The Cross and The Sickle

by R. D. Zimmerman

  As if into a great funnel, the people were drawn toward the heavy oak doors. On patrol was a large babushka, inspecting all who wished to enter this place of worship. Nick, Boris, and Masha were obvious because of their youth, and the old woman singled out Masha with fury.

  “Young girl!” came the shrill voice. “Put something on your head. You have to have something on your head in church or you can't go in, can't go in!”

  Frightened, Masha quickly grabbed the scarf from her pocket. “Oi, I almost forgot.”

  On the worn stone steps sat a decrepit old blind woman. She held a cup in one shaking hand and a worn and cracked cane in the other. Nick reached into his jeans and threw a few kopecks into the cup.

  “God bless you,” said the feeble woman.

  Above her was an obese babushka whose sagging flesh was puffed out around her toothless mouth. She shoved her flabby arm at Nick and rattled the few coins in her dented tin cup. And behind her was a frail old woman leaning against the stone wall for support. Apparently unable to hold her cup, she had set it on the step beside her. Rotting clothes hung from all their aged bodies and Nick was hit by their thick odor, heavy in the air.

  Typical of all public places, only one of the massive doors was open and people pushed through it as if it might close any minute. The elderly gathered more strength than imaginable, and Nick felt arthritic hands and boney arms swarm over him and shove him. Pandemonium was rampant as people jammed up against one another like frightened cattle. Forward. Forward. If they forced themselves harder then certainly they'd go forward. An acidic voice cried out in pain.

  Masha led the way, taking Nick by the arm, and Boris protectively took the rear. Passage was again hampered in the foyer due to an interior door that was also only partially opened. The pushing became more intense, the groaning more widespread, and Nick was pressed into the rear of a grandmother so hard that his hands sunk through her fat and to her ribs. Another babushka was stationed at the threshold of the cathedral itself, searching for hooligani and others who had no church business.

  When they came under intense scrutiny, Masha compulsively said, “We have a foreign guest.” Because it was a church, she felt safe in confiding the magic word: “Amerikanets.”

  The woman's suspicious frown vanished and she opened her toothless mouth and beamed. “Welcome, my children. Be at home. Welcome to Saint Vladimir's Cathedral.”

  They left the outer world with its last traces of daylight and in a single step entered the earthly heaven of Eastern Orthodoxy. Thousands of slender beeswax candles, dedicated to the deceased Metropolitan, cast their soft yellow glow outward and upward. Mounted in pyramidal clusters on brilliant brass stands, the candles provided the only light and cast deep, shifting shadows throughout the cavernous cathedral. Thick clouds of musty incense swirled sensually about the congregation, filling the lungs with delight and stinging the eyes. High overhead, through the smokey haze, an enormous fresco of the Madonna and Child seemed to float on the domed ceiling.

  The ever-dramatic Masha placed her hand on her ample bosom. “I could die from such beauty.”

  The drawn, haunting faces of ancient icons in muted browns, deep reds, and dark greens—their gold leaf backgrounds capturing the candlelight and sparkling with life—covered every wall and filled every niche. These stark images of the Holy Mother, Christ, saints, and martyrs beckoned mysteriously down to the Believers as their link to the Kingdom of God. The paintings were simultaneously somber and stiff, frightening and lifeless, weightless and inspiring. Throughout the cathedral bronze, enamel, marble, and gilt were used in every possible place and combination. Portraits of ancient Russian princes adorned the thick pillars that rose like thousand-year-old trees. Separating the sanctuary from the rest of the cathedral, the profusely gilded iconostasis—its rows of icons depicting church hierarchy from local saints on the bottom to the Old Testament Patriarchs on top—was elaborate and resplendent, beautiful and overbearing.

  The bearded deacon in his long flowing robe sang out in his baritone voice. “Gospodi pomiliu!” Lord have mercy! His voice was pure and domineering.

  Instantaneously came the mournful response of the choir: “Gospodi pomilui!”

