The Cross and The Sickle

by R. D. Zimmerman

  With the briefcase containing his uniform on his lap, Yezhov was on this trolley bus, returning late from the exhibit. Occasionally he was called on to translate something found at the exhibit—a book, magazine, or letter. Tonight he had worked past his regular hours translating a recorded conversation, from English into Russian, that had been picked up by a microphone planted near the tractor display. Concerning nothing more than hockey in the United States, the conversation had taken place between a guide and a visitor who had wanted to practice his English.

  The trolley's electric motor wound down as it slowed in front of the large, enclosed farmers’ market on Bessarabskaya Square, the first stop on Kreshatik, and Yezhov considered getting off. He wanted to buy some hard sausage, and one of Kiev's largest stores, Central Gastronom, was nearby. He abandoned the idea, however, when he recalled his experience of the previous week.

  “Sausage?” the white-smocked saleswoman had shrieked in disbelief. “Sausage—nyet! Meat—nyet! Eggs—nyet! We sell out before ten in the morning, every morning. Haven't you ever shopped before?”

  It was true. He hadn't. He had hardly ever gone to the store for food. He had supplied Sonia and her parents with a good deal of meat, butter, and, occasionally, corn oil or fruit. But all of that he had acquired through blat. Sonia and her mother had always done the rest of the shopping. And all of the cooking.

  But now things had changed. Sonia and her parents had stopped inviting him to the table, and tonight they were sure to have eaten long ago. Yezhov even suspected that Sonia would have made sure that there were no leftovers in the house except a few onions, garlic, and, if he were lucky, some stale black bread.

  “Just be thankful,” Sonia had said a few days earlier, “that we haven't thrown you out already. But you'll be sleeping on a bench at the train station soon enough, that's for sure.”

  Time was running out. Yezhov knew that only too well and he cringed. He'd heard of a room for rent in a widowed babushka's apartment, but other than that, he had no leads. He hated even the thought of a dormitory or communal apartment, and he'd get a room in a hotel before he'd sleep at the railway station. So what was he to do? Wait. Wait until the American exhibition was over.

  Yezhov, briefcase in hand, got up from his seat as the trolley approached the main Metro station, the second stop on Kreshatik. This was where he transferred every night to the subway, which he rode the rest of the way to Sonia's. Stepping forward as the bus rolled to a stop, he glanced out the window and onto the busy plaza in front of the station. At that instant a woman on the sidewalk caught his eye. He couldn't see her face, but he knew she was familiar. Important even. It was her hair.

  “Are you getting out?” Yezhov pushed past a boy.

  He took hold of one of the chrome poles and bent his tall body over. Looking out the fingerprint-covered glass of the trolley, he still couldn't see her face. He licked his large lower lip. Why was this woman familiar? He hurried to the front of the bus, knocking an old woman off balance.

  “Molodoì chelovek!” Young man, cried the babushka, striking him with her purse. “Ne-koolturni!” Uncultured.

  The woman on the sidewalk turned and climbed up the steps to the plaza. She was heading toward the Metro when Yezhov remembered. Yes, he knew her. Exiting from the front, he shoved aside a man with a knapsack, jumped off, and raced after her. She was ahead, up on the plaza, weaving in and out of small, tight groups of people trading cigarettes and jeans. Then he lost sight of her. He bounded up the steps and dodged around an ice cream stand. Where was she? He had yet to see her face directly, but he was sure it was her. It had to be. The cascading blond hair. Where was she?

  There. Swinging open one of the big glass doors to the Metro. Yezhov ran ahead. He would lose the woman if she hurried down the escalator and jumped on a train before he had time to catch up.

  He threw open the door with one hand as he crammed his other into his pocket for a five-kopeck piece. But no sooner had he crossed the station's threshold than he came to an abrupt stop. He spun to the side, head down and one hand fidgeting with his glasses. There she was, the blond woman, standing by the turnstiles at the top of the escalators. She was leaning over the railing, apparently searching for someone coming up from the train.

