The Cross and The Sickle

by R. D. Zimmerman

  Though she wanted to, Olga did not get back into bed. She let the cotton sheet drop to the floor and slowly began to pull on her beige skirt and blouse. When she was dressed, she went to great lengths to smooth her clothing, brush her hair, and put on fresh lipstick. She wondered, too, who they had moved out so that she could temporarily move in. She shrugged. It really didn't make any difference.

  Olga gathered her purse and the key and left to make her report. Resolved to recount only as much as Colonel Mayakovsky needed to know, she had to be strong again. Just as long as it didn't interfere with the operation involving Miller, her personal life was her own affair. If she even hinted to Mayakovsky of what had happened between Nick and her, question would lead to question, and Olga doubted she could withstand having her own beliefs and loyalties challenged any more that night.

  Her large brown purse in one hand, she pulled back her thick blond hair with the other, and then opened the door. It would all be over soon.

  XII

  In the small building which housed his temporary office near the American exhibition, Colonel Mayakovsky, furious, stood with his back to Lieutenant Yezhov. The colonel's large metal desk separated them.

  “You what?” Mayakovsky slammed his fist against the office wall and a nearby photograph of Lenin tilted to the side.

  “I followed them.” Yezhov, in civilian clothes, shifted in his seat. He was to begin his workday at FARMING USA within a few minutes.

  “Who instructed you to do so? Under whose orders were you acting?” Mayakovsky turned around and leaned on his desk with both hands. His face was red with anger.

  “No one, Comrade Colonel.” Lieutenant Yezhov had expected anything but a reprimand. He still failed to see his error. “I can assure you that they did not notice me.”

  ”I should hope not!” bellowed the large man. “Besides, that is not the issue. The issue is that you were given clear instructions not to act without my orders. And what did you do? You did the exact opposite!”

  “Yes, but…” began Yezhov, resentfully. He had always disliked Mayakovsky’ s totalitarian approach to his subordinates.

  “But? But what? Do you think I am unaware of what I am doing? Do you perhaps think,” said Mayakovsky with a sarcastic expression on his boyish though wrinkled face, “that I am shirking my duties?” He had no tolerance for such unnecessary and potentially dangerous interference.

  “Of course not, Colonel Mayakovsky.” Yezhov raised his thin arms from his lap. “It was obvious, though, that Miller and the woman were not followed, so… so…”

  “Comrade Yezhov, let me remind you of the importance of this operation. Due to its serious nature, it is justifiably complex. You are only one member of my large staff and I find absolutely no need to keep you posted of everyone's comings and goings.” Mayakovsky, in street clothes—a baggy gray shirt and dark pants—had no intention of informing Yezhov that he had called off Miller's usual tail so that Olga could work unhampered. “You were brought in for your language skills and for no other reason. Your job is to monitor the guides’ conversations at the exhibit and anything any Soviet citizen may say in English. Let me make it perfectly clear that your actions of last night far exceed your duties.”

  Yezhov was dumfounded, and Mayakovsky stepped across the room and gazed out the window. Past the park area of flower beds and benches, on the other side of the Exhibition Park of the Economic Achievements of the Ukrainian Soviet Socialist Republics—the VDNX—the colonel could see the faint outline of the low pavilion housing the FARMING U.S.A. exhibit. The grounds were vast, full of ornate one-story Stalinesque exhibition halls, and Mayakovsky's temporary office was well secluded from the Americans.

  The colonel rubbed his forehead and exhaled. “Go on,” he ordered, his eyes out the window. “Tell me the rest.”

  In a deep, defensive voice, Yezhov related the entire sequence of events; how he had recognized the blond woman from the exhibit, watched her as she met Miller, and then followed them to number 14 Revolutsiya Street. He had even observed Miller and the woman on the balcony of her apartment. Almost an hour later the lights were extinguished.

  Mayakovsky interrupted, lifting his broad hand and saying, “What?” Upset, he twisted around. “The lights? Out? How long were they off?” There had to be a mistake.

  “The remainder of the evening.”