  Unseen in the rear balcony, the choir sang unaccompanied and carried the Gregorian chants to emotional highs and desperate lows. The devoted congregation repeated the chant in an unhurried manner. People crossed themselves once, twice, three times, and bowed their heads. Babushkas wept openly, their tears glistening on their weathered faces.

  A strong beautiful voice sang out at Nick's side. Drawn to it, he turned. Pushed by another nun from behind, a legless nun sat perched in a baby carriage that had been converted into a crude wheel chair. The heavy black material of her habit hung from a crown on her head, wrapped around the edge of her face, flowed down into a pile on her lap, and fell over and onto the carriage wheels.

  “Gospodi pomilui! Gospodi pomilui! Gospodi pomilui!”

  Her operatic voice, clear and rapid, carried the song far.

  There were no pews. The entire floor was open, filled with a vast sea of continually moving Believers. While many members of the congregation had stood clumped for hours around the deacon at the front, others came and went as they chose. A few prayed in front of their favorite icon, lighting yet another candle, crossing themselves, and kissing the venerated object three times. Other devout women drifted about the cathedral comfortable and unnoticed, stopping now and again to answer the deacon's song and cross themselves. Still others, stoicism and patience etched in their faces, knelt and kissed the floor. Sporadic sobbing floated through the air.

  The deacon continued the service of the Burial for the Dead. A bald priest with a cherry red nose and a long gray beard swung the heavy gold incense burner over the celebrants. Smoke billowed out, magically embracing the congregation, and they bowed submissively, murmured a prayer, and crossed themselves with fervor.

  “Gospodi pomilui!” sang the deacon.

  “Gospodi pomilui!” echoed the choir.

  A younger priest in a black robe took the incense burner and removed it to the rear. The congregation, recognizing the signal, seethed forward.

  “Let's get a closer look,” said Boris.

  Nick, Masha, and Boris moved to the front of the cathedral where they became lost in a throng of Believers. A long fenced-off area jutted out into the main body of the church, and a line formed through the end of it and up to the bearded deacon. Wearing a red- and gold-brocaded robe and a circular black hat that was flat on top, he held a large gold Russian Orthodox cross—a slanted bar at its base—and one by one Believers stepped forward, reached upward with their lips, and kissed it.

  While their clothing was plain and baggy, the deep aged eyes of hundreds of babushkas stared out from beneath colorful scarves. Looking like dried apple dolls, their faces were pudgy and wrinkled, their mouths sunken and toothless, and their walks crooked and irregular. Overcome with grief, these were the same women—perhaps comprising the strongest institution in the U.S.S.R.—who kept order on the street as they saw fit; theirs was the only publicly critical and tolerated voice heard in the U.S.S.R. Mixed amongst them were several elderly men and a handful of younger women. On the other side of the fenced area, the figure of an obviously much younger woman stood out and caught Nick's attention. Tall and graceful in her movements, she appeared to be in her twenties and, her back to Nick, was turned talking to a babushka. He felt a rush of excitement. Her blond hair, not quite successfully controlled by the flowered scarf on her head, reminded him of Olga's.

  Clothes rustled, priests mumbled, and beeswax candles crackled. The choir, their voices filled with suffering, renewed its song. Slow and methodical, the voices sadly split, rejoined, repeated their refrain, then faded away.

  “Well,” said Masha, leaning against him. “What do you think?”

  “Fascinating. So sensual.” He couldn't take his eyes off the young woman.

  “Shhh!” hushed an old woman,
impatiently.

  Even more quietly, Masha said, “Let's go back and look at some of the icons and frescoes.”

  Nick was paralyzed. The thick blond hair. It was amazingly familiar. If she hadn't been wearing a scarf, Nick would have sworn it was she. And even though she was some thirty feet away on the other side of the brass fence, the smooth curve of her neck, the gentle shape of her back… Nick had caressed such a similar body just the night before. Then the young woman stopped talking to the short babushka, stood upright, and brushed her hair out of her face. She further shifted her position, standing on one foot, the other. She turned toward the front, directing her attention toward the deacon and exposing in the candlelight the clear, healthy complexion of her broad face. Her deep-set eyes remained dark.