  Yezhov caught his breath and glanced over his shoulder as he walked to a bank of change machines on the opposite wall. He deposited a coin in one of the machines and then banged it with the heel of his hand. He put more money in and hit the metal box again. He was unsure of what to do next, not wanting to lose her yet fearful that she would notice him. It was her, though, of that Yezhov was positive. It had just taken him a few minutes to place her.

  A continual stream of evening shoppers entered the subway building, pushed through the turnstiles, and rode the long escalators down to the trains. Even more emerged from below, on their way to Kreshatik's stores. Only the blond woman, a nearby buxom stationmistress in a tight, prim, black uniform, and Yezhov remained constant in the building. Yezhov, out of frustration, hit the machine one time too many.

  “Comrade citizen,” called out the stationmistress in a stern voice, “is there a problem?”

  Realizing his error, Yezhov shook his head and froze. He dared not face the stationmistress, for the blond woman might be looking at him, too. Through the large sheets of glass, he spotted a row of gray telephone booths outside. He gathered his change and hurried out.

  Yezhov chose the booth that allowed him the best view of the Metro entrance. Stepping into the booth, he closed the door behind him, picked up the receiver and placed it to his ear as if her were making a call. He leaned against the back wall and through the Metro's glass doors watched the blond woman. One moment she was straining to see down the escalator, the next she was peering out the doors and onto the plaza. From his vantage, he had a clear view of her, and now Yezhov needed to decide his next move and just how far he should go. Telephone in hand, it occurred to him that he should call Colonel Mayakovsky. But what was there to report? As of yet, nothing. The woman was obviously meeting someone—she seemed not to know from which direction to expect her guest—but who would it be? Her husband, boyfriend, or mother? And where would they go?

  The frown on the blond woman's face disappeared, replaced by a welcoming smile. She stepped away from the escalator, pulled her hair back behind her head, and straightened the beige skirt she wore. Her eyes fixed on the stairs, Yezhov saw the woman mouth a greeting to someone coming up. Then the man she was waiting for rose into view on the mechanical stairs. First the light brown hair. Then the eyes, the green eyes, of that Yezhov was sure. The American clothing—a plaid shirt and corduroy coat—confirmed it all. Of course. How stupid of him. Why hadn't he realized it sooner? She had been waiting for Nick Miller.

  Miller greeted the Russian woman with a brief kiss on the cheek, to which she responded by blushing. A discussion of some sort ensued. There appeared to be a disagreement on Miller's part. He was hesitant, she encouraging. They did not go back down to the trains. Finally the blond woman went to the exit and subtly motioned him after her. Miller, at first clearly perplexed, gave in with a smile that showed many of his white American teeth. Together he and the woman started across the plaza.

  Yezhov remained in the telephone booth studying the Metro station. He observed each person who came out, yet even his trained eye could not detect what he was looking for. Next he scrutinized the plaza, wondering if perhaps someone could be dodging in and out of the clusters of people. Or maybe it was one of the ice cream vendors? His attention focused on a side alley; would anyone appear? Finally, unable to discern if another agent were following Miller, Yezhov started out. Miller and the woman had already reached the street and Yezhov had no intention of losing them.

  He found them up ahead on Kreshatik's upper walk, which ran along the storefronts. Separated by a band of grass and a row of linden trees, Yezhov stuck to the lower sidewalk, keeping an eye on them and examining Volgas, Moskviches, light green taxis, and a
ll other vehicles. Seated in tempting positions along the benches was a row of prostitutes, and Yezhov checked over each one of them; they, however, misinterpreted his interest and cast him seductive glances. Farther along he observed a couple admiring shoes in the window of Shoe Store Kiev. Next he suspected the woman carrying the tattered, plastic Finnish shopping bag with a naked frozen chicken poking out. Even the man with the son wearing a red Pioneer scarf did not escape Yezhov's scrutiny. And several blocks later, when Miller and the woman passed the store, Modern Woman, and turned left off Kreshatik, Yezhov was forced to admit it. To his amazement, Miller was out alone, meeting with a Soviet woman, and there was no agent following him.