  “You're sure of this?” This was new information and Mayakovsky was disturbed. “You're sure the lights stayed off?”

  “Yes,” said Yezhov, looking coldly through his East German glasses. “Positive.”

  The many fine lines on Mayakovsky's face grew deeper. “When did Miller leave the woman's apartment?”

  “Shortly after midnight.” Yezhov considered how much was best to divulge before adding, “I followed him at a distance only as long as it took to ascertain that he was returning to the Hotel Dneipro.”

  “And the woman?” Mayakovsky thought he knew the entire events of the previous evening. Evidently he did not, and he tried to mask his concern. “Did the woman go anywhere?” he demanded. “Did she?”

  “As I said, Comrade Colonel, I followed Miller. I assumed that the woman remained in her apartment.”

  Mayakovsky placed his hand on the window sill and leaned back. “Yes, of course.” Surmising the situation, it seemed that no damage had been done and that Yezhov, after all, had brought some valuable information. “Her name?” he said, trying to read the lieutenant's face. “Do you know this woman's name?”

  “No, but I can find…”

  “That will not be necessary.” Mayakovsky put his hand to his face and massaged his eyes. He became lost in thought: what did this imply? Had he placed too much faith in Olga? Realizing that he was forgetting about Yezhov, Mayakovsky looked up and sternly said, “Your actions were out of line. You are not to interfere any further.”

  Yezhov bit his lower lip and sat back in the chair.

  Full of disdain, Mayakovsky said, “What is it?”

  “It's just that I… I didn't expect to be reprimanded.”

  “Oh, no?” said Mayakovsky, lifting his eyebrows in mockery. “Just what did you expect?”

  “I… I…” Yezhov decided against any further confrontation with his superior. “Please accept my apologies, Colonel. It won't happen again.”

  Mayakovsky went to the edge of his desk. “Good. Now let me give you a piece of advice, Lieutenant. You are a language specialist. A very good one. And apparently you have a good eye for faces, too. However, just stick to your job and let others do theirs.”

  “Yes.” Accepting the reproach, Yezhov nodded his head.

  “In order for this operation to succeed it must continue smoothly. It is of the utmost importance that Miller does not suspect anything… particularly that he is being followed.” Mayakovsky paused. “Questions?”

  “No, Comrade Colonel.”

  “Under no circumstances are you to undertake such independent ventures without my knowledge and approval.” In a louder voice, he said, “Should you act without my orders again, you will be discharged. Clear?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dismissed!”

  Mayakovsky turned to the window and with the back of his hand, waved Yezhov away. He heard the lieutenant's footsteps and the opening and closing of the office door. Interference. He hated it.

  “Damn!” He pounded his fist on the edge of the window.

  Looking out, Mayakovsky watched as Yezhov headed for the American exhibit, which would soon open. What was he, a colonel, supposed to do? Make everything public information, disclose all aspects of the operation? Of course not. The delegation of authority, the possibility of more such independent action, the likelihood of questions—these could foul all the plans.

  Yezhov, carrying his briefcase, walked by a hall which contained government demonstrations of the latest construction practices and how they were implemented to give the Soviet people new housing units. Then, as Mayakovsky continued to stare at him, he passed a h
all displaying modern home appliances—four burner gas stoves, kitchen cabinets, sinks, washing machines—that were promised for every future Soviet home.

  “If it weren't for people like you, Comrade Yezhov,” said Mayakovsky to himself, “all that and more would be ours already.”

  As he turned to his desk, Mayakovsky noticed that the official black and white photograph of Lenin hung crookedly on the wall. He made no attempt to straighten it before sitting down.

  Lieutenant Yezhov was most eager in his work. Too eager, thought Mayakovsky with contempt. He was just another of those without principles, without commitments, trying to get ahead, trying to attain recognition for the material wealth it would bring him. Yet Mayakovsky could not dismiss him. Not yet, anyway, for now it was best to have Yezhov directly under his supervision where a careful watch could be kept. Besides, as long as Miller didn't suspect anything, the operation continued to progress.