  Filled with happiness, he spoke too loud. “Olga!” How wonderful.

  The deacon heard Nick and, pulling on his long beard, scowled in his direction. Hearing her name, Olga shifted. Confused, she gasped when she saw Nick and covered her mouth with her hand. As best he could, Nick waved, excited to see her. He motioned for her to join him in the rear. She seemed puzzled though, even shocked, as she struggled to make sense of the situation. Her eyebrows pinched together in a furrow over her nose, she apparently did not know what to do. At a complete loss, she could not and did not return Nick's warm greeting. Clearly, she couldn't believe he was there, too, in Saint Vladimir's Cathedral. Was she scared, was that it? Nick waved again. Frozen, she didn't respond, didn't even acknowledge Nick except with a look of… fright. That was it. She was not confused. She was afraid. She shook her head and spun away. Away from Nick. Olga bent down to the babushka at her side, grabbed her by the arm, and began forcing their way out of the crowd.

  Nick put his hand to his head and inched forward. There had to be a mistake. All he wanted was to see her, talk with her, be with her. But she was moving away. Rapidly. Christ, Olga was running away from him, escaping from him. Nick lunged forward, only to collide with the brass fence.

  “Shit.” He started pushing his way back out of the crowd.

  A hand grabbed him. “Nick?” It was Masha, unable to hide her concern. “What's the matter? Where are you going?”

  “I'll be right back.”

  What in the hell would make her want to get away from him? What had happened? What could have changed in the last twenty-four hours? Had someone found them out; could the KGB have come and harassed her? What would make her flee so terrified?

  Nick jumped up, his corduroy coat flying open, and tried to spot her. Nothing. Only a mass of scarf-covered gray heads, flickering tapers, and the drawn, Byzantine faces of the icons. He cut through a lingering cloud of incense and choked on the smoke.

  “Hooligan!” cursed a babushka as he pushed past.

  Women groaned, heads turned. Nick hurried to the thick pillar on the other side. Standing beneath a haunting icon of the Praying Virgin, he frantically searched. Olga. Where was she? What could have happened? The light was dim and he could not see far. In the distance he heard the beautiful voice of the legless nun, her chant reverberating throughout the cathedral. Someone reached out and struck him.

  “Molodoi chelovek!” Young man. “Skandal, skandal!”

  Frantic, he looked all around, spinning, searching. Where could she be? He broke into a run. Out of the dense crowd, he ran to where he had seen her. He lunged through a small clump of women, shoving them aside. Women cried out, some thinking that Nick was militsiya, others that he was KGB. Frail people tried to scurry out of his way. He jumped again. Olga had disappeared. Nowhere to be seen. His head pounding, Nick didn't know where to go, what to do. Was this it? Was it over so fast between them?

  He spotted their covered heads furtively bobbing through the congregation like animals running in fright through a deep wheat field. They were not heading to the main entrance at the rear of the cathedral, but to an obscure chapel on the side. They were trying to get away from him. It didn't make any sense. He had to find out. He tore after them.

  She ripped the flowered scarf from her head and her liberated blond hair seemingly exploded and fell onto her shoulders. The old woman, limping, struggled to keep up. And as the two of them reached the threshold of the chapel, Olga, like a fleeing convict about to be captured, spun around. Her eyes, wide and white, met and locked with Nick's for a frenzied moment. Almost dragging the babushka behind her, Olga ducked into the darkness of this side chapel and disappeared from sight.

  Wasting no time, Nick burst into the chapel. Only a handful of shimmering candles filled this neglected room, and it took several moments for Nick's eyes to adjust to the darkness. Filled with smoke-covered icons and a multitude of black corners and niches, it was an overbearing room, a room which a child would never enter without a parent. There were paintings of suffering saints, grotesquely carved wood crucifixes whose gold leaf was faded and dusty, and icons with eyes of jewels which glowed like embers. Nick stepped forward, trembling. This was a place lost between the divine and the inhuman, satanic in its mysticism.

  Olga was not to be seen.

