The Cross and The Sickle

by R. D. Zimmerman

  “The world is small.” Nick really wasn't paying any attention to her. Suddenly he noticed the growing pile of potatoes before him. Irritated, he stuck his hand out.

  “Hey, that's plenty.”

  “Just a few more… they're garden fresh and you look so tired.” She sat down between Boris and him. “Take some sour cream. Mama gets it at a store in the country—Mama and Papa are still out there, out at their dacha—and it's the best in the whole wide world.” She picked up the small jar and automatically began telling Nick the whole story. “Mama has big blat at the store—she does all the teeth for the manager's entire family—and that's how we get this sour cream. Country fresh.” She ladled spoonful after spoonful over Nick's pile of hot, steaming, buttered potatoes.

  Nick stared at his plate and grimaced. He didn't want to eat potatoes with “big blat” sour cream oozing all over them. He was sick of it. Sick of it all. How could people do it? How could they sacrifice so much of themselves? In a country based solely on a visionary theory, there were no more dreamers. Just realists whose only goal was to get ahead, to survive, without changing the things that were wrong.

  “Nick,” said Masha, tenderly nudging him. “Eat. We saved the sour cream just for you.”

  He made an unpleasant face. Not as naïve about the Soviet Union as a simple tourist nor as hardened to their way of life as a Russian, he was lost somewhere in between. He looked at his plate. Could he even stomach the sour cream?

  “Work's getting to me.” said Nick, his hands in his lap and wishing he were back in his hotel room. “There has been so much pressure.” He cast his eyes aside. “I have trouble letting things that bother me slip by.”

  “Eat, Nick. Food will do you good. Of course you've been working too hard. Eat the potatoes.” So concerned was she about Nick's appetite, that she could not eat her own food. “We'll have some blini next.”

  Boris poured them all a glass of vodka. “But first a toast. A toast to your health, Nick, and to our friendship!”

  “Da,” feebly responded Nick.

  He raised his glass, clinked it with theirs, and gulped down the vodka with ease.

  What did it all mean? Why had Olga run away? Why had she been so overcome with fear? What could have changed in the last twenty-four hours? The whole scene flashed through his mind. Again he saw Olga's dark blue eyes open in fear. Again he saw Olga and the old woman force their way through the crowded cathedral. And again he saw the dark, forgotten chapel.

  Perhaps it was best not to know. That would be the easiest. The safest. She had left abruptly the first time they met and now she had actually run away from him. They had bumped into one another by chance at the cathedral and she reacted by fleeing. So how was he supposed to judge her? The Russian way was guilty until proven innocent, the American way innocent until proven guilty. So what was he, an American in Russia, supposed to do?

  Coolly, he looked up at Masha and Boris. “As a matter of fact, all of the guides are having a bit of trouble.”

  Boris nodded and poured another glass of vodka lest their glasses be empty.

  “Another toast?” said Nick, seizing the chance. “How about one for Margie?”

  “Yes, a toast for Margie!” exclaimed Masha.

  They brought their glasses together, then, like kids running into frigid waters, they drank the vodka all at the same time in one stiff shot. Masha, gasping, ate a potato while Boris tried to remain calm. Nick's eyes reddened.

  “As I was about to say,” began Nick, finding it easier, “one of the guides came to me the other day with a problem.” He supposed it would be better to use a name. “It was one of my friends, Linda. Perhaps you could give me some advice for her.”

  “Certainly.” Boris poured yet another glass of vodka.

  “We'll help,” said Masha, leaning forward onto the table. “And bring her with you next time you come.”

  “Many of us are struggling with the question of friendship.” Even though indirectly speaking of Olga and their relationship, it gave Nick new energy. “The people here are extremely friendly, but sometimes it's hard to tell whom to trust. I mean, how is a foreigner supposed to know who is sincere or who is just after something?”

  “You mean a black marketeer?” said Boris, leaning back in his chair and reserving judgement.

  “That too.” Nick speared a potato and thought for a moment. “I knew I could trust you right from the very start because of Margie's assurances. But Linda, well, she has some serious doubts about a relationship.”