  He couldn't make any sense of it. He considered contacting Colonel Mayakovsky and he might have had there been more time. Sensing that this might be the opportunity he had been waiting for, however, Yezhov was not about to give it up so readily. At least not until there was something substantial to report. If any problems did develop, Yezhov knew that he could always claim that he had not called in because he did not wish to lose Miller and the woman.

  Yezhov was equally surprised that they were so easy to follow. At one point he even overheard them laughing. Only Miller glanced back once as they led a clear trail to their destination. They turned left at the farmers’ market, cut up a small side street, and briskly walked up the steep hill above Kiev's main street. They continued for three more blocks, turned right, then left, and arrived at Number 14 Revolutsiya Street.

  Yezhov waited several minutes before cautiously entering the old five-story building and did so only when he could hear their footsteps on the staircase several floors above. The foyer was dark, in disrepair, and reeked of urine, some drunk having relieved himself in a corner the week before. Yezhov edged forward. The staircase was open in the center, and the chalky walls glowed with the light of a naked bulb. Above, as Miller and the woman climbed, he could make out their hands sliding upward on the banister. With the only sound that of their shoes slipping into the wells worn in the staircase, they went to the very top floor. Yezhov was disturbed by the ensuing silence until the soft sound of a door opening and gently closing filtered down. Next came a coarser noise; a whole string of grunts and groans tied together with heavy breathing. On the banister Yezhov saw the shriveled hand of a babushka laboriously working downward. He backed away.

  Near the front door Yezhov searched for a name. With the light faint, and the white walls having turned to a sepia brown, he was unable to see much and ran his hand along the wall. A mailbox. There had to be a mailbox. Above his blind fumbling he heard deeply strained, asthmatic breathing. He froze.

  “I'm looking for my friend.” Yezhov could barely make out the babushka's jowly face in the dim light. To make it worse, the woman was dressed entirely in black, including her kerchief. He wondered how she got down so fast. “Ivanov. Ivanov, Yakov. Do you know him? I'm lost. Is this his building?”

  With a look of distrust on her waxen face, the babushka shook her head. Her globular double chin quivered.

  “Oh. It must be the next street over.”

  The old woman stared at him in the dark. Though perhaps heavier than he, she was much shorter. She was not intimidated, however, and as if she were frightening a crow away from her garden, she jerked up her arms.

  “Yes,” said Yezhov, backing out. “I remember now. The next street over.”

  He hastened up the street, sure that the babushka was checking on him. He turned once, and she was there, a hand cupped over her eyes, guarding her building. He went around a darkened corner, then peered back. The old woman had given up and was hobbling off in the other direction.

  Yezhov crossed the street and resting his briefcase at his feet, positioned himself beneath a large chestnut tree. He had an unobstructed view of Number 14 Revolutsiya Street, a pre-Revolutionary building whose ancient yellow plaster was falling off like great scabs. On the top floor there was only one light on and it came from the room with the balcony.

  Yezhov had forgotten about his hunger and did not feel the weariness in his bones. On the contrary, he was excited and encouraged. Leaning against the thick tree as the last of the day's light faded, he was determined to wait and see how long Miller stayed and to obtain any other information he could—information, absolute and incriminating, that Yezhov could then use to make an impressive report.

  Five minutes later, as if to make things blatant, Miller and the blond woman stepped out on the balcony.

  XI

  Motioning outward and hoping that Nick appreciated it, Olga said, “It's a good view, don't you think?”

  Over the treetops, past the pitched red metal roof, and down the hill was Kreshatik and Kiev's center. Silhouettes of pre-Revolutionary and Stalinist buildings, both classical in form and severity, filled the rolling horizon. A flurry of lights popped on as the last of the day's light slipped away.

  “It's not bad,” said Nick, wanting to like it for Olga's sake. “But that sign's got to go.” He pointed to a neon GLORY TO THE COMMUNIST PARTY OF THE SOVIET UNION sign that glowed red in the distance. “In the States we use neon to push hamburgers and fried chicken, not doctrine.”

  She laughed and fell silent.

  Alternately rubbing his hands together and snapping his fingers, Nick hadn't stood still for a moment. By all rules he was not supposed to be out alone with a Soviet, particularly with one of the opposite sex, and here he was in her apartment, lured there by the promise of “good Russian cooking.”

