he said, “Here, this is for you.” He handed her the Marlboro bag.

  Her cheeks, high and wide, flushed red. “For me? Nick, you shouldn't have. Such a beautiful bag.” Accepting it, she opened the bag and saw the America magazine inside. “Oh, this is interesting.” She leaned forward and kissed him on the side of his face. “Thank you.”

  Her lips, thought Nick, lingered slightly too long yet not long enough. Her constant straightforwardness from their very introduction at the exhibit convinced him of her sincerity and now, with his guard down, he realized how much he yearned for close contact. He touched her briefly on the waist, feeling the soft cotton dress concealing a small ripple of flesh.

  “You’ re welcome.”

  She motioned toward the restaurant. “Shall we?”

  They descended the chipped steps, opened the door, and were struck by the harsh odor of ammonia.

  Inside, Nick frowned and said, “Do you want something?”

  “Coffee.”

  There were few people in the dimly lit cafe. Behind the counter stood a heavy blond woman with a half-dozen gold teeth and bright red lipstick. In a white smock and tall hat, she was picking her cuticles, not paying attention to anyone. In the cooler was champagne, sold by the gram. Alongside were slabs of cheese on black bread, stacks of hard rolls, meat cutleti, and glasses filled with sour cream.

  Nick ordered two cups of coffee and a cheese sandwich. The woman grunted, blew on her nails, and poured syrupy sweet coffee into chipped cups. Moaning as if she were straining herself and doing Nick a great favor, she grabbed a dry, brown cheese sandwich and tossed it on a plate. Wrinkling her nose, she shoved it toward him.

  “Thanks, sweetheart,” said Nick. Disgusted, as always, with Soviet service, in English he added, “You do such nice work and wear such beautiful lipstick.”

  Though the woman didn't catch a word, rudely expressing himself in English was one of the ways Nick eased his frustrations. He cast the perplexed woman a cheap smile, and sat down with Olga at one of the dinette tables.

  “Nick,” said Olga, examining what he had purchased, “that's not enough. You must eat more. You don't want to get sick do you?”

  Still annoyed by the saleswoman, Nick said, “My God, you sound like a babushka.”

  “Oh.” She blushed, but still looked at his scanty meal with disapproval.

  Not wanting to talk much in a public place, they drank their coffee in silence. She pulled out the oversize America magazine, half-hid it under the table, and thumbed through it.

  Massaging the paper between her fingers, she whispered, “Such high quality paper, such beautiful photographs. Is this typical?”

  Nick nodded. “You bet.”

  She shook her head in disbelief. “This magazine is supposed to be sold openly, but it's very hard to get. I've only seen one or two before. You have to have… you have to have—”

  “Blat?”

  “Shhh.” She laughed, surprised that a foreigner would know this facet of Soviet life. “Da, blat.”

  They spoke no more of the letter to Olga's uncle as they rambled slowly along the sidewalk. As the sun set, leaving a purplish sky in its wake, the last of summer's days gave way to the first of autumn's cool nights. Olga looped her arm in Nick's, not a sexual advance in Russia, but a sign of friendship and trust. Nick was flattered.

  “So what is your profession?” asked Nick, steering the conversation to comfortable territory.

  “I work in a film processing factory.” She too was glad to forget about her uncle in New York.

  “Do your parents live here, too?”

  “No, my father has lived in Lvov for many years now, and…”

  Nick sensed her arm tense in his.

  “… my mother is dead. I lived with my great-aunt for many years.” She volunteered nothing further.

  Nick threw his head back and inhaled the cool air. “Really?” He could not restrain a slight grin.

  Noticing this, Olga frowned. She was confused and hurt that he was amused. “What… what is it?”

  So that was what made her different, he thought to himself. He hesitated, and then said, “My mother died, too.”

  “Seriously?” Suppressing a smile of her own, she asked, “How?”

  He coughed and cleared his throat before saying, “From cancer. I was ten.” He searched her eyes for her reaction, only to realize that she hadn't been so much listening as looking at him. “How about yours?”

  She realized what he was asking, and, turned away at once, and barely audible, said, “She was… run over by a streetcar.” Quickly, to get it over with, she added, “I was thirteen.”