  “I'm a specialist in matters of the heart.” Masha put her hand to her chest.

  Nick took a bite. “She met this Russian man and liked him right away. But she really wasn't—how do I put it?—sure what he wanted. Well, it turned out this guy was direct enough. He wants Linda to take a letter and maybe a package to a relative—a long-lost uncle—in New York.”

  Boris and Masha were clearly skeptical.

  “Go on,” said Boris, scrutinizing Nick's words.

  “They've met twice. Alone. He told her about the letter the first meeting they had. They had a good time together, actually, but then this guy got jumpy, you know, and left abruptly. They met a second time and… well, they had an intimate evening together. Very intimate.”

  Scratching the back of her head, her eyes on the table, Masha was disturbed.

  “And then Linda ran into this Russian in a…” Nick hesitated. He was shocked at himself. Lying had never been easy for him, yet here he was doing it compulsively and out of control. “She ran into him in a store quite by accident. Only when he saw her, he got scared and ran away. You know, at first he was startled to see her and then without saying anything—as fast as he could—he just cleared out.” Nick's hand drifted over to his glass of vodka. He ran a finger around its rim. “Well?”

  The situation was serious and the two of them thought about it carefully.

  Boris sat up, his mind decided, “It's not good.”

  “No, not at all.” With heartfelt sympathy, Masha said, “A real friend wouldn't act like that. A real friend is someone you can always count on.”

  “That's right. A true friend wouldn't be so skittish.”

  “Oh…” He'd wanted to hear anything but that. Dejected, Nick pushed at the potatoes on his plate with his fork. “So…so what should I tell Linda? What's your advice?”

  Boris left no room for question. “Not to take the letter, of course, and not to have anything to do with this Man.”

  “There's something off-balance about it all,” added Masha. “I'd distrust this man and only, only take the letter if he could explain everything in absolute detail.”

  “I see,” muttered Nick. Depression seeped slowly through him. They knew their country, their system, and they knew what was best to do. But he didn't want to forget about her. He didn't want to let go. He ran his hand over his head, pulling at his hair.

  Something occurred to Boris. “I suppose the picture could change,” he said, softening his tone, “if your friend were acquainted with this Russian in the full context of his life. If your friend, Linda, has only met this man and none of his circle of friends, then stay away. Stay far away.”

  Nick looked up and searched both Boris and Masha's faces. There was hope after all. “In other words, if this American were introduced to some of the Russian's friends or family you think it might be all right?”

  Boris lifted his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Who knows? Perhaps it might be. Only not on the street. If he invited this guide home to meet his family, his inner life, then I think maybe everything would be all right.”

  “I see.” Nick's mind was working fast. Friends. Did she have friends? What about family? There was her father and wasn't there an old aunt somewhere, the one she had lived with?

  The phone rang.

  “Excuse me.” As Masha got up, she noticed Nick's plate. “Nick, eat your potatoes before they get cold. Blini are next.” She went into the small front hall and picked up the
phone, saying, “Da?”

  “Now I have a question for you.” Boris motioned toward Nick's glass. “But first let's you and I have a little toast.”

  “Another?” he moaned, not able to believe it. Aching with exhaustion, Nick knew he couldn't handle much more.

  “Yes, a man's toast.” He reached over and filled Nick's glass until vodka spilled over onto the table. “We must toast our meeting.”

  Nick shook his head. “Boris, I can't. Really.”

  “Come on, Nick. A toast, and then I want to ask you about the exhibit.”

  At the mention of the exhibit, Nick picked up his glass. He knocked it against Boris's and, vodka dripping into his lap, gulped down the crystal clear liquid. He lost his breath, swooned, and flushed with a warm glow. A nauseous sensation rose in his stomach and he doubted whether he could focus on Boris's question.

  “At the end of the exhibit, just before the exit,” he began, “there is a film about food and food distribution in the United States. We watched it three times.”

  He took several deep breaths and the urge to be sick passed. “Hell, Boris, everyone watches it three times. And when I'm hungry, I watch it five times myself.”