  He took a deep breath. “You know, it's nice to be here, away from the exhibit and the hotel.”

  She smiled, yet did not look at him. “Good. That's why I asked you.”

  Nick leaned on the rusted wrought-iron railing.

  “No!” Olga grabbed him, sinking her fingers into his forearm. “The view's nice but the railing is awful. It's old.” She pulled Nick back and shook the railing. Bits of rusty metal and crumbled brick cascaded to the street below, landing on the pavement with dull thumps.

  Olga took a step away from him. She raised her eyebrows, and said, “Relax. Don't be so nervous.” But gone was her self-confidence and she too trembled. “Let's go in,” she said, not wanting him to notice. “I'm… cold.” She wrapped her arms around herself to ward off the evening chill.

  Olga had a narrow room in a communal apartment. On each side of the room were two plain desks, two small closets, and two plain single beds. Olga seated herself facing him on the other bed, an awkward empty space now between them.

  Nick was disturbed when he realized that he didn't know if Olga was married. Maybe she even had a kid.

  “Olga,” said Nick, masking his concern with a disarming smile. “Are you married?”

  She reddened. “No.” She sat stiffly on the bed. “I have a roommate. She's away on vacation now.”

  ”I see.” He figured there was no sense in stopping now. “Are you involved with someone… a man, I mean?”

  “’Nick.” She winced, unaccustomed to such directness. “No.” she said, as if she were ashamed. “No, there's no one.”

  “Oh.”

  Before he could ask why she had so abruptly left the other night, she interrupted the lull in their conversation.

  “This was my roommate's parent's apartment and she grew up here with them—all three in this room. They waited in line fifteen years for a new apartment, and finally they were given one in a new high rise on the edge of town. It has a bedroom, their own living room, and a kitchen and a bath too. Nadya—that's my roommate—got married just before her parents moved. She was tired of living with them. She's never said so, but I think she got married just so she could keep this room.” Olga reached over to the desk and took a brush. “Anyway, she got divorced last year and I moved in. You know what a communal apartment is, don't you?”

  “Sure.” Nick guessed she was elaborating on the subject to avoid any more personal questions.

  Olga ran the brush through her thick and somewhat tangled hair. “Thi
s is a nice one. There are five families here and everyone gets along cordially. There's a big kitchen that we share. The bath is good, too, and everything's clean. You know the old babushka we passed going down the stairs? Her room is next to the kitchen and she lives to clean the halls.”

  Nick unobtrusively dried his somewhat sweaty palms on his pants and looked around the room. “Was this always a communal apartment?”

  “Oh, no. Before the Revolution it was for just one family. This was probably the living room, you know”—she motioned with the brush—“because of the balcony. The family next door undoubtedly lives in the old dining room. The others live in the old bedrooms and we share everything else—the kitchen, the bathroom. There were some that were built as communal apartments, but, no, this used to belong to just one family. A merchant perhaps.”

  “Olga…” The warnings of what could happen kept nagging at him and he stood and wandered over to the balcony door. Shaking his head, he said, “God, I hate it. I hate having to distrust someone from the start. I mean, the guilty-until-proven-innocent approach is just disgusting.”

  “I… I…” Her voice was feeble.

  Gazing out the door, Nick said, “I'm sorry, Olga. I don't mean to offend you. It's just that they've pumped us up with all these fears of what could happen to us. You know, in Dushanbe and Tselinograd they followed me all the time. It scared the hell out of me and I was sure they were going to arrest me and accuse me of selling drugs or being a spy.” He laughed. “My God, I got so paranoid that I imagined all sorts of things—like being sent to Siberia… and worse.”

  “Nick,” said Olga, uncomfortable with the subject.

  He turned toward her, a grin on his face. “It all seems pretty funny now.” He took a deep breath and sighed. “Olga, tell me once and that's all. I can trust you, can't I?” he asked, almost pleading.

  She glanced away, thought better of it, and then looked directly at him. “Nick, I…” She hesitated for perhaps a moment too long. “Yes. Of course you can.” She brushed her hair with quick strokes.