  And then, as Nick's eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he saw the old woman. She was precariously perched upon a step in front of a gold-sheathed, emerald-studded icon of the Virgin Mary. A handful of babushkas, toughened by a revolution and two world wars, surrounded her like tough old cows protecting one of their sick.

  Nick took a step forward and approached this gathering. At first they would not move aside. Refusing intimidation, Nick cut through them. The old woman, small and portly and white-haired, was leaning against the icon, panting as if she would collapse any second. Exhausted, she glanced to the side and saw Nick. A frightened, though loving smile came to her weary face and, with her twisted hand, she crossed herself.

  “Do not worry, my child.” Her voice was weak and she struggled for air. “She will come to you.”

  The old woman kissed the icon with her parched lips, and then the other babushkas drove Nick away.

  XIV

  With the luminous white stone of Saint Vladimir's Cathedral soaring upward behind them, Masha said, “Poor Nick, you look so tired all of a sudden.”

  The mournful though muffled wail of the choir filled the undisturbed night air. The unaccompanied voices then faded away, their Gregorian chants evaporating into the atmosphere, and only the hoarse snoring of a beggar babushka asleep on the cathedral steps could be heard.

  “But I could have sworn…” In shock, his words trailed off. Dazed and confused, he shuffled along, scraping his shoes against the fine gravel. “I was so sure.”

  “You need something to eat.” Masha was certain this was the remedy. “You need to eat and relax. You've been working too hard. We'll go right back to our place. It's not very far.” Masha took him by the arm. “Don't worry, Nick. Boris and I will take care of you.”

  He shook his head. “I'm sorry.” He raised his eyes and looked at them. They were clearly distressed. He had to tell them something. “I thought it was a friend.” Everything and everyone seemed suspect and distrustful. “A friend from Michigan.” Once he got going, he found it easy to lie. “I haven't seen her for years and I could have sworn it was her.” He saw their puzzled expressions and added, “We studied Russian together. Her grandfather was from Saint Petersburg and she has a Russian name too… Olga.” The intensity of the incident had burned up what little energy he had had. His mind was foggy, his limbs heavy. The exhaustion of his months in the Soviet Union, which he had tried to keep at bay, came crashing down upon him.

  Concern on his face, Boris was taking a cigarette from his shirt pocket when he motioned toward the street. “What luck.” He started off. “There's a taxi. I'll grab it.” He jogged ahead.

  “Relax, Nick,” soothed Masha, taking charge. “We'll be at our place in no time.” She patted him on the shoulder. “Look, Boris got the taxi. What wonderful luck. One cab on the whole street and it's ours. We'll be at our place in just a few minutes and I'll give you some good Russian
food.”

  Feeling quite distant, Nick said, “I wonder if I'm getting sick.” He dragged his feat.

  She led him along. “You've just been in a hotel too long. You need to relax in a good Russian home.” As they neared the cab, Masha, in a hushed tone, said, “Nick, it would be better if you let us do the talking.”

  It took him a moment to understand. “Oh, sure.” Of course. She didn't want the driver to know they were taking a foreigner home with them.

  Boris, an unlit cigarette in his mouth, stood on the edge of the street, proudly holding open the rear cab door. He helped Nick in, Masha followed, and Boris climbed in front, slamming his door.

  The driver grinned, a dark two-day beard on his face. “Where to, comrades?”

  Boris spoke quickly and tersely. “To the corner of Victory and Gorky Streets.”

  That, thought Nick, really sucks. They don't want the driver to know the exact address of their house, either. Slumping in the rear seat and resting his aching head on the back ledge, however, he knew they were right.

  No one spoke as the light green taxi pulled away from the curb, leaving Saint Vladimir's Cathedral in their wake.

  “Isn't it funny how much Americans and Russians are alike?” said Masha, serving boiled potatoes. “I mean not only in looks, but in character, too. There's something very similar about us. We're both rather childlike, I suppose. Perhaps it's that neither of us is pretentious by nature. I've met people from France and Germany before, but I automatically feel closer to Americans. Others say so too. Maybe it's because both Americans and Russians want others to like them, want others to approve of them.” She heaped potatoes onto her guest's plate.