  Nick knew the film by heart, as did every guide. It began with a digital clock sounding its electronic alarm. A young boy gets up and goes downstairs. He eats breakfast—cereal, milk, bacon, and orange juice. Then the deep-voiced narrator asks: “Where does all this food come from and how does it get to the boy's house?” The film progresses from farm to food warehouse to supermarket. In the suburban store there are nice but ordinary shots of the produce section, the meat counter, and people dressed in polyester calmly picking their goods from aisles and aisles of shelves as Muzak plays in the background.

  “Are there really stores like that in America?” asked Boris, twisting his head to the side and a bit intoxicated. “Isn't it even just a bit propagandistic? So much food! Such a choice and no lines! My God, all that meat!” He poured Nick more vodka. “Drink up and tell me the truth.”

  Nick bowed his head and sat there trying to suppress his disappointment and anger. He shut his eyes, only to have his head spin.

  “Shit, Boris. It is the truth,” said Nick, losing his patience. “Why are the predominant questions always about material goods—whether there's a shortage of something or enough to go around, and how much this or that costs? You know, I have to incite discussions about freedom of movement and freedom of information. Don't you care that I can read Pravda at home but you can't read the New York Times here? Really, sometimes I think people here are more materialistic than we are.”

  In a soothing voice, Boris said, “We'll talk politics later, Nick. Just tell me, is the film honest?”

  Nick raised his head. Boris was innocently waiting for him to answer. Nick grabbed the bottle and poured more vodka for the two of them.

  “A toast to blue jeans, Boris!” After he had emptied his glass and gotten his breath back, with a vengeance Nick said, “We've got those fucking supermarkets on every God damned corner in America. You can wear your corduroy coat, get in your big car, smoke a cigar, and go there anytime. Hell, they're even open all night long, twenty-four hours a day.”

  Masha stepped around the corner, phone in hand. “Boris, this new phone! It's just awful. That was Larissa calling but I couldn't hear her at all and there was this humming noise the whole time.” She slammed down the receiver and came into the kitchen pouting. “It makes me so mad.”

  Nick felt the vodka pumping through him and knew what had to be done. Guilty, he thought. Until proven innocent.

  XV

  “And then Linda ran into this Russian in a… she ran into him in a store quite by accident. Only when he saw her, he got scared and ran away. You know, at first he was shocked to see her and then without saying anything—as fast as he could—he just cleared out.”

  With his large hand, Mayakovsky reached over and stopped the cassette tape player. Birds chirped, leaves rustled, and the early morning sun seeped through the trees. It had the makings of an exceptional, even hot day. Sitting on a rusting bench in the Hydropark, he braced the tape player with one hand and turned the control to fast forward. He had listened to it a dozen times since the tape had been brought to him in the middle of the night, and he knew just where to stop it.

  “…should I tell Linda? What's your advice?”

  Mayakovsky turned the machine off and stifled a yawn. “I didn't get much sleep last night. Need you hear more?”

  “No.” Olga, preoccupied, sat on the opposite end of the bench. Hollow-faced, she sorted over and over the events of the previous night and their ramifications.

  “It's pleasant out here, isn't it? An island park in the middle of the Dneiper River. No cars. Nice and quiet.” Shifting his large-framed body, he checked about, searching the shrubbery with his youthful but wrinkled eyes. “Some of the guides go out running in the morning, but I doubt they'd come this far. Still, you never know where they're going to show up. You don't object to meeting here, do you? The exhibit grounds would have been unsuitable. Our Mr. Miller is just the type to wander around where he shouldn't.”

  Olga was silent, still unable to believe how fouled things had become.

  “The tape continues. As I said, in the end they advise Miller to never fully trust a Russian unless he invites you into his circle of family and friends.” He raised his shoulders indifferently. “Perhaps. Then the phone rings and the woman has some nonsense conversation with a friend by the name of…”—Mayakovsky massaged his sleepy face,—“Larissa. The equipment, however, did a rather poor job of monitoring both the phone call and the rest of the conversation between Miller and the fellow. There was this incessant humming. Didn't anyone test it before installation?” He made a tight fist. “Damn, I can't rely on anyone.” He shook his head in disgust. “It's quite clear, isn't it?”