  Mayakovsky tapped a pen on the top of his desk and contemplated Yezhov's account of the previous evening. He was most disturbed. How did this reflect upon Olga? He shook his head. More than anything else, Mayakovsky was disappointed in her. She had come close to one o'clock last night and supposedly made a full report. Obviously it wasn't. According to Yezhov, the lights had been turned out and stayed out until Miller had left after midnight.

  Olga, however, had stated in her usual straightforward manner that she and Miller had enjoyed a leisurely meal, gotten along quite well, and then taken an evening stroll. She had mentioned nothing at all of their apparent intimacy.

  XIII

  Wearing running shoes, jeans, a fresh blue shirt, and his corduroy coat, Nick walked briskly down the street. On his way to meet Boris and Masha, he thought of Olga and was happy. Silly happy. At the same time, he was disturbed about her mother—who could have killed her and why?—and he found it difficult to accept that something so terrible had actually happened to someone he had been so intimate with.

  A slight breeze blew across his angular face and through his brown hair, and his small mouth formed a tender smile. Simply, it had felt good to be close to someone. Nick was the type who was attracted to women he could talk intimately with; he had never considered picking a woman up at a bar and—though he'd never admit it—found even the idea unpleasant. And thus Olga's story had for Nick subconsciously bridged that gap and created a link. His major disappointment of the day was that he would not see Olga and be with her and touch her tonight.

  Nick broke into a carefree whistle, albeit not a beautiful one. His head tilted slightly back, he noticed signs of autumn: a faint yellow and red glimmer on the tops of a few green trees. His stride was vigorous. Though not as meticulous, he had performed the ritual stops and checks, and found, as he had expected, no tail.

  A haggard middle-aged woman in a red flowered dress was making her way down the sidewalk toward him. Her lips dryly pursed and her small eyes withdrawn, she was loaded down with bread and cheese in one hand and a string bag of loose eggs in the other.

  “Why, oh, why,” muttered Nick to himself, “can't they get their shit together enough to make egg cartons?” As they passed he waved to the woman and said, “Hi, there!”

  Greeted by a person she had never seen before, the woman froze, her mouth agape. Soviet street etiquette required that there be no loud talking, bold gestures, singing, whistling, or even smiling. While home life was as emotional as possible, anything that made a person stand out from the masses on the street was considered in the worst taste.

  “Ne-koolturni!” she said, accusingly.

  The woman grumbled to herself, stormed away, and Nick shook his head. What would she have done had he dared to play frisbee on the street? In Tselinograd he and another guide had played too close to the grotesquely enormous—Nick had been only as big as the nose—statue of Lenin. The police had gone berserk.

  Puckering his lips, Nick went on and whistled with relief. Now there were new experiences which would become good memories. Sure, it was tough dealing with thousands of Sovs everyday simply because their knowledge of America was so twisted; they knew, for example, the precise percentage of unemployed workers in the U.S., but had never heard of unemployment insurance or welfare, or that the average length of unemployment was six weeks. It was exacting and tedious countering these “half-truths” and accurately portraying the U.S. with its great strengths and shameful weaknesses. But it was also a challenge, for they yearned to know and Nick had to give them credit for that. After all, how much did Americans know about the U.S.S.R. and how many Americans would wait for hours and upon hours in line to see a Soviet exhibit?

  Nick turned left when he reached Shevchenko Street, and in the distance spotted Boris and Masha waiting for him in front of the Leningrad Restaurant. Boris, puffing on a cigarette and pacing back and forth, was the first to see Nick, and he discreetly nodded his head in greeting. They briskly approached one another.

  “Good evening.” Boris countered his subdued words by tightly grasping Nick's hand in both of his.

  Nick forced himself not to smile. “Hello.” These were people he cared about, and without realizing it, he restrained himself lest they attract too much attention.

  “Nick!” Only Masha could not hold back, and she planted a big kiss on each of his cheeks. “How are you?”

  He thought of them—was it really only the second time they had met?—and of Olga. “Everything's good. Very good. Better than it has been in months.”