  “Olga…” He squeezed her arm. “I'm sorry.”

  She ventured nothing further, and by her reaction Nick guessed that the severance between mother and daughter had been most brutal. Perhaps, he speculated, Olga had even witnessed the accident. He pulled her arm tighter against his side.

  They walked on, each of them slipping backward in time. Sensing this and not wanting to lose the present, Nick adopted an almost cheery tone.

  “So tell me what you think of Kiev,” he said.

  “It's clean, green.”

  His reaction was reflexive. “Olga!” He stepped away. Berating her, he said, “Don't tell me what the Party says, tell me what you think.”

  She found it funny. “But this is what I think.” She squeezed his arm in hers.

  “Oh.” Nick was confused. Was he developing a knee-jerk reaction to anything positive about the U.S.S.R.?

  “Nick,” said Olga, interrupting his thoughts, “have you been to the Monastery of the Catacombs?”

  “I've had a lot of offers, but not yet.”

  “Good, let's go now. It's open late tonight. There's a bus that goes directly there from that corner.”

  “Sure.”

  He felt her warmth against him and he wanted to help her. How could he go wrong if he insisted on seeing her letter before taking it? He could help them. Who else would? It was just a family reunion, a family reunion that had been waiting thirty-five years. Here was a chance to really do something and to help someone. He should do it. After all, there wasn't any reason not to take the letter if it didn't contain anything troublesome.

  “Where do we cross? Here?” asked Nick, his mind on Olga and the letter.

  “Da.”

  Nick, preoccupied, stepped off the curb. She screamed just as he heard the car.

  “Nick!”

  He threw his head to the left. A light green taxi was heading straight toward him. All that he could focus on was the grill of the car as it raced forward. This is it, he thought, just as he had imagined it. A hood ornament on some fucking Sov car. He stepped back, but tripped as his foot reached for the curb.

  “Bozhe! My God,” screamed Olga.

  He'd never guessed how strong she really was. In one forceful movement she latched on to his arm and jerked him up and onto the sidewalk. He fell backward on the concrete, and she lost her balance and fell a few feet beyond him. The taxi whizzed by only inches before them, its hubcaps brushing up against the curb. Sparks flew and there was the cry of screeching metal.

  “Jesus!” cried Nick, covering his face from flying debris.

  Then it was over, as quickly as i
t had begun. The taxi didn't stop or even slow. Its engine racing, the automobile disappeared around the next corner and left the odor of burnt rubber to foul the air. Olga was sprawled on the sidewalk gaping at Nick. Her cotton print dress was smudged with dirt and ripped in two places.

  “Man, oh, man.” Nick shook his head in disbelief. Sitting on the ground, he used his hands to edge himself farther away from the dangerous street.

  Olga sat up. “Are you all right?”

  “Thanks to you.” He tried to shake loose a pebble that was imbedded in the palm of his hand.

  Her brow was wrinkled and her eyes open wide. “What about your hand?”

  “It's okay. It's just scraped.” He glanced at her. “How about you, are you all right?”

  She reached out for his hand, took it, and gently brushed away the dirt. “I'm fine.”

  He inched closer to her as they sat on the sidewalk. Their eyes caught and held. Olga shook a wisp of hair out of her face. Only as he was in the process of bending over did he question his action. And even though it was too late except to pull awkwardly away, he was aware that to stop now was the last thing he wanted. He watched her eyes drift shut and her chin raise slightly, more fully exposing her lips. He closed his eyes. As if they were testing cold water, their mouths met lightly, pulled away, and then came back to one another. Their arms reached out and they embraced. She opened her mouth and he kissed her. They kissed and held on.

  “Stop that!” yelled a ratchety old voice.

  They split apart. “Fuck,” said Nick in English, able to guess the source of their problem.

  “That's ne-koolturni—not cultured. You young people stop that!” cried a babushka, coming toward them and waving her flabby arms. “I won't have any of that on my street. Ne-koolturni! And get up off the sidewalk. How disgusting, sitting on the ground! You'll get sick. Up, up, up! Girl, don't you know you'll hurt your ovaries by sitting on cement?”

  “Come on,” said Nick. He reached out and helped Olga to her feet. “Let's go.”