  “Yes.” Olga was ashamed. She felt both beaten and defeated. Her superior's conciliatory tone further humiliated her, even though she tried not to express this.

  Mayakovsky stared at her, this attractive blonde in whom he had taken a personal interest and whom he had tried to teach so much. “I placed great faith in you. More than in any of the others. Evidently that was my error.” Though he was running his finger along a crack in the bench and appearing very relaxed, Mayakovsky was waiting, curious whether she would volunteer further information of her evening with Miller.

  Olga did not defend herself. She wore her white cotton print dress—now mended and washed after her fall on the sidewalk with Nick—and smoothed a crease in it, as if that might somehow take the attention and pressure off her.

  “It changes the entire operation quite considerably. Oh”—Mayakovsky waved his hand as if shooing away flies—“the staff doesn't know a blessed thing. Fortunately Miller feebly disguised his question—the last thing I want right now is interference. I was phoned late last night and told that one of the guides, Linda Swanson, had been meeting with one of our citizens and that possibly she would be taking some papers out of the country. Which is fine. Just fine. A handful of agents are out after her now. Our hotel personnel are searching her room again, putting in more monitoring equipment, and so on. I've even gotten rid of a few of my most troublesome people by sending them to the exhibit. I'm sure they'll make our Comrade Swanson's day most interesting.”

  Olga was not paying attention.

  “The plan must change, but the fewer involved the better. I still maintain that position. It allows me a little more freedom as well as more reliability and flexibility. More space in which to operate. Wouldn't you agree, Olga Mixhailovna?” he said condescendingly.

  “Yes.” But she really wasn't listening.

  “A large staff reassures Moscow, too. They think the more agents involved, the larger the operation, the better the chance is for success. The fools. You'd think they hadn't learned a thing in the war.” Mayakovsky paused and became quite serious. “It was a large mistake to run out like that.�
��

  The words burst out of Olga: “I shouldn't have let my aunt persuade me into going with her to church in the first place.”

  Like a judgmental father, Mayakovsky said, “Of course not.”

  She ground her teeth. Bending over, she rested her head in one hand. “I've never panicked before. Never.”

  “But you did.” He inhaled, then let the air trickle out in tiny amounts. Olga had still not divulged further information about her contact with Miller. “And now our little plan has developed a few kinks. It won't be so easy as just dropping a few documents into Miller's hands. No, not so easy. But we can still manage. Wouldn't you agree?”

  “Yes, I'm sure of it.” Olga's response was flat.

  “Is there anything else?” asked Mayakovsky, testing her. He examined her closely for any reaction. “Anything more about Miller, perhaps?”

  Olga sat upright and turned to him. Her face blank, she said, “No.”

  That she so easily failed his small test took even him by surprise. Disconcerted—could so much rely on one so uncertain?—he was forced to recoup his thoughts. Frowning and pulling on the tip of his chin, he realized what had to be done and regretted the steps which would have to be taken. He forced himself to ignore the tinge of sadness he felt within himself.

  Finally, Mayakovsky said, “So… you know what to do? Everything's clear?”

  As she had earlier agreed, Olga said, “I will arrange for Miller to meet my aunt.”

  “Yes,” said Mayakovsky, almost coaching it out of her. “Your family here in Kiev. And?”

  She shut her eyes and with difficulty said, “She will pass the documents to…to him.”

  “Exactly. First you must regain Miller's confidence. And if a relative is what it takes, then that's what we'll provide. There's nothing else to it. Second, well, who wouldn't trust such a sweet old babushka like your aunt?”

  “But you're sure?” said Olga, abruptly, losing control of herself. Almost begging, she continued. “You're sure that there will be no danger for her…” She cut herself off, regretting her outburst and fearful what Mayakovsky would think. She pulled her hair behind her head with one hand and cast her eyes to the side. She became quite serious. “If at all possible, I just don't want her dragged into it.”