  “I missed you so,” said Masha, taking his arm. “The phone was out of order and even though it was quickly fixed, I feel that we lost precious minutes of our friendship together. How was your work today? Oh, and I liked the exhibit so much. Baba Genya did, too. But so many people! You guides are remarkable. What a lot of work you have.”

  “We had 25,000 people yesterday.” Nick shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Can you imagine?”

  “Oi.” Masha, pulling on his arm, looked at him with exaggerated sympathy. “Are you tired? You poor thing, you must be.”

  “I feel great right now, but…” The strenuous day yesterday, the late night with Olga, and another full working day today could catch up with him at any moment.

  They began to walk up the tree-lined boulevard away from Kreshatik and the statue of Lenin, and toward their apartment. Masha pulled up the collar of her rain coat to ward off the chilly air. It was growing dark and heavy bells began to chime in the distance.

  “We thought we might show you a few things,” said Boris between puffs on his cigarette. “That is, if you like.”

  “Absolutely.” Nick was only beginning to realize how much he had not taken advantage of.

  Her small nose twitching, Masha said, “There's lots to do when you have more time. Perhaps when you have a free day we could go to the zoo or for a boat ride on the Dneiper or to the Monastery of the Catacombs—it's a museum now.” She pointed to the somber bells in the distance. “But tonight we thought we'd take you to Saint Vladimir's Cathedral. It's not a display, it's something living. A living part of Old Russia. I'm sure you'll like it. The choir is famous and the icons are beautiful. There are only several working churches left in Kiev, and Saint Vladimir's is the largest and the main one.” The bells tolled mournfully. “It's very close. Just up the street.”

  “A babushka told us there's a special service tonight,” said Boris. “This would be an excellent time to see a traditional Russian church service. It'd be very interesting—so dark and ancient.”

  “Did you hear?” Masha turned to Nick so sharply that she was walking sideways. “The Metropolitan of Leningrad and Novgorod died in Rome. Can you imagine? He was speaking with the new pope and he just toppled right over.” She let her head flop on her chest. “Dead on the spot.”

  “Yeah,” said Nick, recalling how John Kornichuk had told him about that and the technology fair in Vienna. “One of the guides read about it in the foreign newspaper we get.”

  Boris winked and, so that no one on the street cou
ld hear, said, “We heard about it on ‘The Voice of America.”

  “So we'll go?” pleaded Masha.

  “Sure.” The night air was invigorating.

  “Good. Then afterward we'll go to our apartment for some good Russian food,” said Masha. “I made blini.”

  “And I have some questions about the exhibit.” Boris threw his cigarette to the ground.

  Their arms looped together, the three of them walked in a row; Boris, tall and thin, Masha, much shorter and quite pudgy, and Nick, of medium height and slightly overweight. Even though he had only recently met them, Nick felt inside that he had known them for a long time. He knew he could show up at any time of night and they would take him in. He believed he could ask them for thousands of rubles and they would loan it to him. And he was sure he could ask for any Soviet product and they would search it out, wait in line, and present it gladly to him. Already it was a relationship as dependable as it was dependent; a relationship proven as much by love and affection as the things they could do for one another. Already it was a friendship in the Russian sense.

  The seven cupolas of Saint Vladimir's stretched high into the darkening sky. It dominated the vicinity, protruding well above the surrounding apartment buildings and occupying its own half-block area. A nineteenth-century imitation of the Russian Byzantine style, it was a massive stone structure with plain outer walls and arched, ornamented windows and doors. A thick band of grass and trees encircled the cathedral and paths of fine gravel led up to its intimidating arched entrance.

  “It was built a hundred years ago to commemorate the 900th anniversary of Kiev's conversion to Christianity,” said Masha as they headed off Shevchenko and up the path.

  An ever increasing number of old people, bent and weary, hobbled out of the night toward Saint Vladimir's. The vast majority of them were old women, the men of their generation having long ago perished in the First World War, the Revolution, the Civil War, Stalin's purges, or World War II. The air was still and all that could be heard was the scuffling of old shoes on the gravel walkway. The cathedral's bells, powerful and almighty, began again and broke the morose silence.